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roxabellas · 12 days ago

Text

Doll Mouth

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

word count : 9,847

warnings : he has anxiety, sad feelings (i cant stop), they talk about scissoring/frotting/squirting but nothing real (#girl talk), doing stuff in public (in a cinema), handjob, blowjob, masturbation (reader)

The restaurant's hot breath curled around your small table like a swirl of a tongue, bringing the chime of half-full glasses being clinked together and the warm, strong scents of different herbs and spices with it, all floating around you and Alex as you sat tucked away in the far corner of the packed but cosy, gently candlelit restaurant.

The restaurant wasn't too fancy, not in an overly modern, high-class way.

The beams supporting the ceiling twirled upwards like beanstalks, the patterns engraved into the dark, streaky oak wood swirling and spiraling into an intricate, winding labyrinth of passages, decorating the pillar.

There were somber paintings hung up sporadically on the walls, depicting old Victorian couples dressed in suits with long coats and dresses with large petticoats, swans on a serene, tranquil lake, and orange sunsets on a farm in the countryside, all bordered with carefully carved chocolate brown wooden frames, the designs complementing and accentuating the details of the brooding pictures that they housed.

The windows resembled those that belonged to a church, arching at the top with the glass panes lightly stained, allowing the minimal light that passed through them to match the dim glow that doused the inside of the restaurant.

The building used to be a post office, or maybe it was a bank. You couldn't remember exactly. It was something that would've made the heavily detailed architecture feel more natural, anyway.

You let your gaze float over the tall walls, walls that had seen so much history after standing there for so long, and your mind wandered for a moment. You began to think about who might've stood or sat in the same place that you were sitting now, hundreds of years ago.

Maybe they were a mother, rocking their newborn baby to sleep in their arms while the town whizzed past, disrupting the little one's slumber. Maybe they were an outcasted, independent teenage girl in the terrifying midst of being accused of witchcraft. Maybe they were a poor woman, trying to sell countless flower bouquets out of baskets on the pavement, just to make ends meet.

Whoever it might have been, you hoped they were gifted with a happy ending.

You were gently tugged from your thoughts when Alex's foot nudged against yours beneath the table, and you tore your gaze away from the walls, your eyes meeting his expectant expression, and you smiled a little at him before he spoke.

“Which one's your favourite?” he asked as he chewed, half of a chip in his hand after he took a bite.

You glanced down at his chapped lips before you asked, a little confused, “Favourite what?”

“Favourite painting,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely to the walls before tossing the other half of the chip he was holding into his mouth.

You turned your head again, eyes scanning over all of the solemn paintings dotted across the walls before your gaze settled on the one you'd found yourself zoning out on before.

“That one,” you pointed towards the opposite wall where the picture hung, and he wiped his hands on the front of his dark jeans as he turned his head towards where your finger guided his eyes.

It was a gloomy looking painting, a dense forest of towering pine trees. The needle-like leaves were a dark, mossy sage and the sky a deep, cloudy grey. Maybe it had just rained in their world.

He squinted his eyes slightly as he studied the picture for a moment before he looked back at you. “Pretty.”

“What's yours?” you asked back to him as you wrapped your hands around your glass, lifting it up to your mouth before capturing the flimsy, blue and white striped paper straw between your soft lips, taking a long, slow sip as you watched his eyes scan over the walls.

“I like that one,” he slightly nodded his head towards a painting hung high on the wall behind you, one that was part of a small cluster of three different pictures.

You turned and tilted your head back, your eyes soughting out the one he gestured to, and you asked, “The top or bottom one?”

“Bottom.”

Your eyes flickered down to the lowest painting of the cluster, a picture of a bunch of flowers in a vase. The background and stems were dull, but the petals were painted with slightly brighter, though still dusty colours. Peachy white peonies, mustard yellow marigolds, currant red camellias. It was bordered with a thick, vintage-looking brass frame, worn shiny with age, instead of a dark oak one like the rest of the paintings had.

“I like it,” you said as you turned back towards him, reaching for the white porcelain bowl sat on the table between you and plucking a chip from the centre, the hot exterior of the fried potato burning your fingertips a little.

The corners of Alex's lips quirked up into a small smile before he looked down at his empty plate. The waitress had brought them when she delivered the bowl of chips earlier, muttering some half-hearted apology about the delay of the pizza and how they're short on staff.

A handful of dark charred pieces of potato were dotted over his plate from him picking and peeling them off of the chips. He hated how they tasted, how they coated the inside of his mouth in an overwhelmingly acrid layer of bitterness. How it soaked into his tongue and contaminated the next few bites of his food with its lingering burnt poison.

It gave him something to do with his hands as well. Something to fiddle with, even if it meant getting his fingers slick with grease and rough with crumbs. Something to distract him from how inside, he was anything but still.

The restaurant wasn't loud, not in a way that would be expected with as many people as there were inside. Apart from the occasional round of loud laughter from a table in the far corner of the opposite side of the room, it was generally quite tame. Most of the patrons were quiet couples, just like you and him, but no matter how quiet the people around him were, nothing would be able to lower the blaring volume of his sickeningly anxious inner monologue.

There was a low static somewhere in his brain, and his heart felt slightly off-centre, just a little bit too far to the right, persistently beating and thumping against his ribs with a swift pace that made his breathing quicken out of nerves.

All of the tables were too close together, and everytime someone spoke, even if it was just a murmur, and everytime someone shifted, even if it was just by an inch, his stomach flinched and tightened with worry, with fear.

The sound of cutlery scraping violently stabbed his ears, making him blink too quickly in response to the noise. His eyes darted towards the sound each time, his chin-length, mildly wavy hair swaying with each quick turn of his head, only slightly, but enough to make him hyper aware of it.

He knew nobody was watching him. He knew nobody cared. Nobody cared about his leg constantly bouncing underneath the table, about how he chewed on his lower lip until it was red and stinging, or the way he rubbed his hands together and tugged on his fingers subconsciously.

He knew nobody noticed, but knowing and feeling were two completely different things.

He felt like everyone was staring at him. Whispering about the way he picked apart the chips, murmuring between each other about a water spot on his shirt from how he brushed his teeth right before you two left the house. He felt like every loud laugh, every muffled chuckle, every stifled cackle was at him, mocking him. His chest felt tight with the brutal, deafening anxiety festering inside of him.

He brought a chip that he'd been tearing apart on his plate up to his mouth, being careful not to chew too loud, or too fast, or too slow. The crunch of the crispy outer skin echoed through his brain as his teeth tore through the barrier, and he quickly swept his eyes over the room as he chewed slowly, deliberately, his lips pressed impossibly tight together to try and muffle the noise as much as possible, though he knew it couldn't possibly be as loud in reality as it was in his head.

His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, like it didn't belong to him, and his teeth felt itchy, the discomfort rooted deep in his gums. He took a sip of his drink, the damp paper straw nestled between his rough lips, and he sucked up a mouthful of the fizzy drink, swilling the sugary liquid inside of his mouth and letting it tingle across his tongue and gums before he swallowed it.

Thankfully, your soft voice broke through his haze of suffocating worries like a hot knife through butter, reminding him of where he was, who he was with, and that he was okay. At least for a moment.

“Apparently it's all about his sister, Samantha,” you said fleetingly before you took a bite of another chip, turning and looking over the other half between your fingers.

“What?” he asked, his eyes focusing once more as he came back to, floating his way back up to the surface after drowning, but still not being able to get out of the water.

“The film. S. Darko. It's meant to be terrible. I read a bit about it online.”

He let out a short, breathy chuckle, his smile just barely evident on his lips. “It's not even the same director, is it?”

“No. I forgot his name, but it's not the same guy. It's all about time travel and stuff again, though,” you briefly explained as you wiped your fingers on a beige, slightly damp napkin that was lazily discarded beside your plate earlier.

“Do you think it'll ruin Donnie Darko for me?” he asked, only half-joking as he reached for his drink again. He wasn't even thirsty, he just couldn't bear the thought of having to sit still, of not doing anything with his hands. He thought it would at least make him look normal.

“Maybe. I'm curious. I know it'll be awful, but maybe it'll be a good awful. I want it to be terrible and impossible to understand.”

He chewed on his straw, the thin paper becoming mushy in his mouth. “You like bad films?”

You let out a huff of laughter through your nostrils. “I like bad sequels.”

“I thought it concluded quite well in the first one,” he said, glancing around the room for a moment before focusing on his coke again.

“That's why they made a second one.”

“For money and stuff?”

“Probably. And for articles and that. Negative engagement is still engagement, I guess. It'll make people hate-watch.”

He chuckled quietly, the top of his chewed paper straw unravelling slightly. “Well, we fell for it, didn't we?”

“We didn't ‘fall for it’ if I wanted to watch it.”

“Then it was just you who fell for it.”

Your soft laugh melted into the background hum of the restaurant, and he drummed a silent rhythm with his greasy fingers on his knee before the taps morphed into slow drags of his fingertips, tracing small patterns on the soft denim of his deep blue jeans.

The squeak of the kitchen door being swung open made him jolt slightly, and he sat up straighter without entirely meaning to. He was always doing that. Sitting up straighter at random times, usually after being startled. Maybe it reminded him where he was after zoning out, that he was human, that he had to look normal. As if that wasn't all he thought about anyway. Looking normal.

The same waitress who had served you two earlier, a young woman with an overgrown dark brown bob and a very patchy fake tan job, weaved through tables towards yours, carrying a wide plate with a pizza set atop on one hand, while her other hand held a folded wad of napkins.

He glanced at the woman for a second, but quickly looked away when he realised she was coming towards him, a wave of shame burning up through his chest and up to his face, flushing his cheeks a shade of red. He hoped she hadn't seen him looking.

The waitress approached, an attempted apologetic smile on her lips as she sat down the plate in the centre of the table. “Sorry for the wait. Mind the plate, it's hot,” she said. She didn't sound local. Actually, he couldn't tell where she was from. Her accent sounded like it was a hybrid of South London, Greater Manchester, and somewhere further up in the North.

She set the wad of napkins on the table as well, and you gave her a small smile and a thank you before she walked away, while he did everything in his power to avoid eye contact.

His stomach clenched and churned as he looked down at the pizza, his throat closing up. It wasn't that he didn't want to eat, or that he wasn't hungry. He was, but that wasn't what he was afraid of. He was afraid of the performance that came with eating.

The cutting, the lifting, the biting. The thought of getting tomato sauce on his lips, of the cheese stretching in long strings until they snapped and clung to his chin as if he were a child.

He was afraid of dropping a piece, or picking up a slice too awkwardly and having it flop back down onto the plate.

What if he took too big of a bite? What if his bites were too small? What if he chewed for too long? What if he didn't chew enough?

He did his best to keep his face neutral. He felt so stupid getting so worked up about something so small.

He reached for his drink instead, again, the condensation on the outside of the glass cooling and dampening his fingers. He took a very small sip, sucking slowly for one second, two seconds, before he pulled it from his lips again. Two seconds was fine. That was allowed. His drink was nearly empty, anyway, and he didn't know what he was meant to do with his hands once he did finish it.

He hated the vulnerability of being human.

It was exhausting. He hated the way his mind constantly spun with completely unreasonable and irrational scenarios like a toy train on a circular track.

You picked up a slice without fanfare, folding it with your fingers and bringing it up to your mouth. He watched you as you chewed, his lips pursed as he dragged his tongue over the backs of his teeth. He glanced around quickly, just double-checking to make sure no one was staring at him, before he reached for a slice very slowly, very carefully.

The crust was warm against his fingertips, crisp but not brittle, and his pulse quickened. He lifted it from the plate, the cheese stretching into soft threads but snapping before they could make a spectacle of themselves, before it could draw any attention, and he brought it to his plate in front of him.

He swept his eyes over the room again, and for a moment, he considered eating it with a knife and fork. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek before he picked the slice up again from his plate, folding it to keep it from flopping limply, and he brought it up to his mouth and took a bite from the tip.

He chewed. He swallowed.

Nothing happened. Nothing bad, anyway.

No one looked, no one laughed, no one cared.

Except you, maybe, but not in a way that made him want to disappear.

You smiled softly at him from across the table, nudging your foot against his beneath the table, and he nudged yours back. You brought your thumb up to your mouth and licked a small fleck sauce off of your nail before you asked, “You like it?”

He nodded slightly before bringing a hand up to his head, pulling a section of his hair behind his ear, and he said, “Yeah. It's… it's- yeah.”

He took another slow, deliberate bite, sawing through the soft, warm cheese as much as he could with his teeth to avoid it stretching all together. He hoped he wasn't chewing too loud, hoped his jaw wasn't too tight, hoped he wasn't breaking some insanely strict yet unspoken rule of not being allowed to bite through the cheese the way he did.

You tore a piece of crust off of your slice with your teeth, letting it linger in your cheek for a moment as they dry crumbs coated your tongue before you chewed and swallowed. You kept your eyes on him, lovingly, watching over him. He was eating now, which was good, though you could tell he was still nervous. Careful, meditated bites, measured chewing, and slow wiped fingers.

He always did everything with such anxious precision when he was in public. He was terrified of getting things wrong, terrified of people looking at him, terrified of being human. But his shoulders weren't as slouched as they had been when you'd first sat down. Not fully relaxed, at least not yet, but a bit softer around the edges.

Still, you hated seeing him helplessly trapped behind that invisible wall around him built up and reinforced by all of his doubts, worries and disconnection from himself.

He felt so distant, despite sitting across from you, despite your feet touching beneath the table.

You watched the way he glanced around with his lips pursed every time before he cautiously chewed, how his hands hovered over a slice for just a second too long before he committed to taking another bite, how the bounce of his leg under the table got more intense whenever somebody walked by.

You let the silence linger between you for a little while longer, not wanting to overwhelm him, or make him feel like he had to talk, as you knew that was something that worried him in public, especially somewhere like this. Where the tables were close and the conversations were murmured.

You watched him pick at the layer of browned cheese on top of his slice, bringing the small, torn off pieces up to his mouth like a bird eating seeds. He kept his gaze down, his hair falling in front of his face like a shield.

It tugged at your heart to see him so reclused in public when you knew what he was really like. You knew he was brilliant, he was clever, he was funny, he was loving. You knew he loved to talk for hours on end about whatever had caught his interest that week. You knew how insanely competitive he got when playing card games that were meant for children. You knew how he loved to dance with you in the kitchen, even though he says he has two left feet.

So while his silence didn't bother you, the reason behind it did. The way he thought his presence was a burden, the way he was convinced he always had an audience, the way he so easily let other people's opinions mould and shape him into something to appease them, something that wasn't him at all.

You took another chip from the bowl as he continued to pick at his pizza, and you brought it up to your mouth, your teeth tearing through the crispy exterior. You rested your head in your other hand as you chewed, your elbow on the table, and you swallowed before you asked, “What part of you do you think is the hardest to love?”

You didn't say it to be cruel, or to mock him, or to make him feel unlovable. You just knew he needed to be jostled sometimes, to stop him from shrinking into the silence too much. He liked to talk about his feelings, and you liked listening to him. The words he used to describe what was going on inside of him, the subtle hand gestures you weren't even sure that he was aware he was doing, the way he only ever spoke about them when he felt safe and loved.

He froze at first, looking up at you through his hair from his plate with pink, flushed cheeks, before he looked to the side, then down at the floor, then at whatever painting was nearest.

“Um…” he started, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, and he brought his hand up to his face to wipe the corner of his mouth with his wrist, though there was nothing there.

You didn't push or repeat the question, you just let him figure it out by himself as you waited. He bit the inside of his cheek, and you bit down on another slice of pizza, chewing slowly as you kept eye contact with him, waiting.

You didn't soften or broaden the question, or give him an easy way out. You let him feel what he was actually feeling, give him a silence that wasn't hollow or riddled with constant worry. Let him actually be there with you instead of spectating the evening from inside of his shell.

You smiled a little as he licked his lips and sat back slightly in his chair.

“Christ,” he muttered, letting out a breathy, slightly embarrassed laugh. “That's a bit heavy, don't you think?”

“Better than watching you sit there like a hermit,” you said, feeling your chin press into your palm with each syllable as you kept your head cradled in your hand.

He let a small smile quirk the corners of his lips upwards and he reached for a napkin to wipe his fingers on, though you knew it was just another distraction, something to do with his hands.

His teeth grazed his lower lip as his gaze drifted, dragging the soft napkin over his palms and fingertips, before he finally opened his mouth to speak.

“I think…” he began, and you could tell he was trying to be very careful with the words he chose. “How I'm not… present. When I'm out. I feel like my brain stops me from having fun when I'm out doing stuff, even if I'm with people I love.”

The low murmur of the rest of the restaurant blurred into the background as you watched him speak, your cheek slightly squished against your hand. You knew exactly what he meant, you'd seen it yourself. The amount of times he'd refused to let himself loose, even just a little, how he opted for quietly sitting aside in a corner, or just staying inside entirely, because he was so afraid of letting his guard down, of making a spectacle of himself.

Your eyes softened slightly as you said, “I don't think that makes you hard to love. I just think it makes you… different.”

He let out a small, almost self-deprecating laugh. “I don't wanna be different.”

“Why?” you asked. You'd wanted to ask it for a while, but you'd never gotten a real chance, or you'd been afraid that it would upset him. You knew he didn't like confrontation.

He sighed, and he brought his hands up to his face, rubbing at his eyes with the balls of his palms until black and white phosphenes spiked his vision behind his closed eyelids. He perched his elbows on the table and held his chin in his palm before he answered, “I don't know. I guess I don't mind being… different. In other ways. I just want my feelings to be normal. I don't wanna be scared of everything all the time.”

One hand came to his throat, idly rubbing over the base of his neck as he tried to think of how to word what he wanted to say.

“I'm sorry that I'm like this. I want to be able to do stuff. I can tell you get upset when I back out of things or cancel, but I just… I get this feeling in my belly or in my throat that's just so… big. It makes it hard for me to breathe or swallow, but it goes away when I'm alone, or when I'm inside, or when I'm in bed.”

He felt the urge to look around, to triple-check that no one was watching him, but he bit his cheek as he managed to keep his head in place, and he continued. “But I'm worried that I'll never change, and that I'm gonna be this much of a hermit for my whole life. Sometimes I feel like I'm weighing you down, or that you're not doing the things you could be doing, just because you're waiting for me to get better. But I don't know if I'm going to get better.”

You looked down at the plate in front of you, a handful of crumbs scattered across it, and a few smudges of tomato sauce, before you met his eyes again through the curtain of his fringe. “I'm not waiting for you to be anything,” you said, reassuring. “I just want you to be with me when you feel like you can. And when you can't, I'll be waiting for you when you can. It's not ‘weighing me down’ if I want to do it for you. Which I do. I really do.”

He pursed his lips slightly as he took it in, his face softer now and his shoulders more relaxed. He looked at you with a soft gratitude in his eyes. “I love being with you. It's just everyone else that I'm afraid of.”

“I know. It's okay.”

He smiled slowly, letting out a small laugh as he looked away after holding eye contact for too long, blushing slightly as he brought his hand to the back of his neck.

The hue of his blush was your favourite colour. You wished you could paint it on the walls, polish your nails with it, and wear it as lipstick.

His laugh was the most precious sound in the world. It was your favourite song. You wished you could burn it into a cd, or carve it into a vinyl. You'd listen to it for hours on repeat, letting it fill you with the joy and security that only he knew how to muster up in you.

He felt a warmth inside of him, not exactly confidence, but his body wasn't restricting him, his mind wasn't preventing him from being human. At least, not at the moment. Maybe his fear would come back in five minutes, maybe it would come back in five hours. All he could do was enjoy it while he could.

He picked up the slice of pizza he'd been tearing apart on his plate, folded it with his fingers and brought it up to his mouth. He took a bite, which was mostly soft, chewy dough and tangy, slightly acidic sauce as he'd picked off most of the cheese.

You smiled, and finally, finally, you were having dinner together. Properly. Not just sitting at the same table while eating.

The rest of the meal passed by in a similar way to how it would at home, if he'd made an attempt at cooking something fancy. Easy, calm, and a deep adoration for one another floating between you.

You both ate slowly, his tension and worries from earlier dissolving and disintegrating with every word he spoke, every laugh he let slip out unguarded.

He still took careful bites, still occasionally glanced around the room if someone laughed a little too loud for his liking, but now there was a softness to the way he moved. Less caution, more comfort, like he wasn't as afraid that he was going to get into trouble for merely existing.

You finished off the last few slices of pizza together, the bowl of chips long since finished, but your drinks partially remained, just a few dregs left that had been diluted by the melting ice cubes, the condensation on the outside of the glasses glinting slightly in the soft light of the restaurant. He picked at an unfinished piece of crust on his plate before looking up at you as you wiped your hands on a napkin before you tossed one at him, the soft paper landing surprisingly well instead of drifting off as it flew due to it being slightly damp.

He rubbed his fingers and his palms with the tissue, cleaning off the remnants of any slick grease or rough crumbs. He pushed his chair back, wincing slightly at the scrape of the legs on the floor, and he stood up slowly, stretching his back with a small, barely audible groan as his spine loosened up again.

He tucked his chair back underneath the table as you got up as well, lifting it slightly off of the floor this time to avoid the ear-bleeding grate. You walked around the table to him, grabbing his hand and interlocking your fingers with him, his slightly sweaty palm pressed against yours, and you led him towards the door, weaving through the tables. You gave a small, grateful smile to one of the waitresses before you pushed open the heavy wooden door, the cool night air enveloping the two of you like stepping into the ocean on a rainy day, cold and biting.

His cheeks flushed slightly because of the chill, a light red, and he walked close to you, trying to sync up his steps with yours the best he could. He squeezed your hand gently, and you squeezed it back, just reminding him that he was okay, that you were right there with him.

There must've been a light rainpour while you two were in the restaurant, as the pavement glistened slightly in small puddles beneath the flickering yellow street lights, a faint sheen of dampness coating the black, lumpy tarmac of the road.

The gentle breeze blew through his soft hair. It had grown quite long, and despite being a little insecure about it, he refused to cut it. He knew you liked to play with it, liked to run your fingers through his long strands, and tie it up into ponytails and plaits, even if it made him embarrassed.

His lips were jutted out slightly into a pout, like they often were. You'd never really been able to put your finger on why or what made him do that, whether it be when he was deep in thought, or trying not to let his anxiety overwhelm him, or just doing it because it felt comfortable.

“Reckon there's gonna be many people there?” he asked with a quiet pop of his lips as he unpursed them. He felt a bit more comfortable now, as it was just you and him out there, save for the odd pedestrian here and there.

“Where? The cinema?” you asked, accidentally bunting him with your shoulder in an attempt to be closer to him.

“Yeah. Can't be many, can there? Everyone knows the film is shit by now.”

“You scared, baby?” you turned and tilted your head up towards him. He wasn't much taller than you. He wasn't that tall at all, to be honest, but he was tall enough so you had to look up to meet his eyes properly.

“Not scared. Not that much, anyway. Just premeditating. Preparing,” he briefly explained, kicking a wet rock beneath his feet across the pavement and watching the water droplets fly off of it as it bounced, rattling across the concrete.

The walk to the cinema wasn't too long, maybe around fifteen minutes. Long enough to be able to dawdle.

“Al,” you started, your gaze ahead of you while you walked as you felt him turn his head down towards you.

He looked down at you, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips at your voice. “Yeah?”

