#Book of Shadows: Volume One: Casting

[jolieeason]

Bookish Travels: February 2025 Destinations

I saw this meme on It���s All About Books and decided to do it once a month. Many thanks to Yvonne for initially posting this!! This post is what it says: Places I travel to in books each month. Books take you to places you would never get to. Please let me know if you have read these books or traveled to these areas. Countries I visited the most: United States, Canada States/Provinces I…

[cranberrydietcoke]

𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 - 𝘭𝘶𝘪𝘨𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦

heavily inspired by this post by @subtlehums

content: 18+, lore accurate luigi, cigarettes, mentions of prescription drugs, guns, L word, established relationship, unprotected p in v, riding, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy, kinda emo but fluffy but smutty, he’s so tragically beautiful idk i hope this does him justice

wc: 2.1k

a/n: i am a woman possessed. he is all i think about like its bad. shout out the girlies who found my blog thru tiktok comments lmaooo enjoy

psa: he is innocent until proven guilty! this is a fictional, hypothetical situation in which he did do it.

“𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗶 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁. 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝗱, 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆, 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿, 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗼𝗺, 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗻. – 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱.” - tweeted by @ pepmangione, may 1st, 2024.

you missed hawaii. that tiny apartment for just the two of you seemed impossibly big now, as you imagined the sunlight weaving in through the windows, casting shadows of waves onto the kitchen tile. you missed that kitchen, sharing coffee in the mornings before work, baking together. you missed the way the island held you both, lush and warm and predictable. the late nights, the conferences, the schedule – it’s funny how everything always seems so simple in hindsight. he had a way of making it clear he knew best, and you’d stopped arguing years ago. so, when he said to pack a bag for the mainland, you didn’t question it. you trusted him with a kind of faith that went deeper than any earthly explanation could offer.

the frosty breeze whips by you as you step out onto the fire escape of the hostel, headlights and billboards illuminating the city below. you could hear luigi’s furious typing from the chair inside over the sound of honking horns and screeching tires, occasionally pausing to reread it back to himself and flip through the starched pages of the book he’d been in for days. the eraser of the pencil he annotated with was gnawed to damn near nothing. the flick of your lighter shook him from his focus, snapping his head to watch as you wrapped yourself in your fur coat and brought a cigarette to your lips with deep red manicured nails.

“that’s gonna kill you, y’know that right?”

and he was right. not that it made a difference. six months ago, the thought of smoking a cigarette would’ve seemed absurd. now, it almost felt inevitable, like the distance between who you were and who you are had blurred and widened into a festering chasm.

 and yet, here he was – the one steady thing in your life, lounging in the peeling leather of the black desk chair, eyes meeting yours like nothing else mattered. the air inside was thick, saturated with things unsaid. tomorrow would inevitably come, but that seemed irrelevant compared to the man in front of you. you crouched with bent knees, weight balanced on the balls of your feet as you blew out thick spirals of smoke, teetering on the tip toes of your flats with each gust of wind.

“lu,” you strain through quick puffs, tapping a nail to the lit stick, causing ash to fall through the metal bars that held you up and onto the concrete of the new york sidewalk. “please.”  you scoff, lash-lidded gaze lingering over him through the open window, a look that he couldn’t bring himself to argue with. you were the fracture in the foundation of his carefully constructed logic, the one thing he couldn’t solve.

 the first time he saw you at some hazy phi psi social in undergrad, something in him just…stopped. a whirlwind of wild dark hair with an unapologetic laugh that was too loud for the space but too beautiful to be mad at. you spoke with precision, arguing like someone who had points to make, yet there was a strange charm about you, an effortless grace. he had to have you. he assumed that bringing you to maryland for holiday break would be overwhelming, that the sheer volume of his family would cause you to tone yourself down. instead, they welcomed you as one of their own, perhaps because your bold opinions and high standards mirrored theirs. but that was a lifetime ago – before the pandemic, the accident, the surgery. before everything splintered into what it is now.

his puffy, purple-ringed and exhausted eyes follow you as you climb back into the warmth, slamming the window shut and shedding your coat. resting his elbows on his knees, he brought his hands to drag down his face with a deep, weary sigh, letting them fall to his denim-clad thighs with a slap. motioning you over to him with a nod of the head.

brass casings littered the floor, the bed a mess of neon monopoly bills - scattered in the dingy sheets like confetti after some great gatsby party. you’d been holed up in that room for a week now, and his restless energy was palpable. it wasn’t like his stress was something you’d never seen before. in fact, it was normal after all these years. but this. this was a different level. completely enrapturing, not only mental, but physical.

 you slip off your shoes with a soft thud on the floor. your steps are slow, deliberate, as you meander toward him, eyes heavy with sympathy. three sleepless nights had made his face hollow, and he’d refused every pill you’d offered – hydros, oxys, anything to subside the pain. you stand in front of him, positioned between his spread legs. his hands reach to meet your plush hips, each digit pressing firmly into your skin, grounding himself in your presence.

when al pacino said the eyes never lie, he was completely correct. luigi’s were sullen, dark, angry. pleading for help, for recognition. you lift a hand to cradle his cheek, tracing over the stubble that wasn’t there when you left hawaii. wordlessly, you sink to your knees on the warped wood of the hotel floor, looking up into his big brown eyes. your fingers trace a slow path from the curve of his jaw to the firm plane of his chest, before settling your palm on the denim of his thigh, smoothing it up and down his leg. you tilt your head, letting your temple rest gently against his knee.

“i love you, lu,” you spoke in a near whisper against him, gaze fixed on nothing in particular, thoughts somewhere far away. “i just wish shit was different.���

“i know baby, i know,” he answered without hesitation, cooing down at you and bringing a meticulous hand to brush the mess of hair from your face. “we’ll be back home soon, i jus- i have some stuff to take care of, love, you know that.” his voice softened as he looked down at you, coaxing your glassy eyes up to his steady stare. with a subtle touch, he grabbed your chin between his thumb and index fingers, lifting your face to meet his. only inches way, you felt the heat of his breath on your lips, drinking it in.

“i know this isn’t who you fell in love with, n’ i’m sorry. i-i’m a fucking shell,” he rambled, bobbing his head with each word, eyes darting around each feature on your face.

“this world, me, everything, is a fucking lie.” he spat, “just t-touch me so i know that i’m real.”

his eyes were wide and manic, brow furrowing as if every thought, every word, was a battle being played out behind those unblinking, shifty eyes. your mouth hangs open, and every part of you seems to be falling into him, melting in his touch. your eyes are unfocused and glazed over as they follow his, drunk off the very essence of him.

“fuck me so i know that i’m real. i’ve been dying to know if i am.”

heady puffs of breath fell against your face with each word, his eyes drifting down to your glossy pout. he ran his tongue up the curve of your parted lips, a tiny gasp escaping them, your eyes never leaving his. it was perverted almost, urgent and depraved. without thinking, you curl your tongue out, meeting and circling his without your lips even touching, saliva dripping onto the floor below. his hands grasp at the sides of your head, pulling you in closer as his tongue forces its way past yours, lips crashing together in a heated kiss. he stands you both up with a swift movement, each kiss growing deeper, more consuming, as he guides you backward onto the bed.

you can’t help but whimper into his mouth through the soft, wet smack of your lips that fills the room as he lays you on your back, pinned by the wrist in a pool of pink and orange paper money. hot, hungry kisses trailed down your neck and across your chest, his hands firm as he peeled off your white tank top. your fingers roamed over every inch of him – gripping a handful of curls, your palm finding the small of his neck to pull him closer. softly, your hands slid over the hard lines of his shoulder blades, tracing the muscles beneath his skin. for a split second, it felt like undergrad again – fooling around on that tiny twin bed, stealing kisses between whispered laughs and desperately hoping that none of the boys in the chapter house heard you.

“baby, sit back,” you murmur, craning your neck and biting into your lower lip as he licks spirals into the sensitive skin, sending a chill down your spine. with a smirk, he flips over to settle onto the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the cold metal button of his levi’s and squirming out of them. the print of his length pressed through the thin fabric of his boxers as you hook your fingers in the waistband, tugging them to fall around his ankles. you shimmy out of your leggings and black lace panties, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the hardwood.

letting a stringy drop of spit fall from your lips, you work and twist your hands over him, whimpers and pants making his chest fall and rise, head lolling back as you plant tiny kisses on both thighs. turning around with bent knees, hips between his legs and feet flat on the floor, you sink down onto him inch by inch, whining incoherently as it stretches you out.

his hands on your sides, thumbs running down the valley of your spine, molding you like pottery as he guides you up and down. the tips of your fingers balance on the floor as you gently bounce and roll your hips, stuffing yourself over and over again on his cock.

“f-fuck – mine, all fuckin’ mine,” he spoke breathlessly, watching your drooly hole take him in with little plap plap plap’s, the fat of your ass recoiling as his length disappeared into you. his grip tightened on your sides, and you felt his legs getting wobbly under your stabilizing hand. “my girl, my good fucking girl…” he spoke absently, almost to himself, each syllable dripping with lust. appreciation. worship, even.

“god, fuck – please.” you babble, whipping your hair back to steal a glance at him from over your shoulder – all focused and blissed out, slack-jawed as he groped and pawed at the lower contour of your ass, spreading open the sticky mess and watching with wild, amazed eyes at the way you wet him up.

“what, baby? want it inside? yeah?” he panted out with squeaky desperation, lower stomach tensing and turning as you gripped and slid over him. “wanna get pregnant, huh, the way you’re takin’ it – fuck!”

his thrusts got sloppy, breath hitching in his throat and translating to desperate whines as he pumped you full. even if he didn’t come back tomorrow, if you never saw him alive again, he was determined to leave you with a little permanent piece of him. bringing a strong, warm palm to the small of your lower back to slow down your pace and push you off of him, he fell back onto the bed with a sigh, rattling the bed frame with the impact. ribbons of thick, opalescent seed seeped from your hole, all fucked open and raw.

laying together, swimming in those hotel sheets, the cold touch of fingerprints tracing numbers and letters into your thighs. truly believing you both had nothing to lose, even though that was far from the truth because you had each other. the shrill sound of wind against windows was stomach-churning compared to the familiar crash of the ocean, and you’ve accepted that you’ll probably never see that apartment again. even if you did, it wouldn’t be the same. but, you trusted him. believed in him, his capability, his intelligence. holding onto that tiny sliver of hope that told you everything would be okay, he would be careful, come home unseen and unscathed. those worries were reserved for the future version of you, one that could carry the weight of tomorrow in the daylight. all of it – the pain, the planning, the uncertainty – was beside the point now. all that mattered was the shelter of his lingering touch, quieting the rest of the world, only if for a few more hours.

[possessedmen]

Legal Affairs

The clock in the corner of Atticus's office ticked rhythmically, a sound that had long since faded into the background of his life. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk where he sat, papers strewn about in an attempt to distract him from the thoughts that had been plaguing him for weeks - thoughts of William.

There was a knock at the door, soft but insistent.

"Come in," Atticus called out, his voice betraying none of the turmoil he felt.

William stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a click that seemed to echo in the quiet room. He was dressed in a sharp suit that did little to hide his youthful vigor. His eyes, however, held a mischievous glint that Atticus had come to both dread and anticipate.

"Working late, Atticus?" William asked, his voice a velvet whisper as he approached the desk, papers in hand.

"Seems like I'm not the only one," Atticus replied, his eyes following William's movements. He couldn't help but admire how the younger man's suit fit him, tailored to accentuate every curve of his body.

William leaned over the desk, placing documents down, but not before his eyes met Atticus's with an intensity that made the older man's breath hitch. "I found something incredible at this antique store," William began, his voice lowering to an almost conspiratorial tone.

Atticus raised an eyebrow, "Oh? And what might that be?"

"A book," William said, pulling an old, leather-bound volume from his bag. "It talks about ancient rituals, including one for body swapping. Imagine, Atticus, getting a taste of youth again with my body."

Atticus's interest was piqued, but he kept his tone skeptical. "Body swapping? You can't be serious."

"I am," William insisted, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Have you ever thought about what it would feel like to... make out with your own body? To see yourself through someone else's eyes?"

The suggestion sent an unexpected thrill through Atticus. He tried to dismiss it, but the idea was too tantalizing to ignore. "And how exactly does this work?"

William moved around the desk, standing closer, now behind Atticus, his breath warm against Atticus's neck as they started kissing, William's hand roaming over Atticus' chest. "I want to experience what it's like to be the boss." He then whispered, "We need something personal from each other. Something intimate."

Atticus nodded, reaching into his desk drawer to pull out a tie he often wore. William, in turn, unbuttoned his shirt slightly, revealing a silver necklace. "This should do."

They moved to the center of the office, where William had already set up candles. He opened the book, its pages yellowed with age, and began reading from it, his voice a low chant. The air seemed to thicken around them, charged with an energy Atticus could feel against his skin.

As William finished the incantation, a sudden dizziness overtook them both. When Atticus opened his eyes, the world looked different — taller, somehow, and the mirror across the room reflected not his own seasoned face but William's youthful one.

"Atticus?" William's voice came from Atticus's own body, sounding bewildered yet thrilled.

"This is... incredible," Atticus said, touching his new, younger face, feeling the smooth skin under his fingertips.

William moved closer, his eyes wide with wonder as he touched Atticus's face, now his own. "We did it."

The exploration began, each touch a discovery.

"Now, you're the young associate," Atticus said, his voice now William's, vibrant and eager. He pushed William, now in his own mature body, against the desk, roleplaying the power dynamic. "Show me how you'd impress your senior partner."

William, in Atticus's body, played along, his hands fumbling with the unfamiliar buttons of the suit, his touch more deliberate, mimicking the authority he now embodied. "I'd start by showing you how much I've learned from you," he said, his voice deeper, commanding.

They explored each other slowly, Atticus marveling at how his own body felt under his hands, the hard muscles, the slight sag of age replaced by youthful tautness. William's hands, now Atticus's, traced over the firm chest, down to the stomach, feeling the texture of skin that was now so alien yet intimately known. Each touch sent shivers through Atticus, the unfamiliar sensation of his own body's skin under his fingertips, now William's, making his breath catch.

"You're always so composed," William teased, running his fingers through Atticus's hair, now his own, feeling the thrill of control. "But how composed are you now?"

Atticus, in William's body, found himself responding as if he were William, his movements more daring, his touch more exploratory. He kissed down the neck of his own body, tasting the salt of skin, feeling the pulse quicken under his lips. He whispered, "You've always wanted to be in charge, haven't you?"

William, playing the part of the senior partner, guided Atticus's hand to his own erection, showing him how he'd pleasure himself in these stolen moments. "Learn from the best," he growled, his eyes dark with desire. Atticus felt the warmth, the weight of it, a new sensation that made him ache with desire.

They moved to the floor, the carpet rough against their skin as they switched roles again. Atticus, still in William's body, sat atop William, now mimicking the senior partner's usual demeanor, riding him with an enthusiasm that was both William's and his own. Each thrust was a lesson in sensation, the feeling of tightness around him, the heat, the friction, all new and exhilarating.

"Look at you, so eager to please," William gasped, his hands gripping Atticus's hips, now his own, with a strength that surprised them both.

Just then, the phone on the desk rang, vibrating across the wood. Will, in Atticus's body, looked at Atticus with a wicked grin, quickly picking up the call on speakerphone.

"Atticus Montgomery here," William said, his impersonation so perfect that even Atticus raised his eyebrows in surprise. He watched as Will, in his body, leaned back, chewing on a pen — a habit Atticus had, which William mimicked flawlessly.

"Atticus, it's Henry. Need to run through the latest on the case," came the voice of Will's father and Atticus's long-time friend and partner.

"Sure, Henry, go ahead," William responded smoothly, his voice carrying the authoritative tone Atticus was known for.

As Henry talked, Atticus, still in William's body, decided to push the boundaries further. He moved between William's legs, now his own, and began to work his mouth over William's cock, who was now in Atticus's body. Will's eyes widened, but he managed to keep his composure on the call, his voice steady despite the pleasure.

"Uh, yes, Henry, I've noticed some discrepancies in the client's statement," William said, his breath hitching slightly as Atticus took him deeper, his tongue swirling around the head, eliciting a soft moan that he tried to cover with a cough.

"Everything okay there, Atticus?" Henry asked, concern in his voice.

"Absolutely, just a little throat irritation," William managed, his voice steady as Atticus continued, his head bobbing rhythmically. "I think we should consider involving William more in this case. He's shown remarkable insight."

"Wait, what? Will's too green for this case, Atticus," Henry argued, his tone sharp. "We can't risk it on his inexperience."

"He's not as green as you think, Henry," William countered, his voice firm, the roleplay adding an edge to his words as Atticus continued his ministrations, his lips and tongue working in tandem. "He's been instrumental in piecing together the evidence timeline. He caught something we all missed."

"And what's that?" Henry challenged, the skepticism clear.

"He found that the witness's timeline was off by an hour, which could change the entire narrative of the event," William explained, his voice steady despite the distraction. "That's not something a 'green' lawyer would see."

Henry paused, considering. "Alright, but I'm not convinced. We'll discuss this further. Now, about the deposition..."

As Henry detailed the deposition strategy, William listened, his voice sometimes faltering with the pleasure of Atticus's skilled mouth. "Uh, yes, I think William should be there to observe. He might catch something else."

"Fine, but he's to observe only," Henry conceded reluctantly. "I want to see if he can keep up."

"Absolutely," William said, his breath hitching as Atticus took him deeper, the sensation overwhelming. "I believe in his potential. We should nurture it."

