#howling from the shadow realm

[destructive-delight]

the realistic-enough-from-afar-to-scare-unsuspecting-pedestrians raccoon featuring edgar allan poechi

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝒽𝒶𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝑔𝓇𝒾𝓂 / 𝒸𝒶𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You were just an average assistant at a high-profile fashion magazine, drowning in coffee runs, a horrible bitch boss, last-minute deadlines, and the occasional existential crisis. Nothing out of the ordinary.

That was until he showed up; a sharp-tongued, infuriatingly attractive grim reaper with a bad habit of haunting you. Why? Good question. Apparently, you were on some kind of hit list, and he was assigned to reap your soul.

But if he thought he could scare you into submission, he was dead wrong. Because if a little reaper wanted to haunt you… 

…well, you might as well haunt him right back.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Me. A new obsession. So this one extra long and I wrote this while listening to 'Haunted' by Beyoncé, feeling every note, and watching The Devil Wears Prada.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: casper x afab!reader, subby!casper x dominant!Reader, soul-stealing, playful power dynamics, praise, pet names, teasing, love/hate relationship, possessive behavior, enemies to lovers, slow burn, seductive banter, gentle, blowjob then maybeeeee rough smut, anal sex.

The mortal plane was always predictable.

A annoying world of flesh and bone, ruled by where life start in the wound and ends with a tomb. No matter how any human they fought, no matter how desperately they clung to existence, all paths led to him in the end.

Life was but a momentary flicker in the abyss, and he was the hand that extinguished the flame.

The space between worlds was his domain. A place where the living dared not tread, where the air was thick with the murmurs of the forsaken. Here, in the endless dark, he watched.

They called him many things—Grim Reaper, Phantom of the Veil, Death itself. He was the silent end of all things, the whisper in the final breath, the inevitable shadow lurking behind every heartbeat.

With a touch, he unraveled kings, crumbled empires, and reduced the devout to weeping husks. His presence alone could halt the breath of creation.

Like there was no force he could not bring to ruin. No soul could resist his claim. He had never known hesitation. Never known failure. And yet now, something wrong stood at the threshold of his dominion.

You. A mortal—or so you should have been.

His gaze burned through the abyss, crimson eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, his presence stretching across the fragile boundary between realms. A cold wind stirred in the living world, unnatural in its weight, pressing into the earth, curling around your feet like unseen fingers.

A warning. A summons. A death sentence.

And yet, you did not move.

Other spirits shrank from him, retreating into the shadows, whispering their prayers into the void. They clung to you—not in terror, but in something else. Recognition. As though you were not an intruder among them, but kin.

It was unnatural. A violation of the natural order.

A mortal could not walk this close to death and remain. A mortal should not be able to meet his gaze and still breathe. Yet, you stood unshaken, silent at the edge of the veil.

At first, he thought it was something else—perhaps a simple mistake? Some foolish soul who had wandered too close to oblivion.

But then, he saw it.

The unnatural stillness in your breath, steady and unfaltering, untouched by fear. The way the spirits curled around you—not in dread, but in something eerily close to devotion. The way you stood, unshaken, where no living thing should linger.

You were not like the others.

The realization coiled in his mind, very much amused. His head tilted, strands of white hair slipping over his shoulder as his crimson eyes narrowed. Did you sense him?

Could you feel the weight of his gaze settling over you like frost, lingering against your skin like the cold fingers of the dead?

You should have.

And yet, even as the wind howled and the night pressed in, you remained unbothered. No shiver. No faltering breath. No fear.

A slow, eerie smile crept across his lips. How quaint.

It had been centuries—millennia—since anyone had dared to meet his gaze with such unwavering defiance. The bold ones never lasted long. The moment they recognized him for what he truly was, the bravado cracked, the terror set in, and they fell apart like all the rest.

But you… you were different.

Grim let the word slip from his lips like a curse, testing the weight of it in the space between you.

"Mortal."

The sound twisted unnaturally in the air, stretching across the veil like a breath of something ancient, something final. But even as it echoed through the abyss, it felt… wrong.

You did not carry the scent of death, nor the warmth of the living. You stood in the in-between, poised on the knife’s edge of existence. Impossible. An aberration.

His fingers curled beneath his chin, gloved and motionless as he exhaled, mist curling from his lips like the dying breath of a world. No, you weren’t quite mortal, were you? Something sharp and hungry settled in his chest, a curiosity he had not felt in a very, very long time. 

Perhaps he should test you.

See what made you different.

The studio thrived with straight-up chaos—just racks of garments rolling between rooms, fabrics draped over mannequins like offerings to some unseen deity.

Photographers adjusted their lenses, capturing such perfection with every calculated click, while designers hovered over sketches, their minds frenzied with last-minute alterations. 

The air smelled of high-end perfume, ink, and freshly steamed fabric, a scent so distinctly alive that it nearly repelled the presence lurking in its midst. It wasn’t long before he found himself within a space not meant for his kind.

Grim rarely walked among the living so openly, yet here he stood, a phantom amid the world’s most fragile creatures—so blissfully unaware of how close death brushed against their skin.

And then, there was you.

Moving effortlessly through the flurry of industry, weaving between designers and assistants, clipboard in hand, murmuring approvals, adjusting details. Unlike the frantic energy of those around you, you moved with certainty, never flustered, never scrambling, as if the world bent to your pace rather than the other way around.

Grim watched. Intrigued. How pretty.

The thought whispered through him, curling in his mind like smoke. But not in the way he usually observed mortal beauty—delicate, soft, doomed to wither. No, you were not something that would crumble at a mere touch. You were enduring. Again, soft, like a perverse flower. Something worth admiring.

And he should not have been admiring you at all.

He had come for someone else. A soul marked by time, its final grains of sand slipping irreversibly through the hourglass. But you...

You were full of life. Stubbornly so.

It was meant to be nothing more than a passing glance, his eyes filled with curiosity. And yet—something about you demanded his attention. How dare you?

Perhaps it was the way the golden studio lights framed your face when you stopped at your desk, scanning through today's catalog. The glow from your laptop screen reflected in your eyes as you sent out the requests your boss had demanded. Or perhaps it was the way you should have sensed him.

Because you did. 

He saw it in the way your fingers lingered over your keyboard, a slight hesitation, the briefest flicker of something in your expression. The way your posture shifted—not in fear, but in awareness.

You looked up. Behind you. To the side. As if you expected something to be there. And still… no fear. 

Grim's lips curled into the ghost of a smirk, a slow, knowing thing. How quaint. A mortal that did not cower in his presence. He had seen countless souls—broken, frightened, bargaining for more time.

They always begged. Always.

But you? Shit, you couldn’t care less.

You simply turned back to your work, unbothered, as if Death itself was not standing like right behind you, watching. Fascinating.

Like damn, this was going to be a long day. 

You shouldn’t have looked at him. 

Honestly, rookie mistake. Why, out of all the places to let your eyes wander, did they have to land on a pale figure just lurking at the edge of your vision? White hair, almost glowing in the bright golden office lights, just floating there menacingly.

At first, you barely reacted. Spirits followed you enough that one more ghostly presence in your life wasn't exactly a new issue. It was like another annoying email in your inbox—just something you learned to ignore.

But then... he got closer.

You’d think a literal death-bringer would have better things to do than stalk some underpaid assistant at a fashion studio, but nope, there he was, just lingering. Hanging around the clothing racks, floating down the hallways like he had nothing better to do.

"Mortals are usually more entertaining than this," he mused, materializing beside you as you sorted through today’s catalog.

You didn’t react. Nor said anything back.

"They beg, weep, try to strike deals, but you? Not even a glance?" He leaned over your shoulder, reading the emails you were responding to. “Are you truly this dull, or is this job slowly draining what’s left of your soul?”

Still, you ignored him. Just to pretend you were irritated about work rather than the undead menace hovering behind you. Your boss stormed past your desk, rambling about a last-minute change in the collection lineup, completely unaware that you were being haunted.

“You!” she barked. “I need all the model sheets and—ugh, coffee. Black. No sugar.”

You didn’t even blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

Grim tilted his head, amused. “So obedient. How tragic.”

Your eye twitched.

Twenty minutes later, he was still talking.

"So, what exactly do you do here? Fold fabric? Worship those absurdly tall skeletons you call ‘models’? Suffer?"

You exhaled sharply, flipping through the model sheets as you strode down the hall, hoping to outwalk itself.Spoiler alert: you couldn’t.

"Why can’t they see you?" you muttered under your breath, careful not to draw attention from your coworkers as you balanced a tray of coffee cups.

Grim laughed. "Because I don’t want them to."

"Then why can I?"

"Good question. Why can you?" His grin was infuriatingly smug.

You glared at him, resisting the urge to dump scalding coffee onto thin air just to see if he could feel it.

Instead, you set your boss’s drink down on her desk and marched straight to the breakroom, hoping for a few minutes of peace. You swore, though, he was practically waiting outside the door for his cue, like some kind of ghostly actor who knew exactly when to make his dramatic entrance.

And when he did walk in, it was with the kind of confidence that only the dead—and apparently, Spirt—could possess. He moved like he owned the place, a pale figure that seemed to suck the air out of the room. You just wanted to sip your lukewarm tea and get a moment of calm in this whirlwind of a day.

A quiet moment. As rare as they were in this fashion department. But, of course, the real problem started the moment he stepped into the room.

Because as soon as he entered, he decided to open his mouth. 

And when you say talk, you mean he did not shut up.

“Is this your lunch break? How tragic. So much time wasted just sipping a tepid drink while the world spins itself into chaos,” he mused, hovering a little too close for comfort.

You blinked, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “Could you not?” You muttered, but he didn’t care. Oh no. He had all the time in the world to follow you around and spout whatever grim commentary he thought would make him sound more ominous.

"Such a sad existence you lead," he added, his voice trailing through the air like the chill of a winter’s night. “So many frivolous tasks, chasing shadows, pretending they matter."

“I’m sorry, what?” you said, only half-listening, as you dumped more sugar into your cup. Honestly, you’d been through worse. Talking to spirits was one thing, but this guy? This one was special. He dared to follow you everywhere—like an annoying coworker you couldn’t escape.

The tea was forgotten, abandoned on the counter as you stormed down the hallway, desperate for a moment of peace. The last thing you needed was this annoying, pale figure following you around and spouting off endless nonsense about time, existence, and whatever cosmic philosophy he was into today.

Of course, he wasn’t done. No, he didn’t understand the concept of space. He was right behind you, still standing as if there were no boundaries between worlds. You could practically feel him breathing down your neck as he leaned in, his voice cold and unnervingly close.

“You can’t feel it, can you?” He asked his words low, almost like a whisper in your ear. “You’re untouched by the flow of time like you’re standing between worlds. It’s fascinating. You should be afraid of me."

That was it. You’d had enough.

You stopped so suddenly that he almost walked into you. The Grim Reaper ghostly figure nearly collided with your back, but you didn’t even flinch. Instead, you pivoted on your heel with the kind of speed that made your coworkers worry if you were secretly a superhero. You crossed your arms and gave him a look—a look so cold, so done, that even your interns would reconsider their life choices if they saw it.

“Yeah, well, I’m not, okay?” You snapped, finally locking eyes with him. “I just need to get through my damn day without hearing your creepy monologue about the futility of human life, all right?”

You exhaled slowly and stood a little taller, letting the words hit him like a wave. "Listen here, Casper," you hissed, your voice sharp. "I have a very stressful job, an underpaid salary, and exactly four hours of sleep. I don’t have the time—or the patience—for your existential whining. So either haunt someone else or sit there and shut up.”

Grim blinked, the oddest expression crossing his face. 

How… how did you know his name?

For a moment, there was silence. He just stood there, staring at you with those piercing crimson eyes, like you had just solved a mystery he hadn’t even realized existed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. It was as if he was trying to process what had just happened. Maybe he was looking at you differently now like he hadn’t quite figured you out. Was that… curiosity?

Then, with a slow, almost sinister chuckle, he tilted his head, his white hair flowing like a ghostly mane. The sound sent an involuntary shiver down your spine, but you stood firm.

“You’re different,” he said, his voice a little lower, almost in awe.

You were about to snap something sarcastic back when you realized the absurdity of the situation. You—stressed, underpaid, and half-delirious from lack of sleep—were standing face to face with a literal Grim Reaper, and he was the one awed by you?

A bitter laugh almost escaped you, but you swallowed it down, irritated beyond belief. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re different too,” you muttered, grabbing your half-empty, lukewarm cup of tea from the break room counter. 

You took another sip, feeling the sting of regret as the flavor barely registered on your tongue. “Definitely not what I signed up for today.”

Again, you were done with this. Absolutely, unequivocally done.

“Go away, Casper.” You were at your limit, your patience snapped into nothingness. His pale face was just too close—his crimson eyes staring at you with that unnerving mix of curiosity and amusement. You could feel his presence in every corner of the room like he was trying to worm his way into your very thoughts.

So you did what any person in your situation would do: you shoved him.

A simple push, just enough to send him stumbling back, and before he could catch himself, he fell into a rack of clothes. It was one of the designer gowns, a rich red that flowed like liquid, and the entire display tilted under his weight, sending a cascade of dresses crashing to the floor. The sudden noise was enough to startle your coworkers, heads swiveling as they watched the rack topple. But none of them saw the pale figure—just an empty rack of clothes spilling silk and fabric across the room.

You barely even glanced back as you walked away, your arms crossed tight, muttering under your breath.

“I’m not your plaything, Casper. Now get out of my face.”

Casper lay in the heap of tangled fabric, blinking in complete shock. His pale skin—almost glowing under the fluorescent lights—had flushed a deep red, a stark contrast against the rich tones of the gown still draped over his head. He lay there for a moment, completely disoriented.

No one—no one—had ever pushed him before. And yet, here he was, tangled in silks and stunned beyond belief.

For centuries, his presence had been feared, his touch the harbinger of death. When he stood near mortals, their very life force drained, absorbed by his touch like a dry sponge to water. No one touched him without losing something—some part of their essence, their time, their soul. 

But you? You pushed him. And nothing happened. You didn’t wither. You didn’t fall to the ground, gasping for breath as so many others had.

Instead, you just stood there, that familiar, irritated look on your face. As if it were a bother.

He slowly sat up, pulling himself free of the mess of clothing. His usual confidence was shattered, replaced by a rare kind of vulnerability, an unfamiliar emotion twisting in his chest. He stared at you as you continued to walk away, your steps slow and deliberate, as if nothing in the world had happened.

How was it possible?

A mortal—you—had touched him, and yet, you weren’t dead. Or at least, you weren’t acting like it.

His heart—if he could still call it that—pounded with a new intensity. He couldn’t understand it. He had never met anyone like you, never encountered a mortal who refused to be touched by him, never one who dismissed him so… casually.