You slowed your steps a little, and he was quick to match your pace, the rubber soles of his shoes scuffing against the wet floor. “What would you do if you had a pussy?”

You looked up at him, and you swore you could see his brain lagging a second behind through his eyes.

“What?” he laughed, a wide smile spreading across his face, his eyes squinting slightly.

You burst out laughing, leaning your head against his shoulder and squeezing his hand tighter.

“You sure it was just coke you had in that glass, love?” he asked, his smile seeping into his voice.

“I'm serious! I've just been wondering. Would you sit around and play with it all day, or would you fuck someone?”

“How long do I get the pussy?” he asked, his shoes squelching quietly from the puddles with each step he took.

“...One day,” you said after a moment of thoughtful consideration.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand, shaking his head slightly with a grin, and he said, “I'd scissor you, probably.”

You smiled. “Would you, now?”

“That'd be the first thing I'd do.”

“Would you buy pretty underwear and take loads of pictures in them?” you teased.

“Would I have the ass too?”

“You've already got the ass.”

He felt his face heat up as he laughed, and you tugged him around a corner on the street towards the cinema. “I think I'd finger myself first. I've always wanted to know how that feels.”

You smiled, pulling him along the damp pavement. “You can already do that.”

“I'm not fingering my ass.”

“I'll do it, then,” you looked over your shoulder at him for a moment, smiling from both the conversation, and how he wasn't as reclused at the moment. You knew it never lasted long, though, so you cherished it. Not that you didn't cherish him when he was anxious and quiet, but you try to make the most of it when he's not.

“What would you do if you had a dick?” he asked back at you, unable to control his laughter at the last few words.

His laugh was contagious. You tugged him forwards to walk beside you again and you rested your head on his shoulder as you spoke. “I'd wank. Then I'd fuck you.”

He smiled. “Would you have a dick at the same time that I had a pussy?”

You thought for a moment, taking it a little too seriously. “...Yes. Like, we'd swap.”

He frowned, his voice tainted with faux disappointment as he said, “No scissoring then?”

You laughed before backtracking, “I take it back. You'd have a pussy one day, then I'd have a dick the next day. I wanna frot with you.”

“What else would you do?” he asked, trying to calm down after his fits of laughter.

“Piss standing up,” you said with a certainty that made another chuckle bubble out of his throat. “What about your pussy? Would it be hairy?”

He thought for a moment. “I'd cut my pubes into a heart.”

“Cute.”

“And I'd squirt.”

“Fuck off,” you said before you stepped into the cinema, the automatic doors sliding open with a mechanical whir.

The outside air, crisp, cool, and smelling of petrol and wet, earthy leaves, gave way to the warmth of the cinema. It smelled like popcorn, buttered and scorched at the edges, a thick mix of sweet and salty swirling through the air. There was a synthetic, sugary smell emanating from the slushy machines on one side of the counter, churning the colourful, icy drinks inside of them.

You walked ahead of him, a thousand spilled and crushed kernels crunching beneath your feet as the damp soles of your shoes scuffed against the rough, flattened carpet that was probably well overdue a clean. You stepped over a dried patch of some spilled soft drink, deep brown and cemented to the floor, as you walked over to the counter, Alex trailing behind you.

He was a little quieter now, the walls surrounding him making him feel almost claustrophobic, suspending his right to talk for as long as he was boxed up. His fingers slipped from yours, clasping his own two together in front of him, and you made your way to the counter with an effortless gracefulness that made him feel something that resembled jealousy. He wanted to be able to live that easily, he wanted to be able to talk to people freely without stuttering and stammering over every word that had the misfortune of tumbling out of his mouth.

The young woman at the counter barely looked at you as you approached, bags under her eyes and a silver necklace around her neck. She was chewing gum a little too loudly, her lips smacking, and the smell of synthetic watermelon drifted over the counter as she opened her mouth. “Yes?”

You forced a small, pleasant smile. “Can I have two tickets for S. Darko, please?” your voice was calm, casual and polite, not so much for the lady behind the counter, but for him, Alex, behind you, to keep the space safe and light.

You could hear him shifting his weight, the way the heel of his boot rolled over the carpet, the quiet exhale that he didn't realise had come out, the subtle wipe of his hands against his jeans as he brushed his fingertips over the soft, dark denim.

The girl blinked, her chewing stilling for a moment as she glanced up at you before tapping something into the till with a series of bored smacks, and she slid two paper tickets across the countertop before she said, her voice monotone through her gum, “Ten quid.”

You reached into your pocket and fished out two five pound notes before you passed them to her, the money slightly curled and folded from being in your pocket all night, and you took the two tickets with a final friendly smile which she didn't reciprocate.

The second the transaction ended, you stepped aside, the tickets secure between your fingers. They were still warm from the printer, the ink slightly smudged, but you could still work out what it said just fine.

“We're in screen three. It starts in about fifteen minutes,” you told him as you mindlessly strolled away from the counter, lingering quietly as you waited for the time of the screening to draw closer.

He nodded once, quick and tight, his lips slightly pursed as he looked over the walls. There were posters of films from ten, twenty, thirty years ago, upcoming films, and films he'd never heard of in his life. You could tell he wasn't fond of the fluorescent overhead lights, the brightness and faint buzz of them making him wince.

You could see the telltale signs of him trying to manage it all, pressing his thumb to each one of his fingers rhythmically, attempting to even out his breathing, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and the downward tilt of his chin to avoid eye contact with any strangers.

You took his hand again, the hand that was hanging limply by his side, and he interlocked his fingers with yours. “Do you wanna get anything?” you asked, nodding vaguely towards the far side of the counter, with popcorn machines, slushies, and ice creams that came in tiny cardboard tubs with equally tiny wooden spoons.

He looked over at it briefly before flickering his eyes away again, like he was scared of being caught looking at it, like he was scared of being perceived. The thought of going up to the counter and ordering something from someone who would probably be annoyed to be doing their own job and risking making a fool of himself, whether it be them not having what he wanted, him mispronouncing something, or him having to repeat himself a few times due to his voice being too quiet. It made him feel sick.

He shook his head, his lips pressed together. “No thanks, love. You?”

You scanned your eyes over the counter from the distance, but the scent of melted butter and bitter chocolate ice cream was so strong, it almost stung. You shook your head. “I'm alright. The ice cream always tastes out of date here, anyway.”

He let out a soft huff of laughter through his nose, his smile small but sweet, and you two began to walk down the long, wide hallway where the screens resided, Alex trailing slightly behind you but still holding onto your hand.

The carpet beneath your feet was a deep red with a gaudy swirl pattern that didn't match at all. Every cinema seemed to be cursed with a floor like that, seemingly designed to disguise spills better.

You stilled outside of the door with a large number three plated beside it, and you said, “How shit do you think it's gonna be?”

He smiled. “On a scale of what?”

You thought for a moment, laughing to yourself as you thought of the best and worst films you could think of to use as a scale. “On a scale of Battlefield Earth to The Shining.”

He tutted. “I liked Battlefield Earth though.”

“No, you didn't.”

He was quiet for a moment before he said, “...Battlefield Earth.”

You laughed, pressing your face into his shoulder as you closed your eyes, and he nudged you off. “Come on.”

You pushed open the heavy black wooden door with a squeak of the hinges and a soft, suctioned huff, and he trailed after you. It was dark inside, but you could tell there was still that atrocious carpet plastered all over the floors. He held your hand a little tighter, letting you guide him through the pitch black. The scent in the room was a cocktail of salty popcorn and carpet cleaner, each smell warmed through from the humidity of the room.

There were just six people scattered around the seats sporadically. A middle-aged couple at the front, three lads who looked to be in their twenties each with a bucket of popcorn larger than their heads, and a woman sat solitary right at the front.

Your eyes flickered upwards almost instinctively, up to the back row, and it was completely empty. You smiled and tugged on his hand as you climbed the wide steps together, each footstep muffled, the carpet absorbing the noise. Alex stayed just behind you, clinging onto your hand.

You exhaled slowly as you sank down into the plush red seat, the fabric slightly hardened in places from a substance you weren't sure you wanted to identify. He perched on his seat beside you, hesitating for just a second before he leaned back into it, turning his head to look at you to make sure he was doing it right.

He shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, his hand never leaving yours once. You turned your head to look at him, your cheek pressing against the fabric of the backrest of your chair. The glow emitted by the adverts and trailers was soft, contrasting their volume, and it lit his pale face in gentle flashes of white and blue. It casted flickers over his large nose, his lips, his cheekbones, and his hair, which was falling just over his shoulders.

“You're beautiful,” you said quietly, your voice softer, more thoughtful, just barely loud enough to be passed through to his sensitive ears.

He smiled shyly and his eyes drifted over your gentle face, down to your lips which you pouted, and he leaned over to give you a soft kiss.

You brought your other hand up and threaded your fingers through his silky strands as your lips moved together, his chapped ones lightly scraping against your smooth ones.

You pulled back slightly, your hand still in his hair, and he murmured, “Love you.”

“I love you too,” you said quietly, adoration laced like ribbons into your tone.

You turned your face back towards the screen, while his eyes lingered on you. His eyes weren't darting around frantically anymore, not worried about who was looking or what they were looking at. His chest rose at an easier, steadier pace now, and while his nerves weren't completely gone, as they never were, he felt at ease.

As the adverts and trailers came to a close, their lingering volume sent a deep vibration through your sternum, rattling your ribs, and only then did he manage to tear his eyes away from you to look at the screen.

About fifteen minutes into the film, it became abundantly clear. This wasn't Donnie Darko. It wasn't even close. The dialogue was stilted and lifeless, the lighting was bleak in all the wrong ways, and the plot, if there even was one, unravelled like a wet tissue in the rain.

Your eyes were glued onto the screen for a while, mostly out of pure disbelief that they could butcher it this badly. You tilted your head slightly as another poorly delivered line dragged itself through the large speakers. Alex had said nothing, but you could feel him next to you. Shifting occasionally in his seat, slowly and deeply inhaling through his nose like he was trying to centre himself, his thumb idly grazing the edge of his chair. He wasn't anxious, not now, not really, he was just quietly enduring it, his jaw set in that gentle, unreadable way of his.

You perched your elbow on the armrest you two were sharing, resting your cheek against your knuckles.

Twenty more minutes passed. Twenty minutes of empty, pointless scenes, droning dialogue, and some of the worst cinematography you'd ever seen in your life.

You sighed softly and turned your head towards him, seeing his gaze locked straight ahead, but his lashes fluttered at the sound of your breath. You let a small smirk tug at the corners of your lips before you leaned in slightly, “Boring, isn't it?”

As you said it, you reached across over the armrest, casually across to his lap. Your fingertips grazed over the tops of his thighs at first, light and unhurried, then up, deliberately brushing over and tracing the shape of his cock through the denim of his jeans. Just enough to be felt.

He stiffened slightly, but not by too much, just a slight hitch in his posture as his spine straightened by a fraction, his lips parting around a gasp he didn't let himself voice.

You let your hand linger for a moment, your touch feather light as you pretended to be still watching the film.

He turned his head towards you slightly, just enough, and in the dim blue flicker of the wide screen, you caught his deep brown eyes, half alert and half cautious. His gaze flickered down to your hand on his crotch, then back up to your face.

You smiled without looking at him fully, and your fingertips pressed down again, ever so slightly, just a little bit firmer, and the muscles in his thighs tensed, his breathing growing heavier.

The screen continued to drone on with more futile dialogue and confused exposition, but neither of you were watching it anymore.

Your fingers curled, subtle and slow, gradually adding more and more pressure over his cock through his jeans, until you felt it. A faint twitch beneath your palm.

A warmth prickled through your body, delicious and full of tension and invitation, daring you to go further.

He exhaled, the sound barely audible, just a slow huff of air through his mouth, and when you glanced sideways again, his lips were parted around quick breaths, and his eyes were dark and needy behind the soft fall of his hair, but focused entirely on you.

You let your hand linger for a moment longer, lazily stroking the length of him through his jeans, and he bit down on his lower lip gently. You were moving more deliberately now, making no attempt to mask what you were doing. The warmth of him beneath the denim had shifted, thickened, and you could feel him swelling slowly beneath your touch, pressure and tingles blooming through the fabric as your palm moved in slow, rhythmic presses.

He didn't say anything. Not in words, anyway. His body was tense in a way that said more than any amount of speech would ever be able to. The tension in his body wasn't out of nervousness or fear anymore, the earlier anxiety replaced with something warm-blooded and heavy. He was quiet, sure, but every part of his body had stilled except for the subtle twitch of his fingers against the armrest, his pulse now visible in the hollow of his throat. His eyes were still fixed on the screen, but they were empty, glazed, half-lidded. He wasn't processing anything in front of him anymore. Only you.

You leaned in a little closer, slowly, until he could feel the heat of your breath against his jaw. “You getting hard for me?”

His throat bobbed and he inhaled sharply, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he was about to answer, but nothing came out. His body spoke for him.

You didn't press for him to respond. You just smiled slightly to yourself, your eyes on him as you reached for the cool button of his jeans.

Your fingers were calm but nimble as you undid his trousers. The dull pop of his metal button being pushed through the hole was easily swallowed by the sounds of the film, and the slow whir of his zip that followed sounded louder to you than it would've to anyone else in that cinema.

Your hand slipped inside, your fingers tracing along the much softer cotton of his boxer shorts. It was warm in there, cosy, and they were already tented, his thick length already hardened down one of the leg holes.

You felt his cock give a gentle twitch against your palm, accompanied by a small sigh that fell from his lips that sounded like pure sweet sugar being sifted into your ears.

His thighs quivered slightly as you rubbed your fingers further and further up his shaft, teasing the ridge of his head.

Only then did he peel his eyes away from the screen to look at you, his jaw slack and eyes half-lidded as he murmured, sounding more like a breathy exhale than a solid word, “Fuck…”

You slipped your hand underneath the taut waistband of his white boxers, your teeth lightly grazing against your lower lip as you smiled. You tugged him free with delicate fingers, hard and hot and twitching in the humid air of the cinema. The light from the screen washed over his lap in flickers of blue and gold.

You started to stroke him. Slow, very slow, your hand gliding in smooth, measured tugs as you coaxed tiny, breathless gasps from his throat. Your fingers curled just slightly at the tip, twisting your wrist subtly around the swollen, angry red head, then down again with a soft squeeze. Your thumb brushed the ridge gently with every upward pull, making his face scrunch up with the effort to not moan your name.

His head tipped back slightly, his eyes darting all over the tall ceiling. His lips were damp and parted as his breaths grew shallower. He clenched one of his fists around nothing in his lap while your hand continued to work him in that steady, teasing rhythm, just enough friction to draw out every reaction from him, but not enough to let him settle into it, to lose himself in it.

“That feel good?” you teased, tightening your grip around his shaft, and he huffed out a breathless, unsteady sound, something like a laugh but ruined halfway through, and you felt him pulse and throb in your palm.

You adjusted your grip, even slower now, firmer, letting the pleasure and pressure build in his abdomen in smooth, delicious increments. Your thumb dragged trails along the sensitive underside of his tip, and his eyes fluttered shut, his knee twitching involuntarily.

You kept stroking him, your palm now slick with his dewy precum that had beaded at the tip out of his desperation. Your fist moved slow enough to drive him mad, yet fast enough to keep him right on the brink.

He was heavy in your palm, flushed and pulsing, the head leaking just enough that your fingers were able to glide just a little easier each time. You could hear it, just barely. Faint, obscene sounds drowned out by the whir of the projector and the muffled film.

He shifted beside you again, restless, his throat tightening around a moan that he couldn't let escape out of fear of the volume. You looked up at his face again, glistening lips open wide, his hair falling in messy strands around his red face. His thighs were rigid and spread wide apart, and while one of his hands lay scrunched up on his lap, you watched as the other one drifted up his torso, up to his chest, his thumb shakily circling one of his nipples.

Your lips curled into a wide smile as you caught what he was doing. “You like playing with your tits, baby?” you teased, your voice coaxing him through the pleasure while his lower lip quivered.

His breath caught in his throat on its way out, his hand stilling on his chest for a moment before allowing his fingers to continue their slow, torturous movements on his nipples.

You pulled your hand from his slick cock, and before he could complain, or even realise what was happening, you sank down on your knees in front of him, the sticky, hideous pattern of the carpet completely forgotten, and quite frankly irrelevant, your focus now entirely on the aching, swollen length of him standing proud in front of your face from the open fly of his jeans.

His tip glistened in the low light of the theatre, and you leaned in, your breath hot against his sensitive skin, and you swiped your tongue over the head, quick, just one lick over his slit.

You looked up at him and you smiled. He looked so pretty like this, flushed and desperate, trembling in the dim light, fingers playing with his nipples.

You wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft, his soft, short pubes lightly brushing against your skin, and then you took him in. Slow at first, letting your lips wrap around the head, so warm and wet, your tongue swirling gently. His whole body tensed above you, and a short, shaky huff of air escaped from his throat. His fingers continued their tantalisingly slow circles on his nipple, while his other hand gripped the armrest tightly, his knuckles bleaching white under the force.

You sank further down, inch by inch, your soft lips stretching around his thick shaft. You relaxed your throat as you continued to work him, your hand stroking what you were unable to fit into your mouth while you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deeper.

Above you, he was silent, save for the occasional long, ragged breath and the softest, most broken sounds that escaped his throat when your wet tongue dragged just right against that sensitive ridge tucked just beneath the head. His shirt had ridden up a little, exposing his belly button, and you could see his stomach trembling with the effort of staying quiet, of staying still, of not rutting up into your mouth.

The way his cock tasted, warm and salty on your tongue, leaking and dripping against the insides of your cheeks. The way it felt, hot and heavy in your mouth, pulsing and throbbing. You could feel his whole body straining to hold back, his thighs taut beneath your arms, and you wanted to make him lose it. You wanted to make him moan the way he would at home, loud, whiney, unapologetic.

You hummed softly around his length, letting the vibration travel through his veins, and you glanced up at him. His chin was tilted down, watching you intently with his half-lidded eyes, full of desire, disbelief, and desperation.

Your hand drifted down between your thighs without much thought, naturally, like a gravitational pull. Just the softest pressure through the warm, thin fabric of your underwear, and you whimpered softly around his length, pressing your fingers against the damp cotton between your legs.

Alex's eyes fluttered shut once more, tilted his head back as his mouth fell open in a silent gasp. He throbbed inside of your mouth, twitching against your tongue in frantic little spasms, and he let out the tiniest sound, cracked and broken, but unmistakably his.

He was so close. You could feel it, see it, taste it. He was right on the edge, ready to topple over.

You took him deeper, relaxing your jaw as he filled your mouth completely, and your fingers moved more insistently against your clit, pressure and heat building behind your navel with every pulse of him on your tongue and every broken moan that tumbled from his lips.

His eyes were dazed, his vision darkening at the edges and blurring in the centre as the scorching hot heat simmering low in his belly threatened to spill over. His lower lip quivered as he whispered your name, and with a final swirl of your tongue, your lips tight around him, he broke.

His hips jerked once, not violently, but enough to shove some of his cock deeper as his balls drew up unbearably tight. His fingers frantically flicked against his nipple, his whole face scrunched up with the sheer force of his orgasm as he spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, hot ribbons of cum flooding your mouth with each spurt from his tip.

His body was shaking and trembling as you unravelled him, and you stayed like that, swallowing gently as you felt him slowly soften against your tongue, growing heavier and more pliable.

You carefully pulled away, freeing him from your mouth, and a thin string of saliva connected you both for a second more before it snapped, lingering on your chin.

He looked destroyed, breathless, sweaty, and red-faced. He wasn't quite looking at you, just vaguely staring ahead like he'd forgotten where he was, his hand still hovering on his chest.

You withdrew your hand from between your thighs, and you smiled up at him, still kneeling between his legs. “You okay, baby?” you whispered.

He blinked before he looked down at you, looking disorientated, like he'd just woken up. He hesitated for a moment, processing your words, before he nodded, his cheeks flushed pink. “Yeah.”

You let your hand linger for a moment more before pulling it away, letting his cock grow limp, and you gently rubbed his thigh. “Love you.”

He managed a slight smile through his sweaty, out of breath state, and he murmured, his voice carrying a mildly hoarse edge to it, “Love you too.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

cameras do not exist

#this is me soft launching a frotting fic #alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x you #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #alex turner smut #alex turner #roxabellas

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hometoursandotherstuff · 8 months ago

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Exceptionally beautiful 1971 mid-century modern in Portland, OR. 4bds, 5ba, 4,281 sq ft. $1.095m.

There's something about a floating wood-burning fireplace. They're always the perfect height.

The living room has a blue upholstered bench wall. Interesting.

Open concept living room/kitchen. Island has everything you need.

The mini bar is hidden behind the doors- Company is coming and you're not cleaned up? Shut the doors. Very cool.

Angular guest powder room.

Spiral stairs out in the hall.

Believe it or not, this home has 6 levels. They put a single person elevator in the center of the spiral stairs and look at how they numbered the floors.

Beautiful family room with nice big fireplace. Love the blue tile. Look at the loft above. This home has stunning architectural detail.

Here we are up in the loft where there's a lovely small sitting space and a home office/work space.

There's also a deck up here.

And, you can see down to the kitchen.

Beautiful primary bedroom with built-ins. You can see the en-suite in there.

It also has a sauna.

This room has a built-in red desk. It can be a den or a bedroom.

Not sure what this is.

This is a guest apt.

It even has its own deck.

There's a nice workshop in the garage.

The home has decks on every level.

It's totally in the trees on an 8,276 sq ft lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/6432-SW-Burlingame-Pl-Portland-OR-97239/176558973_zpid/

#mid century modern homes #MCM architecture #tree houses #house tours #houses #home tour

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justbelievinginmagic · 5 months ago

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BEWITCHED - part 1: we're not in munchkinland anymore.

pairing(s): witch!seonghwa x witch!reader ft. honjoong & san. mini-series summary: all your life you've had this spark - a touch of magic to your heart. as a munchkinlander, it was both a blessing and a curse. after all, two horrible witches had ruled over the land - all your life you had been asked: would you be a good witch or a bad witch? you wanted to be a good witch. and, finally, you would be! the day arrived; you were going to shiz university, the most-esteemed magical college in oz! you were prepared to work hard and make your dreams come true. but when you stumble upon cold bullies and an even colder sorcerer-in-training named park seonghwa who seemed to captivate you at every turn, will you be able to achieve your magical goals or will you fall under his spell? warnings/tags: inspired by the musical and movie adaptation of wicked, magical college AU, wizard of oz AU, set at shiz university, fem!reader, 3rd person POV, use of YN, set after a divergent-wicked timeline (where the wizard or a wizard still rules), magic, angst, some bullying, oz references and lore, use of ozian vernacular, nervousness, second-hand embarrassment, mentions of panties/corset, name calling. let me know if there are more tags needed. word count: ~4.5k

It had been known throughout Oz, for as long as the Time Dragon Clock tick-tocked, that the only place to become a grand sorcerer was Shiz University. Established, expensive, and exclusivatory, the university was known throughout the land as the cradle to success. Anyone who wanted to be anything went there – or to the Wizard to have their heart’s desire granted. But, of course, a meeting with the Wizard was rare. So, the only other option to success was hard work. Work hard to one day get to Shiz University.