Atticus, now in the spirit of mischief, moved to Will's feet, now his own, and began to massage them, his fingers pressing into the arches, a silent promise of more to come. William's breath caught, the sensation new but intensely pleasurable.

"And Henry," William continued, his voice thick with suppressed desire, "I've been thinking... maybe William could take on some of the witness interviews. He has a good rapport with people."

Henry's voice was doubtful. "That's a lot of responsibility, Atticus. Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," ambitious William said, his voice cracking slightly as Atticus's fingers found a sensitive spot, sending a shiver up his spine. "He's ready for this step up."

"Well, if you're sure... But we'll review his performance after the first one."

"Agreed," William managed, his voice a mixture of authority and arousal as Atticus's hands continued their work, now kissing the soles of Will's feet, the act both worshipful and erotic.

Once the call ended, Atticus, still in William's body, pointed out, "You played me too well."

With a playful smirk that held a kernel of truth, he replied, "I could get used to being you."

Atticus chuckled, his hands still on William's feet, now his own, caressing them with a reverence that was both playful and sincere. "You even got the pen chewing right. But how did you know so much about the case?"

"I might have been paying more attention than you think," William said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Or maybe I'm just that good at pretending to be you."

Atticus, with a laugh, leaned forward, his breath hot against William's toes as he spoke. "You're too good, Will. It's almost frightening."

William, still in character, retorted, "Frightening? No, Atticus, I think you mean 'impressive'." He wiggled his toes under Atticus's touch, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through him. "Besides, you seemed to enjoy me 'being you' quite a bit."

Atticus's cheeks flushed, the truth undeniable. "I can't argue with that," he admitted, his voice low, his hands moving up William's legs, now his own, feeling the familiar yet new contours. "But don't get too comfortable in my shoes... or my body."

William grinned, the playful banter continuing, "Oh, I think I might just enjoy this little twist of fate a bit longer. Who knows, I might even learn to tie a tie like you do."

They laughed, the sound mingling with the soft glow of the candles, their bodies still intertwined in the complexity of their swapped selves.

"Henry seemed scarily impressed," Atticus noted, his tone a mix of admiration and humor. "But are you sure you didn't put too much work on yourself? Witness interviews, depositions?"

William shrugged with a playful grin. "Maybe I did, but I think you'd like the idea of someone else doing your work for a change."

Atticus couldn't help but smile. "You got me there. I must admit, the thought of you handling some of my responsibilities while I get to sit back and keep an eye on you... it's quite appealing."

"Now where were we?" Atticus kissed William as they continued the exploration of their bodies, the boundaries of their roles blurring in Atticus' office.

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

All in your head || Young President!Coriolanus Snow x reader

A/n: love this request!

Warnings: r is implied to be young, manipulative, controlling Coryo, if there’s anything else lmk

Wc: 564

Divider by @firefly-graphics

The grand hall was adorned with opulent decorations, an extravagant celebration befitting the fifth wedding anniversary of you and Coriolanus Snow. The air was filled with the scent of delicate flowers, and the soft murmur of the Capitol's elite mingled with the distant hum of the city beyond.

It was a spectacle of extravagance, but behind the façade of smiles and enchanting music, your marriage to Coriolanus was nothing more than a carefully constructed arrangement.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter to yourself, hands toying with your necklace as you hear a deep sigh beside you.

"Yeah well, you have no choice," he mumbled, adjusting his cuffs, preparing to step out onto the balcony for an interview broadcasted to all of Panem.

"Let's get this over and done with then," you huffed, smoothing down your dress with practiced grace before the doors opened, and you summoned a well-trained fake smile. Coriolanus, in keeping with the façade of a blissful marriage, rested his hand on your waist, his smile equally forced.

As the camera lights focused on the two of you, the citizens of the Capitol eagerly tuned in to the live interview. Caesar Flickerman, the charismatic host, beamed as he addressed the couple. “Ladies and gentlemen of Panem, we are honored to have Mr. and Mrs. Snow with us tonight!”

Applause erupted as you and Coriolanus exchanged a glance, a look perceived by others as one of love, though the reality was starkly different.

"Y/n, it felt like only yesterday we saw you graduating from the Academy, and now here you are, as gorgeous and powerful as ever as First Lady," Caesar complimented, leaving you slightly off-kilter-a reminder of the day you learned of your impending marriage to Coriolanus.

"Time flies, doesn't it?" You gracefully replied with a polite smile as Caesar chuckled. "Five years of marital bliss, how does it feel?" He directed his question to both of you this time.

You and Coriolanus exchanged a fleeting glance, a practiced smile plastered on both of your faces. "It's been an incredible journey," you replied, your voice measured.

"We've grown together and learned a lot about each other."

Caesar leaned in with a glint in his eye. "Speaking of growth, the citizens of Panem are curious— are there any plans for a little Snow on the horizon? Perhaps an heir to the Snow legacy?"

The questions about children were not new, but the pressure had been mounting over the years. Your father, a powerful figure in Panem, had orchestrated this union to solidify his influence, disregarding any consideration for your personal desires or compatibility.

The marriage had left you with an ache in your heart, and the absence of genuine connection with Coriolanus was palpable. Behind closed doors, conversations between the two of you were few and far between.

tense silence filled the spacious chambers, with occasional glances that spoke volumes but went unaddressed. The thought of children had become a looming cloud, casting shadows over your fragile union.

A polite chuckle escaped Coriolanus's lips, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of discomfort. "Ah, well, we're enjoying our time together for now. The future is unpredictable, but we're taking things one step at a time."

As the interviews continued, the speculation about Coriolanus's fertility surfaced. The whispers in the Capitol's high-society gatherings grew louder, comparing the size of your family to the apparent lack of progeny from the Snow lineage. It became a matter of public curiosity, and the pressure to produce an heir was now a heavy burden on Coriolanus.

Lounging out on one of the day beds, sunglasses perched on your nose, and a book in hand, you felt a figure towering over you. Your eyes move from the words on your page to the figure.

"We need to talk," he declared, his voice firm, as he offers you your robe to which your gratefully take and slip it on your body. The air hung heavy with anticipation as you reluctantly nodded. "Alright." You follow Coriolanus to his study where he closes, and locks the door behind you.

Raising an eyebrow at his odd behaviour he sits down with a loud sigh. You silently sit at one of the seats in front of his desk. Coriolanus took a deep breath, his gaze intense.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, waiting for him to clarify. “How do you propose we do that?” His eyes bore into yours as he spoke, his words carrying an unusual urgency. “Let’s have a child.”

The weight of his statement hung in the air, and you couldn’t hide the surprise etched across your face. “What?” you stammered.

Coriolanus’s jaw tensed, his resolve unyielding. “I said, let’s have a—” “I heard you,” you interrupted with a snap, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But you can’t just decide that on a whim. It’s not that simple.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I understand that, but the longer we wait, the more the rumors will grow. I can’t bear the scrutiny any longer. We need to put an end to this speculation, for both our sakes.”

The cold reality of the situation hit you—the marriage, the façade, and now the pressure to bear a child for the sake of appearances. You couldn’t deny the logic in his words, but the emotional chasm between you and Coriolanus seemed insurmountable.

“I can’t just bring a child into this world for the sake of quelling rumors,” you protested, your voice trembling with emotion. Coriolanus scoffed, “You can, and you will.” His harsh comment made you gulp, your mother’s words ringing in the back of your mind. “Obey your husband,” “Do what pleases him,” and so you did.

It didn’t take long for you to get pregnant. On your sixth wedding anniversary, this time, you held your nearly one-year-old son in your lap, about to announce that you were expecting again.

[sleepymirko]

Bluelock boys reaction to s/o liking winter but (ironically) being very chilly (part 1)

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Featuring Michael Kaiser, Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi

Fluff, nothing weird here except Kaiser being slightly suggestive

Let me know if there's errors! Enjoy!

..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..

You and Kaiser have been together for quite a while so it was obvious that he knew about it.

But he just couldn’t help being fascinated every time you got chilly, even in the mildest weather.

"It's not funny" you said narrowing your eyes at Kaiser, who had a shit eating grin on his face.

"It isn't?" He said cocking an eyebrow. "You're wrapped up with two wool blankets and on top of that a duvet. You look like a burrito." He said as he sat closer to you, the sofa feeling strangely smaller now that Michael was awfully close.

"I can't control my body temperature and if I could I wouldn't be in such a state, don't you think?" You said rolling your eyes but smiling faintly, knowing that he was just teasing you.

“Maybe we can change that...” he murmured, locking eyes with you. His grin widened as he saw the flush on your cheeks. “Looks like someone is in the mood,” the cocky soccer player said, lifting you effortlessly.

“Wait, I didn’t say anything...!” you protested, struggling against him, but the blankets wrapped around you acted as an unintentional shield, much to his advantage. The irony.

“Silence is consent, Meine Liebe." he said with a mischievous smirk.

..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..

It was snowing outside. The snowflakes were slowly falling, covering everything in white. Rin swore he never experienced a colder winter than this, and as a soccer player, it spoke volumes.

When you first met, he discovered how much you loved the season, and as time passed, he found himself loving it more than he had anticipated. He knew how easily you got chilly during this time of year, and, deep down, he liked it.

It was a good excuse for him to gatekeep you in the Itoshi household. Call him possessive, but he just couldn't help it.

The only footsteps heard in the house were his, going up and down the kitchen to prepare a hot chocolate for the two of you. You guys agreed on a horror film marathon, and choose various titles, with the majority chosen by you.

When he finally finished preparing the mugs, he walked towards your shared bedroom, where he found you already covered up to your ears, looking out of the window from the bed you were sitting on.

"Here" he said, laying on your hands the hot mug.

"You didn't have to.. thank you" you spoke softly, looking at him sitting next to you, the remote in his hand, ready for the movie marathon to start. In the first few minutes he noticed you shivering slightly and put your head on his shoulder, taking you by surprise.

Neither of you talked; the silent yet genuine gesture was enough to warm up the both of you, as you sank in a comfortable silence.

..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..•°•..

The storm was in full swing and you were looking at the snow outside, a warm oversized hoodie enveloping your body and a closed book in your hands that kept you occupied just a few moments ago. Sae watched you from across the room, the fire of the fireplace casting shadows over his stoic features. He had just gotten home from practice, and the warmth was enough to remind him that he was where he belonged, even if he would never admit it.

Because the source of it was the same person that was looking at the snow storm with eyes full of wonder.

One would say that he cared only about football and himself, but it wasn't the truth as without a word he walked over, your shivering not going unnoticed as his brows furrowed slightly.

Wordlessly, he draped his own coat over your shoulders, the familiar scent and warmth of him enveloping you. You looked up surprised, meeting his steady gaze.

"You're going to catch a cold even with all these clothes." He simply said, his tone uneven but the glimmer of his eyes betraying him as you spotted a hint of concern in his gaze.

"Thank you.."

"Still cold?"

You looked up surprised and nodded, not able to hide your small smile as Sae sighed.

"Let's go to the fireplace then. If you're still cold even there I'll take you to the hospital." He said, and you rolled your eyes but took his hand as he led you to the couch that was perfectly placed in front of the fireplace.

The heat of the flames warmed your body, but your heart was already warmed by the coldest man you had ever loved.

Let me know if there's some errors! Thank you for reading!

[honeyhaeya]

since i write wonwoo fanfics frequently, i often wonder how it would be if wonwoo falls for someone, or what he likes in a woman, or what he actually is when he's in love or smth. i'm not wonwoo to know what and how, but here's what i think. wonwoo has that reserved yet witty charm, doesn’t he? It makes wondering how he’d be in love so intriguing. 😌 if we take inspiration from what we know about him and combine it with a touch of creative freedom, here’s how he might be when he falls for someone: it's a headcanon so don't hate me if i'm wrong. anyways, please enjoy, cuties. wonwoo x f!reader (should be gn, but i think f!reader one is easier sns).

wonwoo's headcanon when he falls for someone (you)

jeon wonwoo x gn!reader

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ tags / genre: wonwoo x reader, seventeen fanfiction, slow burn romance, comfort / emotional intimacy, supportive wonwoo, quiet love, slice of life, fluff, soft romance, gradual love, reader insert ੈ✩‧₊˚ warnings: n/a ੈ✩‧₊˚ wc: 3200 ੈ♡ a/n: i went with gender neutral because why not. and this may be considered as a fanfiction because it just is. headcanon, drabbles? yes. i make drabbles when i feel like drinking or when i'm tipsy, because it just helps. guess what, i proofread it after i get all sobered up :) enjoy this fantasy i wrote :> (ilovehimsobadthatikeepwriting.seriously,he'sjustsoperfect) - i'll make one for every member :] ᴺ���ᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : To You (Seventeen) ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮

ੈ♡˚ ༘ wonwoo's headcanon when he falls for someone

when wonwoo falls for someone, he’s not the type to loudly declare his feelings or make grand gestures. instead, he expresses his affection through small, meaningful actions that might go unnoticed at first. his love is subtle, often woven into quiet moments where his intentions are more felt than spoken.

he'd be the kind of person who’s always there for you, especially when you need support. whether it’s offering you his jacket when it’s cold or getting you your favorite snack just because he noticed you were craving it—those little gestures speak volumes. wonwoo is someone who pays attention to the small details, and he loves showing his care in ways that don’t require attention from others.

in conversations, he might become more engaging when you're around. he’ll tease you lightly, showing his witty side, and might even playfully challenge you, just to see you react. it’s his way of getting closer without making things too intense or overwhelming. his sarcastic remarks are softened when it’s you, and he enjoys seeing your reactions to his dry humor. but when he’s truly comfortable and feels secure in his affection, you'll notice he becomes more open—he’ll share things that are usually just reserved for himself.

wonwoo’s shy and introverted nature means that when he’s in love, he might struggle to open up at first, but he finds ways to let you in. you’ll see it in how his gaze softens when he looks at you, how his words become carefully chosen, and how he might seek out opportunities to spend time with you, even if it’s just quietly sitting next to each other.

and when he’s jealous or insecure, it’s not overt. he’ll remain composed, but you’ll catch the slight change in his demeanor—the way he’ll glance at you a bit longer than usual, or the way his quietness speaks volumes. it’s not about controlling or demanding your attention, but he can’t help but feel possessive in a quiet, understated way.

the most vulnerable moment for wonwoo comes when he finally admits how he feels, not with grand declarations, but with a soft, sincere confession when you least expect it. it’s simple but deeply heartfelt, because for someone like him, being open about his feelings is a huge step. when he finally takes that leap, you know it’s real.

it was late, the dim light of the living room casting soft shadows on the walls. wonwoo sat on the couch, his fingers lightly tracing the spine of the book he’d been pretending to read for the past hour. his thoughts weren’t on the story—his mind kept drifting back to the person sitting beside him.

you, as usual, had that carefree smile on your face, lost in whatever you were doing on your phone. you were scrolling through social media, laughing at a meme you'd just sent him, and despite the banter, he couldn't shake off the pull in his chest when his gaze lingered on you. it wasn’t the first time he felt this way, but tonight, it seemed like his emotions were bubbling up just a bit more than usual.

you caught his stare, and your playful grin only deepened. "something on my face?" you teased, nudging his arm.

"no," wonwoo replied, his voice quieter than usual. he wasn’t great with words, especially when he was thinking too much. but there was something about you—something about the way you made him feel calm and at ease, even in moments like this, where his thoughts threatened to spill over.

there were many times he'd been asked about his type, and most would expect him to talk about looks, or about how someone had to be this or that. but truthfully? wonwoo never had a clear answer. maybe it was because his feelings were always slow, building in subtle ways, the way a river quietly carves through stone over time. he liked how you listened when he spoke, how your laughter felt like the quietest music in a world too loud.

he cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "you're... distracting," he said, the words coming out softer than he intended. his cheeks flushed lightly at the admission, but you didn’t comment on it. instead, you raised an eyebrow, a teasing look on your face.

"am i now? how am i distracting?" your eyes were bright, playful, but there was something else in your expression—something that made him feel like you could see right through him.

"i—" he stopped himself, unsure of how to finish the sentence without sounding ridiculous. you tilted your head slightly, sensing the shift in his tone.

"wonwoo," you said quietly, setting your phone down, the playful mood suddenly gone. "you’re acting weird."

he blinked, heart hammering. you had always been straightforward, and that made him nervous in ways he hadn’t expected. but your gaze wasn’t accusatory; it was curious, like you were waiting for him to speak his truth.

"i think... i think i like you," he said finally, his words falling into the space between you two. he didn’t look at you right away, his hands fidgeting with the book again as if somehow it could give him the comfort he needed.

there was a long silence, and for a moment, wonwoo thought he might’ve said something wrong, or maybe that you didn’t feel the same. but then you moved closer, your hand gently resting on his.

"i like you too," you said, your voice soft, but the sincerity in it wrapped around his heart like warmth.

he looked up, surprised, though he had hoped for it. there was no teasing in your tone now—just truth. you weren’t playing around. you weren’t afraid of showing your feelings, and it made his chest tighten with something he couldn’t quite name.

for a moment, he just sat there, processing. then, slowly, almost hesitantly, wonwoo reached for your hand, squeezing it lightly. "good," he whispered, voice barely audible. "i didn’t want to mess this up."

you smiled, squeezing back. "you won’t."

and in that quiet moment, when everything else faded away, wonwoo realized that sometimes, love wasn’t about big gestures or dramatic confessions. it was about finding someone who understood you, even in your quietest moments, and making space for each other, one small gesture at a time.