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off the remnants of the clothes he’d knocked over, his pale cheeks still tinged red in a rare moment of fluster. He watched you, not moving, but he was already preparing for his next move.

Something about you intrigued him. You were far too interesting to just let go.

He took a step toward you but then stopped. His gaze fixed on the back of your head, your posture strong, as you walked away from him.

This... this was new.

Casper stood there for a long moment, uncertainty clinging to him like a ghost. Finally, his mouth curled into that familiar, eerie smile again. It was a slow, dangerous thing, full of intrigue.

You hadn’t just touched him. You haddefied him.

And that was something he hadn’t encountered in all his existence. Maybe, just maybe, this could be worth something after all.

Casper was… obsessed now. He had never encountered anything like you, and it gnawed at him, this unfamiliar sense of unresolved desire. You were not just some mortal, some fleeting soul to be reaped. No, you were a mystery—a puzzle that he couldn’t solve, and the very fact that you resisted him so effortlessly only deepened his fascination.

It wasn’t just the thrill of the chase that spurred him on. No. There was something else.

The high-ups, the ones who resided in the farthest reaches of the underworld, the ones who watched over him… they noticed.

A soul that couldn’t die? A soul that resisted the touch of death itself?

What did it mean? Was there something special about you?

Whispers spread like wildfire among the higher ranks. They didn’t understand it either, but they knew you were something worth having. Something that could change the rules. Something that could serve them—and maybe even him.

And so, Casper found himself following you like a shadow, lingering at your workplace, watching you from a distance when you left for the day, trailing you to the most mundane of places, his obsession only growing. 

His pale figure appeared in glimpses—his white hair a stark contrast against the everyday world. He wasn’t trying to hide anymore; he didn’t need to. His focus was entirely on you, his every move calculated.

You had to know he was there. 

You were far too perceptive to not notice the subtle shifts in the air, the flicker of his presence.

But he was clever. He was patient.

And he would get you to break.

The first time he cornered you after work, you were at the grocery store. It was a humdrum trip to stock up on essentials, the typical monotonous task that everyone in your position had to do. But not today.

No, today, Casper decided to make himself known.

You were scanning the aisles for something simple—maybe fruit, or a carton of milk—when you felt the unmistakable chill at your back. His presence.

"Hey," his voice was disturbingly casual, and when you turned, there he was, standing with his arms crossed, his usual eerie calm as ever. "Mind picking me up some original cup noodles and folded bread?"

You blinked, staring at him, incredulous. Of course, you had to question him. "What? Are you serious right now?" you asked, leaning against your cart. "Do you even eat?"

Casper tilted his head, the smile on his lips never wavering. "I do. Not like you. But still." He waved his hand absently as if it were the most normal request in the world. "Just a little snack, nothing too fancy."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, your patience running thin. “You're dead, Casper. Why would you want cup noodles? And why would I go out of my way to get them for you?”

His response was a soft chuckle, cold and smooth. "Ah, but you see, the deal is this: I could give you something in exchange. Something you want. A little temptation, a trade. What’s your price?"

You glanced at the noodle aisle, ignoring him completely as you grabbed about 12-count cups of instant noodles for yourself. "Yeah, no. I’m good. You're not gonna tempt me with snacks."

Casper's eyes narrowed, a hint of frustration flickering behind his calm exterior. "What if I told you I could fix everything? The sleepless nights, the exhaustion, the stress. What if I could offer you peace?"

You tossed the noodles into your cart, uninterested. "I’m not looking for peace from a creepy grim reaper who can't take a hint."

Casper’s gaze grew darker. "You don’t know what I could give you. You don’t know how easy it would be to just—"

“Nope,” you interrupted, holding up a hand as if to stop him mid-sentence. You pulled out your phone, tapping away at a grocery list app to make it clear that he wasn’t worth your attention.

He let out an exasperated sigh, but his grin never faltered. “Still as stubborn as ever, huh?”

And just like that, you went back to your grocery shopping, effortlessly dodging his attempts to break through your calm.

The second time he tried was a little more… subtle. After your long shift, you decided to take a walk around the city to clear your mind. He appeared beside you on the sidewalk, as if he had been waiting, his steps soundless despite his form being right there.

“You know,” he started, his voice dripping with dark temptation, “I’ve been watching you. I could take away all your worries if only you’d trust me. Forget all this—your life, your struggles, the endless grind. Let me help you… Let me show you what I can offer.”

You didn’t even look up at him. “You keep offering me peace and I keep telling you I’m not interested.”

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. “But what if you don’t have a choice anymore?” he asked, his tone darker, a little more insistent now.

You stopped and finally glanced up at him, your eyes narrowed. “I have a choice, and I choose for you to get the hell out of my way.”

He blinked, taken aback, as you casually sidestepped him and kept walking, your footsteps unhurried. You could feel his presence behind you, following, watching, but it didn’t matter. You had dealt with worse than some grim reaper with a vendetta. 

Every time he tried, you outmaneuvered him with ease. Whether it was a carefully placed word, a choice to simply walk away, or the sharpness in your gaze that seemed to make him take a step back, you were always a step ahead. It was like a game, and with every move you made, he became more and more obsessed with you.

You were something impossible, and that was what gnawed at him the most.

The thrill of the chase, once so exhilarating, now felt hollow to him. He needed more. He needed to understand why you weren’t swayed by him. Why you couldn’t be broken. The problem was, he didn’t know how much you had already figured out about him—about death itself.

It started with something small. A quick moment when you were alone, a brief conversation when you thought no one was watching. He had asked you a question, one of those tricks to see if you would falter. Instead, your response had unsettled him.

“Do you ever think about what happens to you, after you die?”

You had looked at him like he was the mortal one. It wasn’t the question itself—it was the way you had said it, the way your eyes never wavered as you spoke.

Casper had chuckled, assuming you were making light of the topic. 

But then, he saw it.

The way your gaze turned distant. Like you had seen something that wasn’t there. Like you knew something. “I’ve faced death many times,” you said, your voice so steady, so unbothered, it sent a chill through his entire existence. “It’s not as dramatic as you might think. You’d be surprised at how many times I’ve died without anyone realizing it.”

The words hung in the air. You weren’t joking. You weren’t pretending.

You knew what it was like to face death. To die.

That was the moment that he realized. It wasn’t just his touch that you could withstand. You were something else entirely. You had crossed paths with death more times than he could count—and you had survived.

The very nature of that unnerved him. How was it possible? How could you speak of it so casually, as though death was an old acquaintance you had learned to live with?

But what really disturbed him was the way you spoke of things even he didn’t know.

For the time you mentioned how the veil between the worlds had thinned after a certain incident, how the balance of life and death had shifted, even if it had seemed insignificant at the time. He did not know of it—none of it had been in the records, nothing he had been told during his training. 

How could you know something like that? How did you see things he didn’t even see? There was something deeper inside you, something that made him uneasy. 

You were not just a mortal.

Months passed, and he could feel his obsession intensifying, his frustration mounting. Every time you shrugged him off, every time you saw through his tricks, it was like a blow to his existence. It should have been easy to claim you, right? Just like any other soul. But there was something about you that turned everything he knew upside down.

And then, he followed you home. He didn’t care if it was stalking anymore. He had to understand you. Had to know what made you tick.

He watched you walk through the familiar door of your loft apartment, so effortlessly. To him, it felt like watching a predator enter its den. Yet, you remained unshaken.

It was a strange place for someone like you—too lived-in to be a typical mortal apartment, too quiet to be a place where anyone truly rested. You didn’t invite him in, didn’t even acknowledge his presence when you entered. But he followed.

His steps were silent, as always. He floated behind you, not wanting to miss a single moment. You didn’t even glance back, so used to his silent following that you barely reacted anymore.

The apartment was minimalist, but it had personality. A few things caught his eye—the piles of books that leaned precariously against the walls, the odd plants that seemed to be thriving despite your apparent lack of interest in them, and the dim lighting casting long shadows.

You moved around the apartment with practiced ease, grabbing something from the fridge, putting it into the microwave, your thoughts clearly somewhere else. He stood there, arms folded, waiting for you to break the silence.

And when you finally did, it wasn’t the question he expected.

“What do you want from me?” Your voice was sharp, and for the first time since he met you, he could hear the edge of tiredness in it. It wasn’t the usual disinterest or mockery.

It was weariness.

“I told you,” he started, almost sounding desperate now. “I want your soul.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you glanced over at him, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in your eyes, something he couldn’t understand.

“But why?” Your voice was softer now, but still direct. “Why me? You’ve collected souls for how long, and you’ve never come across one like mine. Is that it? Am I some kind of… prize for you?”

He paused, thrown off by the unexpected vulnerability in your question.

“You know why,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “You’ve faced death, haven’t you? But you haven’t succumbed to it. You... you’re different. The high-ups... they’re curious. I’m curious.” He took a step closer, and this time, it wasn’t just about the soul. “I want to know why you can withstand it. Why you don’t die when you should.”

You didn’t look afraid. If anything, your eyes seemed almost… amused.

“Maybe I’m not meant to,” you said simply, taking a seat at your kitchen table and sipping your drink, casually uninterested in his presence. “Maybe I’ve seen things you can’t even begin to understand.”

Casper stood there for a moment, the realization dawning on him. He had always been the one in control, the one who made the rules. But now? It was clear. You were the one pulling the strings.

And it terrified him. Still, the obsession remained.

“I’m going to find out, whether you like it or not.” He vowed quietly, more to himself than to you.

You rolled your eyes at Casper’s words, his little declaration of trying to figure you out like you were some puzzle to be solved. Honestly, you had better things to do than entertain the idea of a grim reaper’s obsession.

Just as you were about to tell him to stop following you and to get out of your space, your phone rang. 

It was another assistant you worked across from.

You sighed, already knowing this wasn’t going to be good news.

“Hey, quick heads up—I’m sick and won’t be able to make it to the event tonight. You’re going to my place for our boss. Dress nice, okay? You’ll be meeting with some big names—the ones that fund our department. They’ll expect a professional impression,” the assistant said, her voice a bit muffled from the cold she had.

You stared blankly at your phone for a few seconds after the call ended. Great. Just what you needed tonight. A high-profile event, and you’d have to step in at the last minute. Your peaceful evening, which had already been non-existent thanks to your favorite grim reaper stalking you, was now thoroughly ruined.

You sighed heavily, letting the irritation bubble up. You didn’t need the stress. You didn’t need Casper clinging to you, constantly breathing down your neck, following you from work to the grocery store, practically watching you while you tried to relax. It was like he thought he could wear you down and force you to acknowledge him.

Well, he wasn’t going to win that easily.

You turned to your bedroom and started walking toward it. The sound of Casper’s soft footsteps followed you like a shadow. “Can you just go?” You snapped, not bothering to look back at him. “I need to get dressed. Your presence is… annoying.”

His voice echoed behind you as you stepped into your room, already mentally prepping yourself for the headache that would be this event. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean ‘not going anywhere’?”

“I’m staying right here,” he said, his tone almost smug.

Of course, he would. He was as stubborn as a brick wall, and clearly had no intention of leaving you alone. But the idea of him lurking around your personal space? That crossed a line.

You had an idea—a rather ridiculous one, but hey, it would work.

“Fine, then.” You said with a sly grin, turning around as you walked toward your closet. “You stay then, Grimmy. But just… watch.”

Casper’s ethereal form hovered near the doorway, a little too close for comfort, but his interest piqued. “Watch what?”

You didn’t answer, instead focusing on finding the outfit you were going to wear. Casper stayed glued to the spot, curious as you began to undress, unaware of what you were about to do.

You removed your blouse first, feeling his presence lingering at the edge of your vision. The air felt thick with his silent attention. You casually let your shirt fall to the floor, then reached for the next item, your back turned toward him as you continued your task.

You could practically hear his ghostly breath hitch when you glanced back over your shoulder at him, a playful glint in your eyes. 

“You like what you see, Grimmy?”

His body stiffened like he wasn’t sure how to react, but he didn’t move, still watching. His eyes, if you could even call them that, were practically burning holes into you.

You smirked, not bothering to hide your amusement as you casually slipped into the dress you’d chosen for the evening. “Don’t act so shy, Grim. I thought you liked souls.”

Casper’s reaction was almost comical, his form flickering as though struggling to maintain composure. “I’m not here for that!”

“Oh? Are you sure? Because I think you might be,” you teased, letting your hands linger over the fabric of the dress, turning slowly to face him. “You do know how to appreciate beauty, don’t you, Grimmy?”

Casper’s ghostly pale face had turned a noticeable shade of what could only be described as “flustered”—which was absurd. He was dead, for heaven’s sake. But there he was, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

Then, without another word, he vanished. Gone. Just like that. You blinked, a slight laugh escaping your lips. Well, that worked. 

You finished getting dressed, the ridiculousness of it all sinking in. Somehow, you had managed to shake off Casper for the night by using his own discomfort against him. He’d been so caught off guard that he hadn’t known how to react. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, feeling a small sense of victory. This night was going to be yours, even if it had started in chaos.

You grabbed your phone and checked the time—just enough time to grab your purse and head out. At least for the evening, you could pretend that everything was normal, and that meant no ghosts, no interruptions.

The moment you stepped out of your loft, you slipped into the role you had mastered: the calm, composed assistant who could handle anything, even the most unexpected of crises. 

Tonight was no different. Your boss had trusted you to step in for her at the event, which meant your ability to perform under pressure was being tested once again.

The venue was a grand, multi-story ballroom with vaulted ceilings and an ambiance that screamed wealth and prestige. Crystal chandeliers glimmered above, casting a warm glow over the sea of guests mingling below. You entered with a practiced grace, your heels clicking softly against the polished marble floors as you navigated through the crowd.

Your boss, the editor-in-chief of a well-known fashion magazine you worked at, maintains her usual level of poise. She greeted people, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, and making small talk while you stood beside her, quietly observing the whirlwind of conversation. 

As her assistant, you were in charge of handling all the logistics, ensuring the guests were taken care of and that everything ran smoothly. That meant taking note of important names and contacts, managing schedules, and keeping an eye out for any potential hiccups.

Tonight, you were the one making sure everything stayed on track. You took your place near the entrance, casually keeping tabs on the crowd as your boss moved through the room, chatting with potential investors and key figures in the fashion industry. 

Every so often, she would glance over at you for a quick update or a reminder about certain guests, and you would provide her with the information she needed, always two steps ahead.

You kept a mental checklist of the key players in the room: the head of the fashion department’s major sponsor, and the influencer known for setting trends in the digital world. Each person needed to be addressed properly, and each interaction carefully curated.

When your boss handed you a list of names to memorize last week, you took it without question, scanning over the details and committing them to memory. It was no longer a matter of whether you would succeed tonight; it was simply a question of how flawlessly you could execute everything. And you knew you’d do it with ease.