Staring up at the ancient buildings of Shiz, YN couldn’t help but feel a rush of exhilaration. She had made it. Spiraling towers, open-air patios, water canals weaving in and out of the architecture, she knew one thing for certain: she wasn’t in Munchkinland anymore.

A shoulder bumped into her, making her huff and stumble over the aged tiles. She righted herself with a small huff, a familiar zing in her chest making her pause and take a deep breath. That was the last thing she needed to happen. The bustling crowds of students surrounded her like a sea. Some in the perfectly-pressed navy-blue jackets and horizontal-striped uniform dresses of Shiz with the silver-stitched emblem proud across their chest. Others were like her, dressed in their best-to-impress as they entered the grand corridors of Shiz as a new student. It reminded her of stories of masquerades in grand ballrooms – their outfits were all so different and extravagant. Pinks of the lightest shades, deep-rubied vermillion, bright yellows, all in the strangest textures and designs. Far different from her own dress fabric but never the less fantasticamagical!

YN felt out of place like a lost air balloon amongst the clouds. Clinging to her luggage case, she took a tentative step away from the open-air waterfront. As she moved ever forward into the college, she realized just how different everything was here. The air was cool and humid; the sound of sea-salt water trickling between the canal-filled paths babbled; there was the smell of fresh-Ozma petals blooming on the large leaf-pads floating across the shimmering water. It was really nothing like Munchkinland, and its sprawling country-sides. There was no smell of Ozwheat-ground bread, of fresh upturned soil, fragrant tulips in every shade of the rainbow, or the towering blossom stalks of sweet-flowers.

It was strange.

Swallowing, she hugged her brown suitcase closer and continued to walk further into Shiz. The honey-soft yellow of the buildings was complimented by a once-royal, now-pastel blue in the awnings and in delicate hand-painted décor across the buildings. Sunshine flickered past the shingled rooftops to cast the center of Shiz in a golden glow. It was beautiful. A different beautiful than what she was used to, but an optimistic jingle in her heart said she could like it here.

Another person pushed past her purposely, and this time it sent her tumbling to the ground. A laughter grumbled from the crowd, surprised but cruel. A mean-looking girl with a pointy nose laughed as she crowed out, “Watch where you are going, little farm girl!”

“She’s used to being that low to the ground I bet,” another encouraged with a sneer.

YN’s face crumbled at the words. Eyes burning before her face flushed. All her things toppled across the bustling court-yard – her books scattered, her dresses tumbled, her keepsakes rolled. Her suitcase had broken open. The clasp was worn and old compared to the new fancy luggage the rich (but mostly their entourage) toted along, but she didn’t think it was that old.

Embarrassment burned more fervently than that spark in her chest. Her focus to split between the pain of in her knees, the hurt from their words, and the panic of needing to grab her things now.

YN didn’t understand their uttertodious rudeness. She wasn’t the first nor the last to attend Shiz as a Munchkinlander. She hadn’t expected the dirty looks, the cruel laughs, the cold whispers, the foul name-calling. How did they even know she was of Munchkinland? She wasn’t of Munckinland holy blood. She was no Eminent, nor of the upper-class. She was just… YN. Was that so offending? Was it her dress? Was that what they were whispering about behind their hands and falling into giggles? Was it hideoteous compared to the swankified fabrics of the upper-class? She didn’t think so. She had put on her prettiest – a dirndl-esque dress of a deep sapphire. Hand-embroidered vibrant poppies, delicate milk-flowers, and candy-chrysanthemums decorated the hem and décolletage. Fresh flowers decorated her pig-tailed hair; some had begun to wilt in the change of temperature, but they still were prettied pastel yellows, blues, and pinks. Some of those petals now rested on the ground from her fall, crumpled.

She felt the burn flare like embers fanned by a wind. Her book pages rattled in a nonexistent wind unnoticed by the snickering students. Behind her, a man’s voice cleared itself, baritone and rumbly.

“Are you alright?” He asked beside her.

Oh, his voice so melodic it reminded her of the Lullaby League singers that would pass through Munchkinland during the holidays. It reminded her of honey being poured over fresh-bread, of warm summer nights in the fields, of a bed waiting for her to curl up in.

Looking up at him, her breath was stolen. YN swore for a moment she saw a star, a wizard, a sorcerer, an otherworldly being. There, haloed in the light of the afternoon sun, was a man with hair as light as milk-flowers and a nose carved by an artist. His shapely lips pursed in a thoughtful yet neutral pout; his eyes were a dark shade of fresh-soil. And somehow, they twinkled with stars.

Or maybe her eyes were filled with hearts. She blinked. YN had never seen someone so beautiful. The burning spark in her chest faded with awe.

His hand outstretched to her after a moment.

“Are you okay?” he repeated, bleached brow raising faintly.

There was another blink of her pretty eyes before she was shaken from her stupor.

“Oh, yes, yes,” she insisted as she took his hand.

With ease, she was tugged to her feet. “Thank you,” she whispered, pink cheeked.

The figure was tall especially so with his heeled boots. His presence was one she imagined only the Wizard to embody. Peace, stoniness, wisdom. He struck her with wonder. His gaze flickered from her, a faint ghost of a smile on his lips disappearing at the sight of her dresses tumbling away, her books’ pages fluttering in the wind, and, mortifyingly, her panties tumbling from her luggage.

“Um,” he cleared his throat, chin nodding in their direction.

Red cheeked and mortified, she went to grab the frilly underthings before sliding to her knees once more to catch all of her belongings from blowing away. Laughter rang out as students rushed around her things. Someone stepped on her leatherbound book of the History of Shiz.

Her savior, her star, hadn’t bent at the knee to help. He simply watched on, glancing at the student who was cackling at the Munchkinlander’s humiliation.

“Seonghwa!” A cry from the side caught her attention as a red-haired man, shorter than the white-haired star that had helped her, rushed forward. His arm slung over the taller’s shoulders - despite their size differences. Seonghwa bent at the knee for him, letting the red-head adjust him ‘til he was comfortable half leaning on his counterpart.

“Your Highness,” Seonghwa replied.

Highness! Her face only seemed to grow hotter and hotter. She knew Shiz had the rich and royal but she didn’t expect to a royal highness to be watching her gather her intimates and shove them into her luggage today. If her face could burn any hotter, she’d be a furnace.

“Here.” A stray hand held out a blue nightgown her way, and she grabbed it with only the quickest glance.

Sweet Oz, was this entire school flooded with beauty? A strong-shouldered man in decorated regalia was kneeling down to offer more of her items her way. He had collected a handful in his arms - a book, another nightgown, her corset! Grabbing it quick, she thanked him under her breath as she pushed everything into her bag messily.

“Making the ladies swoon and lose their panties already?” the red-haired man teased.

The burn in her chest returned almost as if it could incinerate her away ‘til she was nothing but dust. She wished she could disappear. She didn’t even notice her fingertips fading away, disappearing as she accepted another book from the handsome knight. They sparkled a ghastly transparent shape, almost like she was part ghost. San’s eyes lingered on her hands for a moment, eyes widening. She didn’t even notice that as she shoved a balled-up sweater into the bag.

“She stumbled and fell on her own,” Seonghwa commented. His tone felt cooler than before, almost defensive.

“I was tripped,” she muttered under her breath as she placed the last of her things in her bag.

With the last thing safely tucked away and her bag firmly shut, the broad-shouldered man gave her a soft smile, charmingly so, before he rose and returned to the Star named Seonghwa and his Highness.

“No harm in swooning anyone; stop acting like it’s some scandalacious thing,” the red-head chuckled as he peered down at the Munchkinland woman. His hand rose to tilt his rose-tinted glasses down the fine bridge of his nose.

He winked at her, and her face nearly matched his crimson locks.

“We aren’t here to swoon, Prince Hongjoong. We are here to—”

“Study, yeah, yeah. You okay, miss?” This Prince Hongjoong’s smile, or well, smirk was deadly. Playful, seductive, charming, all wrapped up in one.

“She’s from Munchkinland; I’m sure she’s familiar with being in the dirt,” someone said from the crowd.

Snorts and giggles erupted around. It made her ears burn as she finally stood back on her own two feet, with no help from the strange trio in front of her. The only reassurance was that they didn’t laugh, well, much. Hongjoong giggled out a high-pitched thing as San whispered in his ear. It didn’t feel cruel, more jovial, but still her ego was bruised.

They were laughing at her.

“I’m fine,” she said firmly, trying to cling to her words’ truth as tightly as she clung to her luggage.

Water-chimes rang out; hummingbirds playing them to the tune of the Shiz University alma mater. Everyone’s heads turned; some exclamations of excitement rang out.

“Orientation time,” she heard a girl from behind her say. “We have to get a good seat, c’mon.” A trio of girls pushed past and soon everyone was heading in the direction of the quad.

Orientation… so that’s what those bells were all about. It felt so utterly strange to not know. Everything was so different here, no bell towers here. Everyone seemed to know what things were – even something as simple as orientation’s starting call. But with that, her disturberanceand bullies left in a herd of Ozians scrambling to the main courtyard of Shiz.

She sighed out watching their attentions shift. Like she was nothing but an ant. Momentary entertainment before they casted her aside. She didn’t know it was going to be like this when she left home. Humiliating. Teasing. They weren’t children – why did they act so childish?

After working hard in her classes, after studying day-in-day-out, after facing endless scribing of papers, and even after facing nay-sayers who would taunt her with the words, “are you a good witch or a bad witch?,” she made it here. And she wasn’t going to let some rich-snobs make her feel lesser. So, what she didn’t have money or status? So what she came from Munchkinland? She was going to make it for herself – live an Ozian dream.

Munchkins were simple-folk – small-minded some would say, but not her. No, she believed they were clever. Innovative. They were responsible for feeding Oz; they were the Ozwheat Bread Basket of the lands; their rainbow-tulips techni-colored Oz! That had to stand for something. She was something.

She deserved to be here. She made it. She did it. She was equal.

The burning flame in her chest eased as she reminded herself this, sighing out as color flooded back to her fingertips.

Following after the crowd, she noticed that the trio stayed near her. Hongjoong’s stance was lazy, half leaning on Seonghwa who stood tall as ever, towering over both him and the strong-shouldered man who had helped her.

None were in the standard uniform – did that mean they were freshman like her? The Prince’s attire wasn’t exactly sloppy but mismatched. Dark velveteen pants hugged his legs tight. Laced up black boots with far too many laces climbed up his calves. He wore an ivory-white button up with far too many buttons, far too unbuttoned to be appropriate. A cream suit-jacket-esque sweater rested overtop that. The pattern on it held delicate handstitched purple-flowers… maybe gillyflowers? Was he from Gillikin Country? Regardless, he wore a strand of pearls around his throat, haphazardly. His rose-tinted glasses perched on the tip of his nose and a large oversized blue suede fedora hat hid most of his vermillion hair.

Meanwhile, the two accompanying him wore more uniformed outfits. The broad-shouldered one wore a black-suited ensemble with golden embellishments. A cape draped over his shoulder in deep purple. The one who she thought came from a Star had all white linens on, sharp shouldered and corseted tight around his already lean waist. They looked more royal than the so-called prince.

“You’re staring,” Seonghwa stated, blankly.

His gaze caught hers solidly. His gaze was all-consuming. Like he could see right through her. Read her thoughts. Great Oz… she was both intimidated and intrigued by him. He felt magnetic. Her stomach clenched. He tilted his head.

“Sorry,” she blushed.

“Again.” he added, brow twitching into a sharp raise.

His expression made her feel little, like he was throwing her back to the floor metaphorically. Because, he just had to point out that he noticed her staring earlier. He probably thought she was a creep or some dumb farmgirl like the students cajoled.

“Sorry… again.” she said, finally glancing away from him and walking towards an empty spot on a bench instead. She shifted to hold her suitcase in her arms, hugging it close to her chest. The spark twinkled and she didn’t notice aura she put off. A physical manifestation of her magic. It was a gentle aura; something that was more felt and less seen. It felt like dark clouds were hovering around her. A bubble to keep her safe and hidden, subconsciously.

He didn’t stop looking at her still. She knew because she snuck a quick glance and, when their eyes met in that flash, her cheeks matched the red poppies on her dress. The one with the cape chuckled; his eyes flashing to meet hers once more with a playful gleam. He was laughing at her. Sitting down in an empty spot on a bench, she turned her face away to look down the row of students seated next to her. She offered a soft smile about to introduce herself to the one beside her before one after one they scooted away. Glancing at her like she was the plague. “She’s the Munchkin girl; no, no, she’s not of any royal blood – shes just a charity case – maybe she—” Gossip trickled out as the other students sitting there shifted and moved until she was the only one sitting there. An outcast.

What in Oz was this place?! She knew it was exclusivatory but not like this. So hateful. She wrapped her arms around her suitcase. Her chin rested on top of it as she looked around, making sure not to look at Seonghwa… A third scolding? From him? She’d rather melt into a puddle.

Once everyone had been seated, there was a great hum of a tune – the same alma mater that had twinkled out in chimes to summon them. Some students sang out with pride, knowing every word despite it being their first day. She knew it too; she had read it in her history book. But she refused to embarrass herself anymore today. If she could get through orientation without drawing anymore attention to herself, YN would be content.

Her spark kept a small bubble around her as if telling the world to not disturb her. She heard someone murmur something about, “do you see that odd shimmer around the new girl?”

As if not everyone was new… she pressed her chin into her arms firmer. Orientation and then she can get settled and try to start tomorrow on a better foot.

“Welcome students!” cried out a fancy-looking woman approaching the podium. Her dress was swirling with ancient blue magic; her hat a sharp point upon her head. A sorceress, no, a Witch! YN’s eyes perked up and she gazed up at the Witch in wonder. A real-life witch… a Good Witch of the North! How oztastic.

“Welcome, welcome to Shiz University. I am Madame Ozma, Headmistress here. Whether you are here to study logic, literature, or linguification, I know I speak for my fellow faculty members when I say we have nothing but the highest hopes for… some of you,” it was said in jest and a chuckle waved through the crowd.

“While all subjects are valued here at Shiz, I do want to bring some attention to two very lucky, very talented students that will be joining my sorcery seminar this semester. As you all know – sorcery is the life blood of Oz, and it’s a blessing and duty to cultivate any magic talent that shows itself. As rare as it is. It’s been decades since there have been two students studying sorcery concurrently. Their powers brought into a new age – as we all know.”

There was a murmur of agreement. Everyone knew of the Wicked Witch and Glinda the Good.

“Such a gift should be celebrated.” Ozma exclaimed out. “Uplifted. Guided towards the Light”

There was a scattering of applause. Her cheeks were burning red once more. Her head tilted downwards. The letter hadn’t mentioned this. Good Oz, she wanted to hide.

“Please rise, Miss YN of Munchkinland.”

A silence washed over the crowd in shock. All eyes snapped to her. Hongjoong let out a laugh in the silence, the sound bursting forth from his chest without a care. Blink, blink, blink; she felt like she was an art display of exhibition. Could she just ignore it? What would happen if she didn’t stand? No one really knew if she was YN after all?

“Don’t be shy.” The Headmistress encouraged.

Oh, Great Oz… With poppy-tinted ears, she slowly stood, ruby-cheeked and tight-smiled. That feeling of magic tingled in her chest, fluttering as her anxiety grew. It wanted to burst out – protect her from the murmur that rose through the students. Gossip rolled in wave as they leaned into one another. Whispering what? She didn’t want to know.

“Thank you, dearie. And, rise Sir Seonghwa of Gillikin Country.” She beamed out, encouraging a round of applause once more.

YN’s gaze flashed to where Seonghwa rose as well, waving polite and light. Unlike her, he held such an elegance she didn’t have. Of course, he had magic! Of course, he was a Knight! She was sure he could control it better than she could ever control her wild thing of a magic spark. And now they were going to have private lessons together? After his friends made fun of her? After school-wide ridicule? After he reprimanded her for staring! She wanted to crawl into a corn field and rot.

“Our two sorcerers-in-training,” she declared over polite clapping. “We will be seeing lots and lots of each other.” Madame Ozma promised her and Seonghwa before nodding and allowing them to sit. The Headmistress beamed at the students before shifting her attention to another professor who began to prattle about dormitories, their roommates, and where the halls were located.

Sitting down quick, she wished she could just sink into the ground. How was she going to stand being around him? She blushed if he even so looked at her. How would she focus?

Once orientation ended, it was like a stampede. The students shuffled and hustled around her, rushing towards the many faculty who were handing out keys to their dormitories and pointing on grand scrolls and proclaiming, “Yes, yes, Ms. Gale, you are in the North Dormitory. No, you can’t trade roommates. Yes, its permanent.” Overlapping and overwhelming, the world of Shiz was back in swing – the orientation a flurry of too many moments and moving bodies.

YN stayed on the outskirts of the chaos, peering through a navy sea of uniforms to peer up at the many scrolls, listing out name after name. She’s already embarrassed herself enough for today; she’ll wait ‘til the crowd dispersed she decided.

“There must have been a miscommunication,” she heard Seonghwa’s smooth voice like a siren’s call. She couldn’t help but have her eyes flicker towards him. How could she hear him so well? It was like her body was already in tune with him – he was so far away and yet she could pick him out of a crowd. He was a beautiful flower surrounded by weeds.

Seonghwa’s face was crinkled, divine confusion making his upturned brows

“This isn’t right,” he continued, raising a polite hand towards a faculty member. “The Gillikin Prince requested a private apartment – for himself, Sir Choi San, and myself. But I only see his Highness and San listed.”

“Name?” the bunny-faculty member chirped out.

“Park Seonghwa,” he told him.

There was a shuffling of papers, the rabbit-professor humming and bumbling.

“Ah, yes, yes,” the rabbit nodded, his mouth chittering a bit as he chewed on the edge of his pen. “I see – no, no mix up, Sir Seonghwa. Thank you.”

“Where is my dormitory then?” Seonghwa snapped, his tone sharp and authoritarian before he swallowed and followed it up with a soft ‘please’.

“With Miss YN, of course,” It wasn’t the rabbit-professor who spoke but the nearby Headmistress. She walked forward; the rabbit-professor bowed in her direction and Seonghwa followed suit, bowing his head politely.

“YN, dear,” Madame Ozma called, “Join us.”

Seonghwa’s gaze turned and met hers – because, of course, like two magnets their eyes found one another immediately. It felt like she was caught staring for the third time. Bumbling, YN nodded and stood with her suitcase, walking forward.

“Yes, Madame,” she called, curtsying and bowing and rushing forward to the Headmistress. “Honor to meet you.”

“What do you mean I am rooming with Miss YN?” Seonghwa redirected.

Nearby, she heard Hongjoong giggled out manically. “This is perfect,” the red-head commented.

“Hush, your Highness,” Seonghwa scolded over his shoulder with ease, not even glancing at the Prince. Too natural, too routine, like he knew where the Prince was at all times without even looking his way. The Prince still giggled, and surprisingly San joined him in his mischievousness.

“Yes, Seonghwa, you will be sharing an apartment with YN,” the Headmistress confirmed, her head nodding towards the Munchkinlander. “I thought that was made clear to you through our letters?”

Seonghwa’s head turned, almost like an owl, to stare down the chortling Royal and the smirking San.

“I must’ve missed that letter,” he replied slowly.

“As did I,” YN piped up. “I never received anything besides – well, besides entry into the school and your approval of joining the seminar.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” the Madame apologized, squeezing the arm of YN. “I will inquire my office about correspondence throughout Oz and where there were any mishaps.”

She nodded lightly before glancing towards Seonghwa who seemed so indifferent to her as he turned back to face the Headmistress. Like a statue, his facial features had settled into a calm, neutral glaze.

“However, I must apologize; there are not two room available for you both. There is only one apartment closest to my offices – I want to have myself available to you both as often as possible. Magical growth doesn’t happen overnight nor does it follow any class schedule,” she chuckled lightly. “The apartment is up to standards, one of the best if I do say so myself.”

The two sorcerers-in-training spoke over one another next.

“I don’t doubt that,” YN replied.

“It’s not about that!” Seonghwa exclaimed.

They locked gazes once more. The man swallowed, his Adam's apple jittering, before looking away forcibly.

Her face fell visibly. Was he so… disgustified by her that he couldn't even share a space with her? She was an adult. She wouldn’t be dirty or disrespectful as a roommate. She'd leave him be but with how he was acting - it was as if she was some lowly creature. He didnt even care if the apartment was the nicest ones on campus! She could only imagine its history and beauty and yet... he was acting so adamant.

“I am here as protection for his Highness,” Seonghwa stated whole-heartedly. “First-and-foremost.”

“I understand,” the Headmistress asserted. “His Highness, Prince Kim Hongjoong has written me most ardently over the summer requesting for his apartment to be furnished only for two – him and Sir Choi. He expressed his full support to your studies.”

At the new information, there was a flicker of dust whirling off of the sorcerer's bare skin; his honey skin glimmering as magic oozed from him. He rolled his tongue over his teeth before Seonghwa finally let out a huff of frustration. His perfect mask fell as he gritted his teeth.

“And I do,” Hongjoong drawled from behind them. He took a step forward, red glasses pushed into his hair as he looked at his friend earnestly. “Hwa, you’ve protected me your entire life – its time for your talent to grow.” It was said genuinely but Seonghwa’s anger, no matter how small buzzed and bubbled in the air. She could see his hair rise with static electricity just faintly. His magic was so reactive… just like hers.

She had never met another wizard or witch; only read about them. And to see his magic surging in a near invisible dust-like ember around him, the little tells of its reactions on his body, it felt like for once she had someone who would understand her.

If only he didn't despise her.

“There are no curfews,” the Headmistress reminded. “If you wish to stay at his Highness’ suite, no one will stop you. But I’m sorry; there are no other official accommodations I can provide.”

Seonghwa took in a deep breath through his nose before offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s alright, Headmistress. Thank you for the clarification. I’m sure me and YN will – we'll be fine. We will find a solution.” He stumbled over the right word.

She felt like he was already planning to sneak out of their dorm or distance himself from her as soon as the Headmistress floated away. He hadnt looked at her since she joined them.

“Very good. That's what I like to hear - my two sorcerers working together” The Headmistress beamed. Her magic blared out in a whirl of golden light with her happiness, looking like a living candle for a moment. “I do look forward to our lessons, but for now… welcome to Shiz.”

Yeah, what a welcome.

#park seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez fic #atz x reader #seonghwa scenarios #seonghwa fluff #seonghwa angst #ateez fantasy au #ateez witch au #hongjoong x reader #san x reader #written by haley

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felassan · 10 months ago

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Thoughts on the new images of the Lighthouse Part 1. DA:TV spoilers under cut.

[Link to Part 2]

general: the Lighthouse looks so cool, it's beautiful 🥺 I can't wait to explore it fully and see the companions' areas change over time.

outside many of the windows are pieces of floating rock and odd architecture, a feature of Fadey scenery.