ੈ♡˚ ༘ kisses and cuddles with wonwoo

wonwoo isn’t the type to rush into physical affection, but once he’s comfortable with someone, he’ll be subtle in his approach. the first step would likely be a lot of close moments: sitting together in silence, just enjoying each other's company. the intimacy between you two is built on this steady foundation of trust.

one evening, after a long day, you two end up sitting on the couch again, both of you lost in whatever show or movie is playing in the background. wonwoo, as usual, is silent but somehow present—his hand resting just barely near yours. the tension is subtle at first, but it's there. the closeness feels safe, like you’re both cocooned in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence.

then, the first touch happens almost by accident. maybe it’s when you shift on the couch, and your arm brushes against his. he doesn’t pull away immediately, and neither do you. the brief touch lingers for a moment, just enough to make the air feel a little warmer. neither of you says anything, but the connection is there.

as you two continue watching, you notice him glancing over at you from the corner of his eye. his lips are pursed in that familiar contemplative way, but his gaze softens when it lands on you.

you can feel the anticipation building as his hand inches closer to yours again, just waiting for a response. when your fingers brush against his, it's like the world pauses for a second. his heart beats faster in his chest, but he doesn't let it show—his eyes remain calm, his expression composed. yet, there’s something in his posture that betrays the tension in his shoulders, how badly he wants this but doesn’t want to rush it.

he finally takes your hand, fingers gently weaving through yours. there’s no need for words—everything is said in that simple gesture, the quiet understanding between you two that this is the start of something more.

ੈ♡˚ ༘ the first kiss the first kiss comes unexpectedly, but in a way that feels right. maybe you're both standing in the kitchen, preparing dinner together, and you accidentally bump into him while reaching for the same ingredient. there’s a moment of awkwardness—your hand brushing against his chest, and both of you pausing to look at each other.

he doesn’t shy away, but there’s that slight hesitation. it’s not that he’s unsure—it’s more that he’s being careful, considering everything that comes with this moment. his eyes lock onto yours, and you see that flicker of vulnerability in them.

then, with a soft breath, he leans in. it’s slow—he takes his time, moving closer with careful precision. his lips press against yours in a gentle, almost hesitant kiss at first, as if testing the waters. his lips are soft, and the kiss feels warm, calm, comforting. he doesn’t rush; instead, he savors the moment, lingering with you in the quiet intimacy of it all.

as you both pull away, wonwoo doesn’t say anything at first. he simply smiles faintly, his eyes soft with a kind of tenderness that’s rare for him to show. there’s a quiet understanding between you two: this is real, and it’s something to be treasured.

ੈ♡˚ ༘ cuddles with wonwoo when it comes to cuddling, wonwoo would prefer something subtle and relaxed. it wouldn’t be the type of cuddling where you’re all over each other right away. instead, he might start with small touches—his arm casually draping over your shoulders as you sit together, or his hand gently resting on your knee. his warmth and presence are what make it feel like an embrace, even if there’s no immediate closeness.

if he’s had a long day, you might find him leaning into you for comfort, his head resting lightly on your shoulder. at first, the cuddles would be a little awkward, as wonwoo isn’t used to letting his guard down in such a vulnerable way. but once he gets comfortable, he’ll pull you in a little closer, his arm wrapping around you protectively. the closeness will feel like a safe haven for him—like a place where he doesn’t need to speak, but he can feel secure in the quiet connection you share.

as time goes on, he might be more open to cuddling while you’re watching tv or simply laying together. he’d prefer it to be natural—nothing forced. maybe one evening, as you both relax in bed, he’ll pull you to his chest, his arms surrounding you. his body language will show that he’s comfortable and feels safe, his fingers gently stroking your hair or back as he hums softly. his breathing will slow, his heart will steady, and you’ll feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

the first time he lets his guard down completely in your arms, you’ll know. his body language will soften, and you’ll feel him relax into you, the tension that often keeps him stiff and reserved melting away. in that moment, you’ll know that this—this is what wonwoo needs most: quiet, shared moments of tenderness.

┊ ➶ ｡✩‧₊˚ bonus wonwoo's apartment door clicked open, the familiar scent of your perfume filling the air as soon as he stepped inside. he had barely taken a breath after a long day of practice before he noticed you sitting on the couch. it was late, and the apartment was quiet, but there was something so soothing about seeing you here—waiting for him.

you didn’t say anything at first. you just looked up at him, eyes soft and knowing. you could see the exhaustion in his face, the way his shoulders sagged, like the weight of the entire day had been pressing on him. but you didn’t need to ask how he was doing. the moment he locked eyes with you, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, like he couldn’t help it.

"hey," he murmured, slipping off his shoes and making his way over to the couch. "you’re still awake?"

"of course," you replied, teasing a little, but the concern in your voice was evident. "i thought you might need some company."

he sank onto the couch beside you, his body leaning heavily against the cushions. the tension in his frame was almost palpable. without thinking, he stretched out his legs, his head falling back against the headrest, completely drained. but there was a softness in his eyes when he glanced over at you, that familiar comfort settling over him.

you didn’t ask him anything about practice—he hated talking about it when he was tired. instead, you simply reached for him, your fingers brushing gently against his. he didn’t pull away, but his eyes flickered toward you, almost surprised.

"you don’t need to do anything," you said quietly, your voice gentle as you squeezed his hand, "just relax. i’ll be here."

and that was all he needed to hear. wonwoo’s eyes closed, and he let out a long sigh, his body finally starting to unwind in the peaceful quiet of your presence.

for a moment, the two of you sat in silence, and you just let him take his time. he needed it—his head resting against the couch, his hand still holding yours loosely, as if you were the anchor that kept him grounded. it wasn’t long before he shifted closer to you, moving in small increments like he was testing the waters.

you felt him shift again, this time his shoulder brushing against yours. his movements were subtle, almost hesitant, but there was something so endearing about it—like he was giving you the chance to decide, even though he had clearly already made up his mind.

you leaned in just a bit, your hand moving to rest on his chest, and he responded instinctively, his arm wrapping around you. the motion felt natural, familiar, as if the two of you had been doing this for years.

the first kiss came softly—slow, lingering. wonwoo’s lips were warm against yours, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in time. he wasn’t rushing, and neither were you. it was just the two of you, caught in the quiet intimacy of the moment, the exhaustion of the day melting away as he kissed you again, this time a little deeper.

his hands were gentle, his fingers grazing your waist as he pulled you closer, his lips parting slightly as he deepened the kiss. there was no force behind it, no urgency—just the need to be close, to feel each other after the long day apart. wonwoo kissed like he was taking his time, savoring each moment as though it could slip away at any second.

and you... you matched his pace. your own hands tangled in his shirt, the softness of his body pressed against yours, grounding you. the kiss was slow but heated, full of a quiet hunger, like he had been wanting this all day but wasn’t sure how to get it.

it wasn’t just a kiss anymore. it was a way for him to release everything he’d been holding in—his exhaustion, his frustrations, his quiet longing. he wasn’t just seeking comfort. he was seeking connection. and, with you, he found it.

after a moment, he pulled away, his forehead resting gently against yours, both of you still catching your breath. his eyes fluttered open, and there was something in them—vulnerable and soft, a stark contrast to his usual cool demeanor.

"stay with me," he whispered, voice hoarse. "i just... need you close."

and, of course, you didn’t need to say anything. you simply nodded, your hand brushing his cheek before you leaned in for another kiss—this one a little more eager, a little more urgent. his lips responded immediately, deepening the kiss until it felt like nothing else in the world mattered.

the night would come with small moments

⊹˚. what exactly are you to wonwoo?

to wonwoo, you might be that one person—the one who feels like a safe harbor even through all the chaos of his busy, demanding life. you might be more than just a friend or a casual connection; you're his comfort, his source of peace, and the person who understands him without needing him to explain everything.

⊹˚. how wonwoo falls for you

it’s subtle, gradual, and wrapped up in the quiet moments that define your relationship. for wonwoo, his feelings wouldn’t ignite all at once. instead, they’d grow quietly, almost imperceptibly, until one day he realizes just how much he’s fallen in love with you.

wonwoo, the quiet one, might never explicitly declare his feelings in such words. instead, his actions speak louder than anything. the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention, the way his hand seeks yours when you’re together, the way he makes sure you’re comfortable, even in the smallest ways.

if he does eventually confess, it’ll probably be in his own understated, sincere way, where words don’t need to be loud to express the depth of his feelings.

example: late one evening, as you’re about to leave, he surprises you by pulling you back for a quick kiss—no preamble, just a gentle, unexpected moment. and when you pull away, he whispers, “i guess this is me admitting i’m kind of... into you.”

in wonwoo’s case, it’s a slow burn—nothing rushed, just a deepening connection that sneaks up on both of you. you’re not just someone he likes. you’re the person he starts imagining a future with, not because he can’t be without you, but because you’ve become a part of his peace.

(ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡ when wonwoo is in love he becomes even more of a rock for his partner. he’s the kind of person who’s always there when things get tough, but not in an overbearing way. he just quietly supports you, offering a sense of calm and security. you might not always realize it, but his love is a constant comfort, whether it’s through a reassuring smile, a soft touch, or a shared silence.

like when you go through a stressful day, you come home to find him already there with a cup of tea, just sitting quietly next to you. he doesn’t need to ask, "what’s wrong?" he just knows that your silence says enough, and his presence alone provides the peace you need.

wonwoo doesn’t need to constantly express his love verbally. instead, it’s in the touch of his hand on your back when you're walking together, or the way he watches you when you’re talking. his love is quiet but constant—he’s there when you need him, not just physically, but emotionally. he’d never be the type to have a "grand love declaration," but when he looks at you, you’d know.

maybe his fingers find yours casually when you’re sitting together, not even necessarily for anything romantic, but because he’s used to having you near him. his hand just naturally gravitates to yours, as if it's where it’s always meant to be.

ੈ♡ a/n: you want to know what i think? wonwoo is the type of person who makes efforts so effortlessly but manages to do a perfect job for his love. he might not be the guy who would be attached almost too immediately and takes things slow. these are just headcanons of what i know about him, lmk if i missed anything :)) thankyou for reading ily :>

[happilyhertale]

The Quiet by the Fire – Daemon Targaryen x fem!wife!reader

Summary: The last few weeks have been very stressful for your husband Daemon. Lots of council meetings and little one-on-one time took away the opportunity to relax. But you know how to help him unwind.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!wife!reader

Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Blowjob

Author’s note: English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1.9 k

Other stories of mine

12 Days of Smuffmas

12 Days of Smuff

The corridors of the Red Keep are as still as the air outside, a biting cold that crept through the halls, settling into the bones. The torches lining the stone walls flicker and dance in the icy gusts that seem to seep from every crack. The warmth of the hearths in the chambers provides little comfort as winter claws at the edges of the castle.

You have been walking through the Keep for what feels like hours, searching. The echoes of your footsteps have been your only company, until at last, you find him. Daemon.

As you enter your shared chambers, the first thing you notice was the soft glow of firelight flickering against the walls, casting long shadows. The room is quiet, too quiet—nothing like the usual chaotic bustle of court life or the hurried, harried days Daemon has been enduring recently.

There, seated in a large chair by the fire, is Daemon. His black leathers, the ones he usually wears in moments of war and conflict, are replaced by a simpler tunic, his sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal the lean muscles in his arms. He isn‘t usually one to sit idly by a fire, yet here he is, his back relaxed, eyes focused on the pages of a book. The glow from the fire catches the sharp angles of his face, his silver hair catching the light. The usual sharp edge of his gaze is soft, more serene, as though the world outside this chamber no longer exists.

For a moment, you simply watch him. He seems... tranquil. At peace.

You move closer, the chill of the hall still lingering on your skin.

Daemon’s head turns as you walk further into the room, and his lips curl into that signature smirk of his. The one you have come to know so well, one that speaks volumes without a word.

You can't help but smile back. "I’ve searched every corner of the Keep," you tease, taking a step forward. "You’re not easy to find these days."

“Ah, I have my hiding spots,” he replies, his grin widening as he sets down the book on the table.

"I’m surprised you’re not out there, causing chaos," you say, as you settle into a seat beside him, your knees brushing his.

Daemon chuckles, the sound rich and full, warming the room even more than the fire could. “The chaos has been… persistent enough without my help.” His tone shifts slightly, darker, as his hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers gently threading through your hair. “And besides, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, though you know the answer. Daemon has always been full of surprises.

“Hmm,” Daemon grins again, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Yes. I’ve had enough of the world for the moment. Enough of the courts and the politics. Enough of everything, except for you.” His fingers slide to your cheek, his touch warm against your skin. “You know, there are few things in this world that can still my restless nature. But you, my love… You have a way of doing it.”

His words are gentle, but laced with that familiar heat, the one that could turn a tender moment into something much more.

You lean into his touch, the quiet that surrounded you both seeming like a strange luxury.

The fire crackles softly, and you let the warmth seep into your bones as you watche him—his face lit by the flickering flames, his silver hair shining even brighter in the dim light.

"You’ve been stressed," you observe, your voice soft. It isn‘t a question; it is a truth you both knew. “You don’t look it now, but I can see it in your eyes when you think I’m not watching.”

“Thats true,” he agrees. “But you know, sometimes… I long for something simpler.” His thumb gently traces the line of your jaw, and for a brief, quiet moment, the weight of his words settles in the space between you. “Something… like this.”

The calm of the room settles over you both, and you can feel the tension of his usual restlessness slowly melts away in your presence.

“So,” Daemon begins again, his voice returning to that cheeky tone you know so well, “now that you’ve found me, what will you do?”

You smile, feeling the weight of the day lift. “Maybe I’ll stay here,” you whisper, leaning closer to him. “And keep you company”

Daemon's grin widenes, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer, the warmth of his embrace stronger than the fire that burned beside you.

“Good,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

For a moment, Daemon remains silent, his head resting against the back of the sofa, eyes closed, though you could sense his awareness of you in every breath he takes. His other hand, the one not holding you, idly traces the fabric of your gown, the tips of his fingers brushing over your shoulder and down your arm, as if exploring you in a way that is both familiar and new.

The room is warm now, not just from the fire, but from the shared closeness that has begin to envelope you both.

Daemon pulls you closer into his chest, an action so characteristically possessive that it makes you smile.

You can feel his breath against your ear, warm and steady, and you shiver slightly, from the intimacy of the moment. His touch is different now—gentler, more insistent in a way that makes your pulse quicken, even as his demeanor remains calm, almost contemplative. The stress, the frustrations that have hardened him in recent weeks seem to melt away in the simple act of holding you close.

His hand, which has been tracing idle patterns on your arm, slowly moves to your side, his fingers grazing the curve of your waist. The touch, light at first, soon becomes more deliberate, as if coaxing something from you—something that you know he needs but would never outright ask for.

"You’ve been a comfort to me," Daemon murmurs, "But you know, sometimes... I need more than just your presence."

You lift your gaze, meeting his eyes, and see the flicker of something familiar: that mischievous gleam, the same one he wears when he is being naughty. It is no surprise that Daemon’s playful nature can’t stay dormant for long.

You lean back slightly, enough to see his face fully. “What are you saying, Daemon?”

He shifts, pulling you closer again, so that his face is hovering near yours, his lips barely an inch from your ear. His breath is warm, his presence overwhelming. "I’m saying," he purrs, "that I need you to take my mind off things. The stress. The politics. Everything." His fingers, now trailing down to the small of your back, hold you tighter, as if marking you as his. "You have a way of doing that, don’t you?"

"You want me to take it away?" you ask, your voice teasing, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

Daemon’s grin is unmistakable, "That’s what I said."

You feel his body shift as he sits up slightly, his hands roaming with purpose, but his touch still tender enough to draw out that soft side of him that so few got to see. His lips graze your cheek, brushing lightly against your skin, and then hover just below your ear, his breath warm against your neck.

His words laced with both frustration and desire. "I have too much to think about. But when I’m with you…" He pauses, his voice darkening. "It’s different. I don’t need to think. I just need to feel."

The warmth of his body, the way his fingers lingers over your skin, is intoxicating. It isn’t just about the touch anymore—it is the quiet urgency in his actions, the way he can’t seem to help himself as he pulls you even closer, his body pressing against yours with that same undeniable hunger that is both possessive and desperate. You smile at him before sliding off the sofa. He watches you, seeming confused for a second. But then he feels you unbuttoning his trousers. A smile plays around his lips, “It seems to me you already have an idea how you could help me relax.”

You just smile and Daemon lifts his hips so you can pull his pants down. You bite your lip lightly as you release his semi-hard length from his pants.

His hand slides into your hair, gently gripping it while your hand glides along his length. You lean forward and your lips glide along his length. Daemon sighs lightly, leaning back slightly as you work your way up to his tip. You feel him get harder, his cock twitching slightly.

Your lips wrap around his tip and he growls as you suck lightly. “Oh Love... I think this helps me relax,” he murmurs and his hand slides further into your hair, gripping lightly. Inch by inch you take his length deeper into your mouth. A salty taste spreads across your tongue and Daemon growls. You swirl your tongue around the flesh, dipping into the slit every now and then to get him to moan.

You take his cock out of your mouth, your hand slides up and down while your tongue continues to play with his head. Daemon growls again and his hips push up slightly, you know that he is getting impatient. But you want to tease him. You continue to gently suck on his tip, denying him full pleasure.

“Don't tease me,” he murmurs, and you try to suppress a smile. But you take his length back into your mouth, take him deeper. Slowly you drag your lips down his shaft until you are tearing up and close to choking before pulling up and repeating this motion.