As the night wore on, you glided between conversations, keeping track of your boss’s needs, occasionally stepping in to provide information to the guests, and always maintaining that cool professionalism that made you stand out. 

At some point, you were asked to retrieve some drinks for your boss. 

You navigated the crowd without a second thought, moving efficiently between groups of people as you made your way to the back office. You could hear the hum of conversation as you passed, the occasional laugh, the clink of glasses, but you were focused. 

You made your way to the bar, your mind still buzzing from the whirlwind of the evening, but something felt… off. The familiar weight of being watched had slipped away, and it was strange. Normally, the pull of a presence, some ghost or spirit trailing behind you, would have been so ingrained in your routine that you’d hardly notice it. 

But tonight? It was like the feeling had vanished entirely.

It was unsettling. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. The eerie quiet made your thoughts drift back to your childhood—a time when seeing spirits was more of a curse than a gift. You remembered telling your parents about it, about the strange faces that would appear to you, whispering their names, hovering just out of sight. 

And their response? A quick trip to a mental institution at a young age. "You're imagining things," they’d said. "It's just your mind playing tricks."

You had hated it. 

Hated the way your parents treated your abilities as if they were a problem to be solved. And that hatred turned into bitterness. Ever since you’d learned to hide it—to pretend that you couldn’t see the spirits who followed you, pretending their whispers didn’t get under your skin.

You had learned to tune out the names that would sometimes float around the edges of your vision, names that would send a chill down your spine.

Death had always been a part of you, and you hated it. Hated how it was always there, how it clung to you like a shadow. You’d been forced into hiding your truth for years. And yet, here you were, working in fashion—a world so far removed from the grim reality of death that you could almost convince yourself that it didn’t exist.

But even this world was not free from its pull.

You looked around at the event, the glamour, the flashing lights, the elegant conversations, and you couldn’t help but feel slightly detached from it all. You loved fashion, no doubt about it. The creativity, the artistry—it had always been your escape. And even though the pay didn’t match your hard work, you had been content. 

At least you thought you were. 

But a part of you missed the thrill of the chase, the mystery—the way Casper had been, in his way, a strange, unwelcome source of entertainment. 

Yeah, he was annoying as hell. 

But if you were being honest, he had made things more… fun.

You took a deep breath, shook your head, and tried to push those thoughts out. You didn’t need to think about that little reaper. You just needed to focus on your life, and your dreams.

And then, as if the universe couldn’t let you have a moment’s peace, you turned the corner and ran smack into a man dressed entirely in black, with a red tie that mirrored the intensity of his eyes. His grip was firm as he caught you by the shoulders, steadying you as your balance faltered.

You blinked. You took a step back. No way.

There, standing in front of you, was none other than Casper—in human form?

His usual pale, translucent appearance was gone, replaced by a sharply dressed figure, his black suit crisp and immaculate. His red tie, sharp as his gaze, matched the color of his eyes—those eyes that gleamed with an unsettling amusement.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, his voice smooth and mocking as ever. The words slid off his tongue like a challenge, almost as if he were daring you to deny it.

You rolled your eyes, forcing yourself to recover from the shock. “What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, your annoyance rising instantly. The shock was wearing off, but the frustration remained. “I thought I told you to leave me alone.”

His grin widened, an almost smug look settling on his face as he tilted his head. “Well, I’ve been following you around long enough to realize something. You may not fear death, but there’s one thing I know for sure—you can’t escape it. So why bother running from me when you know it’s only a matter of time?”

You blinked again, incredulous. “Are you seriously trying to make a philosophical point right now?”

Casper shrugged, his hands still firmly on your shoulders as if anchoring you to this moment. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just here to remind you that I am the one who holds your fate.” His voice dropped slightly, a glint of something darker behind his words. “I don’t forget easily, you know.”

You felt the weight of his words settle in, but just as quickly, you pushed them aside. You were done with his games, done with the feeling that something or someone was always lurking. “If you're so hell-bent on being a problem, why don't you just leave me alone? I’m trying to have a normal night, for once.”

Casper raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his features. “Normal? Now that’s a word I never thought I’d hear from you.”

You sighed in exasperation. “Look, I’m really not in the mood for this. I’m here for work. Not whatever you’re trying to pull.”

He didn’t let go of you, though, his grip still firm. “Fine, but remember—death has a way of creeping in when you least expect it. And I’m still here. Watching. Waiting.”

You rolled your eyes again, pushing past him this time. “Yeah, yeah. Just... stay out of my way, okay? I've got a job to do.”

Casper didn’t follow you immediately. Instead, he stood there, his eyes flicking to you as you walked away. You could almost feel the weight of his gaze on your back as you made your way to the bar, shaking off his presence as best you could.

You were tired of this—tired of him. But deep down, some strange, unsettling part of you knew he wouldn’t leave until he got what he wanted.

With a sigh, you returned to your boss with the drinks, trying to keep a calm exterior. You handed her the glass, and she gave you a knowing look, a small smile curving her lips. "How’s your night going?" she asked, clearly not expecting much but offering the polite conversation anyway.

"Fine," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "Just ready to head--"

"I didn't ask for your life story." Your boss cuts you off.

Right, still a mean bitch, you followed your boss gaze and shifted across the room, scanning the crowd like she was looking for something—someone. You followed her line of sight, and for the briefest moment, your heart sank in your chest.

It was him.

Casper.

He was moving through the crowd, his pale skin glowing under the lights and his white hair catching the spotlight, almost unnatural in its radiance. And those red wine-colored eyes, always gleaming with a mischievous, almost predatory look. Of course, it had to be him.

You could feel the pit in your stomach grow. What the hell did he want now?

Before you could process it, your boss turned to you with that knowing smile again. "Do you know him? He’s heading this way."

You blinked, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling settling in your chest. "I… I think I’ve seen him around," you said, trying to keep your composure. But what the hell was he doing here?

Casper approached, his eyes locking onto yours as if he’d found the perfect prey. He was still dressed in that tailored black suit with the red tie, the sharp contrast of his appearance only making his otherworldly presence that much more noticeable. He didn’t even look like he belonged here, but there he was, standing in front of you.

Your boss, always the social butterfly, didn’t miss a beat. She extended her hand toward him with a bright, professional smile. “Good evening. It’s lovely to meet you. You’re so handsome.”

You felt a knot tighten in your stomach. You didn’t want to look, didn’t want to pay attention to the way she so easily interacted with him, the way she was completely unaware of the chaos that had been following you around.

But you couldn’t look away.

Casper gave her a smile that was all teeth. “Thank you, t’s a pleasure my name is… well, Casper,” he said smoothly, his voice like honey, deep and smooth, with a hint of mystery lacing every word. “I’ve heard a lot about you from your pretty assistant.”

“Oh really?” Your boss mumbled before looking at you.

Your eyes darted away, feeling the weight of the conversation that was unfolding around you. You weren’t quite sure what was happening, but you couldn’t deny that this was the last thing you wanted. You just wanted to get through the night without him stealing the spotlight.

“Casper,” your boss repeated, impressed, glancing at you as if waiting for some sort of confirmation. “So… which agencies you work at?”

"Agencies…?" Casper questioned, a little lost.

Oh no. Of course. How did you not see it before? The polished look, the charm, the smoothness to his every move—it was all so damn calculated. In your boss eyes, this wasn’t just some random guy trailing you like a ghost.

Casper has model features.

His facial features are close to the famous model standing, no less. You can already imagine his face in the glossy magazines scattered around the fashion industry. The sleek white hair, those eyes like liquid wine… the boyish charm that made him almost impossible to ignore.

"Aren’t you a model?" Your boss asked.

Casper’s smile widened, "Oh no I am not a model, but I sometimes do simple shoots when Halloween comes around,” he answered, his voice dripping with that signature smugness. 

Your boss’s eyes widened at his words. Impossible. Simple was an understatement. He definitely have the potential to become one of the it models, the ones with major campaigns and ad spreads. 

"I see," your boss said, her eyes practically sparkling as she examined Casper. "Well, I'm sure you're used to all the attention by now, but I must say, you're quite a striking presence, Casper." Her words were laced with a polite admiration that made you want to roll your eyes, but you restrained yourself, knowing better than to interrupt.

Casper gave another smile that seemed to gleam with just a hint of amusement, the edges of his mouth curling like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Your boss glanced over at the growing crowd, spotting a few more important figures she needed to greet. "Well, I’ll leave you two to chat," she said, offering a gracious smile before turning to walk off. "Enjoy your night, but—" She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper just for you. 

"Give him our card. Get him on board as a main model for the department. If he says no..." She stares at you, looking at you up and down.

You knew that damn look, however still, your mouth almost opened to protest, to shake your head and tell her you weren’t about to turn Casper into some kind of marketing tool. But she was already walking away, leaving you standing there, feeling like a pawn in her strategic little game. 

The words died on your tongue. Fuck.

And just like that, your night—your whole world, really—had shifted. The man who had been haunting your every move for months, who had lurked in the shadows, was now casually interacting with your boss like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

And you? You were standing there, trying desperately to ignore the knot that had formed in your stomach, trying to pretend that you weren’t feeling the flicker of dread creeping up your spine.

Casper, of course, noticed. He always did. His gaze, sharp and calculating, met yours. It was like he could see right through you, dissecting the unease that you couldn’t hide. 

His voice, soft and almost teasing, cut through the air. "Did you think I was just an average looking grim reaper?" he asked, that ever-present edge of amusement in his tone, the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You should've known better."

You couldn’t help the exasperated sigh that escaped you. You rolled your eyes, trying to keep your irritation at bay. "No, I didn’t think you were just an average looking grim reaper," you said flatly, your voice tinged with annoyance. "But I definitely didn’t expect you to fit fucking model capabilities, especially to my damn boss."

Casper laughed, the sound rich and deep like he was enjoying the frustration he’d caused. He leaned in just slightly, enough to invade your space, but not enough to make you flinch. "Well, life—or rather, the afterlife—has a funny way of surprising you, doesn’t it?"

You fought the urge to smirk or, worse, to smack him. It wasn’t that you were scared of him—not anymore—but there was something about the way he existed that made your skin crawl in all the wrong ways. 

Everything about him was wrong in an almost alluring way—though you’d never dare admit it. He had become a constant, vexing presence in your life, and not even a career-defining event could grant you reprieve.

Worse still? You were already suspected you might never be free of him. Not after your boss all but sealed your fate—secure him, or lose everything. 

Now, you were playing this so-called ‘game’ on his terms, with his one outrageous demand: your soul. Right… he wanted your soul. But you? You had your sights set on something far more valuable—

Him.

Like might as well, he’s the one haunting you almost every day following you everywhere like a ghost with unfinished business. He practically owes you because your boss now wants him as a model only adds to the complexity. You were caught between your duty to your job and your growing, almost morbid fascination with the very reaper who’d been plaguing your life. 

It was almost insanely perfect, really. Like the gods curse you. 

You had to work with him, which meant you'd get more time to study him, and more chances to draw him into your orbit.

“Casper,” you said one evening as the two of you now stood near the bar at the event, his eyes glinting with an almost predatory curiosity as he watched you. "You know, I’ve been thinking. You’d be perfect for this project. The department would love you."

He cocked his head, clearly intrigued. “I thought I was just a ghost to you.”

You smiled, a little too sweetly. “I never said you were just a ghost. I’m just... very interested in how you can be so tangible and untouchable at the same time.” You tilted your head, leaning in ever so slightly. “You’ve got an aura. An energy that’s... rare. And I know people in the fashion industry love rare.”

He blinked at you, still unsure of what you were getting at. “So, you want me to become a model?”

You nodded, “Yes. My boss is already interested, and she’s the one who handles all the big connections. If you want to make a name for yourself, this is your chance.” 

Casper, for all his otherworldly knowledge, still couldn’t quite fathom how things worked in this world. He was too used to being the one who took, not gave. His eyes narrowed as if trying to gauge whether you were being honest or playing some game.

“You think I need your help to get noticed?” he asked, voice low and almost amused. But there was that glimmer of something—doubt, maybe?—flickering behind his gaze.

“Well,” you said, holding his gaze with unwavering confidence. “You can get noticed any company, sure. But this? This would be the perfect opportunity. I can guarantee you’ll get all the attention you want. And... you’ll get what you want, too.”

He seemed to weigh your words, his expression thoughtful. He hadn’t expected you to play into his desire for influence, for control. He hadn’t realized how much you were feeding into his need for validation—something he desperately craved but didn’t understand.

“All right, then,” he said after a moment, his tone almost too eager. “But you’ll have to promise me something in return.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh?”

His red eyes gleamed. “When done with this little ‘becoming a model’—you’ll give me your soul, right? After all, I’ll have given you what you need for your boss.” He smirked, clearly thinking he had you cornered.

You sighed, “We'll see,” you said, that familiar, dangerous smile of yours creeping onto your lips. “Maybe there’s something else you’ll want more than my soul.”

Casper blinked, clearly thrown by your words. “Like what…?”

You rolled your eyes, you were already moving on to the next part of your plan. In the back of your mind, you knew the final step was going to be the hardest, but seriously, this? 

You had to work with Casper—the Casper. 

Again, the one who’d been haunting you for months. The one who’d made your life a walking nightmare in every way possible. And now, thanks to your boss's questionable decision-making skills, you became his assistant.

Your job, as if the universe wasn’t already laughing in your face, was to make sure everything went perfectly for him—fix his hair, calm his ridiculously over-inflated ego, and handle all the tiny, soul-crushing details that kept his modeling career afloat. Because, of course, who better to trust with all that than someone who literally hates their life?

You could barely look at him without feeling the urge to strangle him—or worse, do something far more dangerous, like giving into the strange pull he had over you. From the moment you started working for him, your patience had been put through the wringer. It wasn’t just that he was difficult—no, that would’ve been manageable. 

It was the way he acted like you owed him something, like catering to his every whim was just an unspoken part of your job description. His arrogance knew no bounds, and every time he had to interact with someone—whether it was the stylist, the makeup artist, or literally anyone else—he made sure they knew how much of an inconvenience they were. A scoff here, an eye roll there. Like the whole world was wasting his precious time.

But nothing got under your skin more than his insistence that you had to be the one to do everything for him.

Today was a vampire-themed shoot that should’ve been straightforward. The concept was classic—dark, brooding, seductive. And Casper?

He was practically made for it. With his porcelain skin, blood-red eyes, and stark white hair, he already looked like he stepped out of a gothic novel. Under the dim studio lighting, he was equally ethereal and unnerving—the perfect blend of beauty and danger.

But, of course, things couldn’t be that easy.

First, he flat-out refused to let anyone else touch him. No stylists, no makeup artists—no one. And why? Because of his Probability Reaper abilities. As if one misplaced brush stroke or a stray hairpin would suddenly send someone to an early grave.

So, naturally, he demanded you do everything.