This can only be Emmrich's room. :) the giant skeleton statue on the left is exactly like the ones in the Necropolis Halls. the hanging lanterns have hexagon shapes, which I've become convinced is part of Nevarra's visual design in this game. the slab-like table in the foreground looks suspiciously like it's meant to hold a corpse/skeleton, and we can see Emmrich doing just that here. the room is filled with lots of flasks and other glass vessels, reminding me of the artbook concept of apron!Emmrich holding a smoking glass flask. I wonder if any of the jars/vases are more like urns and canopic jar kinda deals? there's a big scroll on the desk and lots of books and scrolls everywhere, as you might expect from a scholar and a professor. there's lots of skulls and skull-themed decor everywhere, even affixed to the wooden part of the upper floor, as you might expect from a necromancer. Emmrich really said okay I'm moving in now and my huge collection of skulls is coming with hhh. in the righthand corner of the room it looks like a giant skull (the bottom part of it looks to me like teeth), and on one shelf there's even a ribcage.

do the statue-figures on either side of the fire look like humanoid figures holding their heads in their hands to anyone else, only their heads are like vase-shaped?

maybe he sleeps upstairs somewhere?

the big spiral staircase is beautiful and so is the sunlight beaming in through the windows from above. :) the fireplace looks cozy. in the arches of the windows you can see the curves of ancient elvhen architecture. the view from up there must be so pretty!

This item on the top of one of the shelves caught my eye. I can't place it atm but haven't we seen this shape before?

This room can only be Neve's. :) in the bottom left is a stand with a different leg on it, the same as one of the ones shown in her artbook concept art. there is serpent imagery. I think diamond shapes and pointy objects like the wall-lights are part of the visual language design of Tevinter. the hanging lanterns look magical, a common thing in Tevinter. the rug is pretty and incorporates her turquiosey color palette. on her desk there is a turquoise pot (teapot?) - if you look closely, its coloring and the swirling designs on it are very similar to Neve's teacup here. :) there are various teapots and decanter-type things around the place that she could use for coffee.

it's smart room design, the big ceiling-high windows give the room the impression of a workplace office, like something out of a crime procedural.

Neve's casework wall. wanted posters/mugshots/suspect/missing person (they could be any of these) pictures, lots of notes, papers that look like they could be maps, strings linking together different papers in a clues-board like this meme, papers that it looks like Neve has annotated in red ink while studying them (circling and underlining things). a nice touch is that one or two of the papers are drawings of snowflakes, fitting for an ice mage. :)

I'm curious, what is this and what is it for? Bellara has one of these in her room as well, as does Lucanis (see Part 2).

these hanging objects are also interesting. they look like glass cases containing pieces of parchment on which a snake is drawn.

This room can only be Bellara's. :) it's filled with floating ancient elven magic-tech triangles and in the middle it shows the detached head thing from her artbook concept art. (he looks like if you activated him with the blue crystal or something that he could talk..). the room has a workshop vibe; she has a workbench and a stool, different instruments and gismos, and there's an array of artifacts on the shelves. the orange wall hanging on the right is triangular, flanked by two arrows in the nets and contains the skull of a deer/halla or similar animal. this must represent the Veil Jumpers given that many of them use archery, the triangles and the fact that their faction logo is a deerlike skull. it's a nice touch that even the structure of some of Bellara's furniture, like the sidetable on which the head rests, are triangular in design.

All the picture frames everywhere - are those mirrors? could they have something to do with investigating eluvians, or the network?

this looks like this halla statuette asset from DA:I. :) there's one of these in Taash's room too.

the ancient elven face motif, like on Solas' Trespasser armor and the Temple of Mythal Sentinels' armor.

hanging bone hh?

Left: what is this contraption? the ear is human Center: very ornate box. what's in here? maybe the animals on the top of the lid are stylized mabari? Right: Fereldan mabari banner.

Left: this pattern of walls and the triangle pattern on them is a feature of ancient elven architecture. Right: the way the walls (behind the frames) are designed here, it makes it look like pipes. Bottom: curious that we cannot see the ceiling.. :)

This looks like a sort of magnifying glass or microscope-type thing that would allow her to closely examine things she finds.

What does this do? :D

This (left), along with the head, feels like a focal point in her room. this hanging thing almost looks like a model of a planet or solar system - a planet in the middle, a ring of asteroids or something around it, smaller orbs around the place like moons. we've seen part of something similar before, in the ancient elven ruins in Arlathan Forest in the screenshot on the right. compare these bits; the rings, the paired triangles.

looking at the wider structure of the thing in Bellara's room, it also reminds an awful lot of this place (whatever it is), which even has the ring of rocks going around it.

feels important. :D

I feel like this is Harding's room. :) it's pretty and cute, a nice rustic space (suits her). the simple bedroll under a cloth canopy propped up with some sticks has the vibe of something a shepherd and scout might rig up to rest in when out in the wilds. the pond / water feature transforms it into an outdoorsy, nature-y space, as do the leaf-strewn floors and the plants growing up the walls. there's vegetation everywhere - potted plants and some areas which look like raised planting beds, basically little indoor gardens. this includes windowboxes, flowers and even mushrooms (I know that's fungi. yk what I mean hh). this makes so much sense for Harding - we know she loves nature and plants, and Ali Hillis mentioned that Harding also raises plants. I wonder if as the game progresses, she will grow more plants and the ones she has already will grow some more? like maybe she'll finish planting up the area around the pond the whole way round? and I wonder if her lil pond has fish? that would be so neat. please can I buy some beautiful koi for Harding to put in her pond to raise? also I wonder if any of the things she grows are edible? like imagine Bellara and Lucanis cooking with e.g. salad greens grown and raised here by Ms Harding :D and/or healing herbs we could use in the field?

this plant for example resembles the model for elfroot in DA:I!

I think maybe this is Taash's room. first off, near the middle of the room it looks like a makeshift weights bench, and we know that Taash is a gym bro. the hanging rings nearby that remind me of these. even the 'horizontal ladders' on the ceiling look like you could use them as monkeybars - if you look on the left, there are even ladders in the form of rings protruding from the wall that you could use to climb up there to access them.

even these frame things look like they could be used for some kind of physical workout/climbing situation.

on the table to the left it looks like piles of big coins, fitting for a Lord of Fortune. elsewhere in the room behind the weights bench it looks like there might be some gold bars. in the background is a hammer leaned against a crate.

this crate has her color scheme - the tealy hue, gold pieces and red ropes.

a Qunari symbol, in drapery that has her color palette, the teal with the red ropes. btw, comparing this and its location to the new screenshot of Taash, I think that this banner is the thing in the background that I was talking about here (the "something blue-green"):

in the background to the right is something blue-green with what looks like red rope hanging off it. a belonging of Taash’s? maybe this shot is from a quieter moment, somewhere in the Lighthouse, maybe her space? if you look here (Arlathan, the ruins are ancient elven), it has the same sort of repeating zigzag patterns on the same sort of arch-like curves as here. it makes me think that this shot is set in a room with ancient elven architecture. (and the Lighthouse was Solas’, so it would have ancient elven design).

If you look at the banner with a wider crop you can even see the "arch-like curves" with the zigzag patterns that she's standing in front of in the new screenshot. this area has fire to the left of the arch, which would cast the warm firey glow you can see from stage-left in the new Taash screenshot. so it looks like in the new Taash screenshot she was standing somewhere around here:

And that my guess of the setting of the new Taash screenshot was correct. :D

crate of some kind of weaponry or bones, including a map with a knife I imagine you'd use to mark spots on it with. :) piratey vibe.

clever room design btw, it has the vibe of belowdecks/the bowels of a ship.

horned statue or carving, like an ogre.

Top: the silver shield-like things on the wall have the same sort of scale-mail appearance as Taash's field armor. Bottom: this thing reminds me of a boat in shape. like a small fishing boat or something.

I wonder why Taash has a Grey Warden shield and an eluvian in her room? maybe the shield is just general decor (like the Fereldan banner in Bellara's room? unless Bellara is from Ferelden??). maybe the eluvian ties into why she apparently has some involvement and a strong interest in a main story mission set in the far reaches of Arlathan Forest, as described by Corinne Busche during the second Discord Q&A? -

"I was out in Arlathan, actually doing, on my way to do a main story mission, and I get to the far reaches of Arlathan Forest, and I already knew that Taash wanted to help me with some of the challenges of that arc. Well, Taash is right there waiting for me, so I actually chose to instead like, ah, Taash seems impatient, I’m gonna actually jump on that story arc right now instead of what I intended to do"

And what is this? Looks like a sun or an owl. ^^

I ran out of image allowance on this post so I'll put the rest in another post!

[Link to Part 2]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #solas

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nanamineedstherapy · 7 months ago

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Velvet Sin & Clandestine Vows - Getting *ahem ahemed* by Nanami in a bathroom at a billionaire's party!

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Minors DNI/Implied Cheating but not really/Shameless Smut/My First Smut

Summary: Nanami X F!Reader Porn with plot if you squint Nanami at a bougie party? Weird. Nanami getting dragged into a bathroom with a woman who isn't his wife? Even weirder. What’s hotter than luxury, mystery, and terrible decision-making? Spoiler: nothing. Let the chaos (and a closet with better taste than Gojo) ensue. Or Getting Railed by Nanami in a bathroom at a billionaire's party! This fic started as a joke & spiraled into a mix of billionaire aesthetics, deadpan sass, & unhinged party vibes. Buckle up—it’s classy, messy, & totally Nanami-approved. 💅 #Rewritten since I hated the first draft. TW: Maybe Cheating

A/N: This is my first time writing smut of any kind so let me know if it hits the spot ( ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖) Y’all, I swear, Nanami is loyal as hell, but who doesn’t love a little tension and mystery? If you’re living for the luxury or just here for the smut, drop a comment or a kudos—your chaos feeds mine. Cheers, besties! 🍸

The road twisted like a serpent through a dense forest, the towering pines stretching skyward, their shadows merging into a dark canvas under the fading sun. As Nanami’s Aston Martin DBS Superleggera glided past the last cluster of trees, the view opened into a scene pulled from the pages of an expensive dream.

The estate stood by a tranquil lake , its surface a sheet of liquid sapphire, mirroring the golden hues of the evening. The mansion, impossibly grand, didn’t merely rise—it commanded the horizon, almost otherworldly.

Towering walls of smooth stone enclosed the property, their minimalist design interrupted by intricate wrought-iron gates that whispered exclusivity rather than screamed it. AI-quipped security cameras, seamlessly embedded into the structure, blinking like mechanical sentinels, their presence a silent testament to caution wrapped in discretion. Guards in impeccably tailored suits patrolled the perimeter, some with guns, some with drones, some with androids, some with canines, their demeanor more akin to that of secret service agents than traditional staff.

The driveway stretched before him, a sleek ribbon of obsidian stone that gleamed like polished onyx under strategically placed lighting. The circular courtyard at the end was a gallery of excess : a Koenigsegg Jesko , a Bugatti Chiron , a Maserati Folgore , a Mercedes-Maybach S-Class , a Cadillac Celestiq , and a Rolls-Royce Phantom sat gleaming among other cars, their black, forest green or electric blue flawless exteriors reflecting the golden glow of vintage lampposts.

The lawns rolled outward like an emerald sea, interrupted by marble fountains with sculptures so detailed they seemed to breathe. At the edge of the estate, a private dock cradled a yacht —a floating palace that promised indulgence on the water. Above, the faint hum of helicopter rotors signaled rooftop landings, where multiple sleek, futuristic aircrafts waited in perfect formation.

The mansion itself was a contradiction brought to life. Its towering facade bore sharp lines and elegant curves, an architectural ballet where glass and steel met aged stone and brushed brass, each material woven into a seamless tapestry of power and refinement. High ceilings soared above, the kind that made you feel small without making you feel insignificant. The structure breathed genius—an intellect so vast it had turned ambition into reality.

As Nanami pulled up, the double doors opened before he even stepped out, as though the house had been expecting him. Inside, the ambiance shifted into a warm, inviting opulence. The grand hall shimmered under crystal chandeliers that fractured light into golden rain. Polished marble floors reflected the glow, amplifying the sense of space, while floor-to-ceiling windows turned the lake into a living painting framed by midnight silk drapes.

Walking in, he adjusted his Tateossian 18K gold cufflinks out of habit, the gold gleaming briefly in the chandelier light. The fabric of his Tom Ford silk Charmeuse shirt cooled against his skin as he rolled up his sleeves neatly, a testament to effort without indulgence. His tailored Mohair trousers—his entire outfit, his wife’s suggestion—fit him perfectly, a fact he acknowledged with a silent nod to her exquisite taste.

He knew she had spent more time selecting them than he ever would. She had an eye for these things, a maddening precision that made him trust her implicitly. He'd let her spend a good amount on tonight's party outfit to blend in with his office crowd, even though price tags were the least of his concerns. His wife, however, was a different story. Her taste was so particular that she rarely found anything worth buying at a store. But once she did, if it was casual, it would likely be inexpensive. However, if it was anything work- or party-related, it would undoubtedly carry a hefty price tag

The party coursed through the mansion like a heartbeat. In one ballroom , laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses as soft jazz played from hidden speakers. A smaller, more intimate space pulsed with energy, decked out like a private nightclub , where a few couples swayed to Spanish music under the prismatic glow of lights. Staff moved seamlessly among the crowd; their movements choreographed perfection, while their uniforms—a balance of practicality and haute couture—highlighted the wealth that surrounded them.

Each corner of the estate exuded thought and precision. From the soft, ambient lighting casting shadows on minimalistic art pieces to the way every surface seemed untouched yet lived in, the house wasn’t just a home; it was a living entity—one that whispered of brilliance, extravagance, and untold secrets.

Soon, before he knew it, corporate small talk had already grated on him; he’d barely resisted the urge to check his watch. Conversations about ‘exciting’ fiscal projections felt like sandpaper on his nerves, but years of navigating boardrooms had honed his stoic armor to perfection. He tilted his head just enough to feign interest in a junior analyst’s enthusiastic recounting of how they saved 0.5% on operational costs last quarter.

“Impressive,” he muttered, his voice so flat it was unclear whether he meant it or not. The analyst beamed anyway, oblivious.

His whiskey remained mostly untouched, a mere prop for these tedious rituals. He glanced down at the gold trim of the glass and thought fleetingly about hurling it through one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows—not out of anger, but for something more stimulating than listening to Steve from Compliance recount his golf trip.

“Nanami-san!” Steve called out, loud enough to turn heads. “What’s your handicap? Bet you’re deadly on the green.”

Nanami turned slowly, blinking once as if the words needed extra time to register. “I don’t play golf, Steve,” he replied, deadpan. “I have a job.”

Steve’s laugh was loud and awkward, his ego crumpling in on itself. Nanami allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction before turning back to the entrance, silently daring someone interesting to walk in and save him.

A marketing executive drifted over, a glass of champagne precariously balanced in one hand, their other already extended for a handshake. “Nanami, old sport!” the exec crowed, as though they’d survived war trenches together instead of working in adjacent departments.

“Hardly,” Nanami said, shaking their hand briefly before folding his arms, an unmistakable signal that the conversation was over before it began.

Then the intern appeared like a fly buzzing near a fresh wound, her enthusiasm bordering on suffocation. “Nanami-san, you look great tonight,” she gushed. “Is that Tom Ford? I could tell from a mile away!”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes the moment he saw her making her way towards him from the other corner of the room. Her extremely short gold dress barely covered anything, highly inappropriate for co-worker parties. Where was HR when you needed them?

He regarded her with the kind of cool detachment that made people second-guess speaking to him in the first place. His response was little more than a nod, a gesture so dismissive it might as well have been punctuation. “Yes,” he replied curtly, sipping his whiskey for the first time just to end the interaction. The burn of alcohol was preferable to enduring another comment.

“I’ve never seen you in anything so... relaxed ,” she added, eyes wide as though he’d arrived in a Hawaiian shirt instead of a $25,000 ensemble.

Nanami considered a sarcastic remark— yes, I’m positively unhinged tonight with my gold cufflinks and tailored trousers —but decided against it. “Enjoy the party,” he said instead, his tone as warm as a January morning.

Her persistence, however, was unwavering, her enthusiasm grating on his last nerve. She was the type who delivered coffee he never asked for, lunches he didn’t need, flushed cheeks, and doe-eyed stares he couldn’t unsee. What he had initially dismissed as professional eagerness was now so obviously a crush that even the office ficus had likely noticed. He didn’t mind admirers so long as they kept their distance, but this one was suffocating. Tonight, he had a plan: feed her to his wife .

He let her ramble, tuning her out while his colleagues began their usual background drone: glowing self-praise about the last quarter’s financial performance. Occasionally, Nanami nodded, just enough to seem engaged while maintaining an expression that screamed, I’d rather be anywhere else .

Then a peer from Finance leaned in, his smirk as oily as his hair gel. “You’re quite the magnet tonight, Nanami. What’s your secret?”

“Competence,” Nanami replied, without missing a beat.

The peer’s laugh faltered into a cough as he quickly excused himself. Events like this always managed to sap what little energy he had left after work. First, they stole every waking moment with deadlines and deliverables, then they expected polite socializing in his so-called free time. It was, in his opinion, borderline sadistic. He took another sip of his whiskey, wishing—not for the first time—that he hadn’t shown up. He didn’t much care to mingle, despite appearances. These events were breeding grounds for insincerity, where pleasantries masked ulterior motives. His colleagues jumped him, juniors seeking advice on everything from office politics to investment strategies, while his peers probed for weaknesses under the guise of camaraderie.

Then, previously flanked by armed bodyguards, she walked in.

He felt it before he saw it—the slight shift in the room’s energy, the way conversations seemed to falter for half a second. When his eyes finally found her, it was like everything else dimmed in comparison.

Time didn’t stop—not in some romanticized way, but it slowed just enough to emphasize her entrance. Classy, confident, and untouchable. The sound of her heels on marble cut through the hum of conversation, subtle but commanding. The red rubies on her dress flowed like molten lava, catching the chandeliers’ light with every step. The slit revealed long, toned legs that seemed almost deliberately designed to catch the attention of every person in the room. Her movements were languid but purposeful, as though she were fully aware that the entire party had turned their focus toward her and didn’t mind in the slightest. The siren-like glint in her eyes warned anyone brave enough to approach.

Nanami’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the whiskey glass, his chest rising and falling in a controlled breath. His gaze locked on her instantly, though he couldn’t pinpoint what drew him first—the way her dress hugged her or the quiet authority in her stride. One moment, he was half-listening to his coworkers drone about quotas; the next, he was captivated .

“Who is she?” The intern whispered, her tone laced with poorly concealed jelousy.

Nanami didn’t look away, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Trouble,” he murmured, his voice low and even.

She didn’t need to seek attention—it sought her. Women flocked to her, showering her with warm greetings and effusive compliments. She reciprocated their affection with gracious smiles and her charm disarming even the iciest socialites. The men weren’t as brave, unsure whether to admire her or cower under her gaze—her siren-like aura daring any man to try their luck.

Except for one idiot.

Fucking Gojo.

Nanami’s jaw tightened as his white-haired colleague made a spectacle of himself, wrapping his arms around her from behind like an old friend reunited. Her face scrunched in irritation, a flash of disdain that Nanami couldn’t help but savor. But then she turned, her expression softening as she saw who it was. To his dismay, she hugged him back.

Nanami’s fingers curled harder around the glass of whiskey, the gold trim biting into his palm. Jealousy wasn’t his style— not like he wasn’t already married . But Gojo was a different story. The man had a knack for testing limits, his arrogance as boundless as his charm.

She, on the other hand, was the embodiment of contradictions: sharp yet soft, fun yet untouchable, her elegant demeanor veiling something far more dangerous. As if on cue, her eyes scanned the room lazily, not in search of anyone but allowing people to search for her.

And then their gazes locked. Her lips quirked into a knowing smirk, a silent dare.

Nanami’s breath hitched. Her smile—a challenge, a tease, a warning. His pulse quickened, a subtle betrayal against his otherwise calm exterior.

The intern beside him shifted uncomfortably, clearly feeling the weight of the unspoken connection between the two. Nanami almost pitied her. Almost. Definitely not.

His focus remained on the woman; she approached the bar with the kind of confidence that made the world rearrange itself around her. Even the bartender seemed to straighten his posture, offering her a champagne flute without so much as a question. Her long fingers, adorned with a curious glove-like jewelry piece , brushed the glass as she murmured her thanks, her tone effortlessly polite but laced with disinterest.

He didn’t notice the minutes slipping by; time blurred under the soft hum of chandeliers and the muted conversations he was no longer part of. Her every movement consumed his attention, the sway of her hips in that red silk dress a calculated provocation.

When she slipped through the gilded archway leading toward the bathrooms, his decision was already made.

Keeping his drink down, Nanami barely registered the figure stepping into his path until he heard the familiar sing-song voice that grated worse than nails on glass. “Nanami! Where’s your wife? Haven’t seen her yet tonight,” his rival cooed, wearing his trademark smug grin that Nanami fantasized about erasing.

“Still at work,” Nanami replied smoothly, his tone devoid of emotion but cutting enough to silence further prying. He didn’t slow, leaving behind muttered speculations about his sudden interest in someone other than his wife .

The hallways had the richness of the place amplified. The further he moved from the party, the quieter it became, the noise receding into a distant hum. The mansion’s grandeur became starker in the silence. High ceilings arched above, their ornate crown moldings gilded with gold that caught the soft light of sconces. The black marble floors shimmered under his polished shoes, stretching endlessly toward the private quarters. Staff passed like shadows flitting through the ethereal glow of this labyrinthine estate.

He paused in front of the bathroom door, glossy black with intricate gold fixtures, left slightly ajar as though inviting him in. The faintest sliver of light spilled out against the marble.

Knock. Knock. Two taps. Firm. Purposeful.

The response was immediate. The door cracked open, and before he could utter a word, her hand shot out, grabbing his shirt and yanking him inside with a force that surprised him.

The door closed behind them with a soft thud as he was shoved against it, followed by the decisive click of the lock. Her scent lingered in the air, both grounding and intoxicating, cutting through the bathroom . Then her mouth was on his, hot and demanding, leaving no room for hesitation.

“Not even a hello?” He murmured against her lips, his tone low, strained, yet laced with wry humor.

“Hello,” she whispered mockingly, her voice syrupy sweet, before pulling him back down. Her nails grazed the nape of his neck, sending an electric jolt through him.

Oh, she was definitely a siren. He thought as she drew him in with effortless ease, leaving him half-convinced she could drag him into the ocean and he’d thank her for it.

Her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, deft yet impatient. When one refused to cooperate, she let out a soft growl, yanking hard enough to send buttons scattering across the tiled floor.

“They’re custom,” Nanami deadpanned, his voice thick with effort. “My wife chose them.”

“No wonder they’re ugly,” she shot back, her smirk as sharp as a blade. “Send me the bill.”

Her sass drew a low chuckle from him, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. She was cutting through his composure so easily, leaving him disarmed in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

In a swift motion, he flipped their positions, pinning her against the full-length mirror. Her front hit the glass with a muted thud, the chill drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. For a moment, he held her there, his gaze sweeping over her—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, pupils blown wide with a mix of defiance and desire.

His reflection caught his eye in the mirror—a man undone, his hair disheveled, his usually sharp expression softened by raw hunger. He barely recognized himself, and for some reason, that didn’t bother him.

“Temptress. You’ve already got me obsessed,” his voice dark as he leaned down to press his lips to the curve of her ear.

“Stop talking,” she countered, her tone dripping with impatience. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan softly.

He obliged.

The kiss turned feral, finesse abandoned in favor of raw, unfiltered need. His hands roamed, the fabric slipping against her skin like water.

Once she turned in his arms, more of his buttons clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space as she ran her fingers on his chest then abs. The room filled with their gasps and whispered curses, the sterile luxury of the bathroom a backdrop to the pandemonium unfolding. She took off her handpiece, chucking it on the counter just to feel his skin against her fingertips unhindered.