Daemon grunts with relief, but his hand tightens. But then you choke slightly as he suddenly thrusts up. You want to protest, but he thrusts again. His hand holds your head while he fucks you in the mouth. You try to breathe calmly, but you moan. Your throat clenches around the tip of his cock.

“Fuck, yes!” Daemon growls as you choke again. Your hands slide onto his thighs, supporting you as he fucks your mouth. Daemon grunts and you feel more and more precum filling your mouth. Tears well up in your eyes and you feel his cock twitch. You suck and try to take control again, but Daemon has you firmly in his grasp.

Your one hand lightly grabs his balls, massaging them while you suck. Daemon growls and thrusts violently into your throat. You gag and at that moment Daemon comes, spilling his cum deep into your throat.

He growls and grunts, thrusting his hips forward until the last drop of his seed has left his length. You try to swallow everything, but you can't prevent some of the cum from leaking out of your mouth. You are breathing heavily, but like a good wife, you lick along his cock until you have captured all the remains of his juice. Slowly you release his still slightly twitching length from your mouth.

You wipe your mouth and look at him. He's breathing heavily, his eyes are closed. His hand is still in your hair, but slowly your grip loosens, sliding down to your cheek. His eyes are still closed until you turn your head and kiss the palm of his hand. His eyes open slightly and he smiles.

Slowly he pulls you back up onto the sofa and you follow his movement. As soon as you are sitting on the sofa, he pulls you close to him, buries his face in your hair while he still tries to catch his breath.

[nifftydeary]

Lucifer touches Al antlers

The flickering gaslight cast long shadows across the opulent bedroom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Alastor, perched on the edge of the plush velvet bed, was engrossed in a tattered volume of Victorian poetry, a delicate smile playing on his lips.  His antlers, usually a vibrant crimson, seemed slightly dulled under the dim light.

Lucifer entered, the door clicking softly behind him.  He looked…worn. The usual sharp gleam in his eyes was muted, replaced by a weary exhaustion that etched itself into the lines around his usually flawless features. He moved with a heaviness that was unusual for the charismatic Prince of Hell.  He sank onto the bed beside Alastor, his weight causing the springs to sigh softly.

He tried to catch Alastor's attention.  A gentle cough. A soft, "Alastor?"  Nothing. The radio demon remained utterly absorbed in his book, a single, perfectly manicured finger tracing the lines of text.  Lucifer sighed, the sound barely audible above the gentle crackle of the gaslight.

An idea sparked in his mind, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes despite his fatigue.  He reached out, his fingers brushing against the velvety softness of Alastor's antler.  He lightly touched the base of one, a feather-light caress.

A low moan escaped Alastor's lips, a sound both surprised and sensual.  His eyes snapped open, widening as he looked at Lucifer, a blush creeping up his neck. The book slipped from his grasp, falling silently to the floor.  His usually bright, cheerful expression was replaced with a dazed vulnerability.

"Lucifer…" he breathed, his voice husky with a mixture of surprise and something else… something undeniably alluring.  His gaze was fixed on Lucifer's hand, still resting lightly on his antler.

Lucifer smirked, a hint of his usual charm returning.  He leaned closer, his breath warm against Alastor's ear.  "Tired, my dear?" he whispered, his voice a low rumble.  He gently traced the curve of Alastor's antler with his thumb, eliciting another soft moan from the radio demon.

Alastor shivered, a delicate tremor running through his frame. He leaned into Lucifer's touch, his eyes fluttering closed.  The weariness that had clung to Lucifer seemed to melt away, replaced by a surge of something primal and potent.  The flickering gaslight danced in the shadows, illuminating the scene with a seductive glow as the Prince of Hell and the Radio Demon surrendered to the moment, the poetry forgotten, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the embrace of their love.

[imagine-darksiders]

Bowser x Reader drabble.

Set in the same universe as The Lovelorn King.

A few mentions of blood and injury. Self-image issues. Bowser is touch-starved. Reader has been Bowser's prisoner for a while. You show Bowser the barest thread of compassion and he becomes even more attached to you. Whoops.

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

“What in the world happened to you?”

All the self-discipline in the world couldn’t have kept Bowser from nearly leaping right out of his scales at the sound of an unexpected voice breaching the hushed, placid peace of his castle’s library.

Overwrought muscles bunch and flex as the King heaves his sizeable bulk around and away from the doors he’d just skulked through, crimson eyes flashing open wide and darting to each shadowy corner in search of the voice’s owner.

This is the second time tonight that he’s been caught off guard.

He knows who this voice belongs to, of course. In fact, he knows it quite well. It’s been floating dreamily through his mind like a pleasant nepenthe for some time now. He just… hadn’t expected that you’d still be awake at this repugnant hour, let alone in the one room he thought he could sneak through without being spotted by anyone on the way to his royal chambers.

And yet here you are.

His wild-eyed gaze finds you easily, poised in the seat of an enormous armchair by the freshly-lit hearth with an open book resting daintily in your lap.

The moment he spots you, Bowser takes a clumsy step sideways, knocking his tail into a stack of books and sending them toppling to the floor in a flutter of dust and dog-eared pages. Righting himself, he barely remembers to whip a meaty hand up and slap it across the top of his head, tilting the palm so that his left horn is obscured from view.

“P-Princess!?” he blurts out, immediately wincing as his booming voice reverberates off the high, stone ceilings and echoes out through the library, loud enough to wake a Dry Bones.

Perhaps it says much that you only shut your eyes for a second as if pained by the volume before opening them again and blinking up at the King with an air of mild intrigue.

The embers crackling inside the hearth cast their orange warmth out into the nook, illuminating much of the nearby shelves that have been stacked to the rafters with some of Kamek’s spell books, Junior’s comics and an absolute avalanche of Bowser’s cherished romance novels.

Flickering flames chase shadows across your impassive features as you stare up at him, a lone eyebrow cocked like a weapon about to fire. “Bowser,” you greet him coolly in return, throwing a glance up at his conspicuous hand.

His stomach promptly drops, yet even still, even still, the King’s almighty heart soars on a swell of elation at the simple and unassuming fact that you’ve spoken to him....

He just wishes you hadn’t chosen this exact moment to break your vow of silence that you've been valiantly upholding for the better part of a week.

You’re not supposed to be here! Well, you are supposed to be here, in his Fortress – In fact, he’s taken a great many measures to ensure you have to stay here – but he certainly didn’t expect to find you in his library in the dead of night when you should be sound asleep in the chambers he gifted you. You definitely shouldn’t be awake and, worse still, looking at him.

Mind in a swirl, Bowser wonders if you’d already spotted what he’s hiding beneath his palm.

If he’d have just managed to avoid you until morning, he’d have found something inconspicuous to hide it… One of his top hats, perhaps. Or maybe he’d have combed his mane over in such a way as to hide the unsightly laceration that lances from a place beneath his hairline to the base of his horn, where it turns from an angry, red gouge to a dark, jagged crack, marring the inner curve of his once pristine and gleaming headgear.

He’d even polished them arduously earlier today, conscious to keep up his immaculate appearance whilst such a refined and comely lady stays in his Fortress.

Of course, he hadn’t at all expected that a rogue Treevil would be the one to catch him by surprise. A Treevil. That shuffling, twig-tossing lump of wood had the gall to launch an attack on Bowser when he was bending to wrench a fistful of flowers out of the soil, intent on presenting them to you as a gift in the morning.

The ‘twig’ it used as a club wasn’t so much a tiny piece of wood as it was a very unreasonably-sized log. It caught him squarely on the front of his skull, its hard, brittle edge landing a solid ‘thwack’ to his horn before he could even gather his wits to see what had hit him.

Of course, the Treevil now stands as little more than a smoking pile of charcoal in the centre of Dimble Wood, but it had left a blow in its own right, landed one straight down on the King’s pride as well as his body.

He’d hoped he could stay wholly undetected whilst he made his way back to his royal quarters, certain that a genius strategist like him could come up with some plan to conceal the embarrassing injury from all of his subjects, his guards, and yourself and Junior, first and foremost.

Well. So much for that plan.

“What- Uhh,” he flounders, desperate to direct your attention elsewhere, for a change, “What’re you still doin’ up?” It’s a legitimate concern. You should be in your bed where he left you, where it’s safe, and he knows where to find you. You must be exhausted to be up at this hour.

Unbeknownst to him, your mind is far more awake than he gives it credit for.

“I couldn’t sleep.” The half-lie falls so expertly off your tongue, the smitten King doesn’t have a chance of catching it.

You couldn’t sleep because you were busy making yet another escape attempt, using your time wisely by mapping out the fortress in the twilight hours when the koopa guards are at their drowsiest.

All for naught. Tonight, at least.

Ever since Bowser had ‘so graciously allowed’ you more freedom to roam around his domicile, there have been double the number of guards posted around every corner and in every doorway. This library in the West wing seems to be the only place they haven’t bothered to watch so heavily, perhaps because there are no windows or doors here that might lead to a potential exit.

After it became clear you wouldn’t be finding an escape route tonight, you sought a reprieve instead, bundling yourself away amongst the crowded bookshelves and dusty tomes to find some peace from the sleepy but vigilant guards.

Sod’s law then, that Bowser should turn up.

The King, for his part, has no idea what’s going through your mind nor that he’s done anything particularly wrong. Most of his attention has now shifted to the warm, creeping trickle of liquid he can feel break away from his scalp and ooze gently down past his eye, then on towards the curve of his cheek.

The soft thump of a book being closed wrenches him back into the moment.

Owlishly, he blinks down at you from the other side of the nook, private in his hopes that the firelight hasn’t yet reached him well enough to expose his secret.

You can’t see him like this; Marred. Flawed. He dreads to imagine what you’ll think if you spot his broken horn. You’ll probably think him weak. Unfit to take care of you.

So, when you rise gracefully to your slippered feet and lay the book down on the arm of your chair, he very nearly bolts for the other side of the library. But then the silken nightgown you’d conceded to wear after much, much protest on your part is pooling towards the ground and swishing around your ankles, each fold catching in the fire’s glow like the ripples of a curtain in the morning sun, and suddenly Bowser can’t think of escaping so much as he has to concentrate on not staring.

A padded footstep in his direction has him taking one long stride of his own in retreat, maintaining the distance you’d just tried to erase. Perhaps you recognise how… unusual it is for the King to be widening the gap because in the next second, you come to a temporary standstill, blinking up at the Koopa in surprise.

“Bowser,” you say, quiet but stern, gradually stitching your brows together into a hard line and taking another step in his direction, “You’re bleeding.”

He supposes it was too much to hope for...

The horror of being seen wars valiantly with his delight in seeing you, at having even an iota of your attention, even if it’s scornful or sad or… whatever this is.

So often, a melancholy will take you, and you’ll shut yourself away in your chambers, refusing to say a single word to him. Kamek was the one who had to tell him that you’d come around, if given enough time. You’d just been whisked away to an entirely new life without warning, after all. Far from home, far from the shores of your distant kingdom. Of course there’d be an adjustment period…

Slapping a toothy grin onto his snout, Bowser continues inching backwards whilst you glide towards him, picking up speed with every step, your eyes glued to the hand covering his blemish from sight.

“Bleedin’?” he echoes, shrugging one massive shoulder nonchalantly, “What’re you talkin’ about, I’m… I’m, uhhh…”

It isn’t often the King of all Koopas feels his courage falter. But right then, Bowser’s spiked shell hits the solid library doors, stopping him rather effectively in his tracks. Which leaves you with more than enough time to close in and come to a halt right in front of him, your head tilted all the way back to squint up at the underside of his chin.

Gulping down at steadying breath, Bowser finds himself entranced as one of your hands creeps up towards his raised arm. At once, the behemoth freezes, watching, waiting with his heart wedged in his throat to see what you’ll do next.

And in turn, you seem to hesitate as well, fingers poised just a few inches shy of making contact with his scales. There’s a contemplative frown deepening the lines on your face, as though you’re putting some serious thought into what you’re about to do.

By now, Bowser would wholly expect you to retract your arm and turn from him, skulking back out of the doors.

But instead, to his astonishment – and a Hell of a lot of your own – you knit your expression together resolutely and breach the gap between his arm and your fingertips.

The barest of pressures comes to rest upon the jutting bone of the King’s crooked elbow, hardly there at all.

So why does his body light up like a flare beneath your touch?

Synapses snap and pulse, nerve endings in his arm shoot signals up towards his brain and scurry back down to the elbow your fingers have alighted upon.

A touch… made willingly? And without any air of disgust or fear or ill-intent.

All the moisture dries up in Bowser’s mouth, leaving his tongue sitting thick and heavy as lead against the back of his fangs. His eyes are locked with rigid focus on your fingers, half hidden from view beyond the swell of his bicep.

He can’t even swallow, though he does feel the familiar bob of his gorge that calls for him to gulp.

‘What is she doing?’ is the first question that springs to his mind.

If it weren’t for the steady throb of pain in his skull, Bowser might be inclined to believe that he’s dreaming.

You’re initiating contact…

You’re initiating contact.

You’ve… never initiated contact before, no matter how many times Bowser has tried to encourage as much by nudging your hand with his or pushing his snout eagerly into your space, hoping for something tactile, a moment – just a glimpse – of something that he could mistake for returned affection. Just…

…Anything.

But this…?

This is definitely something.

Rendered speechless, Bowser doesn’t tear his eyes from the point of contact between your skin and his, half afraid that if he looks elsewhere, the moment will be gone, turning to nothing more than another sad, empty delusion he thinks of late at night.

Perhaps you’d disappear.

Perhaps you’re not even here at all, and this is simply a hallucination brought about by the knock that Treevil landed on his head.

“Bowser…”

But then, your voice is drifting up into his ears, soft and quiet and there. And the gentlest of pressures exerts itself on his elbow, pushing it down without force.

“Let me see…”

The King’s fingers instantly slacken their grasp on his mane, and despite his size, despite his indomitable strength and power and authority, he allows you to guide his arm down by the elbow, drawing his hand off the top of his head and exposing the dark, sticky trail of scarlet blood running over the plump of his cheek.

At last, his gaze moves to yours, and he watches, enraptured, whilst you give your tongue a chiding click, and your expression sheds whatever remaining steel it might have held were he not currently bleeding…

He waits...

For disgust, for the recoil, for the dip of your chin and squint of your eyes that signifies repulsion from his ugly new defect.... He waits for almost ten whole seconds - he knows because he counts each one in his head, just waiting to see how long it'll take before the inevitable blow.

“Hmm,” you murmur instead, no hint of a smirk haunting the edges of your mouth. Nothing more and nothing less is said.

Just... 'Hmm.'

Before he can respond, before he can even process your hum, you’ve withdrawn from the elbow of the arm that now flops uselessly at his side and stretch both hands up towards his head.

He’s taller than you. So much taller. Towering like a monolith over a tiny pebble.

And yet, with the breath caught inside his massive lungs, Bowser is helpless except to dip his enormous snout down to you as if riding on some old, unconscious instinct that tells him he should be the one deferring.

As it is, he’s barely stringing a coherent thought together, far too astonished and restless to see what you might do.

Is it still coming? Should he still be bracing himself? He could very easily shrug you off and prevent you from seeing any more than you already have but....

Gentle fingertips find him again, though the sensation of them is dulled this time; they’ve gingerly crested the very tips of his curved horns, wrapping around them and giving a small but effective tug.

When you use the same cautious leverage to tilt his head even further down, bringing his nose parallel with your stomach, Bowser’s tail promptly slumps flat to the carpet with a soft, heavy ‘thwump!’

‘Oh…’ flickers across his brain, and then, when nothing more eloquent comes to mind… ‘Stars.’

Mouth hanging slightly ajar, he lets his eyes travel up the length of your neck to settle on your face.

He hardly dares breathe lest even one tiny inhale proves to be a movement that frightens you away from doing… whatever it is you’re doing to him right now.

Your eyes don’t meet the King’s, though you’re aware that he’s staring. You suppose you can give him that.

“Huh,” you utter through pursed lips, following the trail of blood with your thumb up from his cheek towards his fiery hairline, stopping just short of touching the edge of a fresh, seeping laceration.

Bowser's scales grow noticeably hotter beneath your fingertips, so, quirking one side of your mouth into a wan smile, you finally drop your attention to his wide, bewildered eyes.

“Let me guess. I should see the other guy, right?” you tease, shrugging a shoulder.

Bowser merely stares at you for several seconds too many, until at last, he manages a slow, dopey blink and murmurs, “Huh?"

You’ve had too much experience with concealing your emotions to allow your lips any elasticity. Your smile does not soften at the stunned expression on Bowser’s scaly face.

That said, you can’t deny that he’d almost be endearing… if he wasn’t the very reason you’re trapped in this wretched fortress against your will.

But personal feelings aside, you can’t very well let him stumble around the castle all bloodied and bruised. He might have a concussion! Or God forbid he wakes Junior up, and the poor boy has to witness his own father with a crack in his horn and a cut on his scalp.

Fathers are supposed to be invincible.

Junior is still too young to learn that they’re not.

Heaving a great sigh that carries with it more weariness from the late hour than frustration with your ‘host,’ you let go of his horns and step back, smothering a laugh when he tilts forwards, righting himself with a hurriedly placed foot and a startled look on his face.

“Come on then,” you say, swivelling about on a heel and beckoning for him to follow you towards the library doors, “There’s a sink in your bathroom, I presume?”

Dumbstruck at the sudden turnaround, Bowser gives his head a shake, stepping dutifully into step behind you. “Uh… sink?” he parrots, reaching up with a claw-tipped finger to trace the path your thumb had left over his cheek, his touch rough yet reverent.