“Come here, you,” he said, his voice deep, almost a growl as he fixed his gaze on you. “I need the blood on my lips. Don’t just stand there. I’m waiting.”

You gritted your teeth, resisting the urge to tell him where he could shove his demands. You had work to do. "Fine," you muttered under your breath, moving toward him.

You could feel his eyes on you as you prepared the fake blood, the sticky red substance almost too realistic for comfort.

Your fingers brushed against his soft lips, and for a second, you almost forgot what you were doing. His eyes, as always, locked onto yours, and for a fleeting moment, you could see something in them—something dangerous. 

A hunger.

It was the same pull. The same unsettling feeling that had haunted you since the day you first met him. But now, in such close proximity, with his breath mixing with yours, you couldn’t ignore it. His stare burned into your skin like a brand, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You quickly finished the task, wiping your hands off with a towel, keeping your gaze away from him. The last thing you needed was to fall for whatever it was he was doing to you. You were already playing with fire. You didn't need to get burned.

Casper, however, was not deterred by your coolness. He leaned in, looking at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "You know," he said, his voice low and teasing, "there’s something about the way you touch me... something different. Why is that?"

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was. His lips—still stained with fake blood—were just a few inches away from yours. The faintest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I'm just doing my job," you replied, trying to keep your tone steady.

But it didn’t work. His smile only grew, and for a second, you could see that strange glint in his eyes—the same one you had seen in his otherworldly stare when he first encountered you. The one that made you think he was far more dangerous than any of the spirits you’d dealt with in your life.

“Mm,” he hummed, the sound vibrating in his chest as he stepped even closer. His breath was warm against your face, his presence suffocating in a way that you couldn't ignore. "I don’t believe you."

You straightened, quickly distancing yourself. “Just finish the damn shoot, Casper. That’s all I’m here for.”

Before you could take another breath, he moved.

One second, you were standing firm, refusing to let him pull you in. The next? His hands gripped your waist, and with a smooth, effortless motion, he pulled you down onto his lap.

A startled gasp left your lips, but before you could protest, Casper’s arms settled around you—firm but unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. His crimson eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as he looked up at you, his head tilted just slightly as if studying a particularly intriguing puzzle.

“You’re acting so different today,” he murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “I can sense it. Why?”

You stiffened. Another question. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place, more binding than his actual hold on you. His grip wasn’t tight, wasn’t forceful—but it didn’t need to be. His presence alone was enough to escape feel pointless.

Your lips parted, but no words came. What could you even say? That you didn’t know why? That you didn’t want to know? That some part of you had already accepted whatever this was, even as you kept pretending to fight it?

Casper hummed, one hand lazily tracing patterns against your hip, his other resting at the small of your back. Not quite pulling you closer, not quite letting you go. 

Just holding you there, perfectly trapped.

"You don’t even realize it, do you?" His voice was almost amused, but there was something beneath it—something dangerous, something interesting.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, instinct screaming at you to push him away. 

You didn’t.

"I’m just here to do my job," you forced out, trying to sound firm, unaffected.

Casper’s smirk deepened, his head tilting even more like you’d just said something hilarious. "Job, huh?" His voice was silky smooth, laced with quiet mockery. "I think you’re much more than that, don’t you?"

Your heart pounded.

He was too close. Too steady. Too unbothered, like he had already figured something out that you hadn’t.

You grit your teeth, every fiber of your being screaming for control. You refused to let him drag you into this—to make you want whatever twisted game he was playing.

“Just finish your damn job, Casper,” you snapped, trying to shift your weight, to push away from him. But his hands—so annoyingly casual—didn’t let you move far.

“Am I stopping you?” he asked, all false innocence, all easy confidence. His grip didn’t tighten, didn’t turn forceful. But somehow, that made it worse.

"Yes," You glared at him. 

His smirk only widened. And then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in—just enough that you could feel his breath ghosting over your skin. “We’ll see how long you can keep up that act,” he murmured, his voice like silk over a blade.

You wrenched yourself away, standing up fast, putting space between you two before you could do something reckless—something stupid. But as you turned, forcing yourself to focus, to shove this encounter into the back of your mind, one unsettling thought refused to leave you.

Who was really haunting who?

Turns out it can. As more news hits you like a slap to the face, leaving behind a sting of disbelief.

Apparently, Casper’s modeling career—something you still found utterly ridiculous—required both you and your boss to be flown out with him for a series of shoots in another city. You barely had time to process the logistics of it all before your boss, looking far too smug about this, handed you your flight details with a cheery “Try not to kill each other.”

As if that was even an option.

The moment you boarded the plane, fate decided to drive the knife deeper.

Your assigned seat? Right next to Casper.

You shot a glare at your boss as she strolled past, completely unaffected by your suffering. She met your glare with a saccharine smile and an enthusiastic thumbs-up before settling into her own seat several rows ahead.

Traitor.

Casper, of course, looked completely unbothered, the very picture of laziness as he slumped into his seat. One leg stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back like he was already seconds from slipping into a nap. If not for the way his white hair fell perfectly into place, he could’ve been mistaken for some overworked businessman instead of a supernatural menace in designer clothing.

You exhaled through your nose, scowling as you sank into your seat and buckled your belt. The flight hadn’t even taken off yet, and you were already bracing yourself for hours of pure torture.

The first stretch of the flight was silent. Almost too silent.

You weren’t sure if that was better or worse than his usual taunting. Normally, Casper never shut up, always had some smug remark, some sharp-edged teasing that made your patience fray like an overused thread. But right now? Right now, he was quiet.

And that was unsettling in itself.

Halfway through the flight, when the hum of the plane had lulled most passengers into a light doze, Casper cracked one eye open and glanced at you.

“You’re tense, mortal.” His voice was a low murmur, just enough to cut through the ambient noise.

You clenched your jaw. “And you’re breathing in my direction. We all have problems.”

Casper smirked, a lazy, knowing thing, but—for once—he didn’t push.

The moment you landed, exhaustion settled deep into your bones. You were already dreading the next few days—watching Casper glide through his modeling shoots like he owned the damn world, dealing with your boss’s usual demands, and trying not to lose your mind in the process. But just as you thought you could catch a moment of peace, your boss hit you with yet another bombshell.

“You and Casper are sharing a hotel room.”

You blinked at her, your brain stuttering to a halt. “…Come again?”

She sighed, rubbing her temples like she was already so over this conversation before it had even started. “Look, the agency only booked so many rooms. You’ll have separate bedrooms, and there’s a bathroom in between. You’ll live.”

You wanted to argue. Oh, you wanted to scream that you had already spent far too much time being haunted by this insufferable bastard. That you didn’t want to be anywhere near him, let alone sleeping under the same damn roof.

Instead, you swallowed the frustration in your throat, forced yourself to inhale slowly through your nose, and settled for a tight, clipped: “Okay.”

Not like you had a choice.

The hotel was sleek and modern, all glass and polished stone, the kind of place that oozed luxury in a way that made you instantly wary. As the car pulled up to the front entrance, your boss was already rattling off instructions, barely sparing you or Casper a glance as she rifled through her phone.

“All right,” she said, stepping onto the curb with the efficiency of someone who had a million things to do and no time to waste. “You’re also in charge of keeping an eye on Casper.”

You stiffened, already knowing exactly where this was going. “Excuse me?”

She finally looked up at you, arching a brow. “I need him to be well-rested and not a menace before the shoot. That’s your job now. Make sure he’s taken care of, make sure he’s on time, and for the love of all that is holy, make sure he doesn’t get arrested or something.”

You opened your mouth to argue but immediately shut it when she held up a hand. “Nope. Don’t wanna hear it. I have a million things to handle, and I need you to be the responsible one.” She paused, then gave you a flat look. “Which, let’s be honest, is a low-effort achievement compared to him.”

Next to you, Casper hummed in amusement. “I feel like that was an insult.”

“It was,” she replied without missing a beat.

Casper didn’t seem the least bit offended. In fact, he looked downright pleased with himself. You fought the urge to rub your temples, already feeling the tension knotting in your skull.

“And,” your boss continued, ignoring Casper entirely, “I need you to set my schedule for tomorrow’s shoot. I want everything organized before I wake up. Call time, location details, wardrobe check—everything. Understood?”

You sighed, already resigning yourself to your fate. “Yeah. Got it.”

“Good.” She shoved a keycard into your hand before giving Casper a sharp look. “And you. Try not to be difficult.”

Casper smirked, tilting his head like he was considering it. “No promises.”

Your boss exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before muttering something under her breath about ‘getting paid way too little for this’— even though she clearly gets paid enough—and stalking off toward the lobby.

Which left you and Casper standing at the curb, luggage in tow, facing the inevitable. 

Casper turned to you, expression unreadable. “So. Roommates, huh?” 

You exhaled slowly, staring up at the towering hotel before you. “Kill me.”

Casper’s voice rang out behind you, amusement clear in his tone. “You know you can’t actually be killed, right?”

You didn’t even turn around to respond, just kept walking toward the entrance.

“You’re really getting into this whole ‘mortal’ act,” he continued, his footsteps echoing behind you. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

You shot him a glance over your shoulder, your patience already running thin. “I swear, Casper, if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to do something you won’t be able to come back from.”

He laughed, the sound of it too rich, too knowing. “That’s cute. But you forget—I’m already dead.”

“Lucky you,” you muttered, your tone dry. 

You and Casper stood in front of the shared hotel room, the silence between you two heavier than usual. You pushed the door open, the creaking sound echoing louder than necessary in the hallway. It was a strange kind of awkward tension, made worse by the fact that, well, you were stuck with him.

You sank into the couch, trying to distance yourself from his relentless, spectral presence. The exhaustion of the day—of the flight, the absurdity of it all—was settling deep into your bones, but you couldn’t relax. Not with him there. Not with that constant, oppressive, ghostly aura hanging over you like a storm cloud.

And then, of course, he had to go and speak.

“I need a bath,” Casper said casually, as if you didn’t have better things to do than cater to him.

You looked at him like he had just asked you to conjure up a hot tub out of thin air. “What?” you said, disbelief curling in your voice. 

He didn’t seem bothered by your reaction. His red eyes flickered with something approaching amusement, though it was tinged with that ever-present arrogance.

“Come on, mortal,” he said, that ghostly smirk creeping up on his face. “You’re my caretaker now. My personal attendant. Run me a bath.”

Your jaw tightened, and you just stared at him. No way. He’d lost his damn mind. What was this? Some twisted, afterlife spa day?

“You have got to be kidding me,” you muttered, your voice low with irritation. “What, you seriously expect me to run you a bath?” You shook your head, giving him a flat look. “I’m not about to sit here and wash the grime off a literal Grim Reaper.”

His gaze remained unwavering. “Do you... do you know who you're talking to right now?” he said, his voice dripping with an insufferable calmness. “I’m a reaper. You’re the mortal. That means you have to do these things.”

You felt your eye twitch in frustration. “Oh, I know exactly who you are, Grimmy,” you bit back. “You’re the one who’s been haunting me, stealing my soul, and generally making my life a living hell. And now you think I’m gonna be your personal attendant?” You scoffed, pushing yourself upright. “I’ve been through way too much dealing with you, and you want me to play your personal spa assistant? Not happening.”

Casper didn’t even flinch. If anything, he seemed completely unbothered, as if he was entitled to this. "You are the mortal here," he continued, unfazed. "It's your responsibility, like your boss said." He shot you that superior, ghostly smirk that was quickly becoming the bane of your existence.

Your patience? Gone. You stared at him, wide-eyed. "No. I'm really gonna need you to rethink that request, Grimmy," you said, your voice rising in irritation. "You're a reaper! You don’t need a bath! This isn’t some weird form of grim hygiene—what is this, an existential crisis?”

Casper didn’t look at you like you were crazy. In fact, he tilted his head slightly, his expression almost... annoyed. “Maybe it’s a reminder,” he murmured under his breath, as though he wasn’t entirely aware he was speaking out loud. 

“A reminder: the more you drag on giving me your soul, the more problems I’ll cause for you.”

You blinked, processing his words for a moment. Was he actually being serious? 

Ohhh that little shit…

“Well, I’m sorry, Casper,” you said, forcing a smile, “but this mortal is going to pass on the whole bath-running service.” You stood up, stretching, as if you were done with this conversation, mentally checking out. “You’re on your own for that one.”

Casper’s red eyes never left you, though his smirk faded just slightly, as if he couldn’t quite figure you out.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

“Why do you fight me so much?” Casper’s voice cut through the silence, low and prying—way too calm for your liking. “Mortal women usually like me, fall over heels for me, but you don’t. It’s confusing.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you buried your face deeper into the couch pillow, letting out a long, exhausted sigh, like maybe—just maybe—you could breathe out all the frustration clinging to you.

But of course, he wasn’t done. Casper had a way of getting all weird and philosophical when you least had the patience for it.

“I’ve been thinking about it, you know… taking your soul. At this point, is it even worth it?” He paused, then kept going. “I mean, I’ve spent months following you around, became your boss’s model just to stay close, watched you. And now I’m wondering—what does taking your soul actually do for me? Will it fix whatever this thing is that I’m feeling? Or am I just throwing myself into something I can’t undo?”

You didn’t even bother lifting your head. The pillow smelled like expensive hotel fabric—clean, crisp, and utterly unhelpful. You stared at it, brain a mess of exhaustion and irritation, before mumbling,

“I don’t know, Casper. I really don’t.”

For a while, there was only the quiet hum of the air conditioner, Casper’s weight in the room pressing down on you like a physical force. You could feel him standing there, his presence looming like a shadow—waiting for some kind of profound answer, something deep and insightful that could resolve this bizarre conversation he was having with himself.

But you weren’t in the mood for any of it. You were too tired to be dragged into his metaphysical crisis. Too tired to get lost in the strange dark depths of his soul-stealing philosophy.

“I don’t want to be part of your existential crisis,” you groaned into the pillow, the words muffled by fabric. “I’m just trying to survive my days here, man. The job. The constant stuff. You’re the last thing I need to get tangled up in right now.”

You could feel his eyes on you then. It was that burning sensation on your back, like lasers boring into your skin. You didn’t need to look up to know that he was watching you closely, trying to read into your words, trying to figure out if you were being sarcastic or if there was something deeper beneath the surface.

But honestly? 

You couldn’t care less right now. 

The mental exhaustion was starting to hit, and all you wanted was some peace. His gaze was intense, unwavering, but still, you refused to meet it, your eyes still locked on the pillow. You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he processed your response, the gears of his mysterious, otherworldly mind working overtime to make sense of you.

“Well,” he finally said, breaking the silence, his voice softer this time, “maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just... looking for something I can't have." There was a strange tone in his voice, almost as if he was talking to himself as much as he was talking to you. 

A little defeated, a little introspective.