Her scent was everywhere now, filling his lungs, embedding itself in his memory. It was familiar in a way, like déjà vu dancing on the edge of recognition. Unsettling, magnetic, and impossible to ignore.

“Careful,” she murmured against his lips, her voice teasing. “You might just fall for me.”

Nanami pulled back slightly, enough to meet her gaze, his expression a mix of annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Highly unlikely,” he replied, deadpan, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest smirk.

“Your loss,” she quipped, her voice light, but her hands circled around his shoulders, pulling him back toward her.

Whatever this was—whatever dangerous game they were playing—Nanami knew one thing: he didn’t want it to end.

The bathroom’s air carried a subtle mix of sandalwood, bergamot and cedarwood, understated yet lingering—a scent that seemed designed to make every breath feel curated, the kind of understated opulence that whispered money rather than screamed it

Yet for all its grandeur, it wasn't the decor that took center stage. It was the mess unfolding next to the countertop, where passion replaced polish.

Nanami now had her pressed against the large, mirror-backed counter, its polished surface now marred with the aftermath of their urgency—smudged fingerprints, scattered toiletries, and the faint condensation of their mingled heat. The cool marble against her back seemed to amplify the fire between them.

His grip was firm yet restrained, one hand steadying her thigh while the other trailed upward, tracing the daring slit of her dress with deliberate slowness. His fingers paused at the neckline, the silk sliding under his touch like water. His hold spoke of possession, but his eyes, half-lidded and burning, betrayed something deeper—curiosity, defiance, and a hunger he rarely let surface.

She kissed him again, her lips a demand he had no intention of denying. Teeth scraped against his lower lip, the sting pulling a soft groan from him that melted into a low chuckle. His hands roamed with precision, finding her waist, her hips, her breasts—each touch firm, unapologetic, and met with a sharp inhale or muffled moan. Every touch was a battle for dominance, each moment teetering on the edge of control and disarray.

He lifted her with ease onto the countertop in one fluid motion. The chilled mirror behind her elicited a gasp as her dress slid higher at her thighs. Her legs tightened instinctively around him, pulling him closer.

“Not bad,” she teased breathlessly, her voice a mix of amusement and provocation.

Nanami’s lips quirked into a rare smirk as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “I aim to impress.”

Her laugh was soft, intoxicating, and far too knowing. “You’re getting there.”

Her scent enveloped him now—a crisp, briny ocean breeze tinged with something wild and woody, a sharp contrast to the muted, earthy warmth of the bathroom. It was a siren’s scent, designed to disarm, to enthrall, and it worked far too well.

The sounds of their frenzy filled the room, chaotic yet rhythmic. Her nails dragged along his back, leaving faint crescent imprints as if marking her territory.

Then, with a devilish smirk, he dropped to his knees, his large hands splaying across the backs of her thighs.

“On your knees already?” She started, her voice faltering as he pushed the fabric of her dress higher. His lips ghosted over her inner thigh, his breath warm and teasing.

“You talk too much,” he murmured, his tone flat but edged with mischief.

Her laugh turned into a gasp as he tore through the delicate lace of her underwear with his teeth, the sound of ripping fabric punctuated by her sharp intake of breath.

His mouth found her core, hot and demanding; his tongue moved with deliberate precision, drawing broken whispers from her lips. Her fingers tangled in his hair, long nails digging into his scalp as she arched into him, every nerve alight with sensation.

Each touch was a battle for dominance, each moment teetering on the edge of control and chaos. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her steady as she raised her head, her eyes wide at the sight of him.

When his fingers joined the fray—one, then two, then three—she let out a muffled cry, her hands trembling as they gripped his hair tighter. The rhythm turned torturous, each stroke a ploy to keep her teetering on the edge.

“Quiet,” he murmured against her, though the command was half-hearted at best.

Her laugh, shaky and breathless, cut through the haze. “Make me.”

He obliged, taking off his shirt & shoving it into her mouth to muffle her moans.

The room, a masterpiece of design and decadence, bore silent witness to their undoing. The perfection of its lines, the care in its curation—all of it had melted away, leaving only raw, unbridled chaos in its place.

Her body trembled, hips bucking against his mouth. His tongue and fingers were moving in perfect harmony. Her mewles grew higher in pitch, her body arching further as the tension began to pool in her belly.

Nanami’s grip on her tightened, his fingers digging into her hips to hold her steady as her body trembled beneath him. Her moans, muffled by his discarded shirt, vibrated against his chest as he felt the waves of her release pulse through her. She clawed his scalp, a claim he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t enjoy.

When she finally collapsed against the mirror, her breath came in uneven bursts, fogging the glass behind her. Her flushed face, her dress still bunched at her waist, chest rising and falling as aftershocks wracked her frame left her looking like Mayhem personified. Still, he didn’t stop, his tongue lapping up every drop of her release like she was the finest wine.

Few moments passed, & Nanami stood, brushing the back of his hand against his lips, catching the faint taste of her. He was the picture of disheveled restraint—his hair tousled, his chest bare, and his trousers hanging low on his hips. The hunger in his eyes, however, was anything but restrained.

His gaze lingered on her as he reached for the straps of her dress. Tugging them down, he exposed her bare chest, the fabric sliding away like water until it pooled uselessly at her waist. Her breasts bounced with the movement, drawing a low growl from him that rumbled deep in his chest.

“Perfect,” he muttered, his voice gravelly as he leaned down. His lips closed over one breast, flicking her nipple with his toung, while his hand found the other, his touch alternating between firm and teasing. She gasped, her back arching off the mirror as he bit gently before soothing with his tongue, leaving her gasping & mumbling incoherently, her voice ragged but threaded with laughter—the kind that would have thrown a lesser man off balance. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” She spoke against the fabric in her mouth.

He paused, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “You started it.”

She smirked, sharper than the edge of the counter, biting into her legs. “And I’ll finish it.” She gestured.

Her hands fumbled with his waistband, still trembling but determined. The flicker of impatience in her eyes was oddly endearing, though he’d never admit it. Nanami stepped back slightly, watching as she struggled with his belt, her fingers clumsy but relentless, then the same belt clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space.

When she finally freed his cock, her hand paused holding it, her eyes widening as her lips parted slightly.

“Cat got your tongue?” He teased, his voice dropping into that smooth, sardonic tone.

“Shut up,” she muttered, voice muffled by the shirt.

He bit down lightly on her neck, one hand busy kneading her breast, while the other left faint crescent moons in the flesh of her ass.

Despite her reservations, her hand moved, slow at first, tentative strokes exploring him with a curiosity that bordered on reverence. The low "fuck" that escaped his lips emboldened her, and her fingers became bolder—squeezing at the tip, letting her thumb tease the slit, earning sharp hisses from him.

His control, usually ironclad, wavered, catching himself before her touch unraveled him entirely.

“Enough,” he growled, his hand wrapping around hers as he guided his cock to her.

She braced herself, her legs parted further instinctively as Nanami growled, guiding his cock toward her slick entrance. She mewled softly as he deliberately didn’t push in, instead teasing her, the thick head of his cock gliding against her swollen folds. The wet slide was maddening, the tension building as he refused to give her what she wanted. Her breath coming in shallow bursts as the tension coiled between them like a spring wound too tightly. Her eyes flashed with impatience, and the look of anger made him smirk through his own restraint. Then she hissed something, muffled, her voice low and threaded with irritation.

Nanami’s smirk was infuriating. “Patience.”

That patience didn’t last long. With a sharp thrust, he pushed inside her, his jaw clenching as she clenched around him, her walls tight and pulling him deeper. He moved slowly at first, letting her adjust; the intensity of the moment mirrored in their matched gasps and muffled curses.

Once he was fully sheathed, the restraint snapped. He withdrew almost completely before slamming back in, forcing a loud, uncontrollable moan from her.

His pace turned brutal, his hips slamming against hers with a force that made the marble countertop tremble beneath them. Her cries morphed into curses, each one sharp and biting, and directed at him with a venom that only fueled his hunger.

“You—oh my God—” she let out a muffled gasp, head falling back against the mirror as he drove her higher.

Nanami leaned down, yanking the shirt from her mouth as he captured her lips in a messy, heated kiss. Her teeth immediately bite his lower lip, drawing blood, but he didn’t care. Their tongues clashed, the kiss more battle than affection, each one pushing and pulling, neither willing to yield.

Breaking away to catch his breath, Nanami's thrusts didn’t falter.

“Still talking?” he muttered against her lips.

“Shut up,” she replied, biting him again, the taste of him & herself lingering on her tongue.

His hips slammed against hers, forcing cries from her throat. Her nails raked down his back, desperate, as though she needed them to fuse on a molecular level.

Despite his relentless pace, his lips softened, trailing kisses along her jawline, down her neck, and finally to her breasts. He nipped and sucked at the delicate skin; his attention split between breaking her apart with his cock and worshipping the parts of her he loved most.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—a brutal rhythm that matched the pounding of her heartbeat. His hands roamed over her body, his nails leaving faint crescent moons in her thighs, her back, wherever he could reach.

Her body arched into him, trembling & walls tightening as another wave of pleasure threatened to overtake her. He knew she was close; his hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit and circling it with a precision that left her gasping.

Her reaction was instant as she came with a sharp, keening cry, muffled when he cupped a hand over her mouth, entire body clenching around him as her nails dug into his shoulders.

“She’s sucking me in... so tight,” he murmured, voice hoarse, as his control finally broke. Movements turning erratic as he buried himself deep, his groan muffled against her neck. His eyes fluttered shut as his own climax surged through him, leaving him breathless and trembling. He barely managed to catch himself before collapsing onto her as the aftershocks rolled through him.

Two forces of chaos colliding. Neither of them moved, just staying for a bit; she rubbed his back as they caught their breaths, the occasional tremor running through her as she adjusted to the lingering sensitivity.

The bathroom was a battlefield of indulgence and chaos. Perfume bottles lay toppled on the black marble counter, the delicate crystal shimmering under the ambient lighting. A faint mist lingered in the air, clouding the oversized mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling, capturing distorted reflections of disheveled hair, flushed skin, and heat that had yet to fully dissipate. The mingling scents of bergamot, cedar, and salt—the sharp tang of the ocean—clung to the air, layered with the undeniable intimacy of their aftermath. Despite the mess around them, the silence between them felt clean, untouched by the outside world.

Soon her fingers were idly tracing patterns on his back, grazing over faint red marks she’d left moments before. When she finally broke the silence, her voice was teasing but warm, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Your technique hasn’t changed.”

Nanami froze, the words cutting through the lingering haze like a cold blade. He pulled back just enough to study her face, his brows furrowing. “What?”

“You heard me,” she replied, her tone deliberate and light as she brushed her fingers along his jaw. Her touch was deceptively soft, almost disarming.

Before he could spiral into overthinking, she laughed—a sound both melodic and cutting, slicing through his composure with surgical precision. “Relax, Mr. Nanami,” she teased, her lips curling into a smirk. “I’m just grateful for the first million you invested in my company when no one else would even hear me out.”

The tension in his shoulders eased as realization dawned, corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. “Mrs. L/N,” he said dryly, his voice laced with equal parts amusement and exasperation. “Should I prepare my chequebook again?”

“Always,” she quipped, her smirk softening as she leaned up to kiss him. Her lips brushed against his with a familiarity that belied the game they’d been playing all evening.

“You’re still mine, Kento,” she murmured against his ear—almost biting them, her voice dropping to a whisper that sent a shiver down his spine.

Straightening himself, hand lingering at her waist, he pulled her closer to hold as the reality of her presence grounded him. When they finally pulled apart, her tone shifted. “Nice house, by the way.”

“Thank you, Mrs. L/N,” he replied, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The simple gesture felt intimate, grounding, a contrast to the disarray they’d left in their wake. He arched a brow, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Though I do have to ask—what was the dress for?”

Her smirk deepened, her silence deliberate.

“Y/N,” he pressed, his voice carrying a mix of affection and exasperation. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

“I was informed that you looked miserable out there,” she said simply, shrugging with nonchalance that only made her look more self-assured. “Your coworkers are vultures. I couldn’t just stand by and watch you suffer.”

His exhale was slow, measured, but his forehead dropped against hers, his voice softening. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me plenty,” she countered, her hands sliding over his chest with a teasing confidence. “But I’m not done yet. My company just hit a billion-dollar valuation, which means—"she smirked, her tone mock-serious—"you can finally quit working for those corporate overlords. Effective immediately.”

Nanami blinked, her words settling in slowly. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off with a single raised finger.

“And don’t start with the ‘backup plan’ speech,” she added, rolling her eyes in dramatic exasperation. “I’ve secured enough for the next fifteen generations to sit around and squander. You’re free, Ken. ”

He let out a long exhale, relief washing over him like a tide pulling him out to calmer seas. His hands tightened gently at her waist as he pulled her closer, his forehead brushing hers again.

“I can finally retire,” he mused, a rare chuckle breaking the steady timbre of his voice. “What a dream.”

Her grin was wicked and teasing. “Don’t worry, I’ll deck you out with butlers, drivers, private pilots—the works.”

He shook his head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” she said, her voice lighter now, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw before stepping down. She fixed her dress, the fabric shimmering under the soft lighting as if it had never been touched. After quickly rinsing & drying her hands, she shuffled for something in the drawer below the sink counter, then gestured Nanami to turn around, who obliged and then winced as she sprayed antiseptic healing spray on her nail scratches on his back. Then, putting it back with one hand while she rubbed his shoulder with the other, soon she adorned her handpiece again.

“Now, pack your bags. We’re going on a month-long vacation. We’ve barely seen each other this quarter.” Her tone practical, though the playful glint in her eyes was still sparkling while Nanami, who knelt on one knee to zip up her askew heels with a gentle touch. This was a stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanor; he radiated a quiet eagerness to serve her, even if she had never asked for it—or even forbade him from kneeling—for anyone, including herself. His care for her was unwavering, as he found joy in these small devotions.

Raising up to his full height, Nanami tilted his head, arching a brow. “When do we leave?”

“An hour.” Her smirk was maddeningly smug, the kind that always made him want to both kiss her and roll his eyes. “Don’t worry about clothes—we’ll buy what we need when we get there.”

His frown deepened slightly, his gaze flicking toward the door. “The house is still full of people.”

She waved a hand dismissively, her confidence unshakable. “The white-haired menace can handle it.”

As if summoned, a sharp knock echoed against the ornate black and gold bathroom door.

“Nanami,” Gojo’s unmistakable voice called out, muffled yet infuriatingly cheerful. “I know you told me not to disturb you, but if you want to leave on time, you should probably come out now.”

Nanami groaned audibly, burying his face in her hair. “I hate that he knows us so well. Or worse, that he was probably hovering outside.”

Her laugh bubbled up, light and unrestrained, as she turned to press a soft kiss to his nose. “Good thing no one will know,” she teased, her tone laced with mischief as she nodded toward the party still raging beyond the door.

“Small mercies,” he muttered. His hand reached down, scooping up her ripped panties. He shoved them into his pocket—a gesture equal parts practical and ridiculous. Housekeeping didn’t need to discover that.

He reached for his ruined shirt & still-ok belt while his cufflinks were probably lost to the similarly colored lines in the bathroom floor’s marble. Sighing, he shrugged the shirt on. With most of the buttons broken, the fabric barely clung to him, but he managed enough to appear vaguely presentable, then did his belt & washed his hands. Before stepping out, he winked at her, his rare smirk making her laugh again as she leaned on the counter, ogling him.

Walking out of the bathroom, Nanami was immediately engulfed by the sheer scale of the mansion. The vaulted ceilings soared above him, an intricate lattice of brass and black lines reminiscent of sharp geometry. Recessed lighting cast a warm, almost ethereal glow over the polished marble floors, their obsidian surface streaked with veins of gold that seemed to shimmer with every step.

Security was seamlessly integrated into the decor—discreet cameras nestled within decorative sconces, motion sensors hidden within the intricate carvings of doorframes, and biometric panels that blended effortlessly with the black lacquered walls.

Gojo leaned casually against the wall near the bathroom door, his smirk as sharp as the lapels on his bespoke electric blue suit. “Well, well,” he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement. “Looks like someone had a productive break.”

Nanami cast him a withering glare, brushing past him without a word.

“Don’t worry,” Gojo called after him, clearly undeterred. “Your secret’s safe with me. Well Mostly .”

Nanami strode into his bedroom, its absurd luxury understated yet undeniable once he unlocked it’s door with his thumb. Warm recessed lighting bathed the space in a golden hue, highlighting the polished marble floors and the California king bed draped in silk sheets that whispered decadence with every subtle fold. The walls were a study in contrasts—one side a sweeping expanse of black glass overlooking the estate, the other adorned with minimalist art deco patterns in gold and dark maroon.

A walk-in closet occupied one corner of the room, its glossy black doors sliding open with a faint hum. Rows of designer suits, pressed shirts, and tailored trousers moved along tracks, neatly organized by color, fabric, and season. It wasn’t just a closet—it was an AI-driven sartorial fortress.

Gojo trailed behind Nanami, Martini glass in hand, his ever-present grin practically glowing under the warm light of the bedroom.

Nanami shrugged off his ruined shirt, revealing faint nail marks trailing down his back.

Gojo’s exaggerated gasp was immediate. “Knew you were freaks,” he declared, grinning like a cat who’d just discovered a fresh bowl of cream.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nanami replied, his tone dry as he waited for the first shirt the AI closet presented.

The automated system whirred softly, its sleek black panels sliding open to reveal a neatly arranged selection of tailored clothing. The closet’s AI chimed in, its voice smooth and masculine: “Good evening, Mr. Nanami. May I suggest the Maurizio Miri blue Sam Arold , double-breasted blazer for optimal sophistication?”

“No, a white shirt will be enough for now. Thank you.” Nanami replied smoothly as the closet handed him the shirt.

Gojo’s eyes lit up. “Hold up, your closet talks?”

Nanami buttoned up the crisp white shirt, the fabric molding to him like it had been made yesterday, which it probably had been. A subtle reminder of how far he—and this house—stood from anything resembling average. “Of course it talks. Everything here does. Wife is particular about it,” he muttered, casually pulling out a certain incriminating piece of fabric from his pocket & tossing it into the hidden incinerator bin while Gojo eyed the AI.

Then Gojo leaned closer to the closet; his curiosity piqued. “Hey, Mr. Closet—do you take orders? I need something that makes me look like a billionaire without actually trying. Extra points if it comes with a holographic logo of the Gojo Clan.” Gojo didn’t have such bad likes; he just enjoyed being a menace.

The AI responded without missing a beat. “My name is Winston, & I’m sorry, sir. My services are exclusive to Mr. Nanami. While I assure you, no attire could enhance perfection.”

Nanami’s lips twitched as he fought back a smirk. “Even the closet knows you’re insufferable.”

“Hey, I like this guy!” Gojo shot back, pointing at the sleek black panel like it was a long-lost friend. “At least he has taste.”

The AI, apparently more than willing to engage, added, “Taste, sir, is precisely what you lack.”

Nanami turned away, struggling to suppress his laughter, as Gojo gawked. “Traitor! I’m officially boycotting this brand,” Gojo declared, though his curiosity kept him glued to the closet. “Btw what brand are you.”

Nanami smacked his arm. “Do you forget my wife invents AIs for a living, among other things?”

Gojo shrugged, “I didn’t know it was one of hers.”

As Nanami folded his sleeves up again, Gojo shot one last look at the closet. “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving man, Mr. Closet-Winston. Once I babysit this house, bet you’ll miss me when I leave.”

“I highly doubt that,” the AI replied, its tone impossibly smooth.

Gojo huffed, muttering something about finding an AI closet with better taste, while Nanami finally allowed a small smirk to surface.

Once out of the closet, Gojo chirped, “Aren’t you going to thank me for organizing this amazing party?”

Nanami took the whisky glass Gojo handed him, savoring a slow sip. “Thank you, Gojo, for organizing this party,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s not like we paid for it or anything.”

“Fair,” Gojo replied, recovering quickly with a shrug. “But I still expect to cash in the favor someday.”

Nanami nodded, flooding his sleeves with practiced precision before striding back toward the party.

Gojo followed on his heels like an overenthusiastic puppy, Martini in hand. Then looking back at the sentinel closet, he mused. “I need one of these. Think the wife will help me place an order?”

“She’s not your wife,” Nanami deadpanned, savouring the whisky burn as he sipped.

Once they had stepped into the grand ballroom, Nanami’s gaze swept over the room. Gojo, meanwhile, leaned in conspiratorially.

“So,” he began, his grin as infuriating as ever, “how was she?”

His gaze immediately found her. She stood along the far wall; an expansive bar carved from obsidian and gold stood like a centerpiece, its surface laden with bottles of rare vintages.

He didn’t falter in his reply, expression flat. “She’s a woman, Gojo. Not a secret.”

Gojo smirked as Nanami ignored the conspiratorial knowing smirks and whispers that seemed to surround him.

His gaze lingered as she laughed warmly, her head tilted slightly, the sound unguarded and genuine. She was speaking to two women he vaguely recognized as the CTO and CFO of her company, their expressions a mix of respect and admiration. For a moment, he simply watched. Despite himself, Nanami felt a rare sense of pride.

Just as he was about to make his way to her, a voice sliced through the moment.

“Nanami-san! There you are!”

The same intern with an unfortunate crush on him had caught sight of him again, waving over one of her equally annoying cohorts, a smug backstabbing bitch of a coworker Nanami didn’t even bother to remember the name of. They approached like vultures, the intern’s over-the-top enthusiasm clashing painfully with the coworker’s grimey smirk.

“Nanami-san!” she chirped, clasping her hands together. “This house is incredible! You must feel so inspired here.”

“I feel inspired to have another drink,” Nanami deadpanned, raising his glass slightly before taking a sip.

The coworker, clearly fishing for gossip, leaned in. “Yeah, no kidding. So, where’s your wife we’ve all heard so much about?” He practically sang the last part, his tone dripping with mockery. “Must be so busy to miss an event like this.”

Listening to this, Gojo moved closer to Nanami’s side like chaos incarnate, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Oh, you haven’t met her yet?” he asked, his grin practically weaponized. “Tsk, tsk, Nanami, keeping secrets from your best friends .”

The coworker scowled at the jab.

The intern blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. Nanami bit back a smirk, swirling his whisky lazily in his glass.

When the intern finally recovered, her tone turned defensive. “Well, he’s never mentioned her to me!”

Nanami’s expression darkened, his patience stretching to its breaking point. One thing he wasn’t—had never been—was unfaithful. And this implication, no matter how cluelessly delivered, crossed a line.

Yet Gojo wasn’t finished. He turned his full attention to the intern, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. “You know, he does talk about her all the time. But I guess you two must not hang out much, huh? Just acquaintances, then.”

“Excuse me?” Nanami’s voice was sharp, each syllable cutting.

The intern, oblivious to the shift in tone, pressed on. “You never mentioned you were married—”

“Please,” arching a brow, he interrupted, his expression one of detached amusement. “Do not imply that I’ve hidden my marriage. I’ve been married for years and have never avoided speaking about my wife when asked. If you’re unaware, perhaps that says more about you than it does about me.” Each word measured and sharp. It’s not like he cared to keep his job anymore anyway.

The intern blinked, stunned into silence.