“To clean up that mess,” you explain, waving a hand over your shoulder in his vague direction, the first sniff of exasperation clouding your tone.

But Bowser hardly notices it. In fact, he hardly notices anything at all, save for the beguiling human leading him across the library towards the West entrance.

All he can think about, all he can do consider, is the way your hands had felt against his toughened scales, like a balm to whatever ire had been lingering after his run-in with the Treevil.

Tiny callouses on your fingertips rubbed lightly, not harshly. Careful, not cruel. You hadn't balked at his sullied appearance nor shuddered when you touched him. You hadn't even shown any pleasure at his misfortune, though somewhere deep down past the layers of wilful ignorance and optimism, a small part of Bowser knows you don't particularly like him.

In the library, the firelight flickers, forgotten.

The warmth it casts into the room pales in comparison to the roaring flame bursting to life inside the King's almighty chest.

[jolieeason]

February 2025 Wrap-Up

Personal Highlights from this month: Miss B started her job and she is loving it. Miss R got her diagnosis—unspecified ADHD, an attachment disorder, and an unspecified anxiety disorder. Her therapist is adjusting her therapy sessions to follow the suggestions of the psychiatrist. BK traveled to Minnesota and got to enjoy -2 to -14-degree weather. To say he wasn’t a fan is an…

[dragonridersandhighlords]

The History Book on the Shelf | Dain Aetos

Part 1

Summary: You should have stayed away from each other but you couldn’t. Now he stands before you, seemingly on the wrong side of the war and you question if your blind trust was worth it.

Requested by: @natri1509

Pairing: Dain Aetos x Riorson!reader

Notes: I swear its more Dain x reader in pt 2🤪

Warnings: takes place during Iron Flame, mentions of torture, imprisonment, forced confessions, emotional distress

Word Count: 4k

Masterlist | FW Masterlist

You weren’t like the other Riders. While they wore their scars like badges of honor, burying their secrets in the depths of their souls, you danced through life with an open heart—trusting too easily, believing in the goodness still lingering within the shadows of the quadrant. 

Dain first saw you during grounded flight maneuvers, seated cross-legged beside your dragon, your fingers gently weaving through wildflowers. It was reckless, he thought, allowing himself to truly see you—the girl whose laughter came too quickly and whose spirit shined too brightly for the world around her. 

You were Xaden Riorson’s little sister, and he had been warned to keep his distance. Yet, as you picked at the petals and smiled at the sky, he couldn’t help but notice the way the sunlight caught your hair, casting a halo of warmth around you. No trace of sadness marred your laughter, even when the shadows of your brother loomed larger.

He shouldn’t have noticed the way you slipped out of the dorms at night, seeking solace among the stars. He should have turned away, left you to your solitude. But instead, he found himself walking towards you, drawn like a moth to a flame.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said, hovering at the edge of safety, words laced with concern.

“Are you going to throw me off as punishment?” you shot back, that same soft smile tugging at your lips as you dangle your legs over the edge, hair dancing in the night breeze.

“Most people would avoid this place after Conscription Day,” he replied, his eyes searching yours for a flicker of hesitation.

“I’m not most people,” you shrugged, turning your gaze back to the stars, and with that, something shifted between you—an unspoken understanding that neither of you could quite grasp yet. Dain should have walked away, but the pull was too strong.

Which is how he found himself dropping to sit beside you, the cool stone brushing against his legs as he settled into your space. “Why do you always come out here at night?” he genuinely asked, his voice a low murmur that mingled with the whispering winds.

You turned to him, the moonlight illuminating your features, casting a soft glow over your delicate smile. “You don’t have to be nice to me, you know. Most people aren’t.” Your words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths, each syllable colored by past encounters.

“I’m not like most people.” He smiled, and that warmth seemed to radiate from him, filling the space between you with an unexpected comfort as he turned to face you fully, his eyes searching yours for a connection.

“I know.” You met his gaze with an unwavering certainty, a truth that ran deeper than mere acknowledgment. On some instinctive level, you understood he was different, a flicker of something genuine amidst a world that often felt tainted.

From that moment on, you and Dain often found yourselves together in the hushed corners of the world, sharing moments that felt suspended in time. Whether it was the rhythmic clash of weapons during sparring sessions or the quiet intimacy of studying side by side, you learned to cherish the tranquility that came with his presence. At first, it was from across the room, your eyes lingering on each other, stolen glances that spoke volumes. Then, it blossomed into shared tables in the library or commens, where the air hummed with laughter and unspoken promises.

Dain, unable to resist the pull, found himself reaching out to you, suggesting one-on-one sparring or inviting you to study with him, despite the fact that your classes never aligned. It was exhilarating yet terrifying, each interaction a delicate dance on the precipice of something more profound.

He tried to pull back, chastising himself silently. You were off-limits, a rule he desperately wanted to uphold but found increasingly difficult.

But when you didn’t show for your usual early morning sparring, he brushed it off, convincing himself that maybe you had simply slept in or forgotten. Yet as the days wore on and you remained absent—missing breakfast, and failing to appear for mandatory squad training—he felt an unsettling knot twist in his gut. 

Each passing moment without you deepened his concern, an insistent ache in his chest that he couldn’t ignore. Five long days of silence stretched before him, and when he finally decided to check your room, dread pooled in his stomach. Before he could grasp the door handle, an urgent missive from Vice Commandant Varrish shattering the fragile thread of hope he clung to.

The cold of the torture chamber wasn't the kind you could feel with your skin; it was the kind that sank deep into your bones, wrapping around your heart with a chilling embrace. Each breath you drew felt labored, like dragging your body through heavy fog, the air thick with despair and the metallic tang of blood. 

You were barely conscious, your body a ragged shell that sagged against the unforgiving stone wall, held captive by the manacles that bit cruelly into your wrists, shredded from futile struggles. Every shift sent sharp jolts of pain through your limbs, but the thought of surrendering to the encroaching darkness was unbearable.

Across the dimly lit room, Violet was chained to a lone chair, her once-vibrant spirit now dulled by the brutality of their captors. Blood trailed down her sides like a cruel reminder of your powerlessness, pooling at her feet. 

You felt a surge of anger and helplessness, your heart aching for her. The shadows wrapped around you, whispering sweet promises of sleep, but you fought back against the comforting embrace, clutching tightly to the flickering memories of Dain—his laughter like music echoing through the empty hallways of your mind, the way his eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and the gentle warmth of his presence that seemed so far away now.

As you struggled to keep the darkness at bay, you caught the sound of voices murmuring outside the door. You could have sworn it was Dain’s voice, solid and familiar, and the hope ignited a flicker of energy within you. 

“You asked to see me, sir? Down here? There have to be a dozen guards in the stairwell,” his tone was steady, yet laced with concern.

“I did,” Varrish’s voice followed, clipped and authoritative. With every ounce of willpower, you lifted your weary head, eyes straining to focus on the door, desperately clinging to the hope he brought. “I need your help. Navarre needs your help.”

“What can I do?” Dain replied, the resolve in his voice seeming to push against the heavy weight of despair surrounding you.

As Varrish spoke of security breaches and stolen intelligence, describing the lite night visit to the Archives you and Violet had done. You felt Violet start to fight her own binds, a spark of rebellion igniting in her gaze. But amidst the chaos of your thoughts, the weight of impending darkness loomed, wrapping around you tighter with each word exchanged just beyond the door.

“Dain.” You mumble, pulling against your restraints, the cold metal biting into your skin. 

"For the safety of every civilian within our wards, I need their memories, wingleader. You must extract the truth, or our very way of life will be compromised. I’m going to warn you,” Varrish continues, his voice dripping with an unsettling calmness, a gentleness that might have seemed almost laughable if the situation weren’t so dire. “The prisoners’ identities may come as a shock.” 

You pull harder against your restraints, your heart pounding against the stony wall of despair that surrounds you. The door swings open, its hinges creaking ominously as it reveals the two figures stepping into the room, blocking your view.

“Violet?” Dain’s voice slices through the darkness, filled with the weight of concern.

“Please help me,” she whispers, her plea laced with desperation, echoing in the hollow space between you.

“You’ve been torturing her for five days?” Dain’s voice sharpens, a blade drawn in the face of injustice. It’s the tone you’ve heard him use on cadets breaking rules, a mix of authority and protective anger. 

You try to call out for him, but no sound escapes your throat. A suffocating silence envelops you, the presence of that blasted signet looming like a shadow. 

“Since she stole Lyra’s journal from the king’s private library? Absolutely.” Varrish’s words hang heavy, like the weight of a storm about to break. “She might have been a childhood friend, Aetos, but we both know where her loyalties now lie—with Riorson and the war he’s planning against us. She wants to bring down the wards.”

“That’s not true!” Violet fights, her voice shaky yet fierce, but it sounds weak, as if the very air around her is draining her strength. “Dain, you know–”

“I don’t know shit about you anymore,” Dain counters, anger lacing his voice. 

You had been privy to many nights where Dain complained about Violet and her choices, but never had he outwardly shown this level of anger, a betrayal that cuts deeper than steel.

“There’s a war out there. Poromish civilians are dying, and we’re not doing anything to help. We’re just watching it happen, Dain.” Violet's voice trembles, thick with urgency, as she pulls against her binds once more, straining against the cold metal that binds her wrists. Her eyes, usually bright and determined, now shimmer with a desperate resolve that seems to flicker like a dying flame. You can see the beads of sweat forming along her brow, the tension in her body palpable as she leans forward, attempting to break through the heavy silence that weighs between her and Dain.

You know her struggle is in vain; you’ve been trying to drop hints to him for months. 

“You think we should involve ourselves in their civil war?” Dain's voice is taut, barely concealing the disbelief that ripples through him like a wave crashing against the rocks.

“I think you’ve been lied to for so long that you won’t recognize the truth even when it hits you in the face.” The fire in Violet’s words begins to sputter, her body relaxing into an uncomfortable stillness as her will falters, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on her shoulders.

“I could say the same for you.” Dain’s voice is laced with bitterness as he spits the words like venom, turning his back on her, a gesture that feels like a betrayal, a fracture in their once-unbreakable bond. 

“I know y/n’s been trying to tell you, but you’re so lost you wouldn't have believed her.” The weight of Dain’s ignorance feels like a stone in your throat, and you can only watch, helpless, as he brushes off Violet’s desperate claims.

“Are you sure she was trying to take down the wards?” Dain’s incredulity hangs in the air, a thick fog of disbelief clouding his judgment.

“I’ve had the journal sent back to the Archives for safekeeping, but yes. The book she stole gave detailed instructions on how the wards were built and could be used as a map to unravel them.” Varrish’s grip on Dain’s shoulder tightens, a comforting yet unsettling gesture. “I know this is hard to hear, but people aren’t always who we want them to be.

“Try not to be angry with her,” Varrish continues, a wicked sympathy seeping into his tone. “We can’t always help who we fall in love with, can we? Riorson pulled her into something she couldn’t possibly understand. You know that. You saw it happen last year.” Varrish exhales heavily, the weight of his words settling like an anchor in the room. "Unfortunately, she's not the only one."

“What do you mean?” Dain’s brow furrows, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.

“You’ve grown quite close to the younger Riorson, correct?” 

“She’s in my wing.” Dain’s admission stings. 

“I didn’t want to have to show you this, but–” The door swings closed with a resounding thud, sealing off the outside world as your eyes lock with Dain’s. 

“Y/n–” Dain’s voice is laced with urgency, a plea in his tone as he tries to move to your side, but Varrish’s presence halts him, a forbidding wall of authority between you. 

“She was aiding Violet in stealing the book. Who knows what else her brother had dragged her into.”

“Dain.” His name finally slips out, a whispered plea that hangs in the air, heavy with unsaid words. “I’m sorry.” 

At the sound of your voice, Dain pulls himself free, dropping to his knees before you. His expression is a mix of relief and sorrow, a battle playing out across his features. “Hey, it’s okay.” He whispers, his voice low and soothing, as if trying to mend the fraying threads of your connection. His hands come up to cradle your face, warm and familiar, and you lean into his touch, finding solace in the moment. “I’m going to get you out.”

Panic tightens in your chest, squeezing out the breath that you have left. “You have to listen to Violet.” The urgency in your tone is palpable, a desperate note echoing in the dim light of the chamber.

Varrish steps closer, an imposing figure amidst the chaos, holding out Violet’s alloy-imbedded dagger as if it were a cursed relic. The dagger glints menacingly, the metal infused with dark power that seems to hum with a life of its own. “They were both carrying one of these.” Dain's gaze flickers to the blade, the revelation settling like a stone in the pit of his stomach. “That metal you see is what powers the wards. We think they’ve been smuggling them out to wherever they’re planning to stage this war from, weakening our wards little by little.”

“Is that true?” Dain's voice hardens as his eyes dart to Violet, a storm brewing in their depths.

“I can explain.” Her voice trembles, but Dain's anger is back, flaring like a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

“I don’t need you to explain,” he snarls, the words sharp as knives. “I’ve been asking you to talk to me for months, and now I see why you won’t. Why you’re adamant I never touch you. You’re scared I’ll see what you’ve been hiding.”

“Remember your ethics, Cadet,” Varrish instructs, his tone clipped, slicing through the tension. “Especially given your attachment to Cadet Sorrengail. Search like you’ve been practicing but focus on the word ward.”

Before the situation can spiral further, a voice cuts through the thick tension in the air. “Lieutenant Nora,” a figure calls from the antechamber. “All leadership is being ordered to assemble. There have been… incidents at the border.” 

“By whose order?” Nora demands, her voice steely.

“General Sorrengail’s.”

“We’ll be there shortly,” Nora replies, dismissively waving him off, though unease flits across her features.

“We might already be too late,” Varrish mutters, shaking his head, an ominous weight hanging in his words. “Riorson deserted days ago, according to the reports we received this morning. We’re gathering the marked ones now.” 

YOur breath hitches in your throat. Xaden deserted his post; relief washes over you, but it’s short-lived. What about the others? Imogen, Bodhi? Sloane? They’re still out there, and you’re trapped. 

“What have you done, Violet?” Varrish’s voice hardens, urgency seeping into every syllable. “Orchestrated another attack on an outpost? Find out what you can, Aetos. The safety of our kingdom depends on it. Time is of the essence.” 

Dain’s eyes flare, and he lifts his hands, poised on the brink of action, torn between his loyalty and the truth unraveling before him.

“You killed Liam,” Violet blurts, her words slicing through the air like a dagger, heavy with accusation. The room falls into a taut silence, tension crackling like static electricity, and Dain's posture shifts as he pauses, the weight of her revelation hanging between everyone. 

“What?” You gasp, your heart racing as you turn to Dain, searching his eyes for some semblance of truth. 

“Y/n—” he begins, but Violet’s laughter, sharp and tired, interrupts him, echoing off the cold stone walls. 

“You didn’t tell her?” Her incredulity stings like ice water, and Dain’s face tightens as he turns back to her, a mix of anger and sorrow flickering in his gaze. 

“You keep saying I killed him, but I only searched your memory to prove my father wrong, Violet,” Dain asserts, his voice steady but strained. “And all you did was prove him right. If the marked ones died betraying our kingdom, then they deserved what they got.” 

“I hate you,” you mutter to Dain, each word laced with betrayal. His sad eyes meet yours, pleading silently for a chance at understanding, yet the chasm between you feels insurmountable. 

“She’s stalling,” Varrish snaps, his voice sharp as a whip, cutting through the charged atmosphere. “Do it now. And if you see something you don’t understand, I’ll explain it once we know where their army is hiding. Just trust me that we are acting in the best interest of every citizen of Navarre. Our only goal is keeping them safe.” Dain nods reluctantly, reaching for Violet, his hand hesitating just a breath away. 

“She’s bruised everywhere,” he murmurs, concern flooding his voice, a stark contrast to Varrish’s icy retort. 

“She’s nothing more than a traitor,” Varrish dismisses coldly. 

“Right,” Dain replies, frustration etching his features, yet you can’t bear to witness the unfolding confrontation. Instead, you focus on the shadows of your shared past, memories that once brought solace now dissected under the weight of suspicion. 

“Did you get what you wanted?” Violet manages, her voice cracking, and you can sense the tremors of her despair beneath the surface, her screams finally subsiding into a haunting quiet. 

“You’re smuggling weapons, stealing our weapons to aid another kingdom?” Dain’s voice is resolute as he pivots from Violet to you, the enormity of betrayal casting a long shadow over your fragile connection. 

Violet turns her head, eyes glistening with remorse. “I’m so sorry I failed you.” 

“As you should be,” Varrish sneers, but the words are lost on Violet, who speaks to a deeper wound that none of us can touch. 

“They want us now!” a voice shouts from the antechamber, breaking the tension with the urgency of impending doom. 

“Varrish,” Nora prompts, her voice steady amidst the chaos. “It’s a summons for all leadership.”

“What did you find?” Varrish's voice cuts through the air, sharp and urgent, as he pivots towards Dain, his composure fraying like the edges of a worn tapestry. The flickering torchlight casts deep shadows across his face, emphasizing the tension coiling in his every feature. “Where are they staging from?” 

“Give me that knife,” Dain demands, his hand extended, fingers splayed as if he could grasp the truth itself. His tone is fierce, driven by an unwavering resolve that ignites the room with a palpable intensity. “I want to compare it to the one I saw in the memory. The ones they’re stealing from us.” 

Varrish’s expression hardens, a storm of conflicting emotions roiling beneath his stoic facade. “Just don’t kill them. We need to find and question Riorson first, use them as leverage.” He relinquishes the dagger to Dain, the weapon gleaming ominously in the dim light.