Again, you didn’t say anything. Instead, you closed your eyes, hoping for sleep to come quickly, to shut out the weight of Casper’s presence and the endless swirl of thoughts he always left behind in his wake. Because no matter what he was trying to figure out about himself, you weren’t interested in being part of the puzzle.

And yet, deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder: what would he do if he actually figured himself out? Would he finally stop haunting you? Or would it just be another twist in this strange, never-ending game he was playing to claim your soul…?

You didn’t have the patience to unravel that mess. You had your own problems, after all. You were an adult—an assistant, no less. Work, deadlines, dealing with people who barely remembered your name, including your boss. 

Your life had become a monotonous grind of early mornings and late nights, filled with coffee-fueled exhaustion and half-hearted pleasantries. You kept your head down, you smiled when necessary, and you pretended that everything was fine.

Your world had been mundane. Easy. Quiet. Predictable.

And now? You had a Grim Reaper hovering over your shoulder, stuck in some kind of self-inflicted moral dilemma about whether or not he should rip your soul from your body. Like some whiny, undead philosopher who thought way too hard about his own existence.

The absurdity of it all weighed on you, pressing down like a heavy blanket of fatigue. A whole-ass harbinger of death, a supernatural entity, was following you around like a lost puppy, struggling with his own version of a midlife crisis. 

And somehow, somehow, you were the one stuck dealing with it.

It was ridiculous.

And then, out of nowhere, a song popped into your head—one that fit the mood a little too well.

All the people on the planet Working 9 to 5 just to stay alive How come?

The lyrics lingered in your mind, an unspoken anthem to the exhaustion of existence. Because wasn’t that all life was? A constant, never-ending loop of work and survival, of pretending everything was fine when it really, really wasn’t?

And now, even death itself was standing in your hotel room, trying to work through some kind of ghostly identity crisis. Without thinking, the words slipped out before you could stop them. 

“What goes up, ghost around…” You blinked.

Oh. Oh, no.

Did you—did you just make a pun about Casper?

Your lips parted slightly as the realization sank in, horror slowly creeping up your spine. This was it. You had officially lost your mind. The universe had thrown a scythe-wielding, existentially confused Grim Reaper into your life, and instead of screaming or running away, you were making stupid puns.

You were so done. Done with the constant noise in your head, the pressure, the irritation of dealing with someone who thought he could just waltz into your life like some smug, otherworldly nuisance. You were exhausted—physically, mentally, spiritually—and if you had to put up with his antics for one more second, you were going to start throwing things.

Yeah. No. You needed a bath.

You slowly get up and head straight for the bathroom. Casper, ever the uninvited, followed right behind. “Where are we going?” he asked, like he had any right to be included in this plan.

You didn’t even bother looking back. “I am going to take a bath. You are going to sit your ass somewhere else and leave me alone.”

Predictably, he ignored the very clear boundary you just set. “Oh, perfect, I need a bath, too.”

You stopped in your tracks in the bathroom doorway, slowly turning to face him. He looked entirely too pleased with himself, hands in his pockets, head tilted just enough to be infuriating. “Casper,” you said, voice dangerously calm.

“Yes?”

“Get. Out.”

His smirk twitched. “Now, hold on, why—”

Before he could even think about arguing, you grabbed the nearest object—a rolled-up towel—and launched it at him. He barely dodged, laughing like this was the funniest thing in the world, but you weren’t in the mood. You shoved him back. He barely stumbled—damn grim reflexes—but before he could retaliate, you slammed the bathroom door in his face and locked it for good measure.

A satisfied exhale left your lips. Peace. Finally.

You turned toward the tub, already feeling the tension in your body start to loosen at the thought of just sinking into hot water and pretending the world—and annoying grim reapers didn’t exist. You twisted the faucet on, letting the steam rise as the tub filled, the sound of water rushing over the porcelain drowning out any lingering frustration.

Shedding the rest of your clothes, you stepped in, the heat instantly soothing every worn-out nerve in your body. You let yourself sink lower, eyes slipping shut, breathing in the faint scent of whatever overpriced bath soak you grabbed last time you were at the store.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you were alone. No reapers. No stress. No existential crises. Just you, the water, and—

Knock knock.

Your head snapped toward the door, eyes narrowing. “…You’re not drowning, right?” Casper’s muffled voice called from the other side. “Because that would be kinda ironic.”

You groaned, sliding lower into the water until it covered your ears. You were never going to be rid of him, were you? However, then silence on the other side of the door stretched on. Five minutes passed.

Casper had finally given up. Good.

You exhaled slowly, leaning your head back against the edge of the tub, your brows furrowing as the stress still lingered—coiled deep in your muscles, settled in the pit of your stomach like a weight that wouldn’t budge.

Maybe… just maybe.

The water cradled you, heavy with warmth, lapping lazily against your skin as you sank deeper into the tub. You felt the heat seeped into your muscles, loosening the tightness coiled between your shoulders, and you let out a slow breath, your arms sliding around yourself in a loose embrace.

Your arms slid around yourself, fingers dragging slowly over your collarbones, down your shoulders. Damn, you were tense. ‘Like, why-are-my-muscles-made-of-concrete tense.’ But the heat was working its magic, loosening things up one knot at a time. You pressed your thumbs into the tight spots, hissing a little at the ache before it melted into something softer.

You lingered there for a moment, pressing into the knots along your neck, kneading with slow, deliberate circles until the tension began to unravel, the water was perfect—hot enough to turn your skin red, but not so scalding that it hurt. You sank deeper, letting it wrap around you like a lazy hug, the steam rising in little curls. 

Lavender, honey, whatever fancy shit was in this bath bomb—it smelled good, like one of those expensive spas you’d never actually pay to visit.

Legs propped up on the edge of the tub, you let one hand drift under the water, skimming over your stomach and your hips. The other lazily traced circles on your arm, catching droplets as they rolled down. Everything felt smoother in the water—your skin, your movements, even your thoughts, which were finally, finally shutting the hell up for once.

No grim reaper lurking like a weirdo. No stress tapping its fingers against your skull. Just you, the warmth, and the quiet slosh of water every time you shifted as one hand drifted down your arm, fingertips tracing the droplets clinging to your skin, while the other slipped beneath the surface, palm gliding over your stomach, lower, lower—until your fingers found the soft, slick heat between your thighs.

No rush. No urgency. 

Just the slow, experimental drag of your touch, tracing idle circles over your clit, already swollen with anticipation. The water made everything smoother, your fingers gliding effortlessly as you teased yourself, testing pressure speed—each movement sending little shocks of pleasure radiating outward.

Your breath hitched, lips parting as you arched slightly, the water lapping at your ribs. The warmth of the bath only heightened the sensation, your skin hypersensitive, every brush of your fingertips electric. You let yourself explore—gentle at first, then firmer, your hips shifting just enough to chase the friction.

A sigh escaped you, head tipping back against the rim of the tub, eyes fluttering shut, and let out a long breath. Fuck, when was the last time you just… existed like this? 

No overthinking, no distractions. Just your hands on your own skin, slow and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world.

You were so close to a stress-free moment—just you, the hot water, and your fingers working slow, teasing circles over your clit, already throbbing from the buildup. The bath made everything slick, and effortless, your touch gliding just right as you tested the pressure, the speed, biting your lip when a particularly good stroke sent a shiver up your spine.

Your breath hitched, hips lifting slightly, water sloshing as you arched two fingers inside you. Fuck, it felt good. The heat of the bath, the way your skin tingled, hypersensitive—every brush of your fingers sent little sparks racing through you. You let yourself get lost in it, touch growing firmer, more deliberate, chasing that sweet, mounting tension.

Then—of fucking course—your mouth betrayed you.

“Casper…” You moan. Fuck, Casper??

The absolute nerve of your subconscious to drag him into this. The guy who’d been stressing you out all damn day, and now here he was, lurking in the back of your mind like an uninvited guest. You groaned, half in frustration, half in reluctant amusement. Really? Now?

You tried to shake it off, fingers never stopping their rhythm, refusing to let him ruin this too. But the thought lingered, stubborn as hell, mixing with the pleasure in a way that was equal parts irritating and—okay, fine—kind of hot.

"Ugh, whatever," you muttered to no one, giving in just a little. If your brain wanted to play that game, fine. You’d let the frustration fuel you, turning the tension he’d caused into something better. Your strokes got sharper and needier, your free hand gripping the edge of the tub as you chased the release that had been just out of reach all day.

The way your body tensed and then melted beneath your touch, the steady rhythm of your fingers, deeper until your thighs trembled.

You took your time, dragging it out, letting the tension coil tighter with every deliberate stroke. Your breath hitched, coming faster now, lips parted as you sank deeper into the sensation. The warm water lapped at your skin, rippling with each subtle movement, muffling the quiet, needy sounds that slipped past your lips despite your best efforts.

And when it finally crashed over you—heat flooding through your limbs, pleasure cresting in slow, shuddering waves—you let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. Figures. Even in your own damn climax, he was still lingering in the back of your mind. 

That asshole.

“What are you doing, Mortal?”

You practically launched out of the tub.

Water sloshed violently over the edge as you jerked upright, your entire body going rigid with shock. Your heart nearly exploded in your chest as you snapped your head toward the source of the voice—only to see Casper, standing there like some smug little shit, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted in curiosity.

Oh, hell no. How did he get in here??

“WHAT THE FUCK—” You scrambled to grab the nearest thing—your damn loofah—hurling it at his face with as much force as you could muster. Casper barely flinched, the soft thing bouncing off his cheek like a tragic attempt at an attack.

He blinked. “Was that supposed to hurt?”

“YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN HERE!”

He looked genuinely confused. “But I live here.”

“But I’m in here,” you corrected, voice dripping with exasperation as you pulled your knees up to your chest, trying to salvage what little dignity you had left. “Big fucking difference.”

Casper’s gaze dragged down lazily, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. His lips parted slightly, his head tilting like he was putting together a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“I still don’t get it,” he admitted, his voice lower now. “I’ve seen mortals bathe before.”

“Oh my god—” You were going to die. Not from him taking your soul, not from some supernatural battle of wills—no, you were going to die from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

Casper took a slow step forward, and you held up a warning hand. “Do not come any closer.”

He stopped but didn’t look the least bit intimidated. In fact, he looked… intrigued. Like he was enjoying your frustration. Like he knew he had interrupted something and was now just here to be an absolute menace about it.

“You were making noises,” he pointed out, as if you weren’t already fully aware.

You clenched your jaw, your eye twitching. “I was relaxing.”

“Sounded more like suffering.”

“Oh my god...” You inhaled sharply through your nose, resisting the urge to drown yourself just to escape this absolute disaster of a moment. With all the strength of someone barely holding onto their last shred of sanity, you spoke through gritted teeth. 

“Casper. I swear to whatever god you believe in if you don’t get out of my bathroom in the next three seconds—”

Casper grinned, taking one step backward—which was not fast enough for your liking. “Or what? You’ll come after me?”

Oh, you hated him.

Casper stood there, the grimmest of grim reapers, with his white hair like fallen ash and those red-wine eyes gleaming with amusement. He was a nightmare in the flesh, a creature that should have inspired fear—should have made you tremble at the very thought of his existence.

Instead, he was standing in the bathroom, casually crumbling what little patience you had left invading your private time, looking at you like you were the strange one.

You wanted to scream. Oh, you wanted to scream.

Maybe throw something. Maybe rip your own hair out. Or better yet, maybe grab him by that infuriatingly perfect collar and shove him straight into the tub, hold him under until all his smug little comments bubbled into silence.

But you didn’t.

Because that would mean ruining your carefully put-together appearance. And worse? It would mean hurting your boss’s prized model—the one person you absolutely could not afford to lay a hand on unless you wanted to kiss your job goodbye.

So instead, you forced yourself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. Fingers tightening around the porcelain edges of the tub like they were the only thing anchoring you to sanity. “Casper,” you said, your voice dipping into something low and dangerous, like a warning before a storm.

“Hm?” That lazy, infuriating hum, like he hadn’t just walked in on you at your most vulnerable.

“Get. Out.”

He tilted his head, looking genuinely—genuinely—confused. “Why?”

You clenched your jaw so hard it could’ve cracked. “Because I am naked and bathing, and you are not supposed to be here.”

He considered that for a long moment. Then, his lips curled into something devious. “Technically, I am supposed to be here. You and I made a deal. I’m supposed to be haunting you for your soul.”

“Then haunt me in literally any other room.”

Casper sighed, dramatic and slow, as if you were the one being unreasonable. “Fine,” he relented, but then—then—he smirked. That smirk, the one that made you want to smack him upside the head. “But just so you know, you really should be quieter. You don’t want your neighbors thinking you’re being murdered in here.”

Fuck this. 

You were fuming, seething, gripping the edge of the tub like it was the only thing keeping you from losing your goddamn mind. Your eye twitched so violently that for a second, you swore the entire world flickered—as reality itself had short-circuited under the sheer weight of your frustration.

You had officially had enough.

With seething movements, you pushed yourself up from the bath, water cascading down your skin in slow, glistening trails. 

You grabbed the nearest towel, wrapping it around your body without a second thought, the fabric clinging to your damp form as you stepped out of the tub. You barely noticed the chill of the air against your skin. You barely cared.

Casper must have sensed the shift in the air because the moment your foot hit the tile with a sharp, wet slap, his smirk faltered. For the first time since he had started haunting your every waking moment, he looked genuinely unsettled.

His red eyes flickered—uncertainty, hesitation, maybe even a hint of fear. Good. Because you weren’t playing anymore. Before he could get another word in, you were moving. He took a cautious step back, but it was already too late.

Like a force of nature, you stormed toward him, towel clutched tightly around your body, water still dripping from your hair. Casper did the only thing his undead brain could think of—he ran.

Straight out of the bathroom. Oh, hell no.

You chased after him, barreling through the doorway, barely even aware of the way the hallway light flickered as you passed under it.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" you growled, the anger burning in your veins hotter than any embarrassment over your current state.

Casper yelped—yelped—as he sprinted down the hall, his long coat billowing behind him in his panic. For someone who literally dealt with death, he sure as hell was scared for his life.

"Now, now, let’s be rational about this!" he called over his shoulder, trying to sound composed, but his voice cracked at the end. Oh, he was scared.

"Rational?!" you scoffed, lunging forward. "You have been tormenting me for months, Casper! Months! And now you wanna talk about being rational?! Oh, no—you don’t get to run from me now!"

You saw the exact moment he realized he was cornered. 

Casper skidded to a halt at his bedroom door, scrambling to fling it open. But you were already there, shoving against it just as he tried to slam it in your face. 

His eyes were wide, his expression somewhere between shock and sheer terror. “You—you’re unhinged!" he accused, voice going slightly high-pitched.

"You made me this way!" you snapped back, shoving your way inside. He stumbled backward, eyes widening at you before—bam.