Gojo erupted into laughter, clapping him on the back. “Kento, you’re killing it tonight. Who’s next on the chopping block?”

Without waiting for a response, Nanami brushed past them, his focus already shifting back to her. Gojo, naturally, wasn’t done yet. Turning back with a smirk, he delivered one final dig.

“He talks about her all the time with his friends. Trust me, I’d know since I’m his best friend. I know all his secrets ,” he said lightly. “Guess you’re just colleagues.” Nanami could hear the mockery directed at his coworkers, with a hint of possessiveness over their friendship in Gojo’s voice, along with the intern’s sputtering, behind him.

Once he approached, his hand slid around her waist, the gesture subtle yet unmistakable. It wasn’t a public claim so much as a quiet reassurance, a tether grounding him in the chaos of the room.

She turned to him, her smirk softening into something more intimate as she acknowledged the unspoken exchange.

“Hello,” he murmured, inclining his head with a faint smile toward the women she’d been speaking with. They were better than his coworkers; hence they were hired.

As Gojo approached them behind Nanami, she introduced him smoothly, her tone warm yet commanding. “Ladies, my closest friend, Gojo Satoru.”

Gojo’s professional smirk slipped into place with practiced ease. “A pleasure,” he said simply, his arm resting on Nanami’s shoulder again.

The conversation progressed for a bit before the sound of glass clinking drew their attention.

“Everyone!” Gojo’s voice rang out, cheerful and uncontainable. He was sitting atop the bar, manspreading, grin wide enough to rival the chandelier’s glow. “A toast to the lovely couple!”

Heads turned toward them, though many had already been stealing glances at her all evening while others were glaring daggers at Nanami.

Nanami cleared his throat, voice steady, effortlessly commanding the room. “Thank you all for coming to our housewarming party,” he began, his tone formal but with a warmth that felt uncharacteristic. His hand rested securely on her waist. “For those of you who don’t know, this is Y/N L/N. She’s my wife. She’s the one who bought us this house.”

A ripple of polite claps followed, though Nanami wasn’t finished.

“She hasn’t visited my office because she’s been working tirelessly on her company, Curse Cop, which, as of today, has officially reached a billion-dollar valuation.” He paused, his voice softening as he glanced at her, unguarded admiration flickering across his face. “Please, drink to your heart’s content, because starting tomorrow, I’ll be on vacation with her—and I’ll also be stepping down as Finance Director to spend more time with my wife, as I promised her.”

The room erupted in applause and a few ‘awws’ from mostly female guests, though Nanami barely noticed. His focus remained on her as she looked up at him, her expression a blend of amusement and affection.

From somewhere behind them, he heard whispers, envy poorly concealed.

“How’d he even get with her?” one muttered.

“It makes sense,” another replied begrudgingly. “He’s the kind of man every woman wants.”

But none of it mattered. Nanami leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her lips, as if the room around them didn’t exist.

For him, in that moment, it didn’t.

Soon the evening had progressed—Nanami was comfortably leaning against the bar, whisky in hand, Gojo, still on top of the bar, flanking him as usual, when the intern caught sight of Y/N between them.

She stumbled her way toward her, clearly drunk, with newfound boldness, her barely-there dress doing little to enhance her sense of professionalism. Nanami’s lips twitched as he watched the scene unfold, hiding his amusement behind his glass. He wasn’t much for unnecessary public fights, but he was waiting for this one since she had really become a nuisance for him over the months, hence the reason she was invited today.

“Y/N,” Gojo whispered, sidling closer to her as she inquired about the launch of their latest multiplayer game with the COO of her company. “See that girl over there?”

Pausing, she glanced over, her brow arching slightly as she clocked the intern making a beeline toward her.

“That one’s been after Kento for months,” Gojo murmured, his grin wicked. “Unrequited coffee deliveries, surprise lunches... the works. You’re about to have front-row seats to her grand finale.” He had noticed it all while visiting Nanami’s office, along with Nanami’s look of frustration when she wouldn’t take the hint and leave him alone.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat, her expression remaining poised as she turned fully to face the intern. The air around her seemed to shift, her unapproachable aura sharpening to something razor-edged.

The intern, blissfully unaware, extended a hand, her confidence teetering on arrogance. “Hi! I’m Nat. I work closely with Nanami-san in finance. It’s so great to finally meet you.”

Y/N’s gaze flicked briefly to the outstretched hand before returning to the intern’s face, her expression neutral but distinctly unimpressed. “Oh?” she said coolly. “And what are you to him?”

The intern faltered, her hand dropping slightly. “I... like I said, I work with Nanami-san! He’s been so helpful to me in the office. Such a great mentor.”

Turning his head from his vantage point, Nanami’s smirk widened as he took another slow sip of whisky. He had actively avoided helping her since he discovered her hidden agenda.

“Is that so?” Y/N replied, tilting her head slightly. “And what exactly have you learned from him?”

The intern brightened, eager to elaborate. “Oh, just... everything, really! He’s so dedicated and focused. I can see why you married him.”

There was a pause—a beat of silence that stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable. Then Y/N smiled, and it wasn’t kind.

“I see,” she said, her tone dripping with polite venom. “And yet, here you are, at a party in our house, introducing yourself to me like you’re a stranger. How odd for someone who claims to work so ‘closely’ with my husband.”

The intern’s expression wavered, a flicker of panic breaking through her confident facade. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” Y/N interrupted smoothly, her smile widening. “To sound presumptuous? To overstep? Or to assume familiarity where there is none?”

Gojo, now openly laughing, gestured to Nanami, “Remind me never to piss your wife off.”

The intern stammered something unintelligible before finally scoffing & retreating, her confidence crumbling as she melted back into the crowd.

Y/N turned back to the COO, now flanked by CTO and CFO without so much as a backward glance as they dragged her off to introduce a potential investor, the conversation resuming as if nothing had happened.

Turning straight, Nanami finally let his smirk show, raising his glass toward Y/N in a silent toast.

She caught his eye, the faintest curve of her lips betraying her amusement, before she returned her attention to her companions.

“Worth every penny,” Gojo muttered under his breath, clinking his glass against Nanami’s.

“Agreed,” Nanami replied, his tone calm but his eyes glinting with mirth.

A/N: You thought Kento would cheat huh ☜(ˆ▿ˆc) Thanks for diving into this tangled mess of lust & love. If you caught the twist & liked it (or even hated it), drop a comment. I live for your chaos & crave your feedback like Nanami craves his wife. 🖤

Masterlist

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danielgold-16 · 5 months ago

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Golden Past

The late afternoon sun bathed the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque in a soft, golden glow, illuminating the intricate, shimmering patterns on its iconic dome. Daniel #16 stood at the grand entrance, his muscular frame outlined against the backdrop of Isfahan’s historic square. He adjusted the collar of his golden jersey, the #16 glinting in the fading light. His heartbeat was steady, but there was a charge in the air—anticipation coursing through his veins. This wasn’t just a visit to one of Iran’s architectural wonders; this was a mission.

For as long as Daniel had been part of the Golden Army, whispers of the mosque’s secrets had floated through the ranks. Tales of a hidden command center beneath the golden tiles, serving as the nexus of operations for Central Asia’s Golden Army, had been passed down like myth. Today, Daniel would prove those legends true. He stepped forward, the sound of his boots against the ancient marble echoing faintly. The interior of the mosque was silent, its grand dome arching above like the heavens themselves. The golden mosaics, intricately patterned with floral and geometric designs, seemed to pulse faintly with a life of their own. The mosque was deserted, as planned—arranged by his brothers in the Hive to ensure no prying eyes would disrupt the mission.

Daniel moved with purpose, his gaze scanning the walls. The ornate Arabic calligraphy spiraling up the walls was mesmerizing, but he wasn’t here to admire the art. He was searching for the code, the subtle combination of golden tiles that would unlock the secrets below.

Approaching the central prayer area, he ran his fingers over the cool, smooth surface of the tiles. His memory kicked in—he had studied the patterns for weeks, memorized the sequence passed down by the Hive’s inner circle. He counted off the tiles in his mind: one flower motif, a cluster of stars, and finally, a golden crescent intertwined with vines.

His fingers pressed lightly against the first tile. It sank into the wall with a soft click. The sound was almost imperceptible, but it sent a thrill of excitement through him. He moved to the second tile—a cluster of stars—and pressed firmly. Another click. The final tile, the crescent, required a bit more force. As he pushed it, the tile depressed fully, and a low rumble resonated through the mosque. The air seemed to shift. Daniel stepped back, watching as the ornate golden tiles in the center of the floor began to shimmer. Slowly, they folded in on themselves, revealing a spiral staircase descending into darkness. Cool air wafted upward, carrying the faint scent of machinery and something metallic.

Daniel didn’t hesitate. He descended the staircase, his boots clanging against the stone steps as the golden tiles above slid shut behind him, sealing him in. The dim light of the mosque gave way to a subtle golden glow emanating from the walls of the narrow passage. At the bottom of the staircase, a wide ornated wooden door waited. He leaned in as he pushed the clench, the old wood cracking. The sight beyond the door took Daniel’s breath away.

He stepped into a vast, circular chamber bathed in golden light. The walls were covered with some sort of glowing substance surrounding maps of Central Asia, showing strategic places. On the ground, Golden books and old sports memorabilia. Centuries ago, the Hive’s expansion into Central Asia had stopped abruptly, but it was time to expand and conquer once again. Grabbing an old ball lying around, Daniel’s chest swelled with pride seeing the crest of the Golden Army emblazoning it.

He had trained for this moment, pushed his body and mind to their limits for the Hive’s cause. The Golden Army wasn’t just a brotherhood—it was a purpose, a destiny. “I’m ready,” he said firmly, talking to the ghost of his brothers.

#Golden Army #GoldenArmy #Golden Team #theGoldenteam #AI generated #jockification #male TF #male transformation #hypnotized #hypnotised #soccer tf #Gold #Join the golden team #Golden Opportunities #Golden Brotherhood

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writingforstraykids · 1 year ago

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Whispers of the Moon - Birthday Special

Pairing: Minchan (short mention of Felix / very short mention of the other boys)

Word Count: 6325

Summary: In the heart of Seoul, beneath the gleaming skyscrapers and ancient palaces, lies a hidden world of magic and mystery. Chan, a gifted healer, and Minho, a shapeshifter hiding as a sleek black cat, find their destinies intertwined in this enchanting underworld...

Warnings/Tags: magical!au, shapeshifter!minho, healer!chan, angst, fluff, strangers to lovers

A/N: The happiest birthday to my dear unnie @zehina. I actually went all nerdy and wrote loads about the world as well since I know you love it (and included the rest of the boys that way hehe). I hope you like it, love🖤

Seoul, South Korea's bustling capital, is known for its towering skyscrapers, historic palaces, and vibrant street markets. It is a city where ancient traditions and cutting-edge technology coexist in harmony. However, beneath its well-lit streets and modern facades lies a hidden realm—a magical underworld known only to a selected few. This subterranean world, rich with history and mystery, operates parallel to the everyday life of Seoul's residents, governed by its own rules and inhabited by beings from myth and legend.

The gateway to Seoul's magical underworld is not a grand archway or a secret door; it is a modest, unassuming teahouse in the bustling district of Insadong. The teahouse, known as "Moonlit Haven," has been in operation for centuries and has been passed down through generations of the same family. Its wooden exterior and traditional hanok architecture blend seamlessly with the area's historic atmosphere.

To the ungifted human, Moonlit Haven appears to be an ordinary teahouse serving fragrant teas and traditional Korean sweets. However, those who know the secret can access the portal to the underworld by ordering a special tea called "Moon's Whisper." Upon drinking this tea, a shimmering door appears at the back of the teahouse, leading to a stone staircase that descends deep into the earth.

The staircase spirals downward, lit by glowing blue lanterns that float in mid-air. The walls are adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes with magical creatures: the nine-tailed fox, the dragon king, and the heavenly warriors. As one descends, the air grows cooler and tinged with a faint scent of jasmine and pine.

At the bottom of the staircase, a grand archway looms, its surface covered in glowing runes. This is the true entrance to Seoul's magical underworld, a threshold between the mundane and the extraordinary. Stepping through the archway, one is immediately enveloped in a world unlike any other.

The magical underworld of Seoul, known as Secret City, is a sprawling subterranean metropolis that mirrors the city above but with its own unique twist. The sky here is an eternal twilight, illuminated by floating orbs that mimic the phases of the moon. Streets are paved with luminescent stones, and buildings are constructed from materials that shimmer with an inner light.

Secret City is divided into several districts, each with its own distinct character. There is the Enchanted Market, where vendors sell potions, enchanted artifacts, and rare ingredients. The Celestial District is home to beings of great power, including dragons and celestial foxes. The Whispering Woods, a dense forest of silver trees, is said to be haunted by spirits and home to elusive forest guardians.

The residents of Secret City are as diverse as the city itself. Humans with magical abilities live alongside mythical creatures. Among them are the Gumiho, nine-tailed foxes who can shapeshift and possess immense magical power. There are also Dokkaebi, goblins, mischievous but generally benign beings who love to play tricks on humans. Dragons, both Eastern and Western varieties, make their homes in the Celestial District, guarding ancient secrets and treasures.

The city's governance is overseen by a council of elders, composed of representatives from each major group. The council ensures harmony between the various inhabitants and that the secrets of Secret City are kept from the surface world, which is why any sort of magic is forbidden in the mundane world.

The Enchanted Market is the heart of Secret City, a bustling bazaar where the air is filled with the scent of exotic spices and the sound of lively discussions. Stalls line the streets, their wares illuminated by lanterns that float overhead. Vendors shout out their goods, from enchanted scrolls and rare herbs to mystical artifacts and talismans.

One of the most renowned vendors in the market is Master Hyun, a potions master whose shop, "Elixirs of Eternity," is a treasure trove of magical concoctions. Shelves upon shelves are filled with bottles of all shapes and sizes, each containing liquids that shimmer with otherworldly light. Master Hyun is a man of twinkling eyes and ethereal beauty, always ready with a story about the origins of his potions.

One of his most sought-after potions is the "Dream Weaver," which allows the drinker to enter the dreams of others. Another popular item is the "Phoenix Tear," a potion that can heal any wound or ailment. Master Hyun's potions are known for their potency and reliability, making his shop a favorite among both the magical and non-magical residents of Secret City.

Another notable figure in the Enchanted Market is Ji-Sung, an artifact dealer whose collection is the envy of many. His shop, "Treasures of Time," is filled with rare and powerful artifacts from across the ages. Among his prized possessions are a mirror that shows the true nature of any being, a fan that can summon the wind and a sword that can cut through any material.

Ji-Sung is a mysterious figure, always dressed in elaborate silk robes and adorned with jewelry that seems to pulse with magic. He is known for his keen eye and sharp wit, and it is said that he never forgets a face. His shop is a place of wonder and danger, for while many seek his artifacts for their power, they often come with a price that is not measured in gold.

The Celestial District is home to some of the most powerful beings in Secret City. Dragons, with their majestic forms and ancient wisdom, reside here in grand palaces that float above the ground. These palaces, constructed from crystal and gold, radiate a light that can be seen from anywhere in the city.

Each dragon in the Celestial District guards a specific aspect of magic or nature. There is Aran, the dragon of water, whose palace is surrounded by a moat of liquid silver. There is Seraphine, the dragon of fire, whose abode is perpetually surrounded by a ring of flames. These dragons are both protectors and advisors, and their counsel is sought by the council of elders and other residents of Secret City.

Sharing the Celestial District with the dragons are the Gumiho, or nine-tailed foxes. These beings are both feared and respected for their immense magical power and their ability to shape-shift into beautiful women or men. The Gumiho live in harmony with the dragons, their abilities complementing the dragons' strength and wisdom.

The leader of the Gumiho is Jeongin, a fox spirit with silver fur and piercing dark eyes. Jeongin is known for his grace and intelligence, often acting as a mediator in disputes and a strategist in times of conflict. His palace, the Silver Moon Pavilion, is a place of beauty and tranquility, where the moonlight dances on the surface of a crystal-clear lake.

The Whispering Woods is a dense forest of silver trees, their leaves shimmering like moonlight. The woods are said to be haunted, with whispers echoing through the trees that speak of forgotten secrets and ancient magic. The path through the forest is winding and treacherous, known only to a few who dare to venture into its depths.

The Whispering Woods are guarded by forest spirits, ethereal beings who protect the ancient magic within the trees. These spirits, known as the Guardians, are invisible to most and reveal themselves only to those they deem worthy. They are led by Elder Bin, a spirit of great wisdom and power who has watched over the woods for centuries.

The Guardians are both protectors and guides, aiding those who seek knowledge or refuge in the woods. They are also the keepers of the Sacred Grove, a hidden sanctuary where the most potent magical energies converge. The Sacred Grove is a place of healing and renewal, its waters said to grant visions and its flowers capable of curing any illness.

Among the trees dwell the Spirits of the Lost, souls who have wandered into the woods and never found their way out. These spirits are not dangerous but rather sorrowful, seeking closure or redemption. They often appear as faint, glowing figures, their presence marked by a sudden chill in the air.

The Spirits of the Lost are guided by Lix, a gentle and compassionate spirit who helps them find peace. Lix is a beacon of light in the darkness of the woods, his soothing voice and kind heart offering comfort to those who have lost their way. Under his guidance, many spirits have found the closure they seek and moved on to the afterlife.

Scattered throughout Secret City are hidden temples dedicated to various deities and elemental forces. These temples are places of worship and power where the faithful come to seek blessings and guidance. Each temple is unique, reflecting the nature of the deity or force it honors.

One of the most revered temples in Secret City is the Temple of the Moon, a place of serene beauty and quiet reflection. The temple is built from white marble, its domed roof adorned with silver filigree that glows softly in the moonlight. Inside, a large pool of water reflects the light of the floating orbs above, creating an ethereal ambiance.

The Temple of the Moon is dedicated to the moon goddess, Haneul, who is believed to watch over Secret City from the skies. The temple is tended by a group of priests known as the Moon Brothers, who perform rituals and offer prayers on behalf of the city's residents. The head priest, Brother Seungmin, is a wise and gentle leader, his presence bringing a sense of peace and tranquility to all who visit the temple.

Another secret society is the Shadow Blades, a group of elite warriors and assassins who protect Secret City. They are skilled in martial arts and magic, and their training is rigorous and demanding. The Shadow Blades operate from the Shadowsong Keep, a hidden fortress deep within the Whispering Woods.

Commander Ji-Won is the leader of the Shadow Blades, a formidable warrior known for being both ruthless and just. Under his command, the Shadow Blades carry out missions to protect Secret City from external threats and internal strife. They are the unseen guardians of the city, their presence felt but rarely seen. Minho is one of them, slowly working his way up the ranks but facing struggles with his colleagues. He’s not as powerful with magic as most of them but has the ability to shapeshift into a cat, making him perfect for secret missions. Which pissed a lot of people off.

Throughout its history, Secret City has been protected by heroes who have risen to defend the city against threats, both internal and external. These heroes, known as the Chosen Ones, are individuals of great courage and power, often possessing unique abilities that set them apart from others.

No hero is complete without a healer, and in Secret City, that role is filled by Chan, a gifted healer whose touch can mend even the gravest of wounds. Chan is a member of the Temple of the Moon, his gentle nature and healing magic bringing comfort and hope to those in need. He carries a staff, the Moon's Grace, which enhances his healing abilities and allows him to channel the power of the moon goddess.

Seoul's magical underworld, Secret City, is a place of wonder, danger, and beauty. It is a city where the mundane and the extraordinary coexist, where ancient myths come to life, and where the balance between light and dark is constantly maintained. The residents of Secret City, both human and mythical, live in harmony, their lives intertwined by the magic that permeates their world.

As the gateway between the two realms, Moonlit Haven reminds visitors that there is more to Seoul than meets the eye. For those who dare to seek it, a world of magic and mystery awaits, hidden beneath the bustling streets and modern skyscrapers of South Korea's capital. In Secret City, the impossible becomes possible, and the ordinary becomes extraordinary—a true testament to the enduring power of magic.

Minho had always been different. As a member of the Shadow Blades, the elite warriors and protectors of Secret City, his abilities made him a target of both admiration and envy. Unlike many of his comrades, he lacked powerful magic but possessed a unique talent: the ability to shapeshift into a sleek, agile cat. This ability made him invaluable for espionage, slipping unnoticed through shadows and tight spaces. However, his success and the recognition it brought only fueled the resentment of his peers.

The tension reached its peak after a particularly challenging mission. Minho had been instrumental in retrieving a stolen artifact from a rogue mage, but his success was met with scorn rather than praise. Whispers of jealousy and accusations of favoritism swirled among his colleagues, resulting in an unjust decision by his superior officers. They accused him of withholding information and acting independently, charges that were untrue but impossible for Minho to refute without pushing himself even further away.

"You think you're special because of your abilities," spat one of his fellow warriors. "But you're just a liability. We don't need someone who can't follow orders."

The decision was swift and brutal. Minho was stripped of his rank and cast out from the Shadowsong Keep. The sense of betrayal cut deeper than any blade. He was alone, exiled from the only family he had known, forced to fend for himself in the vast, mystical underworld of Secret City.

With nowhere else to turn, Minho fled through the Whispering Woods, a dense forest known for its haunting beauty and perilous magic. The silver leaves of the trees shimmered in the eternal twilight, casting an eerie glow on the winding paths. Here, the whispers of ancient secrets and lost souls filled the air, a symphony of sorrow and mystery.

Exhausted and wounded from his escape, Minho made a desperate decision. He transformed into his cat form, hoping the change would allow him to navigate the forest more easily and evade any pursuers. The transformation was both a relief and a curse, offering him agility and stealth but stripping him of his human voice and hands.

As a cat, Minho's senses were heightened. He could hear the rustle of leaves, the distant calls of nocturnal creatures, and the soft murmurs of the forest spirits. His fur provided some protection against the chill, but the pain of his injuries persisted. Despite his resilience, the journey through the Whispering Woods was grueling, each step a struggle against fatigue and despair.

Lix found him curled up beneath a tree and noticing his injuries he knew there was only one way to save him. He scooped him up from the ground and soothingly caressed his head, able to tell there was more to him than just an innocent, hurt cat.

After days of wandering, they finally reached the Temple of the Moon, a place of serene beauty and powerful magic. The temple, constructed from white marble and adorned with silver filigree, stood as a beacon of hope amidst the dark woods. Its domed roof glowed softly, reflecting the light of the floating orbs above. Lix set him down on the ground and gently shoved him forward. “I’m not allowed to enter, but you are, little friend. Go and accept the refuge they have to provide.”

Minho hesitated at the entrance, his feline instincts wary of the unknown. He had heard of the temple's head healer, Chan, a gifted young man whose touch could mend even the gravest of wounds. Desperation outweighed caution, and Minho limped into the courtyard, collapsing near the temple steps.

Moments later, a figure emerged from the temple. Chan, carrying a staff that radiated a gentle light, approached the injured cat. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the wounded animal, but his expression quickly softened into one of compassion.

"Poor thing," Chan murmured, kneeling beside Minho. "Let's get you inside."

Chan carefully lifted Minho and carried him into the temple. The interior was as serene as the exterior, with moonlight streaming through stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the marble floor. Chan placed Minho on a soft cushion and gently examined his injuries.