Dain inspects the blade, his brow furrowing as he nods solemnly. “This is the one. They’re taking them out by the dozen, arming the enemy. I saw everything. There’s at least one drift involved.” Each word lingers in the air, heavy with the weight of impending doom. 

You sag against the unforgiving chains that bind you, despair flooding through your veins like ice water. He knows everything, yet he still chose their side. Doubt gnaws at your insides; perhaps you never truly knew him. 

“You should have trusted me, Violet. None of this would have happened if you’d just trusted me.” Dain's voice softens, the plea echoing with vulnerability that sends a pang of regret through you. 

“But I trusted you.” The words spill from your lips, shaky and fragile, each syllable tinged with betrayal. “I trusted you.” Dain’s gaze locks onto yours, a flicker of pain softening the intensity in his eyes as he absorbs the weight of your hurt. 

Then Varrish, like a marionette with cut strings, staggers against the stone wall, his frustration palpable. Dain cuts through Violet’s binds with swift determination before turning to you. “I don’t know if we can fight our way out of here. Can you move?” 

You remain still, your gaze tethered to the ground, a well of despair suffocating your spirit. 

“Y/n, sweetheart, eyes on me.” His voice is urgent yet soothing, and instinctively, you lift your gaze to meet his. “You have to move or we’re dead.” 

With a surge of adrenaline, he pulls you up, and though your legs tremble, you find strength in the warmth of his touch. “Help Vi. I’ll be okay.” 

He passes you a dagger, the fleeting contact igniting a spark of hope, before turning his attention back to Varrish, sword raised defiantly. “Let us pass, and you’ll live.” His arm wraps protectively around Violet as she leans against him, a whimper escaping her lips as you stumble alongside them. 

“I make no such promises.” You glance up, your eyes meet an exact replica of your own, a reflection of defiance and desperation mingled together, as Violet steps in front of Dain.

“He saved us. Don’t kill him,” Violet whispers urgently, her voice trembling like the flicker of a candle in a tempest as Xaden’s gaze snaps to her, confusion and fierce protectiveness battling for dominance in his stormy eyes.

“Gods, Violet,” he breathes, the sound heavy with disbelief. 

“You came,” she stumbles, and in an instant, Xaden’s arms envelop her, the warmth of his embrace grounding her in a moment when the world threatens to unravel. His presence—a steadfast anchor—shields her from the chaos swirling around them, the adrenaline coursing through her veins settling into something resembling calm.

“Dain…” Your voice is but a whisper, the sheer weight of the moment nearly crushing you. 

“I got you, sweetheart,” Dain murmurs, his breath ghosting across your ear as his arms encircle you, a lifeline amidst the encroaching darkness. His touch is a balm against the throbbing despair that has marked your every moment, pulling you back from the precipice of hopelessness.

“Godsdamn, you took off running and then couldn’t save a single one for me?” Garrick’s voice cuts through the tension, his frustration palpable, laced with a hint of brotherly jest as he emerges from the shadows, the flickering torchlight casting a rugged silhouette against his form. “Took me forever to clear the barricade of bodies in the staircase.”

“Hi, Garrick,” you and Violet say in perfect synchrony, a moment of levity in the maelstrom, the connection between you three shimmering like a fragile thread.

“Y/n?” Xaden’s voice drops to an urgent whisper, his focus shifting to you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His eyes narrow at the sight of Dain’s hands resting possessively on your hips, fury igniting within him. “Get your hands off my sister.”

“Don’t, please,” you murmur, desperation clawing at your throat as you reach instinctively for Dain’s warmth, the solidity of his presence a comfort amid the rising storm. “Don’t do it.” 

But in that moment of pleading, your strength wanes, your body going limp against Dain, who moves swiftly, his arms tightening around you as if to shield you from the chaos. 

“Y/n?” Panic laces his voice, a tightness in his tone betraying the fear that flickers behind his resolute facade.

“You’re turning traitor?” Varrish’s laughter echoes, harsh and mocking, a cruel melody that slices through the air from his position against the stone wall. “Your father will be so disappointed.”

“If he already knows what Violet showed me, then I’m the one disappointed in him,” Dain retorts, the conviction in his voice unwavering even as he shifts your unconscious form into his arms, cradling you like the fragile thing you are. The world around you blurs, fading into an indistinct haze as the weight of the moment envelops you.

“Get her out; I’ll handle Varrish,” Xaden orders Dain, his voice a fierce command that reverberates with authority, slicing through the chaos as he turns to Garrick. “Go with them.”

Part 2

Everything Taglist: @lxnvmvrzx @bodhidurrans

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.3. - Suffocation Day pt. 2.

viktorxfemale!reader a teeny tiny bit of filth, but still very much sfw. She would suffocate otherwise :') gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 5,3K

author's note: Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! Translation of the poem at the bottom :v Also see how I'm keeping the chapters reasonable length? Very demure.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

It is eerie in the library. The room is covered floor to ceiling with bookshelves, tomes leather-bound and heavy but besides the obvious titles on all areas that are of Viktor’s interest there are some unexpected—little notebooks of poems, paperback and thin, worn with time, seemingly reached for more than once.

The collection is not the largest you’ve ever seen, nor the grandest, yet something about it holds you in place as you scan the shelves. Dim autumn light filters through tall, narrow windows, casting long shadows over rows of dark-stained bookcases. The air is scented with old paper, ink, and the ghost of candle smoke. A fire burns low in the hearth, its embers pulsing like a dying heartbeat, lending the space an intimacy that makes you feel as though you’ve intruded upon something secret.

You step further in, your skirts whispering against the polished wood floors. The library shows signs of frequent presence—papers stacked in uneven piles upon the desk, a forgotten quill resting atop an open ledger, ink dried mid-sentence. Books lie splayed across various surfaces, their spines cracked, their pages lined with annotations in a precise, slanted hand. Even before your gaze lands on the titles, you sense that this is no idle collection of literary indulgence; everything here has been selected with purpose.

Your fingers trail lightly over the spines, murmuring their titles under your breath. Ars Magna Lucis et Umbrae by Athanasius Kircher, Le Monde Primitif by Antoine Court de Gébelin, volumes on astronomy—Ptolemy’s Almagest, Kepler’s Harmonices Mundi, and even a Latin copy of John Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica. The works on mathematics are no less impressive—Euler, Descartes, and an entire section dedicated to the studies of non-Euclidean geometry.

You pull a book at random, its leather cover cool beneath your fingertips. The gilded letters on the spine read De Rerum Natura, an old treatise on natural philosophy. Viktor’s interests, it seems, stretch far and wide. It’s a scholar’s collection, but not a passive one; every book you examine bears traces of his thoughts—notations in the margins, underlined passages, pages marked with scraps of paper.

Among the tomes of science and philosophy, you notice something softer: a collection of poetry. Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge, Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan, a French edition of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal. You flip through the pages of one, your thumb pausing on a passage that has been marked in ink:

Quand, les yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d'automne, Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux, Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux Qu'éblouissent les feux d'un soleil monotone.

Something in the act of his marking it makes you hesitate, feeling as though you’re glimpsing a side of him he does not often reveal. Something entirely different—curiosity perhaps—stirs your mind into wondering who is on Viktor’s mind when he reads it.

You let the book slide shut, exhaling slowly. There’s something about the house—its silence, its contradictions—that unsettles you. It’s full of missing pieces, of thoughts unfinished. Designed to keep strangers away but those who do step close enough, lure inside and trap.

Straightening, you turn towards the desk where your own work awaits. It’s time to bring your mind to the task at hand. You fix disobedient strands of hair back into your updo as you lay out the materials you gathered earlier. You examine Viktor’s translation carefully, the words from the wall written down with his precise hand.

Iměti tъ, kto vъ tьmě idetъ, ne prozъvati. Sъlovo jemu da ne dašь, i vъ noštь ne ględaj v oči jego. Vězdi on, kъto zovetъ i słyšetъ, ale ne imějęti glasa. Vъ tъmъ iměti, osъvobodi iměti.

The original Proto-Slavic text glares at you, and your eyes immediately settle on the key term: iměti. You know from your studies that iměti means “to imitate”—a verb denoting mimicry, the act of reproducing something rather than possessing it. The word feels significant, but in an unsettling way, as if it’s out of place.

Next, you focus on prozъvati—the word Viktor translated as “to call.” The more you study it, the more you find yourself caught by its peculiar form. It is a term that, in this context, goes beyond a mere vocal summoning. Prozъvati feels as if it is connected to something deeper, a way of reaching out that implies more than just speech—an invocation, perhaps, or a beckoning.

You shift your attention to ględaj. The Latin equivalent, spectare, would generally be "to look" or "to see," but this verb in Proto-Slavic carries more weight. It seems to imply a deeper form of observation, a searching gaze—not simply seeing something, but understanding it with a sense of obligation. It makes you wonder how Viktor’s translation, with its focus on avoiding meeting someone’s eyes, fits into the original context.

As your gaze drifts to sъlovo and zovetъ, you find yourself staring at the delicate balance of meaning these words might hold. Sъlovo is simple, translating directly to “word,” but there’s something about it in this particular structure that implies a weight to what is unsaid. And zovetъ—again translated as “calls” in Viktor’s version—seems to hold a different nuance. The form of the verb makes you think of summoning, but not of a voice or a language—more akin to an intangible force.

The final words, vъ tъmъ iměti, prickle your spine with pins. The phrase resists translation, slipping through your fingers as you try to grasp its meaning. The repetition of iměti is strange, its sense of imitation and mimicry now invoking something even darker. This isn’t just about one person calling another, or avoiding eyes. It’s as though the iměti is a way of bringing something into existence—or denying it.

In a fit of frustration, you lean back, rubbing your eyes. Your research has brought you closer to understanding the intent behind Viktor’s translation, but the true meaning remains elusive. The puzzle pieces don’t quite fit together.

What settles over you like cold stone is the realisation that, with what you have at hand, Viktor’s translation is, in fact, correct—and your expertise here is useless.

The usurper of he who walks in darkness must not be called. Give him no word, and in the night, do not meet his eyes. Everywhere he is, he hears when called, but he has no voice of his own. In the echo, rid the fake.

Nothing about it seems out of place—no lost sense, no hidden clue, nothing to suggest an error. You read both versions again and again, murmuring them under your breath, transposing them into Latin, Greek, and French. And yet, in every language, the meaning remains the same.

A sigh presses from the shallow part of your chest, constricted by the corset’s cruel embrace. You slump backwards in the chair, pressing your fingers to your temple. And the moment you close your eyes, something cold and dreadful unfurls within you.

You are in the library—yet you have no memory of getting here. No recollection of walking, of reaching for the door handle, of pushing open the heavy wooden wings. No moment where you crossed the threshold. You are simply... here.

The word rings between your ears like a church bell: imě. And then—nothing. Blackness, thick and suffocating, folding over you like the sea swallowing a drowning man—until, at last, it disperses into the gentle warmth of the library’s hearth.

Beyond the window, whatever feeble sun had struggled all day to pierce the clouds had long since surrendered. Now, it hovered low over the horizon, its light thin and waning, swallowed by the encroaching dusk. You glance at the clock, swallowing down the lump of disquiet that has settled in your throat. With a lip caught between your teeth, you gather your notes and march to Viktor’s study.

Your heart is a weight on your shoulder, your breath shallow as you raise a hand to knock. The sound barely has time to settle before his voice—muffled by the heavy wood—reaches you.

"Come in."

You step inside, and the warm glow of lamplight casts long shadows over the walls, stretching his silhouette behind the desk. He straightens at the sight of you, his expression soft with familiarity.

"There you are," he says, voice carrying the warmth of a fire just stoked. "It was getting late. Have you found something?"

“I—” You hesitate, pressing your notes to your chest. "Nothing. Your translation is perfect, by my standards."

"Oh," Viktor murmurs, something like a pleased hum threading through his voice. "I am flattered. Are you certain, though? Please, take a seat," he says, extending his hand to the chair facing him.

"Thank you, but I've been sitting all this time. I will gladly stretch my legs," you reply, pacing instead, your fingers tightening around the edges of your papers, your chest still tight with contraption. "I searched through whatever I could find in Greek, Latin, and French," you continue, exhaling sharply. "I have also skimmed through Slavic myths." You shake your head. "And this is so... vague. The possibilities are endless."

Viktor watches you with quiet patience, fingertips idly tapping against the desk. "Would you like to share at least one of them? I do have the time."

"Well, of course," you say, rolling your shoulders back. "Since this is undoubtedly an early form of a Slavic language, the first creature that comes to mind is Licho—or Likho, depending on the region. A one-eyed demon of misfortune, sometimes appearing as an old woman or a beggar to gain entry into homes. It offers false guidance, pretending to bring luck or wisdom, while in truth leading people to ruin. As per the usurper in your translation..."

Viktor hums, his gaze sharp with interest. "Interesting," he murmurs, though in truth, something in his chest stirs—no, it roars—his mind alight with the rare thrill of sharing thought with someone equally consumed by the subject at hand. To watch you pace, to see the way your hands carve meaning into the air, your face shifting with each thread of thought—half offered to him, half spoken into the ether—is, to him, a remarkable sight.

Were it a thought he dared to entertain, he might even say that, in this brief exchange, you had made him feel less alone.

"Also," you draw a breath through clenched teeth, shifting your weight, "Boginki. The False Mothers. Infamous for stealing babies and replacing them with changelings—sometimes pretending to be caretakers, or... well, mothers." You resume pacing, your voice gaining momentum. "There are plenty of such beings across different mythologies, but none fit exactly." You pause, glancing at him. "The do not meet his eyes fragment—why? What would happen if you did?"

Viktor folds his hands atop the parchment, contemplative. "Are you suggesting a creature that turns people to stone?"

"Something like that," you murmur. "Are you familiar with the origin of the Medusa myth?"

His brow lifts, curious. "Is there any other than the widely known?"

"It’s a mistranslation," you say, turning to face him fully. "Or rather—truth lost in layers of retelling. It’s speculated that what we now know as Medusa—who evolved from the Gorgons—was originally a male warrior with wild hair, appearing in Mesopotamian, Near Eastern, and Indo-European myth. The turning-into-stone element simply meant death, brought by the warrior or guardian, whoever he was." You halt at the edge of his desk, eyes steady on his. "It’s a long shot, isn’t it?"

You exhale, finally, and sink into the chair behind you.

Viktor leans forward, pulling the parchment closer, his eyes scanning the inked lines with renewed purpose. "It does not matter. This is exactly what I wanted from you—a fresh mind." He taps the page once. "What else are we missing?"

You lean in, reading the text upside down. Your voice drops to a murmur. "It could also be the Leshy."

Viktor glances up. "No voice of his own?"

"Precisely. Leshy is known to imitate human voices to lure people into the forest," you say, more softly now. "But in most depictions, he doesn’t speak. He only echoes."

"Fascinating," Viktor replies, leaning back. "None of this, however, gives us any clue about the breathing affliction."

"Sadly, it doesn’t," you sigh, pushing yourself to your feet. The long hours seated make it feel as though your chest can no longer hold a proper breath. You drift across the room, gaze trailing over the shelves. “There is also a thing called the Mara,” you say absently. “It’s believed she sits on people’s chests at night, stealing the breath from their lungs and filling their dreams with horror.”

You stop, hand brushing the back of a nearby chair, and release a long, weary breath. “But I really don’t know how to tie all of this together,” you murmur—defeated, yet still searching.

Around you, books and trinkets are arranged with the precision of a mind that values order—yet there are signs of frequent use: papers stacked in uneven piles, ink bottles left uncorked, a cup of tea long gone cold. Viktor watches you closely.

“It is barely your first day,” he says, voice low and thoughtful. “Nothing gets done in one day.”

You scoff under your breath, unsatisfied by the ease in his tone. One arm wrapped tightly around your midsection, the other gliding along the book spines, you scan the titles with mild distraction. Pressure begins to coil inside your ribs again, a subtle ache swelling with each shallow breath.

Then, amidst the neatly arranged oddities, your gaze catches on a deck of cards—its edges plain, the backs painted with modest, medieval designs.

Your fingers brush the stack as you speak. “Do you dabble in cartomancy as well, Mr. Velesny?”

“Occasionally. When I run out of options,” he replies, rising slowly. His steps are long as he comes toward you, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a murmur, warm against your shoulder. “And I thought we agreed—you should call me Viktor.”

“My apologies... Viktor,” you manage, though your voice is thin, breath trailing at the end. Your insides feel unbearably constricted, your corset biting down with every rise of your lungs. Is it the garment—or him? You can’t tell. “It’s an odd deck. I’ve never seen this type before.”

“It’s Minchiate,” he says, reaching around you to lift the deck, the closeness of him sending a fresh wave of heat to your face. “It includes additional cards. Offers deeper insight.”

He presents it to you on an open palm. “Shuffle it. Draw one.”

You hesitate, gathering the cards from his hand. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. Perhaps it will give us a clue—of all things.”

The weight of the deck is unexpected in your hands. The cards are slightly too large for your palms to shuffle gracefully, so you do it slowly. Once you deem it ready, you ask, “Alright then... how do I do this?”

“Cut the deck where it feels right. Pull the top card.”

Your fingers tremble as you lift the cards, the pressure in your chest intensifying. You cut the deck, drawing the top card with effort. “It says only... XI.”

“Hermit,” Viktor replies at once. “Interesting.”

“Is it telling me I’m a loner?” You attempt a smile, though your lips are dry and your vision is beginning to tunnel.