Your body crashed into his, sending him stumbling backward onto the bed. You followed without hesitation, climbing over him, straddling his waist, and pinning him beneath you with a force that had him momentarily stunned.

His body was solid beneath yours, colder than you expected due to the whole undead grim reaper thing. 

You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, his breathing steady but slightly uneven now, like he was processing what just happened.

For the first time, you saw something shift in his expression—not his usual smug amusement, not his lazy arrogance, but something else. Surprise and

Confusion.

His wine-red eyes flickered over your face, searching, calculating. “Well…” His voice was quieter now, almost thoughtful. “I can’t say I saw this coming.”

You leaned in, your face just inches from his, close enough to see the way his lips parted slightly, how his throat bobbed with a slow, almost instinctive swallow. “Good,” you murmured, your voice low, dangerous. “Then maybe, for once, you’ll shut up and listen.”

Casper blinked up at you, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, but his silence—for once—was enough.

“I’m sick and over with you haunting me,” you yelled, dripping with something almost cruel in its amusement. “You think you can just waltz into my life, make my every moment miserable, and I’m supposed to sit back and let you have my soul?” 

Casper wasn’t fully listening, like he could feel you—every inch of your body, barely covered by that frustratingly short towel, heat seeping through the thin fabric where it clung to your damp skin. It was a dangerous sight, teetering on the edge of revealing more than it should, and shit—why did a mortal have to be this pretty?

You tilted your head slightly, lips hovering just inches from his, teasing him with the ghost of a touch. “My soul isn’t for sale.”

His breath caught. His usual arrogance wavered, flickering into something less composed. For the first time, you had him unsure. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, and you could practically see the war raging behind them—frustration, fascination, something else he wouldn’t dare name.

“You make this so much harder than it needs to be,” he muttered, his voice laced with that same begrudging admiration, but there was something else, too—something red. His face, his ears, all betraying him as he took in the fire in your expression, the way you pressed against him, holding him down.

His breath hitched as you shifted, the pressure making his thoughts scatter.

“J-Just hand over your soul, and I-I’ll leave,” he stammered, but even he didn’t sound convinced anymore.

The stutter was so obvious; it was almost cute.

“No!” you shouted, your voice sharp with frustration, but that wasn’t even the worst part. The real problem? The unmistakable pressure beneath you. Shit. Right. 

You already knew.

A slow, wicked smile curled on your lips as realization settled in.

“You reap what you sow, Casper,” you whispered, your voice nothing but a slow, taunting caress against his skin. You felt the way his entire body tensed, his throat bobbing, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab you—to do something.

And then? He did move.

With a frustrated growl, he tried to shove you off, his hands gripping your hips, pushing at you in a way that was far too desperate, far too rigid. “G-Get off,” he snapped, his usual cocky arrogance cracking around the edges.

You didn’t budge. Instead, you pressed down just a little more, reveling in the way his breath hitched, the way his grip tightened just a little too much before he forced himself to let go.

“You’re really that eager to run now?” you murmured, tilting your head, watching the way his crimson eyes flickered between frustration and something he really didn’t want you to see.

“I’m not— I just—” His voice faltered, and that was enough to make you lean in closer, pressing your weight down just enough to make him shudder.

“You just what?” you teased, dragging the moment out, letting the heat between you thicken.

His fingers curled into fists, knuckles white. His lips parted, but whatever comeback he had died the second you moved against him, just barely, just enough to feel him really tense beneath you.

“Sh-Shut up,” he muttered, face turning a shade of red that had nothing to do with anger.

Oh, he was trying so hard to hold onto his composure. Trying so hard to shove you away without making it obvious why he needed you to move.

“And if you think I’m just going to hand over my soul…” You trailed off, letting the words dangle between you, thick with implication, like a loaded gun cocked and ready to fire.

Casper swallowed hard, his breath uneven, his self-control slipping—and for all the power he had, for all the ways he had haunted you, he was the one struggling now.

The tables had turned—now you wanted to see just how far you could push him. Because if he had spent all this time tormenting you, refusing to let you go…

Then surely, he must have realized by now—

You gonna haunted him right back.

You leaned down slowly, the space between you two shrinking, the anticipation thickening the air. Your breath mingled with his, a brief, almost electrifying moment before your lips finally met his in a kiss that was anything but gentle. 

It wasn’t soft—there was nothing delicate about it. 

Your lips pressed onto his with force, firm, almost demanding, as though you were claiming something that was yours to take. Casper’s body stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by the intensity, the possessiveness in your touch. You could feel his hesitation—his confusion. His breath hitched as you deepened the kiss, pressing yourself closer to him, your hand finding its way to his jaw, tilting his face to match the angle of yours.

His lips parted slightly under yours, and you took it as an invitation, pushing forward with more urgency, more need. His warmth was overwhelming, contrasting with the coldness of his existence. 

You felt him start to respond, slowly at first, tentative, like he was testing the waters. But the longer you kissed him, the more the tension between you snapped. He exhaled sharply, his fingers grazing the side of your neck as he finally gave in, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.

The shift was subtle, but you could feel it—the way he started to lean into you, his chest pressing against yours, his movements no longer hesitant but eager, almost desperate. 

It was a kiss that felt like something had broken between you two like a barrier had collapsed, and now there was only the fire between you. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that was unfamiliar, unexpected.

When the kiss finally broke, you both pulled back just enough to catch your breath, but neither of you fully separated. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed for a beat too long before slowly opening, still hazy, still lost in the aftermath of it all. 

You could feel his pulse under your fingertips, erratic, as if it wasn’t just his body reacting, but something deeper—something that couldn’t be ignored.

He didn’t say anything right away, the silence between you two heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. His voice, when it finally came, was low, almost a growl.

“W-Why did you do that…?” he asked, his words wrapped in uncertainty and desire as if he was finally understanding something about the mess between you two but still couldn’t quite make sense of it.

You didn’t answer.

Instead, your fingers lingered on his jaw, tracing the delicate curve of his face, feeling the soft, almost otherworldly smoothness of his skin under your touch. You watched him closely, the way his eyes fluttered shut as he tried to maintain his composure, his breath quickening the longer you stayed close. 

But it wasn’t just about that anymore—it wasn’t just about the arrogant, cocky Grim Reaper who had been haunting your thoughts for months. 

No, it was something far more complicated now.

You wanted him—all of him. 

Slowly, deliberately, you shifted, moving your lips from his to the delicate skin of his neck, your breath warm against him as you kissed the soft spot just below his jaw. The moment your lips made contact with his skin, you felt him tense, his body reacting to your touch in ways that made your pulse quicken. 

He let out a quiet gasp, his eyes snapping open as if he wasn’t expecting this. But you could feel it, the way his body betrayed him, how his pulse seemed to spike beneath your lips.

You couldn’t help but press closer, your lips moving along the smooth curve of his neck, slowly, teasingly. You felt him shiver under your touch, his breath hitching sharply. His skin was like silk, but it was warm, almost feverish beneath your lips. 

You traced the delicate line of his throat with your mouth, paying attention to the places that made him tremble, the faintest of whimpers escaping him. 

The deeper you kissed, the more you felt the tremor in his body, the way he couldn’t quite keep himself steady as your lips and teeth brushed against his sensitive skin.

And then, he couldn’t help it anymore—he let out a deep, strangled whine, a sound so raw, so desperate, it sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t the usual sharp, cocky tone he had when he spoke to you—it was something entirely different. His body arched onto yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps as if he was both resisting and wanting at the same time.

“W-What... what are you trying to do with me, mortal?” His voice was thick, almost breathless, the usual arrogance and bravado completely absent now. There was no defiance, no demand for power in his tone. Just confusion.

You paused for a brief second, but you continued your movements, pressing your lips further down his neck, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his skin against yours.

He whimpered again, louder this time, and the sound made something inside you stir—a dark satisfaction, a rush of power. He was so vulnerable under your touch, so... alive in a way you hadn’t anticipated. 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, but you kept your hand on his neck, feeling his pulse flutter under your fingertips. His eyes were wide, a mix of emotions swirling in them—confusion, want, fear. His breath was shallow, chest rising and falling erratically as if he wasn’t sure if he was even breathing properly anymore.

It wasn’t long before your kisses trailed down, slow and soft, your lips teasing a path along his now shirtless, impossibly pale chest. Damn, he really was ghostly white, but soft—way softer than someone who spent all their time being a cocky little shit should be. You couldn’t help yourself; you bit down lightly, just enough to make him jolt under you.

Casper let out this ridiculous, choked noise, half-whimper, half what the fuck was that?! and you grinned against his skin. Oh, this was going to be fun. “What—what are you—” he started, but you cut him off with another bite, right over his ribs this time. He actually squirmed beneath you, letting out the deepest whine you’d ever heard from him.

“Would you look at that,” you mused, pressing another kiss just below his collarbone, feeling his muscles tense under your lips. “The big, bad grim reaper’s ticklish.”

Casper’s eyes shot open, his whole face twisting between frustration and pure, unfiltered panic. “I am not—”

You kissed a little lower. He let out a soft gasp.

You snickered. “Ohhh, you so are.”

His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t know if he should shove you away or pull you closer, and that alone made you even more entertained. 

Casper was losing his goddamn mind. You knew it. He knew it. Hell, even the goddamn shadows in the room probably knew it. And you? Oh, you were thriving.

See, for months now, this insufferable bastard had been haunting you—literally and figuratively. He followed you everywhere like a bad omen, made your life a constant, unending hell, toyed with your sanity like it was his favorite pastime, and worst of all?

He had the audacity to be hot while doing it.

You were fed up. You were horny. And since he was always around, lurking in your damn shadow, you never had a single moment alone to deal with it. No time to take the edge off. No privacy to just breathe without him hovering like he owned the air around you.

And if he was going to keep haunting you relentlessly, refusing to let you have a single second of peace? Because of that, you’d make sure he felt what it was like to be relentlessly pursued—to be hunted the way he had hunted you.

And judging by the way he was struggling beneath you, red-faced, flustered, trying so damn hard to pretend he wasn’t affected?

Oh, he was feeling it all right as your lips pressed slow, lazy kisses along his stomach, dragging out every moment just to watch him squirm. 

And oh, was he squirming. 

His fingers clenched the sheets so hard you thought they might rip. His breath hitched every time you so much as existed near him. His legs were tense, thighs trembling slightly like his entire undead body was screaming at him to do something. But he couldn’t.

Not with you looking down at him like that. Not with that smug little glint in your eye, knowing full well the power you held over him right now.

“Are you—” His voice cracked so hard you nearly laughed in his face. He swallowed, trying to gather what was left of his composure. “Are you actually trying to kill me right now? Because—because this feels like some kind of cruel revenge plot.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Me? Oh, Casper… why would I ever do something so cruel?”

Another kiss. Another sharp inhale. 

"You are,” he accused breathlessly, his crimson eyes burning into you. “You so are.”

You grinned. “Maybe I’m just trying to make you feel a little… haunted.”

His whole body shuddered. "That’s—That’s not funny."

“Oh, I think it’s hilarious.”

Casper groaned, tossing his head back against the pillow like he was physically suffering. “M-Mortal!” he sputtered, trying to sound authoritative but failing spectacularly. 

“You can’t just—You—You can’t have my soul!” 

Casper's breath hitched so hard you thought he might choke on it. His fingers curled tighter into the sheets, his entire body going stiff beneath you—frozen, like some helpless animal caught in the path of an oncoming storm.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing as you watched him squirm. “What do you mean, Casper?”

Your fingers ghosted over the waistband of his pants, playing with the button, teasing but never quite undoing it. His whole body twitched at the contact, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“I-I mean…” he stammered, eyes darting anywhere but your face, ears tinged an adorable shade of pink. “My—My soul, mortal! That’s what I was talking about! Y-you can't have it! It's mine!”

You paused, blinking at him. And then it clicked.

Oh. Oh. Did he—? Had he been—? The realization hit you like a freight train, slamming full speed into your already frenzied brain. This whole time, when he'd been talking about souls, about taking yours, about you trying to take his… was he actually talking about—?

Honestly, you are a bit lost by his words… but you kept on the act! Your lips curled into a slow, wicked grin. “Oh, Casper…” you purred, pressing down just enough to make him gasp, your fingers still playing at his waistband.

“You’ve been talking about souls this whole time, and yet…” You sighed, “…it sounds like you’ve been asking for something else entirely.” 

His entire body jerked like you’d just electrocuted him. “I—I—” His voice cracked so hard you almost felt bad. Almost.

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head at him with mock concern. “Are you sure you meant your soul, Casper? Because…”

Your fingers gave the button of his pants the tiniest little tug. “…from the way you’re acting, it really seems like you meant something else.”

Casper wiggles beneath you then let out a strangled noise somewhere between a whimper and an offended squawk.

“M-MORTAL! I—THAT’S NOT—YOU’RE TWISTING MY WORDS!”

You laughed, soft and velvety, reveling in the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers dug into the sheets like they were the only thing tethering him to reality. His crimson eyes were wide, frantic, darting across your face as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist.

"Am I?" you murmured, letting the words drip from your lips like honey—sweet, slow, dangerous.

“Yes!” he blurted, but his voice wavered, cracking at the edges, betraying him in the most delicious way.

You tilted your head, fingers trailing ever so lightly down his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. His whole body was wound tight, like he was barely holding himself together. Like he didn’t trust himself to move.

“Then tell me,” you coaxed, your voice barely above a whisper, a soft, deliberate tease against the thick silence between you. “What is it, Casper?”

Nothing. No response. Just a tense, heavy pause. A second too long. A hesitation too thick.

And then—so quiet, so wrecked, like it had been dragged from the deepest part of him—

“…Because I think I want you as well, Mortal.”

Oh. Fuck. Like, deadass, that was kinda hot.

Your fingers stilled for just a second, then resumed their slow, torturous circles against his stomach, just barely skimming the skin. Featherlight. Just enough to tease. Just enough to torment.

“You don’t say,” you murmured, letting your nails graze lightly over his skin, watching the way his entire body twitched beneath you. “Such strong words, Casper.”

He sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, his back pressing deeper into the mattress as if he could somehow disappear into it—like it could save him from whatever this was.

But nothing was saving him now. Not from you. shit from me.

Not as the towel around you slipped, the fabric pooling onto the bed like a ghost of hesitation you no longer had.

You could feel the tension coiled in his body, every muscle taut beneath your touch, strung tight between restraint and ruin. His skin burned under your fingertips, feverish, as if he were caught in some exquisite purgatory—unsure whether to arch into your mouth or wrench himself away before he shattered completely.

“W-where will it be?” His voice was raw, stripped down to something fractured and wanting, each word a ragged breath torn from his chest.

You smiled—slow, deliberate, cruel in its sweetness—letting your lips ghost over the frantic pulse at his throat. 