"You're in bad shape, but we'll get you fixed up," Chan said soothingly. He placed his hands over Minho's wounds, and a warm, healing light emanated from his palms. The pain began to fade, replaced by a soothing sensation that spread through Minho's body.

As the healing progressed, Minho watched Chan with a mixture of gratitude and curiosity. Chan's touch was gentle, his expression focused yet kind. There was something inherently calming about him, a presence that put Minho at ease despite his recent ordeal.

When Chan finished, he sat back and smiled. "There you go, little one. You should feel better soon."

Minho meowed softly in response, his eyes conveying the gratitude he couldn't express in words. Chan chuckled and scratched behind Minho's ears. "You can stay here as long as you need to. I'll take care of you."

Days turned into weeks as Minho recovered under Chan's care. He adapted to his new life at the Temple of the Moon, observing the daily routines and rituals from the shadows. In his cat form, Minho found a strange sense of peace. He was safe from his past and had a chance to start anew.

Chan grew fond of the cat he had rescued, naming him "Moonshadow" for his sleek, dark fur and the way he seemed to blend into the twilight. Minho, in turn, became Chan's silent guardian, following him around the temple and offering companionship.

Whenever Chan was away, Minho would revert to his human form, cleaning the temple and performing small tasks to help ease his guilt for deceiving him. He hoped that his actions would repay some of the kindness Chan had shown him, even if Chan never knew the truth.

Chan, however, began to notice the small changes around the temple. Rooms were tidier, supplies were replenished, and the garden seemed to flourish under an unseen hand. He attributed these miracles to the blessings of the moon goddess, unaware of the true source.

Five months later

In the eternal twilight of Secret City, the Temple of the Moon was a sanctuary of tranquility and magic. Within its serene confines, Chan sat cross-legged on a plush cushion, his gentle eyes scanning the pages of an ancient tome. The moonlight streaming through the stained glass windows cast a colorful, ethereal glow around him, creating an atmosphere of peace and contemplation.

Beside him, Minho, in his cat form, stretched lazily, his sleek black fur shimmering in the soft light. As he yawned and settled into a more comfortable position, his eyes never left Chan. There was a bond between them that went beyond mere companionship—a connection forged through trials and a deep mutual understanding.

Chan noticed Minho’s gaze and smiled warmly. “Hey there, Moonshadow,” he said softly. “Come here.”

Minho’s ears perked up at the sound of Chan’s voice. With a graceful leap, he landed beside Chan and began to nuzzle his head against Chan’s outstretched hand. Chan’s fingers moved instinctively to scratch behind Minho’s ears, a spot that always made the cat purr contentedly.

“There we go,” Chan murmured, his voice soothing and gentle. He could feel the vibrations of Minho’s purrs under his fingertips, a rhythmic reminder of the trust and affection between them.

Minho closed his eyes, leaning into Chan’s touch. The sensation of Chan’s fingers running through his fur was blissful, and his purring grew louder, filling the quiet room with its soothing sound. It was moments like these that made all the hardships and uncertainties of their lives seem distant and unimportant.

Chan chuckled softly. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

In response, Minho rubbed his head against Chan’s cheek, a gesture of affection that made Chan’s heart swell with warmth. The simple act of being close to Chan brought Minho a sense of security and happiness he had never thought possible before meeting him.

“You’re such a sweet kitty,” Chan whispered, continuing to scratch Minho’s head and under his chin. Minho’s purrs grew even louder, and he started to knead Chan’s chest with his paws, his claws retracting just enough to avoid scratching the fabric of Chan’s robe.

Chan shifted slightly, leaning back against the cushions and creating a more comfortable space for both of them. Minho took this as an invitation and climbed onto Chan’s chest, circling a few times before curling up in a tight ball. His tail wrapped around his body, and he rested his head on his paws, looking up at Chan with half-closed eyes.

“You look so peaceful,” Chan said, his voice barely above a whisper. He rested one hand gently on Minho’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Minho’s eyes closed fully, and he let out a contented sigh. The warmth of Chan’s body, combined with the rhythmic motion of his hand on his back, lulled him into a state of deep relaxation. His purring continued, a soft, steady sound that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the temple.

For Chan, having Minho close was a source of immense comfort. The bond they shared went beyond that of a healer and his pet; it was a connection of souls, a partnership forged over time. Chan found solace in Minho’s presence, a sense of completeness that he had never experienced before.

As the minutes passed, the tranquility of the moment deepened. Chan’s thoughts drifted, the worries of the day fading into the background. All that mattered was the gentle weight of Minho on his chest, the soothing sound of his purrs, and the warmth of their shared affection.

Minho, on the verge of sleep, shifted slightly and nuzzled his head against Chan’s chest. He felt safe, cherished, and loved—a stark contrast to the loneliness and betrayal he had once known. In this sacred space, with Chan’s heartbeat as his lullaby, Minho found a peace that transcended the physical realm.

Chan continued to stroke Minho’s fur, his touch light and tender. He could feel the trust dripping from the small creature in his arms, a trust that was both humbling and empowering. Chan knew that, no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together, their bond unbreakable.

“I promise to always take care of you,” Chan whispered, his voice filled with emotion.

Minho’s purring intensified for a moment, as if acknowledging Chan’s words. Then, gradually, it began to fade as sleep overtook him. His body relaxed completely, his breathing slow and steady. Chan watched him with a soft smile, his own heart filled with a profound sense of gratitude and love.

The Temple of the Moon, with its timeless beauty and serene atmosphere, bore witness to the deep connection between Chan and Minho. In this sacred place, under the watchful gaze of the moon goddess, they found a moment of perfect harmony—a testament to the enduring power of love and trust in a world filled with magic and mystery.

As Chan closed his eyes, his hand resting gently on Minho’s sleeping form, he knew that their journey together was far from over. But in this moment, they had everything they needed: each other. And that was enough.

One evening, as Chan prepared for his nightly prayers, he looked at Moonshadow, who was curled up on a cushion nearby. "You know, sometimes I feel like there's more to you than meets the eye," Chan mused aloud. "You're special, aren't you?"

Minho's ears perked up, and he watched Chan with wide, curious eyes. Chan smiled and continued, "I think the goddess sent you to me for a reason. Maybe you're my familiar, a guardian spirit to protect and guide me."

The words struck a chord in Minho's heart. He had always felt a deep connection to Chan, a sense of duty and protectiveness that went beyond mere gratitude. Perhaps there was truth in Chan's words, a destiny that had brought them together.

That night, Chan performed a ritual to bind Moonshadow as his familiar. He drew intricate symbols on the ground, lit candles, and recited ancient incantations. As the ritual reached its climax, a surge of magical energy enveloped Minho, strengthening the bond between them.

Minho felt a profound shift within him, a merging of their spirits that filled him with newfound purpose. He was now bound to Chan, his protector and companion, their fates intertwined by the magic of the moon.

As Chan's familiar, Minho took his duties seriously. He remained vigilant, always on the lookout for potential threats. His heightened senses allowed him to detect dangers before they could reach Chan, and his presence provided comfort and reassurance.

One day, trouble arrived in the form of dark mages seeking to disrupt the balance of magic in Secret City. These mages, practitioners of forbidden magic, targeted the Temple of the Moon, believing its powerful magic could be harnessed for their nefarious purposes.

Chan was in the garden when the attack began. Dark figures emerged from the shadows, casting spells that warped the air and sent tremors through the ground. Chan's staff glowed as he raised a protective barrier, but the dark mages' assault was relentless.

Minho, sensing the danger, leapt into action. He transformed into his human form, his body a blur of motion as he intercepted the attackers. With a combination of agility and ferocity, Minho fought off the dark mages, his cat-like reflexes and strength giving him an edge.

Chan, focused on maintaining the barrier, was unaware of the true identity of his savior. He glanced over in shock as he saw a young man fighting with the grace and power of a guardian beast.

Despite his best efforts to hide his true nature, Minho's ears were visible, a telltale sign of his shapeshifter abilities. As the last of the dark mages fled, Chan lowered the barrier and approached Minho cautiously.

"Who are you?" Chan asked, his voice a mix of awe and confusion. Their eyes met and Chan’s eyes widened recognizing those soft brown orbs he’d come to love so much. His eyes wandered up where Minho’s dark cat ears peaked from his messy brown hair. "Are you... Moonshadow?"

Minho hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yes, I am. My name is Minho. I'm a shapeshifter, exiled from the Shadowsong Keep. I've been living here in my cat form, afraid you would kick me out if you knew the truth. I know we aren’t very welcomed around here.”

Chan's expression softened, and he reached out to touch Minho's shoulder. "You protected me, Minho. You've been by my side all this time, helping and watching over me. I don't care about your past or your abilities. You are my familiar, and I am grateful for everything you've done."

Tears welled up in Minho's eyes, a mix of relief and gratitude flooding his heart. "Thank you, Chan. I promise to always protect you, no matter what."

Minho’s revelation had lifted a weight off his chest, but it also left him feeling vulnerable. Living as a shapeshifter meant hiding his true self, something he’d grown accustomed to. Yet, in front of Chan, he was completely exposed. For Chan, the revelation was a mix of shock and intrigue. The gentle healer had always felt a special bond with Moonshadow, but knowing that the affectionate cat was also a brave young man named Minho deepened that connection.

Their daily routines continued, but with a newfound understanding. Minho still shifted into his cat form, now more out of comfort than necessity. He still enjoyed curling up on Chan’s chest, feeling his rhythmic breathing and the warmth of his body. Chan, on his part, welcomed Minho’s human presence when he transformed, appreciating the help around the temple and the companionship Minho offered.

The first night after Minho’s revelation, Chan found it hard to sleep. He kept glancing at Minho, now in his human form, tidying up the temple’s main hall. The moonlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting a soft glow on Minho’s face. He moved gracefully, his actions efficient and almost mesmerizing to watch. Chan felt a strange flutter in his chest, a mix of admiration and affection.

“Minho,” Chan called softly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Minho turned, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. “Yes, Chan?”

Chan hesitated, then smiled. “You don’t have to push yourself so hard. Come sit with me.”

Minho’s expression softened, and he abandoned the broom he was holding, walking over to where Chan sat. He settled down beside him, their shoulders almost touching. There was a quiet intimacy in the moment, a shared silence that spoke volumes.

“I never thought I’d find someone like you,” Chan admitted quietly. “Someone who understands and accepts me for who I am.”

Minho looked at him, his eyes sincere. “I feel the same way. You’ve given me a place to belong, Chan. For that, I’m grateful.”

They sat in silence for a while, the bond between them growing stronger with each passing moment. Chan’s hand moved almost instinctively, reaching out to hold Minho’s. Minho’s fingers intertwined with his, the simple touch sending a warm feeling through both of them.

As days turned into weeks, the relationship between Chan and Minho deepened. They developed a rhythm, a balance of shared tasks and quiet moments of companionship. Minho’s presence brought a sense of stability to Chan’s life, while Chan’s gentle nature provided Minho with a sense of peace he had never known before.

Chan’s duties as a healer often took him to various parts of Secret City. Minho, always in his cat form, accompanied him, providing silent support. He became Chan’s shadow, always alert and ready to protect him if necessary. Their bond as familiar and master was strong, but it was the bond of friendship and growing affection that truly defined their relationship.

One afternoon, while Chan was tending to a patient in the Celestial District, Minho, in his cat form, explored the area. The dragons and celestial foxes were impressive, their majestic forms and ancient wisdom evident in every interaction. Minho’s keen senses picked up the subtle undercurrents of power and respect that flowed through the district.

As Chan finished his work, he called out for Minho. The sleek black cat appeared almost instantly, weaving through the crowd with ease. Chan smiled as he picked Minho up, cradling him gently.

“You always know where to find me,” Chan said, scratching behind Minho’s ears. Minho purred in response, nuzzling against Chan’s cheek.

Their return to the temple was peaceful, the twilight sky casting a serene glow over Secret City. Minho transformed back into his human form once they were inside, stretching his limbs as he did so.

“Another successful day,” Chan remarked, setting down his staff.

Minho nodded. “You’re an amazing healer, Chan. The way you help people… it’s inspiring.”

Chan’s cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. “Thank you, Minho. But I couldn’t do it without your support.”

Minho’s heart swelled at the words. He was finding it harder to keep his feelings for Chan hidden. The healer’s kindness, dedication, and the way he made Minho feel valued and appreciated—it was all becoming too much to ignore.

Their bond grew stronger with each passing day, but so did Minho’s feelings for Chan. He found himself drawn to the healer in ways he hadn’t expected. Chan’s smile, his laughter, the way he cared for others—it all made Minho’s heart race.

One evening, as they sat together under the soft glow of the moonlight, Chan turned to Minho with a thoughtful expression. “Minho, can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Minho replied, curious.

“Why do you stay in your cat form most of the time?” Chan asked gently. “I mean, I understand it became your natural state by now, but you can be human whenever you want. Why do you choose to be a cat?”

Minho looked down, his ears twitching slightly. “It’s… complicated. When I’m in my cat form, I feel safe. I can protect you without drawing too much attention. And it’s easier to hide my true feelings.”

“Your true feelings?” Chan echoed, his curiosity piqued.

Minho hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Chan, there’s something I need to tell you. Ever since you took me in, I’ve felt this… connection. It’s more than just being your familiar. I care about you deeply, more than I’ve ever cared about anyone. But I’ve been afraid to show it, afraid that you might not feel the same way.”

Chan’s eyes softened, and he reached out to take Minho’s hand. “Minho, I care about you too. You’ve become an important part of my life, and I can’t imagine it without you. I think… I think I’ve been feeling the same way.”

Minho’s heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

Chan nodded. “Yes. I’ve been trying to understand these feelings, and now I realize that I’ve fallen for you, Minho. Not just as my familiar, but as someone I want to be with.”

Minho’s eyes filled with tears of relief and happiness. “Chan, I’ve loved you for so long. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

Chan pulled Minho into a gentle embrace. “You don’t have to hide your feelings anymore. We’ll face this together.”

Minho clung to Chan, the warmth of his embrace filling him with a sense of belonging. They stayed like that for a while, holding each other under the moonlight, their hearts beating in sync.

With their feelings out in the open, Minho and Chan’s relationship took on a new dimension. They were no longer just healer and familiar; they were partners, united by love and a deep sense of understanding. Their bond grew stronger, their affection for each other evident in every touch, every glance, every shared moment.

Chan continued his work as a healer, and Minho remained by his side, providing support and protection. They faced challenges together, their love giving them strength and resilience. Secret City, with its magic and mystery, became a backdrop for their blossoming relationship.

One day, as they walked through the Enchanted Market, Minho in his human form, Chan took his hand. “I have a surprise for you.”

Minho looked at him curiously. “What is it?”

Chan led him to a small shop filled with beautiful artifacts and magical items. The shopkeeper, a kind young man, greeted them with a warm smile.

“Welcome, Chan. I see you’ve brought a special friend today,” he said.

Chan smiled and nodded. “Yes, Minho is very special to me. And I want to give him something to show how much he means to me.”

Jisung’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, I have just the thing.”

He led them to a display case and pulled out a delicate silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon. “This pendant is filled with protective magic. It will keep the wearer safe and strengthen the bond between two hearts.”

Chan took the pendant and turned to Minho. “I want you to have this. It’s a symbol of our bond and my promise to always be there for you.”

Minho’s lip quivered slightly as he took the pendant. “Thank you, Chan. I’ll cherish it always.”

Chan fastened the pendant around Minho’s neck, and they shared a tender kiss, sealing their love with a magical promise.

Their love continued to grow, but so did the challenges they faced. Dark forces still threatened Secret City, and Minho and Chan found themselves in the midst of several battles. Their bond was tested, but their love gave them the strength to overcome every obstacle.

One evening, as they returned to the temple after a particularly difficult mission, Chan collapsed from exhaustion. Minho caught him, his heart pounding with fear. “Channie, are you okay?”

Chan smiled weakly. “I’m just tired, Minho. I’ll be fine.”

Minho carried Chan inside and laid him down on a soft cushion. He tended to Chan’s wounds, his hands trembling with worry. “You’ve pushed yourself too hard, Chan. You need to rest.”

Chan reached up to touch Minho’s face. “I’ll be okay, Minho. I have you by my side.”

Minho’s eyes filled with tears as he leaned down to kiss Chan’s forehead. “I love you, Chan. Please take care of yourself like you do with everyone else.”

“I love you too, Minho,” Chan whispered, closing his eyes. “Thank you for being here with me.”

Minho stayed by Chan’s side, holding his hand and watching over him as he slept. The trials they faced only strengthened their bond, their love a beacon of hope and resilience in the face of darkness.

As time passed, Minho and Chan’s love continued to flourish. They built a life together, their bond unbreakable and their hearts intertwined. Secret City, with its magic and mystery, became their home, a place where their love could grow and thrive.

One evening, as they sat together under the moonlight, Chan turned to Minho with a smile. “Do you remember the day we first met?”

Minho nodded, his eyes filled with affection. “How could I forget? You saved me, Chan. You gave me a place to belong.”

Chan took Minho’s hand, their fingers intertwining. “And you gave me a reason to believe in love. You’ve made my life complete, Minho.”

Minho leaned in to kiss Chan, their lips meeting in a tender, loving embrace. “I promise to always be by your side, Chan. Forever.”

Chan smiled, his heart filled with joy. “Forever.”

As they held each other under the soft glow of the moonlight, Minho and Chan knew that their love was eternal. In the magical underworld of Secret City, their hearts had found a home in each other, a love that would endure through any challenge, a bond that would never be broken.

Together, they faced the world, their love a guiding light in the darkness. And in each other’s arms, they found a love that was truly magical, a love that would last forever.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

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citrous241 · 2 years ago

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1.21 is looking fire, but 1.22 has got to be an End update.

Minecraft has always had really good lore and story-telling, but does anyone else feel like the End is just missing something?

It's to be expected, it hasn't been updated for the last 7 years and the last update added more questions than answers. I feel like it's just on the cusp of being as clear as the rest of the game.

It's a dimension that's supposed to feel off, and uncanny. Literally the only track that plays is 15 minutes of warped mash-ups of Overworld tracks. End stone is just inverted Cobblestone.. etc. But even then it's still wrong.

I just have to know, Minecraft lore is built off of head canons but I'm just unable to form one that makes sense regarding the End. Endermen make sense, I believe they're warped and "evolved" humans. Eating only chorus makes them teleport, their long arms and bodies to reach the high snaking chorus plants, their larger eyes to see in perpetual darkness, etc. Their aversion to water is a wrench in that but I'm not perfect and my head canon isn't right. Endermen could have nothing to do with humans.

Shulkers and End Cities are what confounds me. Are Shulkers natural living organisms? The Dragon and Ender-men both have black skin and dark purple eyes but this thing has yellow skin and an almost magenta shell. I think they're some sort of automatons, but built by who? The ancient builders, the ones who evolved into Endermen? But the spiral staircases in the End Cities don't seem designed for humans (or maybe I just suck at climbing them) and the ceilings aren't really high enough for Endermen. Maybe Shulkers are another protector mob of their area. But protecting what? Protecting the means of personal flight maybe, but that looks nothing like the rest of the end - its literally made from the wings of the Phantoms of the Overworld.

End Cities themselves do kind of make sense to me, their architecture mimics the branches of a chorus plant. But whilst chorus seems to be the only natural thing in the End, the cities very much aren't. There's no way that structure would work under normal gravity. But surely the End just has weak gravity? Nope, it's the same as the Overworld.

Everything in the End just feels so artificial. The central island; with Obsidian pillars punching through the whole thing, a material that can only be made using 2 fluids that don't exist in the End, topped with a crystal made partially from the tears of a creature in another dimension and some sort of Eye which we can only make by killing an Enderman and fusing it's remains with the ground up remains of another creature from said other dimension. Also, it is so far away from the rest of the End, as if someone destroyed or moved these other islands away. The Dragon itself to, she works like no other mob. People say that she's a machine which I don't agree with, her erratic behaviour is because she is the only mob of her type and hasn't been updated like ever. I don't think she's native to the End though; Endermen, the only other creature in existence that looks like her, can be hostile to her.

Trying to piece this together as I'm writing this is making me think of a new head canon: The End is just a melting pot of travellers who got lost and stuck. Think of something like the Void from the Loki show. I think the End was initially just a mass of floating islands with the chorus fruit, in the Void between dimensions. Then the ancient builders arrived, constructing the obsidian pillars and the bedrock portal frame. I think they found something, maybe it could be whatever made the End Cities. But regardless, something dangerous. Something that made them separate the only way out of the dimension by several kilometres of Void, that made them create a Dragon to guard said way out. Something that made them sacrifice themselves by sealing themselves into the End.

There are a few holes in this. Maybe the ancient builders did build the End Cities before/after becoming Endermen. Maybe the danger was the Dragon, but why would it guard the exit portal? And I've kind of ignored the fact that Endstone is inverted Cobblestone, maybe the whole dimension if artificial? Built by the ancient builders entirely? Or maybe the End was spawned from ancient humanities collective mind, like a sort of yin to their yang.

I would love an End update to add a few things. I don't like most popular ideas or mods for an End update, as they often stray too far from what the End is. I would like to be able to find whatever gravity-defying sentient race built the End Cities, maybe they could also be warped into Endermen like the ancient builders were - but could still have a sense of self and humanity, or maybe they're some sort of Phantom People. I would like to find this danger that caused the ancient builders to sacrifice themselves, a new huge boss at the edge of the End would be awesome. I would also like, if they made them less annoying that is, for Phantoms to spawn in the End just normally. They feed on Insomnia right? What's more insomniac then an entire dimension where it's always night and nothing can sleep?

I would also like purple chorus wood lol.

#minecraft #enderman #minecraft phantom #shulker #the end #end city #ancient builders #minecraft lore #mineblr #minecraft headcanons

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sheltiechicago · 7 months ago

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Dreamy Floating Spiral Architecture Inspired by the Golden Ratio

Inspired by the timeless allure of the golden ratio, architectural designer Manas Bhatia has used AI to produce a series of floating skyscrapers. With these buildings, which he calls Nautilus Bioarchitecture, Bhatia muses whether the timeless classicism of the golden ratio can shape the architecture of the future. Based on what we've seen, we think that the answer is yes.

#manas bhatia #golden ratio #architectural designer #architecture #floating spiral architecture #artificial intelligence #nautilus bioarchitecture #future architecture

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ancientrome · 1 year ago

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This ambiguous and sophisticated decoration is a masterpiece of the so-called third style of Roman wall painting, which flourished during the reign of Augustus. The theme is a playful rendition of architectural motif. A low red dado serves as the base from which a skeleton of thin white columns appears to rise against a black background. There almost weightless columns support pavilions, candelabra, tripods, and a narrow cornice that runs around the room. They were embellished with jewel-like decorations. On the back wall tiny swans, the bird of Apollo, patron god of Augustus, perch improbably on threadlike spirals, and yellow panels with Egyptianizing motifs must have brought to mind the recent annexation of Egypt after the death of Cleopatra in 30 B.C. This architectural scheme creates almost no sense of depth or volume. The black walls behind appear at once to be flat and to dissolve into limitless space. Tiny landscape vignettes float like islands in the middle of this blackness. Burnished to a high polish, these walls must have appeared magical indeed when illuminated by lamps at night. x

#ancient rome #rome #roman #fresco

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actuallythatgirl · 9 months ago

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The Final Battle Alastor X Reader

The final battle, but instead of Alastor taking the hit, you do.

part 1 part 2 part 3

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As we sit on the rooftop, a low, ominous buzzing fills the air. I glance up, my heart sinking as I spot a small, hovering drone circling above us. The logo of the VEES is unmistakable—those damn surveillance drones.