“No,” he says softly. “Traditionally, the Hermit is depicted blind, carrying a lantern. Look—” He turns to the bookshelf and pulls out a small booklet, flipping quickly through the pages. At last, he taps one with his finger. “Marseille, L’Hermite.” He tilts the book toward you, revealing a hunched old man printed in black and white, clutching a lantern, his face disturbingly grotesque. “He carries knowledge where there is none. Hope, even,” Viktor says, voice low, almost reverent.

Your voice breaks on the exhale. “Am I your hope, then?”

“You might as well be,” he says with a quiet smile, though his gaze is searching—watching the colour drain from your face.

Your breath catches—high and shallow. The bookcase in front of you feels like the only thing keeping you upright. A cold sweat breaks across your brow as black seeps into the edges of your sight. Your mouth opens, but no air reaches your lungs. Every gasp is swallowed by fabric and bone.

“It’s too tight,” Viktor murmurs, moving swiftly behind you. His voice drops into urgency. “Miss, you will faint if we don’t fix this now. Do I have your consent?”

It is by absolute necessity, he tells himself, as his fingers hover at the nape of your neck, brushing a few stray strands aside. You nod—unable to spare a breath for ‘yes’—and whatever air remains in your chest hitches when his fingertips ghost the skin just beneath your hairline.

“Dear God, why would you endure this torture?” Viktor mutters, hooking the cane over his forearm. And were he not so concerned just now, perhaps he might have caught the irony in his own words—his breath always shallow, each one measured, careful not to draw too much air into lungs that have never known ease.

His hands settle at the base of your spine, hovering just above the row of buttons that fasten the back of your bodice. You feel him hesitate—the brief pause of a man bracing himself—before his fingers begin their work.

"Who in their right mind designed this number of closures?" he mutters under his breath, his tone caught between irritation and disbelief.

His knuckles brush the fabric with each movement, slow and methodical. He works his way upward, button by button, the task made no easier by how closely they sit to one another. The silence between you is thick, broken by the soft clicks of fastenings getting undone and the occasional flutter of your breath as your lungs strain for air they still cannot fully claim.

At last, the final button slips free, and the bodice loosens at the edges, exposing the laces beneath. Viktor hesitates once more.

“This will be colder,” he murmurs, more to himself than you.

Then his fingers dip beneath the stiff outer fabric, brushing over the linen underdress that lies flush against your skin. There's no bare contact, yet the warmth of your body radiates through the thin barrier, sinking into his touch like heat into snow. His fingertips still, then resume—precise and steady, despite the way his pulse has begun to thunder at his throat.

He says nothing, but you feel him falter just slightly when the curve of his hand grazes the small of your back. Through the light linen, faint freckles are visible—soft constellations scattered across your skin. He memorises them without meaning to.

The laces loosen, one at a time, pulled free in patient sequence. The tension around your ribs begins to melt, and your shoulders drop with a trembling sigh.

When he finally begins to draw the laces back, this time more loosely, the process is slower. The cords resist the rhythm, and his hands must navigate the now-shifting fabric more carefully.

“You seem well-versed in unlacing, but not in lacing back, Viktor,” you murmur, a touch dryly, attempting to cut through the electric tension.

There’s a pause. Then—“Is that your concern now?” he replies, and when you let out a breathy chuckle, he adds, “Would it unsettle you if I said yes?”

Caught entirely off guard, you say nothing. Embarrassed—ashamed, even—you feel heat bleeding into your cheeks and scold yourself for attempting to tease a man who can clearly fight back. Noting your capitulation, Viktor only smiles to himself.

Finally, the knot is tied, the corset now sitting far less cruelly against your ribs—and at last, you can breathe. He pulls the bodice, which had slipped from your waist, back into place and begins the mundane task of fastening all the buttons.

To your utter loss, now that you’re finally able to feed your lungs with air, they refuse to cooperate—your breathing remains shallow, faltering. You startle especially when his hands reach the upper part of your back, where the only thing shielding your skin is the almost non-existent undershirt. It burns, nearly, and you are uncertain whether it’s your ears clogging with pressure or if it is, in fact, Viktor swallowing hard.

Once done, he straightens the fabric gently, then lifts his hand to smooth his palm down the length of your back—a final touch, calm and grounding.

“There. Is that better?”

You do not answer right away. You simply inhale. A true breath—full and deep, stale air spilling into your lungs without pain. It fills you so completely it feels like drowning in reverse.

“Yes,” you whisper, steadying yourself. “Thank you.”

Viktor’s hand lingers a moment longer before falling away. The silence between you shifts—not eased, but altered—recalibrated into something that hovers between tension and trust. Something very much alive. It emboldens you enough to say, “It would not unsettle me. To know that you are versed.”

You notice a smile ghosting across his lips as he lowers his gaze. Only now do you realise that perhaps he is just as flustered as you—only far better at hiding it. His cheeks are tinged with the faintest pink, and though his eyes remain half-lidded, their exact shade hidden beneath lowered lashes, you are certain his pupils are as wide as when he speaks of his revelations.

He clears his throat, a subtle but telling gesture, and places his cane back in hand with a practised movement. “The sky is clouded tonight,” he says, gesturing toward the darkened window with the tip of the handle. “But if you wish to breathe some rich air—to make up for the losses of today—I could show you the garden,” he offers, voice low, almost cautious.

You tilt your head. “Algernon mentioned night is not a good time?”

“Nonsense,” Viktor replies without hesitation. A rare sharpness edges his tone, though it fades as quickly as it came. “It’s gorgeous at night. Come.”

He doesn’t wait for your agreement. With quiet assurance, he turns and begins toward the study door, his gait measured, cane making the floorboards creak beneath his weight. You fall into step beside him, still gathering yourself, still remembering how to breathe.

The house is hushed at this hour. Every candle seems dimmed in deference to the dark, casting the corridors in a soft, amber gloom. The air grows cooler as you descend the staircase and take a turn down a hallway you haven’t yet seen—narrow, panelled in darker wood, with windows showing glimpses of the pale grounds beyond.

You pass an arched doorway and then another before he stops at a pair of tall, glass-paned doors, fogged by the moisture on the other side, framed by a narrow marble arch. He produces a key from his coat pocket and unlocks them with a soft click.

The scent reaches you first. Earth. Cold leaves. Damp moss. The faint sweetness of something still blooming despite the season.

He pushes the doors open with his shoulder and steps aside, one hand resting lightly on the frame as he motions for you to enter first.

A winter garden. Quiet and low-lit, enclosed beneath a vaulted glass roof that reflects the barest shimmer of moonlight breaking through the clouds. Ferns and climbing ivy stretch toward the light, while rows of hardy white blossoms open like stars against the deep green. The temperature inside is cool but not unpleasant—tempered by the plants, the enclosed warmth of stone and soil.

A narrow path winds through raised beds, and somewhere nearby, a slow trickle of water laps gently over stone.

Viktor follows you inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “I find this place... peaceful,” he says, his voice quiet, respectful of the stillness. “There are few things here that ask anything of me.”

You glance over at him, watching the way his hand brushes one of the broad leaves as you pass—a barely-there touch, reverent.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. Your voice feels more real here, less strained. “Have you... done this?”

“Yes. Once, I thought herbs and plants might bring the answer to something I was researching,” he replies, his voice gentler now, touched by memory. “They did not. But the garden remains.” He glances around the space, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Everything that blooms here chooses to. Nothing is forced.”

You walk a few more steps in tandem, the air fragrant with damp leaves and faint blossoms. Your lungs slowly begin to trust the freedom they’ve been given—each breath deeper than the last, no longer catching or shallow. You pause beside a low-growing bush with narrow, silver-edged leaves, letting your fingertips brush against them.

“What was the question you were trying to answer?” you ask softly, curiosity laced with awe as you glance at him.

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “Ah... that does not matter now.” A small shrug of one shoulder. “Even though it was not found, I am grateful for this place.”

There’s something in the way he says it—no bitterness, only acceptance. You watch him a moment longer, studying how different he seems here: his shoulders looser, the lines around his mouth softened, his eyes reflective instead of watchful.

“You really are full of skills,” you murmur, half to yourself, still stunned by the strangeness and serenity of the hidden garden.

“I am full of interests. Of curiosity,” he corrects with a quiet chuckle. “Here, my skills were not much use.”

Before you can ask more, a sudden rustle from a tall fern nearby makes you flinch. Something flutters past—quick and black—and lands on a bare branch overhead with a sharp flutter of wings. It lets out a single, high-pitched squeak.

“Viktor!”

Startled, you turn to him. “A... grackle?” you ask, blinking.

He smiles with unmistakable fondness. “Yes. Meet Rio.” He gestures toward the bird, who has now begun preening one wing. “He comes and goes as he pleases, through that window there.” He motions toward a narrow, open pane set into the far wall. “Be careful what you say around him. He’s gained a reputation for using people’s words against them.”

“Viktor. Sad,” the bird croaks in a mockingly low tone, tilting its head.

“See?” Viktor murmurs, almost amused. “He will paint me pathetic before you even get the chance to know me better.”

There’s a flicker of something like vulnerability in his expression, but it passes quickly. He slips his hand into the pocket of his coat and retrieves a small metal ring, thumbing through a few keys until he unhooks one. Carefully, he places it into your open palm.

“You may come here as much as you wish,” he says, his voice low, nearly blending with the rustling leaves. “I find this place good for the mind.”

You glance down at the key resting in your palm. The cool weight of it feels symbolic, as though you’ve been let in on something secret—something close to his heart. A small part of him, entrusted to you.

Lifting your eyes to his, you find his gaze steady, amber dimmed by the faint glimpses of moonlight through the glass. You offer a quiet, sincere, “Thank you.”

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable—it hums with something unspoken. His expression shifts just slightly, something flickering behind his eyes.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Viktor says, stepping back with a subtle shift in tone, practical again, though a note of softness lingers. “The Černoglav family asked for three days to prepare for our arrival.”

You nod, the name pulling your thoughts briefly back to your larger task.

“In the meantime,” he continues, “I’ve been called to another case. It might be entertaining—should you wish to accompany me.” His tone is hopeful, inviting.

“Oh?” you ask, curiosity tugging at your voice. “What supernatural aid are you bringing this time?”

He lifts his cane slightly, gesturing as though introducing the absurdity of the situation. “A family nearby is being haunted by the ghost of a vengeful horse.”

You blink, trying very hard to hold back a disbelieving smirk blooming on your face. “A vengeful... horse?”

“A stallion, precisely,” he clarifies, with deadpan seriousness. “Do not mock, Miss. They are terrified,” he adds, moving closer and pointing his fingers at you in a playful scold, cheeks hollowing with a ghost of a smile.

You press a knuckle to your lips, attempting not to laugh. “Have they tried feeding it some phantom sugar cubes?”

“That is our job,” he replies smoothly, though the corner of his eyes lift up, and a smile wrinkles his face. “What do you say?”

You pause for effect, then sigh with mock gravity. “Ah, maybe a bit of distraction will serve us well in all this. Why not.”

“Brilliant,” he says, already half-turned toward the door. “We leave tomorrow after breakfast.”

“I shall await impatiently,” you reply, taking a step to join him, when Rio’s squawk snaps both of your heads toward the source of the sound.

“Imě, imě, imě!” the bird repeats, flapping his wings menacingly on the branch before launching himself through the open window, disappearing into the night.

Viktor blinks, wide-eyed, then looks at you, equally surprised. “Forgive me, Miss, he does that sometimes. Has he startled you?” he asks, quickly recollecting himself and extending a hand for you to grasp.

The memory has already eclipsed in your mind, buried under a cairn of today’s events, when you are suddenly pulled back to both your dream and the eerie door on the first floor. You take his hand but study him carefully, and instead of answering, you ask, “What’s behind the door upstairs?”

“Oh.” Viktor’s brows draw together, taken off guard. “Nothing that should concern you. It’s something from my past, insignificant,” he attempts to dismiss you, but you do not falter.

“Are you certain it’s insignificant?” you press, squeezing his palm insistently.

“Why would you ask?” Viktor pushes back, his expression shifting to one of discomfort. His hand leaves yours, and seeing no answer, only an expectant stare, he takes a step back and straightens himself.

“If there is no justification for this, I do not feel inclined to share.” The cane twists to the floor as he turns his back to you and begins walking toward the door. “Do not raise that matter again, please,” he throws over his shoulder. “And be ready to leave in the morning, should you still wish to accompany me,” he says finally and disappears into the corridor, not giving you a chance to wish him goodnight.

Left alone in the dim garden, the air seems to shift around you, growing colder with each passing second. You hug your arms tightly around yourself, a shiver rolling down your body as the silence presses in. The question lingers in the space between your thoughts, but now there’s something more—something hidden in the shadows of the house. You wonder if the answer you’ve been seeking lies buried somewhere here, wrapped in layers of forgotten memories. The chill in your bones isn’t just from the night air; it’s a creeping unease, the sense that Viktor has closed himself off, and that something crucial remains locked away. Guilt tugs at you for startling him, for prying when perhaps you should have let it go. But the key in your hand—so small, so weighty—feels like a promise, something shared with you. You clutch it to your chest, as if it could offer some comfort, and sigh deeply. At least you can breathe again.

—

Les Fleurs du mal translation:

When, with my eyes closed, on a warm autumn evening, I breathe the scent of your warm breast, I see unfold happy shores That are dazzled by the fires of a monotonous sun.

[diamonddaze01]

night time book club

Pairing: jww x reader | wc: 1.6k a/n: the things i would do to debate literature with wonwoo….. // pls enjoy this as i suffer over the bridgerton au seokmin fic // not beta read

The evening settles over your apartment like a comforting blanket, shadows softening as the amber light of a single lamp casts a warm glow on the living room walls. Outside, rain taps gently against the windows, filling the quiet space with a soft, rhythmic lullaby. You and Wonwoo move slowly, as though savoring each moment, slipping into the kind of relaxed pace that only comes with time spent together.

You feel the subtle ache of a long day as you shuffle around in your pajamas, grabbing your well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice from the shelf. Wonwoo is already in bed, propped up against the pillows with a book of his own—The Great Gatsby, his current favorite. His hair falls messily over his forehead, and he glances up, his eyes lighting up as he watches you approach.

“Ready?” he asks, patting the space beside him. You slide under the covers, the coolness of the sheets easing into warmth as you snuggle in beside him, already feeling yourself unwind. Your head rests lightly on his shoulder, and his fingers trace absent-minded circles on your arm as he turns a page in his book. One hand balances the book while his other lingers around your shoulder, occasionally brushing along your skin. You’re curled up beside him, one leg tucked beneath the other, engrossed in your own novel, but aware of every small movement he makes. The faint scent of his soap—fresh, earthy—lingers, mixing with the rain-scented air drifting in through the slightly open window.

Without realizing it, you let out a small laugh at a line in your book, breaking the quiet. Wonwoo glances down, eyes shining with curiosity. He’s patient, doesn’t ask for an explanation—he just watches, that barely-there smile forming, like he’s perfectly content just being here, observing.

“What?” you murmur, noticing his gaze.

He looks away, feigning innocence. “Nothing.” But there’s a soft, knowing look in his eyes, the kind that makes you feel like the only person in his world.

Shifting slightly, you turn towards him, your knee brushing his thigh as you adjust. “You’re staring, mister.”

His eyes crease in amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s fighting a laugh. “You’re just… entertaining,” he finally says, a gentle tease threading his words. He lifts his hand, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear with a quiet tenderness that makes your heart feel warm and anchored. His fingers linger near your cheek before he gently taps your nose, chuckling at the light wrinkle that appears between your brows.

You scoot closer, slipping your arm around his waist in a gentle embrace. He glances down at you, eyes softening, but then catches sight of the title in your hand. A familiar, amused expression crosses his face, and he tilts his head slightly, brow quirking in playful skepticism. It’s a look that speaks volumes—a look you know all too well.

“Still think Pride and Prejudice is better than Gatsby, huh?” he says quietly, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips.

You feel a surge of playful indignation and sit up, detaching yourself just enough to level him with a challenging stare. Wonwoo mirrors your movement, sitting up straighter, his shoulder brushing yours, the distance between you almost non-existent. He shifts closer, determined to keep some form of contact, his knee brushing against yours as his arm stretches behind you to rest against the pillows.

“Of course it’s better,” you say, tilting your chin defiantly. Your fingers tighten around your book as you lean closer, a spark in your eyes that Wonwoo catches immediately. His gaze flickers down to your lips for just a moment before settling back on your face, his expression an even mix of adoration and teasing.

He grins, leaning forward. “What’s wrong with Gatsby?”

“Nothing,” you reply, smirking. “Except he’s a hopeless romantic obsessed with someone who doesn’t even want him.” 

He gives you a smug little smile, leaning back with his own air of mock confidence, arms crossed over his book. “It’s a masterpiece of yearning and ambition,” he says, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “A perfect examination of chasing dreams you know will destroy you. Way more captivating than Darcy and Elizabeth’s prim little dance.” 

You scoff, shifting your knees to face him and tucking your legs beneath you. “Captivating?” you challenge, leaning in. “Poor Gatsby can’t even let go of a girl he barely knows. Pride and Prejudice has actual growth. They’re smart, they challenge each other… and don’t end up miserable!” 

He laughs, his hand reaching out to brush a lock of hair behind your ear as his gaze softens, amused. “I don’t know, love,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering against your cheek, “Darcy’s a little too brooding. He’d probably just leave her on read.” 