“My tongue?” you murmured, the words dripping like honey, thick and syrupy with promise. You let them linger, let them sink into his skin, let him feel them. “Is that what you want, Casper? My wicked tongue on you?” His cock twitched against your lips, already glistening at the tip—pale, flushed, aching for you. You could see the pulse of his heartbeat in it, the way his entire body trembled with the effort of holding back.

A shudder wracked through him, violent and helpless. His fingers twisted in the sheets, white-knuckled, like a man clinging to the last fraying thread of his control. 

You exhaled, slow and warm, just to watch him squirm.

Then—finally—you pressed a single, lingering kiss to the head, tasting the salt-slick precome beading there. His hips jerked, a choked gasp tearing from his throat, but you held him down with one firm hand on his stomach, fingers splayed possessively over his trembling abdomen.

"Stay still."

A command, not a request.

You took him into your mouth with agonizing slowness, letting your tongue swirl lazily around the crown before sinking deeper, inch by torturous inch. His breath hitched, his fingers knotting in your hair—not pushing, just clinging, as if you were the only thing keeping him from drowning.

You hollowed your cheeks, dragging your lips up in a slow, filthy glide before plunging back down, savoring the way his thighs tensed, the way his stomach quivered under your palm. 

Every movement was deliberate, calculated to unravel him—the flick of your tongue along the underside, the teasing scrape of teeth, the way you pulled off just to watch him whimper before swallowing him down again.

His voice was shattered, raw with desperation. "F-fuck—please—"

You hummed around him, the vibration wringing a broken moan from his lips. His grip tightened in your hair, his hips lifting in tiny, involuntary thrusts, but you controlled the pace, keeping it slow, maddening, until every ragged breath he took was your name.

My god—how you loved this—loved the way he unraveled, the way his breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, the way his hips jerked instinctively toward your mouth, betraying him entirely.

You dragged your nails down the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, feather-light, just enough to make him jolt, to pull another broken sound from his lips. His entire body was a live wire, every nerve alight, every tremor yours to command.

When you finally felt him tense, his whole body bowing off the bed, you locked your eyes with his—holding his gaze as you took him deep, deeper, until his release spilled hot and bitter down your throat.

And even then, you didn’t let go.

You milked him through it, lips sealed tight until he was shaking, oversensitive, gasping your name like a prayer. Only then did you pull away, licking your lips with slow, deliberate satisfaction.  

"Good little reaper."  

The words dripped from your tongue like silk, and just as you watched the shiver roll through him, an idea slithered into your mind—dark, tempting, irresistible.  

Your smirk widened. “Oh… wait,” you purred, voice teasing, wicked. 

“Grimmy, I have a surprise for you.”

Casper swallowed hard, his crimson eyes flickering with something caught between intrigue and apprehension. His hands twitched where they gripped the sheets, like he couldn't decide if he should push you away or pull you closer.

You smirked, trailing your fingers lazily down his chest before slipping away entirely, stepping back just enough to let the anticipation thicken between you. Slowly, deliberately, you turned, making sure he caught the full, teasing sway of your movements as you sauntered over to your suitcase in the hallway.

His breathing was uneven. He was watching you, waiting, completely caught in your spell. "You've been keeping secrets from me, mortal?" he murmured, his voice rough, strained.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, fingers toying with the zipper of your bag. "Oh, I was saving this for myself," you admitted, drawing out each word like honey, "but now? I think I need it right now."

You unzipped the suitcase slowly—so slowly it was almost maddening. The faint rasp of the metal teeth parting filled the dimly lit room, a whisper of sound against the thick silence. Casper tensed.

His haunted lungs hitched.

"You know," you mused, lifting out the little package you had tucked away, letting the low lamp light catch on the edges, "if you're onto me, that means I'm onto you, too."

A confession. A threat. A promise.

Casper's grip on the sheets tightened. "What… What are you planning?"

You turned fully now, holding the item in your hands, watching as his eyes darkened, his throat bobbing with an anxious swallow.

And with a wicked smile, you took a slow step toward the bed.

"Why don’t you let me show you, little reaper?"

It wasn’t long before you watched him, the way his body betrays every flicker of need: the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the restless curl of his fingers into the sheets, the way his throat works as he swallows hard, waiting.

Your hands glide over him, slow and deliberate, fingertips tracing the dip of his spine, the curve of his hip, the softness of his inner thigh—just to hear his breath catch.

Then, with a quiet, knowing hum, you press against him from behind, your body flush against his, the heat of your skin searing through the space between you. 

The weight of your body against his back makes him shudder, and you smile, dragging your lips along the slope of his shoulder.

"Shh," you murmur, voice honey-thick, "I’ve got you."

Your fingers trail down the trembling plane of his thighs, circling the base of his cock with a teasing, featherlight touch. He shudders beneath you, breath hitching—already so close to unraveling, and you’ve barely begun.

You reach for your toy, covered in your slick, warmed between your thighs before you guide it to him, pressing in with a slow, relentless push—just enough to make his back arch, just enough to pull a low, his back arching as choked gasp spills from his lips.

"There you go," you croon, your free hand stroking him in time with each shallow thrust, your grip just tight enough to make his hips jerk. "Such a good little reaper, haunting me, trying to steal my soul." 

You click your tongue, amused. "But you’re the one who’s trapped now, aren’t you?" You pause, letting him feel every inch, letting him burn with it. 

“P-please ugh!” His fingers claw at the sheets, knuckles white, and you lean down, catching his earlobe between your teeth before whispering, "Tell me, Casper—do wraiths beg?"

Then your fingers find his, threading through them, palm to palm, your grip tight enough to ground him, to remind him—you’re here, you’re his, even as you take him apart.

And then you move.

A slow, deep roll from your hands, the drag of the toy inside him deliberate, maddening. His breath comes in ragged bursts, his fingers tightening around yours like a lifeline. 

You thrust deeper, your hand working him faster now, twisting just the way he likes, and his answer comes in a broken moan, his body tightening around the toy as pleasure coils hot and desperate in his gut.

"That’s it," you purr, your breath hot against his skin. "Let me see you come undone. Let me watch you forget you ever wanted to haunt anyone but me."

His hips stutter, his cock pulsing in your hand as he spills over your fingers with a ragged cry, his body clenching around the toy in helpless, shuddering waves.

"It’s where you and I be." You started

A confession. A threat. A promise.

Your free hand skates up his chest, mapping the flutter of his heartbeat, the hitch of his ribs as he gasps. You can feel the way his body clenches around the toy, the way he trembles beneath you, caught between surrender and desperate, clawing need.

“If I’m on to you…" you whisper, your breath hot against his skin, pulling back just enough to catch his gaze—God, those eyes—deep red and drowning, pupils blown, lashes fluttering like he’s already lost to the tide of you.

"...then you’re on to me." A sharp inhale. A fractured moan. His lips part, trembling—wordless, aching, yours.

Your pace shifts—still deep, still relentless, but rougher now, each thrust punching a ragged sound from his throat. His fingers cling to yours, his body arching into every movement, every stroke, every touch like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

And oh, the sounds he makes—soft whimpers, breathless pleas, the way his voice breaks when you angle just right—it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

"Me... on to you." Your voice is a velvet snare, wrapping around him like smoke—dark, intoxicating, inescapable.

Casper arches beneath you, his body strung tight, every muscle trembling as you drive into him with slow, merciless precision. His fingers claw at the sheets, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.

"P-please—" he chokes out, his voice wrecked, desperate. "Let me—fuck, I need—"

You tighten your grip on his hips, nails biting into his skin just enough to make him whimper. "Need what?" you purr, dragging your lips along the shell of his ear. "Say it."

He shudders, his cock twitching against his stomach, already slick with pre-come. "Need to come," he rasps. "Please—please—"

You slow your thrusts to a torturous grind, savoring the way his body clenches around you, greedy and aching. “Aww, and what do I get?" you murmur, your breath hot against his throat.

His answer comes in a rush, raw and unguarded—

"My soul. My fucking—everything—just yours, only yours—"

Your hips stutter at that, just for a second. His soul? A reaper offering up the one thing he shouldn’t—couldn’t—give away. Your fingers slide up his chest, pressing over the frantic beat of his heart. "Careful," you warn, your voice rough. “…You don’t know what you’re asking for."

"I do," he gasps, writhing beneath you.

"I want it—want you to own me, ruin me, fucking keep me—just—ah!—promise you won’t take it. Promise you’ll leave it in me... so I can always be yours."

Your breath catches. Fuck.

"I'm on to you," you growl, sinking your teeth into his shoulder as you snap your hips forward, hard enough to punch a broken cry from his lips. "And you’re on to me."

Then you finally—finally—let him come.

His whole body seizes, back bowing off the bed as he spills over your fist with a shattered moan, his release hot and slick between your fingers. You don’t stop, fucking him through it, dragging out every last spasm until he’s sobbing, oversensitive and shaking.

When he’s limp beneath you, breathless and dazed, you lean down, lips brushing his ear. "Next time you try to steal my soul," you murmur, "make sure it's someone mine."

A weak, breathless laugh escapes him. 

"Too late," he slurs, already half-gone. “I already have.”

You stare at him—really stare—before a slow, possessive smile curls into your mouth. “We’ll see…” you whisper, sealing the vow with a kiss pressed to his sweat-damp skin.

𝑒𝓍𝓉𝓇𝒶 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓌: heheheheheh 🤭

The next day, the studio was bathed in artificial light, soft flashes illuminating the minimalist set—a white backdrop, an expensive chaise, and the ever-irritated grim reaper standing awkwardly in the middle of it all. The entire team moved like clockwork around him, adjusting lights, fixing props, and directing him to pose.

But Casper?

Casper refused to sit down. Not once.

Not even when the photographer, sighed dramatically and gestured toward the antique chair, "All right, Casper, just take a seat and—"

"No."

The team collectively blinked. The photographer looked ready to throw his clipboard across the room.

“Casper, darling, please,” the director whined, exasperated, “I promise it won’t kill you—”

Casper shot the man a look so venomous that it could have rotted a bouquet of flowers on the spot. Still, he did not sit.

Instead, he remained standing, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, the weight never settling. Every so often, his fingers twitched, like he was debating if it was worth committing homicide in front of an audience.

And you?

You were having the time of your life.

It was everything you could do not to burst into laughter as you lounged off to the side, sipping on an overpriced iced tea like you weren’t the reason for his predicament. “Casper, oh my, are you okay?” your boss finally asked, tilting her head, eyes narrowing slightly at the his suspicious behavior.

Casper tensed. His glare flickered toward you, burning and accusing, as if daring you to say something.

You met his gaze head-on. 

Then, with all the innocence of a saint, you shrugged.

“Beats me,” you mused, sipping your drink, barely holding back a smirk.

Casper's fingers twitched violently.

You were the reason he couldn’t sit. You. 

The reason he stood like he had a permanent problem. The reason he looked like he was seriously reconsidering his entire existence.

Casper exhaled sharply, silently cursing your entire bloodline, before begrudgingly suffering through the rest of the shoot. By the time it wrapped up, he was the first to disappear, slipping away the moment the cameras stopped flashing.  

You found him soon after, tucked away at the back of the dressing room. The space was lined with racks of designer clothes, mirrors catching glimpses of his reflection at every angle—but despite all that, your attention never wavered.  

The only thing that mattered was him.

Casper sat near the vanity, arms crossed, eyes still smoldering from earlier.

You, on the other hand, were having fun. While the others took their break, you stayed behind, deciding it would be an excellent opportunity to mess with him further.

And somehow, that led to you dressing him for another shoot.

“Why am I letting you do this?” he grumbled as you straightened his collar, adjusting the fit of the sleek black suit you had thrown onto him. 

“Because you have no choice,” you mused, hands lingering just a little longer than necessary, smoothing the fabric over his chest. “And because, deep down, you love it.”

Casper scoffed. “I loathe it.”

"Aww, you hurt because I fucked you with my dildo, right?" Your voice dripped with mock sympathy, babying him, laced with the kind of teasing cruelty that made his spine stiffen. You dragged a finger down the sweat-slick plane of his back, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch. "Poor Grimmy. So ruined by me."

Casper’s breath hitched, his fingers digging into his clothing like he was trying to tear them apart. "Shut up," he growled, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him, a face fully red.

You laughed, low and wicked, "And here I though you loved it," you purred, relishing the way his body shuddered beneath you. "You fucking nutted everywhere... like some desperate little thing."

His reaction was instant—a sharp inhale, a flash of crimson in his darkened gaze as he twisted to glare at you. 

"You said you wouldn’t say that out loud!”

"Did I?" You blinked, all false innocence, before grinning like the devil you were. "Oops."

His fingers twitched. Then again. Closer. Tighter. Oh?

You watched, amused, as his control frayed at the edges, his jaw clenched so tight you could almost hear his teeth grinding. For a second, you wondered if he’d actually do it—if those long, pale fingers would finally snap around your throat in retaliation.

And then—

He moved.

Casper had you pinned against the wall, his body caging you in, his eyes burning like hellfire. "This ends tonight," he snarled, gripping your chin hard enough to bruise, forcing your gaze up to his.

"I’m taking your soul, mortal."

You blinked. Then—you smiled.

"Oh, Grimmy..."

Before he could react, you struck.

A twist of your wrist, a shift of your weight, and suddenly he was the one pressed against the wall, your body flush against his, your knee sliding between his thighs just to hear the way his breath stuttered.

The dim light carved shadows across his face, highlighting the way his lips parted—in shock, in fury, in something far more dangerous. His chest rose and fell beneath your palm, his heartbeat a frantic, uneven rhythm against your fingertips.

You leaned in, close enough that your lips brushed his as you spoke.

"You can’t take my soul, Casper."

"Because I already took yours."

His breath stopped. For a single, suspended moment, the world held still. His crimson eyes widened, his body rigid against yours, his mind scrambling to process the words—to deny them. "You—" His voice was rough, raw, ruined.

You pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him with a smirk.

"Shhh," you cooed, tilting your head like he was some misbehaving little pet. “I mean you gave it to me, willing in fact.”

He jerked his face away, his jaw clenched tight, but you didn’t miss the way his pulse jumped beneath your touch. "U-Uh I mean—Like, How?" he demanded, voice low, trembling with something between fury and fascination. "You're a mortal, a human—"

You tsked, tracing a slow, deliberate path down his throat, feeling the way his Adam’s apple bobbed under your fingertips.

"Now, now," you murmured, your smile all teeth. "A person like me never reveals their secrets."

His entire body shuddered, his control unraveling thread by thread, his fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to push you away or drag you closer.

Fuck, he was beautiful like this.

The so-called Grim Reaper, known to be the terror of the underworld—reduced to this. To being yours.

You leaned in, your lips a breath away from his, your voice a whisper.

"You should be thanking me," you murmured, your hand sliding lower, teasing, taunting. "Not every reaper gets the privilege of being claimed."