“What in Hell…?” I murmur, my mind racing with a surge of panic. I can barely comprehend the situation as my gaze locks onto the drone, its camera lens glinting ominously in the harsh light.

“We need to get off this roof, my dear,” Alastor says, his voice dangerously calm. He turns his head to look at the drone with a mixture of irritation and something darker, more menacing. His usual mocking demeanor has been replaced by a sharp, cold edge that sends a chill down my spine.

I scramble to my feet, my body still aching from the previous ordeal. “Are they—are the VEES recording us?” I ask, my voice trembling. The realization hits me hard—everything that’s happened, every moment of vulnerability, might have been captured and broadcasted. I feel exposed, the weight of their intrusion adding another layer of fear.

“Quite possibly,” Alastor replies, his eyes narrowing as he watches the drone’s erratic movements. “They’re notorious for their relentless surveillance.”

The urgency in his voice makes my blood run cold. The VEES don’t just record—they exploit. The thought of them having footage of this encounter, our injuries, our private moments, is nauseating.

“Fuck me,” I curse under my breath. The situation is spiraling out of control, and the thought of our private suffering being used for their twisted entertainment is almost more than I can bear.

Alastor’s expression darkens further, his usual composure fraying under the strain. “We need to move, now. If they’ve been recording us, we can’t afford to stay here.”

He struggles to stand, his movements still unsteady but driven by a fierce determination. Despite his injuries, he manages to help me to my feet. Together, we stumble toward the edge of the roof, our only focus now on escaping the prying eyes of the VEES and getting to safety.

"My dear, this is going to feel quite strange," Alastor chokes out, his voice rasping with exhaustion, almost more of a strained wheeze than his usual confident tone. I hesitate, trying to grasp what he meant, but before I can ask, the world begins to shift. It feels like reality itself is bending. The colors around us deepen unnaturally, as though someone turned the saturation way up, casting a surreal, darker hue over everything.

The ground beneath me seems to melt away as I feel myself sink, the familiar sensations of my body slipping away. My mind fights to hold onto some sense of control, but it’s useless—everything is dissolving. I try to look towards Alastor, hoping for some clarity, but the shadows swallow him whole. For a moment, I’m weightless, floating in some in-between space, detached from my own being. And just as quickly as the darkness consumes me, it releases its grip.

The world snaps back into existence with a violent thud.

I stumble, trying to regain my bearings. Around me, it’s as though we’ve stepped into a different time—a house, old but well-kept, like we’ve fallen back into the 1930s. The architecture is elegant, with polished wooden floors, brass fixtures, and vintage décor that could have come straight from a film noir. This must be Alastor's home—a place steeped in the charm and eerie beauty of a bygone era.

A groan from beside me draws my attention, and my heart skips a beat. I look down and see Alastor sprawled on the floor, his once-charismatic figure now crumpled and drained. His last ounce of strength had been used to bring us here, wherever ‘here’ is.

"Dear God… Al?" My voice trembles, the weight of fear pressing into my chest as I kneel beside him. Even in my disoriented state, I can tell something is wrong—very wrong. His face is pale, his eyes closed. I reach out, but my own body barely has the energy to keep me upright. My muscles scream in protest, and I sway, almost collapsing next to him. “Are you okay?” I choke out, desperately needing a response.

But none comes.

Panic tightens its icy grip around my throat. "Alastor, I need you to wake up… please." The silence is unbearable. My mind races as I realize he might not be conscious. "Now, damn it!" But again, there’s nothing—just the oppressive quiet of the house around us.

Fear thrumming through my veins, I whisper, "Forgive me for this," and carefully roll him onto his back, my heart pounding louder in my ears with every passing second. His normally sharp, mischievous eyes remain shut, his face slack. He’s out cold. I can’t even tell how badly he’s hurt.

The surge of fear becomes a roar, drowning out every other thought. I need medical supplies. Anything.

I spring to my feet, fighting through my own injuries as I rush from room to room, pulling open drawers, cabinets—anything that might hold some form of first aid. “Come on… come on. You get into enough fights, you have to have something,” I mutter through gritted teeth. Desperation turns my movements frantic, but each cabinet reveals nothing useful.

I dash up the stairs, feeling like I’m running against time. The house looms around me in its vintage elegance, each piece of furniture a ghost from another era. It’s unsettling how pristine everything looks—like time stopped in the 1930s. Then, I find it—an old wooden door leading into a bathroom. The décor is still perfectly in line with the rest of the house—white subway tiles, polished brass fixtures, a claw-footed tub—but my focus is the cabinet above the sink.

I fling it open and find a small box tucked inside. Finally—medical supplies. I grab it, but as I turn to leave, the sight in the mirror stops me cold.

I barely recognize myself. My reflection stares back, a grotesque version of who I used to be. My face is a battered canvas of swollen black and blue, the bruises blossoming across my skin like ugly flowers. Deep, jagged cuts stretch from my temple to my jawline, the blood drying in uneven streaks, cracking as I move. Dust and grime cling to my skin, mingling with the blood, while debris clots in my tangled hair, matting it against my scalp with a gritty, uncomfortable weight.

My arms are a tapestry of agony, crisscrossed with deep gashes—some still oozing sluggish trails of blood, the edges puckered and angry. Dried streaks stain the skin beneath my fingernails, and each movement pulls at the open wounds, sending fresh spikes of pain shooting through my body.

I lift my shirt, gasping as my fingertips brush against the large, purpling bruises that blotch my torso. The dark blotches are swollen, throbbing with each breath, a sickening reminder of the beating I barely survived. Every breath sends a ripple of pain through the bruised ribs beneath. This body, this broken shell, feels foreign—too fragile, too damaged, to be mine.

Shaking off the shock, I rush back to Alastor, hoping I’m not too late.

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #hazbin art #hazbin hotel #hazbin fanfic #helluva boss

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pixel7777 · 3 months ago

Text

The First Worshipper: Ch. 11

The naughty version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

If you want to read from the beginning, searching my blog for #myfic will bring up all my fanfic posts. Link for Chapter 1. Link for art discussion post.

Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

132 years AB

My dearest Shadowheart,

You'll never believe where I found myself last week—a tiny fishing village on the Chultan coast with barely enough hovels to warrant a name, yet there it stood: a shrine to our insufferable friend. Nothing grand like my cathedral, mind you, just a humble altar with that ridiculous crown carved in driftwood. I couldn't help but laugh. The local priestess nearly fainted when I introduced myself.

(Don't tell Gale, but I may have embellished a few of our adventures for dramatic effect. The villagers were particularly fond of the tale where he tripped over his robes and fell face-first into the Chionthar. Some stories simply improve with creative retelling.)

Speaking of improvement, I maintain that Selune's following would triple if she would just let me revise her doctrine. "Let the moon be your guide" is desperately lacking in panache. I've drafted several alternatives that are far more engaging. Perhaps "Dance beneath the moon's silver gaze while plotting delightful mischief"?

No?

Your loss.

I crossed paths with Wyll in Amn last month. We cleared out a nasty devil cult—and by "we," I mean I did most of the work while he posed heroically. If he tells you otherwise, he's lying through those perfect teeth of his. Though I must admit, it felt good to put these fangs to proper use again. There's only so much diplomatic schmoozing one can endure before craving a proper fight.

The road suits me better than I expected. Each new city, each strange face—they show me different reflections of myself. Sometimes I barely recognize the vampire spawn I used to be. (Though I still drink only the finest vintage, naturally. Standards must be maintained.)

I do miss our conversations in the Vale, and Halsin's inexhaustible patience with my... everything. Perhaps I'll make my way back. Eventually. Possibly. When I run out of new places to scandalize with tales of our resident god's embarrassing moments.

Until then, keep the moonlight warm for me.

Yours truly,

Astarion

P.S. - If anyone asks, I had nothing to do with that statue of Gale in Waterdeep. The pose was entirely mostly the artist's choice.

* * *

Gale surveyed his latest addition to his divine domain - a grand amphitheater carved from celestial marble, its seats ascending in perfect spirals toward infinity. Countless identical columns stretched into the distance, their shadows falling in precise geometric patterns across the pristine floor.

He'd spent what felt like centuries crafting every detail. The architecture defied mortal physics, each structure more impressive than the last. Floating observatories tracked the movements of stars yet undiscovered. Libraries contained knowledge from countless worlds. Fountains flowed with liquid ambition itself, their waters reflecting every dream ever dreamed.

And yet.

The emptiness of it all pressed against him like a physical weight. His footsteps echoed through vacant halls designed to hold multitudes. No matter how many wonders he created, the spaces between them only grew larger.

He paused at a window overlooking an endless sea of possibilities - each wave containing a different potential future. The view should have inspired awe. Instead, it reminded him of watching Astarion tell stories at the Loot Tavern, how his friend's theatrical gestures had brought more life to that humble space than all these grand halls combined.

A prayer tickled at the edge of his consciousness - something about a shrine in Chult.

He reached for the prayer like a starving man grasping at crumbs, desperate for any connection to the mortal realm. In his mind's eye, he could see Astarion perfectly - that theatrical arch of his brow, the way he'd sprawl across three chairs while holding court at the tavern, one leg dangling as he gestured with his wine glass. The vampire would be doing it right now, no doubt, spinning some outrageous tale about his latest escapade with just enough truth woven in to make his audience lean forward, hanging on every calculated pause...

Gale caught himself smiling, then forced his thoughts away from the scene with a sharp shake of his head. This wouldn't do at all. Astarion was clearly managing his own journey of self-discovery, following through on his promises to figure out who he was beyond trauma and past relationships. Meanwhile, here sat Gale, supposedly a god of ambition, woolgathering like a lovesick apprentice instead of attending to his divine responsibilities. He straightened his shoulders, trying to recapture some semblance of godly dignity. There were more pressing matters at hand than reminiscing about tavern tales.

Gale traced his fingers along a perfectly smooth wall. He'd designed every inch of this realm to celebrate achievement and aspiration. But what good was ambition without someone to share it with? Even the Netherbrain had its collective consciousness. Here, there was only him and the echo of his own thoughts bouncing off immaculate surfaces.

He'd built a monument to solitude disguised as a tribute to greatness. The realization sat heavy in his chest, more suffocating than any mortal weight had ever been.

Gale straightened, energy surging through his divine form as inspiration struck. Of course - he didn't need to wait for Ao's permission to welcome souls in his domain to fill it with more than grand buildings and books. He could create "helpers" of his own. They would make the place ready for when the gates could finally open… and keep him company in the meantime.

Drawing on his newfound powers, Gale wove streams of divine energy into humanoid shapes. The first attempts emerged stiff and statue-like, but he refined the process, adding subtle movements and expressions. Soon, a dozen glowing figures populated his grand hall, drifting between columns with ethereal grace.

"Much better," he muttered, watching them float past. But their movements felt mechanical, lacking the spark of true life. He concentrated harder, pouring more power into their forms, willing them toward something closer to consciousness.

The figures flickered, their golden light intensifying. One turned its head toward him with an almost-natural gesture. Encouraged, Gale pushed further, trying to infuse them with fragments of memory - echoes of laughter from the Copper Crown, snippets of conversation from their adventuring days.

The nearest figure convulsed, its form destabilizing. Others began to twist and stretch, their carefully crafted features melting like wax. One emitted a sound that might have been meant as speech but emerged as discordant tones that set Gale's teeth on edge.

"No, wait—" He reached out to stabilize them, but his touch only accelerated their deterioration. The figures collapsed in on themselves, their light growing painful to look at. Their movements became erratic, bouncing off walls and leaving scorch marks on his perfect marble.

The first figure exploded in a burst of divine energy that cracked one of his meticulously designed columns. The others followed in rapid succession, each detonation more violent than the last. Gale threw up a barrier just as the final construct detonated, sending fragments of celestial architecture raining across his pristine floor.

When the dust settled, Gale stood amid the wreckage. The hall's perfect symmetry lay in ruins, scorch marks marring the walls in chaotic patterns. He picked up a chunk of marble, still warm from the explosions, and turned it over in his hands.

"Gosh," he said to the empty hall, "that could have gone better."

A presence materialized behind Gale, vast and ancient as the multiverse itself. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was - the weight of Ao's attention pressed against his consciousness like an ocean against a paper boat.

"That was quite the light show." Ao's voice resonated through both the physical space and Gale's mind simultaneously.

"I wasn't trying to—" Gale gestured at the scorched walls. "They were meant to be simple constructs. Decorative."

"If that were true, they wouldn't have destabilized so spectacularly." Ao moved into view, his form both present and absent in ways that made Gale's divine senses ache. "You are not yet permitted to create sentient life, young one. That privilege must be earned."

"But surely basic companionship—"

"Is exactly what you were attempting to manufacture." Ao's tone held neither anger nor judgment, just absolute certainty. "Your connection to the material plane remains too strong. These mortal attachments cloud your judgment, prevent you from developing the objectivity and dispassion required of your station."

I'd rather keep my passion than become some detached observer, Gale thought before remembering exactly who he was… thinking loudly around.

Ao's expression shifted minutely - was that amusement? "And that reaction precisely demonstrates why we insist on this probationary period. Your mortal impatience nearly destroyed you once before. Or have you forgotten the orb?"

The memory of that desperate hunger, that driving ambition that had led him to accidentally capture a piece of the weave of Karsus inside his very flesh, flickered through Gale's mind. He'd almost unmade himself - and Mystra's Weave along with him.

"The consequences of such impulsiveness now would be far graver," Ao continued. "Divine power requires divine perspective. You must learn patience."

"Yes, Lord Ao," Gale managed, mortification burning through him like a star going nova.

"Try harder," Ao said simply, and was gone.

* * *

151 years AB

I drummed my fingers on the lanceboard, watching Halsin contemplate his next move with all the urgency of a tree growing roots. The Vale's afternoon light filtered through leaves overhead, casting dappled shadows across the wooden pieces.

"Any day now, dear friend. I do have eternity, but let's not test its limits."

Halsin's lips twitched. "Patience was never your strong suit." He finally moved his piece—directly into my trap. Again.

I sighed, capturing his defender with an elegant sweep. "And strategy was never yours. That's the third time you've fallen for that gambit."

"Perhaps I enjoy watching you win." His eyes crinkled with amusement. "You're less acerbic when you're feeling superior."

"I'm always feeling superior." I reset the board, more out of habit than hope for an actual challenge. "Though I must say, after thirty years of wandering, it's... not unpleasant to sit still for a moment."

"Even here?" Halsin gestured to the Vale around us, where druids tended their gardens and children chased each other through the grass. "I'd have thought you'd find it provincial after your grand adventures."

I caught sight of Shadowheart in her garden, her silver hair gleaming in the sun as she pruned her roses. The years sat well on her—though I'd never tell her that. She'd probably think I was being condescending.

"Provincial has its charms." I moved my first piece. "Besides, I've seen enough of the world's wonders to content me for several mortal lifetimes. Did you know there's a city in Chult where they worship Gale as a god of rain? Absolute nonsense—he can barely manage being a god of ambition."

Halsin chuckled, making another predictably poor move. "And yet you still pray to him."

"Someone has to keep him humble." I captured another of his pieces. "Though I doubt that's possible anymore. Last time I heard from him, he was contemplating adding another wing to his divine domain. Something about needing more space for his ego."

The afternoon stretched on, peaceful and mundane. No monsters to slay, no conspiracies to unravel. Just an old druid losing badly at lanceboard, the sound of children's laughter, and the scent of Shadowheart's roses on the breeze.

I moved another piece without thought, watching Halsin's predictable counter-move with only half my attention. My gaze kept drifting to Shadowheart, noting how her once-ramrod straight back was now slightly bowed, how time had etched lines around her eyes and mouth. When had that happened?

The years I'd spent wandering seemed to collapse in on themselves. One moment she'd been helping me select curtains for the cathedral, and now... now she moved more slowly, took more breaks while tending her beloved roses.

"Your move," Halsin prompted.

"Mm." I captured another of his pieces mechanically. "Tell me, do you think those new roses will survive the winter? The red ones she planted last week?"

"Since when do you care about gardening?"

I didn't answer. How could I explain that I'd cut my grand tour short, abandoned the thrill of discovery and adventure, because I'd realized with sudden, stark clarity that I might never see Shadowheart again? That after watching Karlach and Jaheira and Lae'zel slip away, I couldn't bear to miss these final precious years with one of the few people who truly knew me?

How utterly shocking—the great selfish bastard Astarion, rushing back to the Vale like some sentimental fool.

I'd spent centuries convinced that caring for others was a weakness, that true power lay in standing apart. Yet here I was, finding more joy in watching Shadowheart teach young acolytes about moon-blooming flowers than I had in all the wonders of Chult or the glittering spires of Waterdeep. Although perhaps the possibility of more adventures in the future made this pastoral idle a bit less smothering than if it was to be my eternity.

"Checkmate," I said absently, toppling Halsin's last piece. "Another?"

"If you'd like. Though you seem rather distracted."

I shrugged, resetting the board. "Just thinking about how absolutely mortifying it is to discover I actually enjoy your company. All of you. Don't let it go to your head."

I reset the board, my fingers lingering on a carved wooden piece. Sebastian would have loved these—he had an eye for craftsmanship. Always noticing the subtle details, the way light caught the grain of wood, how shadows played across surfaces.

"Your move," Halsin prompted, but my mind was already wandering through shadowed caverns where mushrooms glowed like stars.

Sebastian had been... good. Patient. Understanding. Everything I should have wanted. He'd shown me beauty in stillness, peace in routine. The way he mixed his paints, each color carefully considered, each stroke deliberate—it had been mesmerizing. No rush, no desperate need to prove anything to anyone.

And that had been the problem, hadn't it?

I moved a piece without thinking. "Did you know he tried to teach me to paint? I was absolutely dreadful at it. No patience for details."

"Who? Sebastian? He's on your mind again, then."

"Mmm." I captured one of Halsin's pieces. "He said I was too focused on the end result, that I needed to learn to enjoy the process. Terribly wise of him. I hated it."

Because that was the truth of it—I'd tried to be what Sebastian needed, what I thought I should want. Quiet evenings with tea and canvas, gentle conversations about art and philosophy. But beneath that veneer of contentment, something in me had been screaming for more.

"The irony is," I said, watching Halsin contemplate his next move, "he understood me better than I understood myself. He knew I'd leave before I did. Said I had too much fire in me to stay in the shadows forever."

My fingers traced the edge of the lanceboard. "I could have loved him forever, I think, if I'd been someone else. Someone better at peace."

But I wasn't. I was restless, hungry—not for blood anymore, but for something else. Movement. Change. The thrill of never knowing what the next day might bring.

Sebastian had deserved better than half-love and restless nights. And I deserved to be loved for who I was and not ability to pretend to be what someone else needed. It still felt strange, so think it so bluntly. What I deserved. That, flawed as I was—and my friends probably had a running list—I still deserved some things. And that was one.

I rose from the lanceboard, offering Halsin an exaggerated bow. "I'll spare you further humiliation for today. Besides, Shadowheart promised to show me her secrets of botanical warfare."

"It's called dyeing, Astarion," Shadowheart called from her garden, already gathering her basket.

"Same thing, really. Both involve destroying something beautiful to make it more interesting." I crossed the grass to offer her my arm, noting how she leaned into it more than she used to. Not for support—she'd bite my head off if I suggested that—but there was a comfort in the contact that hadn't been there decades ago. For both of us, I supposed.

The walk back to the house was peaceful, filled with her quiet commentary about which blooms would yield the best colors. I watched her hands as she gestured, weathered now but still graceful, still strong. The years had carved their marks into her skin, but they'd also softened something in her eyes, worn away some of the sharp edges we'd both carried for so long.

Inside, I helped her set down the basket, breathing in the earthy scent of fresh-picked flowers and herbs. This was my life for the moment. Teaching young thieves to read in the evening. Embroidering ridiculous scenes of our adventures onto silk. Listening to Shadowheart explain the proper way to crush petals for the deepest purple dye. Cherishing the ones who knew me best and who didn't resent that this would not be my life for forever.

I was a vampire who had learned to love sunrises. A former slave who now chose his own chains—of friendship, of family, of life on this planet with which I was increasingly enamored. Anyone who wanted to love me would have to love that too, divine or not.

But those thoughts could wait. Shadowheart was laying out her tools with methodical precision, and there was dyeing to be done.

"Now, pay attention," she said, selecting a bloom. "And try not to stain anything this time."

"That was once, darling, and it made that tablecloth far more interesting."

Her laugh, warm and real, filled the room, and I focused on the task at hand. The present moment was enough.

* * *

[Astarion kneels at his private altar, adjusting the blue silk with theatrical precision. He arranges fresh flowers—stolen from Shadowheart's garden—and places a bottle of wine beside them.]

"Oh most divine and probably-bored-out-of-your-mind Gale, your most devoted worshipper brings tidings from the mortal realm."

[He swirls the wine in his glass, a smirk playing at his lips.]

"I wanted to thank you, actually. For understanding why I needed to wander, to find my own way. And for not smiting me when I spent that decade spreading increasingly ridiculous stories about your ascension. The one about you achieving godhood through an eating contest with Cyric was particularly inspired, I thought."

[He pauses to sip his wine, then continues with an exaggerated sigh.]

"Life has been surprisingly... good. Though I must say, watching Halsin attempt to play lanceboard is a special kind of torture. The man can command nature itself, yet he can't grasp basic strategy. It's almost impressive, really.

"But Shadowheart's roses—now those are magnificent. You should see them. It’s strange, you know, how something so delicate can hold so much strength. Shadowheart seems to have passed that quality on to every bloom in her care. Unless that's insensitive? Pointing out all the lovely things down here while you're stuck managing the cosmic order or whatever it is you do all day?"

[He leans forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice.]

"Speaking of Halsin... I've been thinking. He's aged rather well for a mortal, hasn't he? Those arms are still quite impressive, and he does have that whole wise-druid thing going for him. Do you think it would be terribly awkward if I—"

[He pauses dramatically.]

"If I perhaps... pursued a more intimate connection with our naturalistic friend?"

[He maintains the serious expression for exactly three seconds before breaking into laughter.]

"I'm joking, of course! Could you imagine? Though your face—or whatever divine equivalent you have now—must have been priceless."

[He refills his wine glass, grinning.]

"Someone has to keep you entertained up there. Tell me, which gods have the best sense of humor? I bet Mask is fun at parties. Though surely none of them can match my wit. Don't worry, I'll keep the quality material coming your way… and throw the occasional rose on the altar for you. Don't read anything romantic into it. Or do. Depending, I suppose, on how the balance of heaven and earth—and certain mortal memories—weighs in your heart these days.

"Though I must admit, the roses make me think of her—our dear Shadowheart. She's still here, in her garden, making everything she touches beautiful. You’d like what she’s done with the place, Gale. Perhaps you should stop by. Bring that godly presence of yours down to Faerun once in a while. I promise not to make too much fun of you. Well, maybe just a little.

"I remain, as always, my dearest Gale, your devoted servant and friend."

[He rises gracefully, brushing invisible dust from his knees.]

#bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion #gale of Waterdeep #bloodweave #myfic

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