You laugh, playfully swatting his hand away, and he catches your wrist gently, letting his thumb brush the back of your hand as he chuckles, eyes creasing with his smile. He’s studying you with that mix of amusement and fondness that he had the very first time you met, when you’d run into each other in a quiet, rain-drenched bookstore. 

That day plays back in your mind—an aisle of classics, his head tilted down, brows furrowed as he browsed a copy of War and Peace. Without thinking, you’d teased, “Going for Tolstoy, huh? Bragging rights?” 

He looked up, visibly surprised, but then his lips had softened into that same gentle, amused smile as now. “I have to live up to my quiet, mysterious image,” he’d replied, half-joking, though a little shy. 

You remember leaning in closer to peek at the book. “I’d take Brontë any day over Tolstoy.” 

“Oh, War and Peace begs to differ,” he shot back, his own smile tugging at his lips, his expression warm and teasing. The two of you had debated right there in the aisle, surrounded by the scent of old books and rain, each of you defending your favorite characters with all the passion of seasoned bookworms. 

As you walked out that day, holding your respective novels, he’d given you a quiet smile, slipping his number on a scrap of paper between the pages of your book. “Call me if you want to discuss your… questionable taste in literature,” he’d said, laughter soft in his eyes. 

Back in the present, you feel his fingers intertwine with yours, tugging you gently back to reality. His gaze is steady, warm, and he tilts his head as though waiting for your counterargument, looking entirely amused by your passion. You roll your eyes, nudging his shoulder playfully. 

“Darcy would be way too busy defending Elizabeth’s honor to leave her on read,” you say, a victorious smile pulling at your lips. “Meanwhile, Gatsby would just send her a bunch of dramatic ellipses at 3 a.m.” 

Wonwoo chuckles under his breath, watching the way your eyes flash with conviction. “So says the Austen fan,” he murmurs, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. He shifts closer again, his knee pressing more firmly against yours, and his arm brushes against yours, grounding you as you volley arguments back and forth, the familiar back-and-forth somehow as comfortable as silence. Smiling, you playfully lean forward, nudging him. “You know Pride and Prejudice has way more character depth than Gatsby, right?” 

Wonwoo smirks, a spark of humor lighting his eyes. “You know we could do this all night, love, and you’d still be wrong,” he replies, one eyebrow raised. 

A burst of laughter escapes you as you nudge him again, and this time, you sit up even straighter, crossing your arms. He mirrors your movement, the bed shifting as he straightens to sit up beside you, his shoulder pressing against yours. Your legs graze his, and his hand drifts to your hair, gently tugging on a strand as he grins. “There’s no way I’m letting you win this one, love,” he chuckles, his fingers brushing against yours as he finds your hand under the blankets, intertwining them. 

You narrow your eyes playfully, leaning in so close that you can feel his breath ghost against your cheek. “Oh, so you think Gatsby’s hopeless obsession with Daisy is better than Darcy actually admitting he’s flawed?” 

"Fine," Wonwoo’s eyes soften, his smile curving gently. His eyes are bright as he leans in closer, resting his forehead gently against yours for a moment.“I think Gatsby’s a realist, but maybe Darcy… isn’t so bad.” His voice is warm, the endearing lilt making you melt a little as he quietly relents. 

But Wonwoo's never been one to let things go, and he adds, "But you’re wrong, and someday, you’ll see it my way." 

“You’re impossible,” you whisper, rolling your eyes as a smile tugs at your lips. The warmth of his hand reaches for yours, his fingers slipping between yours, pulling you back down gently to rest against him once more. With a quiet sigh, you melt back into his side, feeling his heartbeat steady and comforting beneath your hand. 

The quiet returns, and you settle in again, your head nestled back on his shoulder. He returns to his book, but his fingers keep brushing against your arm in absentminded patterns, grounding you in a silent intimacy that words could never capture. The room fills with the rustle of pages and the soft hush of rain, and you let the warmth of his presence lull you. You don’t notice when your book slips from your hand, but Wonwoo catches it, gently placing it aside as he switches off the bedside lamp. The room dims, the rain outside softening to a whisper, and he shifts under the blankets, pulling you into his arms. In the dark, he presses a warm kiss to your shoulder, murmuring a quiet “Goodnight, love” before resting his forehead against yours.

[thestarsaboveme]

Lads men x Reader who's really into horror movies

masterlist

this was a request from a kind anon.

summary: reader who really likes horror movies.

rafayel | zayne | sylus | caleb

xavier x reader | fluff

The screen flickers in the darkened living room, casting long shadows over the blanket you've wrapped yourself in. The volume is low, hut how you like it when rewatching a horror movie for the sixth time. No, seventh? So you can better hear the scrawl of your pen in your notebook.

Well ''notebook'' might be generous. It's a Frankenstein monster of paper and tape, post-its and torn film pamphlets, a few dried flower petals. From Midsommar night, you tell people. Xavier had looked…concerned. And at least one coffee stain shaped suspiciously like that one slashers mask you had seen a couple nights ago.

Xavier lounges on the far end of the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped along the back. He's watching you, not the screen.

''Alright,'' he murmurs, voice deep and velvety in the low light, ''what's the kill count now?''

You glance up with a distracted smile, flipping a page filled with messy annotations and a crude sketch of the film's main set. ''Four so far, but technically it's five if you count the dog. And I do. You have to count the dog.''

He chuckles under his breath. ''Of course.''

''Also, okay, listen,'' you shift to face him fully, your chunky book resting open on your lap, ''the director, knew what he was doing with that mirror shot. It's not just for cheap tension. It's a metaphor.''

''For…?''

''For the fractured self! The protagonist is literally split between who they think they are and the monster they might become. It's so good. You can see it in the way the lighting shifts every time they walk past a reflective surface. It's subtle, but intentional. I have notes on the cinematographer's techniques somewhere in…wait…'' You begin flipping pages rapidly.

Xavier leans over slightly, eyes scanning the mass of scribbled ink, ticket stubs, and what might be a grocery list that says ''garlic (not vampire-related, real-life needs) in bold letters.

''You know,'' he says softly, with the kind of fond amusement that makes your heart thump, ''you ramble about murder and psychological horror with the same tone most people use to talk about puppies.''

You freeze. ''Is that…weird?''

''No.'' His answer was instant, gentle. ''It's you.''

You blink.

''Besides,'' he adds, reaching to tug a yellowed corner of a loose page back into the notebook, ''I think it's kind of adorable, how much you care about the craft. The way your eyes light up when you explain things. It's…warm.''

You look at him, and for a moment the only sound is the TV. ''Even when I talk about dismemberment theory in Hereditary?''

He smiles. ''Especially then.''

A beat.

''I can keep going?'' you ask, hopeful.

He tilts his head back against the couch and closes his eyes like he's listening to a lullaby. ''I'm all ears.''

And so, you do. You ramble about camera angles symbolism, quote obscure interviews, compare thematic motifs across horror eras. All while your chunky little notebook rests between you like a bridge, pages fluttering like wings. Xavier doesn't interrupt. He just listens, smiles, and once in a while, adds a quiet, ''Tell me more.''

In that quiet room, between shadows on screen and the soft hum of your voice, Xavier finds something scarier than any movie.

He's falling. And he doesn't want to stop.

[theinstagrahame]

Another big month of TTRPG mail calls! Got a bunch of zines, some Crowd funders, and treated myself to a book or two when I got my new job lined up.

Here's what's exciting from the last month:

Death of the Author: I've said before that we (as in I) love the work of Sam "@goblinmixtape" Leigh, and before I got into TTRPGs, I wanted to do fiction writing (I found that I got from TTRPGs what I wanted from writing). So the pitch felt like an instant yes: A solo RPG about writing fiction, and the relationship between author and character.

The World we Left Behind: Sam Leigh put this together apparently for a Ballet, which is incredibly cool, and then put it as an add-on for the Death of the Author campaign. Needless to say, I was all in.

Urban Shadows 2e: Backed this on Kickstarter before Magpie did the A:tlA campaign, and it's finally showed up now. If I'm honest, my interest has waned, but I know US 1e was really good.

Zephyr: The art and the concept behind this are great, and I know that the creator makes some really neat mechanics.

Glitch: I picked this (well, 0 edition of Glitch) up on Kickstarter years ago, because the pitch was so good, but I didn't get a hard copy then. Managed to use some DTRPG money I had to rectify this mistake. Jenna Katerin Moran's work is very philosophically interesting, but I was hooked by the notion of being a demigod who knows that there's more going on, but is going to deal with street level concerns.

The Flood: Also a Moran game, and came to be as part of The Far Roofs (which I'm sure will be featured in a future mail bag post). There's a beauty to Jenna's work, a blending of metaphor and reality that I'm really drawn to, so I'm very curious about how farming poetry will work out.

Reach of the Roach God: When I landed my new job, I pretty quickly landed on what I wanted to pick up. I found out about the Thousand Thousand Island books a little too late, so I wanted to make sure I snagged this beautiful volume before I couldn't find it anymore. It's a real triumph of a book, and I can't wait to dig deeper.

Ironsworn: Sundered Isles: I am on record as loving Ironsworn and Starforged. What if instead of Space, we had Pirates?! Hell yeah, sign me up. Ironsworn/Starforged are probably the solo RPGs I've had the most success playing, in that I got furthest into these before getting distracted by other things. So maybe I'll get myself into another one?

The Wizard's Library: I've been really intrigued by Vincent Baker's Wizards Grinoire series, although I've read (and not yet played) only the first. It's got a neat reverse relationship, where the "GM" player is the titular Wizard, and the other players run the supporting cast, helping the Wizard delve into the grimoires that they discover Fortunately, this book contains more grimoires for the titular wizard to go through, and with them, more dangers for the wizard to face.

Fabula Ultima: I've heard only good things about this self-billed "TT-JRPG" and I'm really curious about it. Final Fantasy and the Pokemon series both being such long-term loves of mine, I'm very curious to see how this one runs. (Also picked up the Quickstart for a future Mailbag.)

Wet Grandpa: Listened to an episode of RTFM about this, after seeing the name around for years, and finally picked it up. I always found the title off-putting, and really couldn't get past it until my favorite TTRPG Book Club Podcast dragged me through the cover. The physical edition is a beautiful, rugged-looking book and my mind keeps reeling at the possibility of making players make hard choices.

Psychodungeon: I really dug the pitch, and Kayla Dice makes some really fun and interesting games. Be part of a team that helps people manage their trauma after it manifests into a psychic dungeon. What intrigued me most was the use of the Belonging Outside Belonging system for this, which I think really opens up some interesting possibilities for the Workplace Drama angle, and the GMless aspect could lead to some extremely fascinating dungeons.

Stewpot: This one as a no-brainer. I've got lots of friends who are into the "cozy" genre of game, and Stewpot has been The Name in fantasy coziness for a while (for lack of a better terminology, as I know it's a loaded term). The special edition (and wooden dice) were too tempting, even though the crowdfunder hit during my Freelance Era, and cost a few extra...

Any%: I watched the HBomberGuy video about Speedrunning (shortly after his Plagiarism video dropped), and developed a soft spot for the hobby. I genuinely couldn't do it, I'm too ADHD to try the same thing over and over again in hopes of shaving a fraction of a second off of my response time. But, I'm glad that people are doing it. So, a solo RPG that plays with speedrunning and its terminology seems like a great way to feel like I'm doing it without all the Bad Brain Juices.

Pregame Lobby volumes 1 and 3: I also wanted to grab these before they became too hard to find (I can't find anywhere that has Volume 2 at the moment). I really like the vibes of .Dungeon, it feels like a game that evokes a period in my life where I was curious about the Internet and tried just about every MMORPG that wasn't WoW or EverQuest. I'm honestly struggling to not pick up the recent Spiral Bound edition, despite getting the hardback 2e, because the art and layout looks goddamn incredible.

And these books are from the Plus One EXP Zine Club, which is a Zine of the Month Club, hand-picked and hand-curated. So I'm excited because I don't actually know much about them.

Metalepsis

Fire & Stone

Hapsy Kordo's Kitchen Horrors

This Old House

Hive of the Crawling Creeps

Fallen from Grace

[galedekarios]

gale & curing the orb - early access

writing my current series of cut content from early access made me think a lot, especially about how curing gale of the orb might have originally worked out if larian had kept to what had been set up in early access. it's no secret that a lot of things were changed or cut entirely, big and small, like for instance halsin's involvement with ketheric's fall, isobel and the shadow curse.

gale's condition, too, seemed different then.

what exactly was different in early access?

while only a few body models were unique in early access, gale's key art showed his left arm in bandages.

in early access, auntie ethel had vicious mockery lines, which hinted what might be beneath those bandages:

Auntie Ethel: I can smell what's under those bandages, wizard. You're all rot and ruin. Come to greet death early? You'll be a lovely spectacle.

we also had information from gale directly as to what happened to karsus in the aftermath of casting his spell:

Player: I was wondering about that “mighty lord” you told me about in your story. Gale: Ah, yes. Karsus Karsus was perhaps the most powerful wizard that ever lived. The child-who-would-be-a-god, the elves called him. And he tried. With a spell of his own devising he endeavoured to usurp in one fell swoop the power of the goddess of magic.  Mystryl, she was called then. Imagine what it must have felt like. To be a god. To know yourself to be untouchable. To be mistaken. As Karsus aimed his spell at her she began to unravel, and with her, the entire Weave. Too late did he realize what he had unleashed. It would have been the end of everything had not Mystryl sacrificed herself.  Gale: The goddess of magic is all magic. By dying, the entire weave was lost, and the spell that challenged a god failed. It was the end of Mystryl, the end of Karsus, and the end of an entire civilization. As the child-who-would-be-a-god was turned to stone, his empire came crashing down around him. The floating cities of Netheril were no more. An event that came to be known as Karsus’ folly.

which is in accordance with the lore:

Unfortunately, his choice was a terrible mistake, for one of the responsibilities of the deity of magic was to regulate the flow of magic to and from all beings, spells, and magic items in the world. Lacking the ability to do so properly, magic surged and fluctuated. With her last remaining bit of power, Mystryl sacrificed herself to block Karsus's access to the Weave, causing all magic to fail. The flying cities of Netheril plummeted to the earth. The severing of the link also killed Karsus and transformed him into stone, and the last thing he saw was his entire civilization being destroyed because of his actions. This was to be known as Karsus's Folly. The stone form of Karsus eventually landed in a part of the High Forest, now called the Dire Wood. The city of Karse was built around its base. Karsus was never accepted as a petitioner by any god, nor did he go to the Fugue Plane when he died. Instead, his soul was bound to the Material Plane. Those with experience in pact magic could call up his vestige, where he appeared as a giant blood-red boulder, like the one found in the High Forest where his petrified form landed. Blood burbles up from the top of the stone, trickling down the side facing the summoner, pooling at the base. When he spoke, the pool fountained upwards, its height varying on the volume of his voice.

the netherese orb then seemed to have a immediate visible physical effect on gale, in addition to the ones that carried to the full release version of the game.

so putting these clues together, i think it's safe to say that the orb caused gale in early access to be afflicted with some form of corrupted petrification, which makes sense given that it's a piece of magic unleashed during karsus's folly.

at that point, this corruption seemed to be affecting his left arm the most, perhaps either from opening the book containing the netherese magic with it, or trying to shield himself with it - but that's just speculation on my part.

so what did the early access set up in terms of curing gale from his affliction?

gale in early access showed a great interest in the astral plane, especially in the absence of time there. he has several banters with lae'zel, which are still in the game now and showing his vested interest in the astral plane as well as any knowledge or insight lae'zel might offer on it:

Gale asks Lae'zel about the Astral Plane. Has she been there? Gale: Tell me, Lae'zel, what is it like on the Astral Plane? Your home realm intrigues me. Lae'zel: Githyanki lay their eggs on other planes. They cannot mature in the Astral. Lae'zel: I will only be welcomed once I obtain a mind flayer's head.

lae'zel notices gale's interest and initiates a banter of her own:

Lae'zel asks Gale what his interest is in the Astral plane, and he equivocates Lae'zel: Tell me, Gale: what is your interest in the Astral Plane? Gale: Time. Or rather: the absence of it. In the Astral Plane, everything is eternal. Lae'zel: It will be my home soon enough, should Vlaakith will it.

in addition to these banters, which clearly show gale's interest in the astral plane - which now in the full release seems merely academic - hinted at another solution to ridding himself of the orb.

what points to that quite conclusively is gale's dialogue when he reveals the truth about the orb to the protagonist.

this reveal differs quite significantly from the full release version. most notably, the protagonist was able to ask him about his own ideas for a what might be able to cure him from the orb.

gale had something very interesting to say to that question:

Player: What would permanently rid you of the orb? Gale: The orb was kept safe and inert in a pocket of Astral Plane, suspended in time. If I can somehow manage to expel it from my body while in the Astral Plane, it will be rendered inert again. Alternatively, I could learn to control it’s chaotic magic, that is; to succeed where I failed before. But without Mystra’s favour, I don’t see how that may come to pass. Of course there could be different answers as well. Faerun brims with more magic than any one wizard could fathom, let alone comprehend. Who knows what outlandish solutions may yet present themselves?

so what does this all mean?

in conclusion, i believe originally there were either more ways to cure gale from the orb - or maybe even in a different manner entirely - than there are in the full release version of the game (begging mystra to remove it, ascension, or accepting/keeping the orb).

perhaps even one that would circumvent having to beg mystra for forgiveness entirely, without gale having to sacrifice his mortality to do so.

i think these banters and lines of dialogue show that the astral plane, which would have rendered the orb inert and stopped the corrupted petrification of his body, would have played a bigger role in gale's quest.