His breath hitched, rough as a serrated edge. "Claimed—?"

"Mhm." Your lips brushed his jaw, slow, deliberate, savoring his pulse beneath your mouth. "The underworld gifted me something special..." Your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his pants, smirking as his hips jerked, and his teeth gritted against a moan.

"A little grim reaper to keep all for myself."

And then—his control shattered.

With a snarl, he grabbed your wrists, slamming you back against the wall. His body pinned yours, every hard line of him a brand, a conquest, a promise. His eyes burned like hellfire, lips parted around ragged breaths, chest heaving with the weight of something feral, something hungry.

And then he kissed you. 

His mouth crashed against yours, such as teeth and tongue, and desperate. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound like a sinner taking communion, his grip on your wrists tightening to the brink of pain. 

There was like no gentleness here, no hesitation—like damnnn you really dragged out of him.

You laughed into his mouth, "I know if I'm haunting you…" You pulled back just enough to watch his lashes flutter, to see the way his lips chased yours, already addicted. Your breath mingled, hot, and shared, the space between you thick with the scent of sweat and sin.

And as his groan vibrated against your lips, as his hands slid from your wrists to your waist, dragging you impossibly closer. Then, with a smirk, you kissed him again—slow this time, deliberate, a velvet stroke of the tongue that had him shuddering...

"…You must be haunting me."

[moonlight-joy]

The North Remembers

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: You are a member of House Hightower, sent north as a hostage to secure peace after the Dance of Dragons. You and Cregan fall in love, but your relationship is doomed from the start.

Pairing: Reader/Cregan Stark

The wind howled through the walls of Winterfell, carrying with it the biting chill of the North. Snowflakes fell steadily from the sky, blanketing the ancient stone keep in a sea of white. The fire crackled in the hearth of the great hall, but even its warmth could not chase away the cold tension that hung in the air.

You sat by the window, watching the snow fall in silence. It was peaceful here in the North—a far cry from the chaos and bloodshed of the Dance of Dragons. Peace had come at a cost, one paid in dragonfire and shattered alliances. And now, as a member of House Hightower, you had been sent to Winterfell as a political hostage, a symbol of the fragile truce between the crown and the North.

At first, you had felt like an outsider, your southern ways foreign to the people of Winterfell. But slowly, the North had begun to seep into your bones. You had learned to endure the cold, to find beauty in the endless snow, and to respect the unyielding strength of the Starks.

And then there was Cregan.

Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, had been an enigma to you from the start. Stern and stoic, he carried the weight of his duties with quiet dignity. Yet beneath his reserved exterior lay a fierce heart, one that burned with loyalty and passion. It had taken time for him to lower his guard, but when he did, you found yourself drawn to him in ways you never expected.

It had started with stolen glances across the hall, fleeting touches that lingered just a moment too long, whispered words shared in the quiet corners of the castle. What had begun as a tentative friendship had blossomed into something far deeper—something forbidden.

You knew it could never last. The North would never accept a union between a Stark and a Hightower, not after the betrayals and bloodshed of the Dance. But no matter how hard you tried to deny it, your heart had already chosen Cregan.

And his had chosen you.

One evening, as the storm raged outside, you found yourself standing by the hearth in the great hall. Cregan entered quietly, his footsteps soft on the stone floor. He crossed the room to stand beside you, the firelight casting shadows across his chiseled features.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction. “If anyone sees us…”

“Let them see,” Cregan replied, his voice low and steady. “I don’t care what they think.”

You turned to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. “They’ll never accept us.”

His eyes softened, and he reached out to take your hand in his. “I don’t care what they accept. I care about you.”

Tears pricked at your eyes as you searched his face, desperate to hold onto this moment, knowing it could slip away at any time. “Even if it means war?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t hesitate. “Even if it means war.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a heavy cloak. You knew the risks—knew that your love could spark another conflict, one that neither the North nor the realm could afford. But in that moment, none of it seemed to matter. All that mattered was him.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words slipping from your lips like a prayer.

Cregan pulled you into his arms, holding you as though he never wanted to let go. “And I love you. Always.”

Days turned into weeks, and your secret love affair continued in the shadows. But secrets never stayed hidden for long in Winterfell. Whispers began to spread, rumors of the southern hostage and the lord of Winterfell growing closer than propriety allowed.

It wasn’t long before word reached Oldtown.

A raven arrived from your family, demanding your return. The letter was terse and formal, reminding you of your duty to House Hightower and the consequences of defying your kin. You read the words with a sinking heart, knowing that the fragile peace you had found in the North was slipping through your fingers.

Cregan found you in the godswood, the letter clutched in your trembling hands. The ancient trees stood silent around you, their branches heavy with snow. He approached quietly, his gaze dark with concern.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You handed him the letter, unable to speak. He read it in silence, his jaw tightening with each word. When he finished, he crumpled the parchment in his fist, his eyes blazing with anger.

“They have no right to take you from me,” he growled.

“They’re my family,” you whispered. “I can’t just ignore them.”

“And what of us?” Cregan demanded, stepping closer. “What we have… it’s real. It matters.”

“I know it does,” you said, your voice breaking. “But if I stay, it could mean war. The North can’t afford another conflict. Your people have suffered enough.”

“I don’t care about politics,” Cregan said fiercely. “I care about you. I won’t lose you.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you reached up to cup his face. “And I won’t let you destroy everything you’ve worked for. You have a duty to your people, Cregan. You can’t throw that away for me.”

“You are my duty,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “You are my heart.”

The godswood stood in solemn witness as you shared a final, desperate kiss, the taste of salt and sorrow lingering on your lips. When you pulled away, you saw the pain etched into Cregan’s features, a reflection of your own heartbreak.

“I’ll come back,” you promised. “Somehow, I’ll find a way.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Cregan vowed. “No matter how long it takes.”

Your departure from Winterfell was a quiet affair. The people of the North watched in silence as you rode through the gates, their expressions unreadable. Cregan stood on the battlements, his cloak billowing in the wind, his gaze fixed on you until you disappeared from sight.

The journey south was long and cold, each mile taking you further from the man you loved. The walls of Oldtown felt suffocating after the vast, open skies of the North. Your family greeted you with cold formality, their eyes sharp with suspicion.

“You’ve shamed us,” your father said, his voice stern. “Fraternizing with a Stark… it’s disgraceful.”

“I love him,” you said simply, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve.

Your father’s expression darkened. “Love is a luxury we cannot afford. You will marry as we command, and you will forget this foolishness.”

But you knew you would never forget. The North had changed you. Cregan had changed you.

Months passed, and the ache in your heart never faded. You longed for the cold winds of Winterfell, for the warmth of Cregan’s embrace. But duty kept you bound to Oldtown, a prisoner of your own blood.

One night, as you sat by the window of your chamber, a raven arrived. You recognized the seal immediately, your hands trembling as you broke the wax.

I’m waiting for you.

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a thousand promises. Tears filled your eyes as you clutched the letter to your chest.

The North remembers.

And so did you.

Please support my work with like and comment

[novaursa]

Hello! So grateful you have opened up your requests 🥰

Could I get one of cregan showing his wife, targ!reader, the wall for the first time?

The Wall

- Summary: Cregan takes you to see the Wall, and Silverwing comes with you.

- Pairing: (wife) targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: The reader is bonded with Silverwing.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

You feel the northern chill in your bones the moment you step foot beyond Winterfell. The air grows heavier, colder, as if the very breath of the Old Gods wraps around you, sinking its icy tendrils into your flesh. It is a different kind of cold—more relentless, more biting than you have ever known in the southern lands of your birth. But then again, you expected nothing less when you agreed to accompany Cregan Stark to the Wall.

Your husband rides at your side, his fur cloak draped over broad shoulders, a sight that fills you with warmth. His face is set with the solemnity that marks his heritage, but there’s a softness there for you—a softening of his eyes whenever they meet yours, a gentle squeeze of his hand on your arm when the wind howls too sharply. His presence beside you feels like a shelter, a warmth against the harshness of the North.

“I’ve waited long to show you this,” Cregan murmurs, his voice low but carrying over the wind. There’s a rare lightness to his words, a pride that makes you smile, despite the cold biting at your cheeks.

“You speak of it as if it’s something magical,” you reply, teasing him gently, though you feel a hint of excitement bubbling beneath your words. The Wall is something that has lingered in stories and songs, a place you’ve only heard about. Yet now, you are about to see it with your own eyes.

“Some might say it is.” He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, sending warmth down your spine. “It’s a sight unlike any other. Even your dragons have their limits when it comes to the Wall.”

Your heart gives a little tug at his words, reminding you of Silverwing, the great she-dragon bonded to you since your youth. You’ve heard the stories too—of how Silverwing, despite her strength and size, refused to cross the Wall during the reign of Queen Alysanne. The tales had puzzled you, and a part of you wondered whether the creature you shared a bond with would behave the same when you reached the ancient barrier.

As the hours stretch on and you grow closer to your destination, the Wall finally emerges on the horizon—a towering monument of ice and stone, glowing eerily under the weak northern sun. The sheer size of it takes your breath away. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, as though it will shield you from the awe that grips your chest.

“There it is,” Cregan says softly, his hand brushing against yours. His voice holds a note of reverence, as if the Wall itself is something holy. “The edge of the world.”

You stare up at it, the enormity of it humbling you in a way nothing ever has. The Wall stretches impossibly high, a barrier that seems to separate not only land but realms themselves—the living and the dead, the known and the unknown.

But what captures your attention more is the sound of wings cutting through the cold air. You turn your gaze upward just in time to see the massive shadow of Silverwing circling above. Her pale, silvery scales shimmer in the dull light, a contrast against the grim, grey sky. Yet, even as she soars closer to the Wall, you see the familiar hesitation in her flight. She slows, wings beating in slower arcs, her great head turning toward the ice as if sensing some invisible barrier.

“She remembers,” you whisper, half to yourself, half to Cregan.

“Aye,” he agrees, watching with you. “The Wall holds a power older than all of us.”

You urge Silverwing with a thought, your connection with her as strong as ever. She flaps her wings harder, drawing closer to the Wall’s towering height, but just as before—just as the tales told—she stops short. Her massive body hovers in the air for a few moments, and despite your urging, she will not go any farther. The invisible force seems to push back, a resistance neither of you can break.

A quiet frustration stirs within you. “She won’t cross it,” you murmur, though you already knew this might happen. You watch her large, majestic form retreat just enough to hover out of reach.

Cregan, who has been observing quietly, steps closer to you. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his warmth. “Perhaps she knows something we don’t,” he says softly, his breath warm against your ear. “The dragons have their wisdom, even if we don’t understand it.”

You nod, leaning into him. His presence calms you, as it always does, and you relax into his embrace. But then, something shifts.

A low, rumbling growl echoes through the air, and you turn your attention back to Silverwing. The dragon’s wings beat harder, her growl growing into a roar that vibrates through your chest. She lowers her body, as if preparing to charge, and you feel her agitation through your bond—a new determination, a will that wasn’t there before.

“What is she—” Cregan begins, but you hold up a hand, silencing him.

Silverwing surges forward, her massive wings flaring as she approaches the Wall once more. This time, there is no hesitation. The invisible force that once stopped her seems to buckle under her will, and you watch in astonishment as Silverwing pushes through the barrier. The cold air whips around you, stinging your face, as her great form crosses over the Wall, her wings carrying her higher into the northern sky.

“She did it,” you breathe, hardly able to believe what you’re seeing. You can feel her triumph, her exhilaration, as she soars over the frozen wasteland beyond. It is as if the Wall’s ancient magic has finally yielded to her strength—or perhaps to something deeper, something connected to you.

Cregan’s hand tightens on your waist, and when you look up at him, you see the awe in his eyes. “You’re the first Targaryen to make it past the Wall,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Silverwing wouldn’t have done that for anyone else.”

Your heart swells at his words, at the pride you feel through your bond with Silverwing and the warmth of Cregan’s affection. You turn in his arms, your fingers brushing against his cold cheek before you kiss him. His lips are warm, soft, a contrast to the sharp cold around you.

“Perhaps she knew it was time,” you whisper against his lips.

“Or perhaps she follows her rider,” Cregan replies, his voice low and tender as he pulls you closer.

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped in his embrace, as the Wall looms behind you. Silverwing’s triumphant roars echo in the distance, and for the first time, you feel as though the North has truly welcomed you.

[flwrkid14]

Ok, you did amazing with the addams family au. Now is it possible to have the batfamily and/or the justice league react to them? Sorry for asking immediately after the last one. Please take your time and no pressure.

tysm anon!! i hope this lives up to ur expectations ! <3

The first time Bruce meets them, he almost doesn't knock.

He stands on the doorstep of the old manor, surrounded by creeping vines and statues that seem to blink when you’re not looking. There’s fog rolling in across the garden, and somewhere deep in the house, something howls.

He’s faced gods. Aliens. The end of the world—twice. But this? This is different.

Because when the door opens, Tim is standing there. Serene. Dressed in black silk and silver rings, with his hair pinned back like a prince preparing for war. He smiles like secrets. He speaks in low tones, carefully enunciated, like every syllable is chosen.

Danny’s behind him, radiant and grinning and barefoot. There's moonlight in his hair and shadow under his nails. He looks like a wish granted wrong and made beautiful anyway. His arm curls around Tim’s waist without thought, possessive and devoted in equal measure.

"Welcome," Tim says. "Please, come in. The house is very excited to meet you."

And that’s not a metaphor. The house creaks in greeting.

---

The children are... something else.

Bart phases in and out of rooms muttering to ghosts only he can hear. Cassie and Anita speak to each other in tongues no one else knows. Kon and Dani keep dueling with enchanted broadswords.

They leave offerings on the windowsills before bed. No one quite knows for who or what. They duel for fun. Their bedtime stories are legends of ancient monsters with names no one else can pronounce. Their laughter sometimes echoes for too long.

“They’re harmless,” Tim says pleasantly, as Dani levitates three feet off the floor, eyes glowing.

Bruce, halfway to calling Zatanna, just nods tightly.

---

The batfamily handles it exactly how you'd expect.

Dick brings muffins and accidentally participates in a blood pact. Jason keeps joking about it—until he finds himself buried up to his neck in rich soil while Dani solemnly explains “we’re helping your roots, Uncle Jason.” Steph loves the vibes. Duke is side-eyeing the ghost in the hallway mirror that only he can see. Cass takes one look at the kids and says, “They fight well,” like it’s the highest compliment.

Damian disappears for two days and returns with a pet spider the size of a basketball and a cryptic smile.

Alfred and Danny become fast friends. They discuss herbal tonics, rare poisons, and long-lost techniques of preservation. “You steep your mandrake root first?” “Only if I want them to remember the dream.”

---

When the Justice League visits, things escalate.

Clark walks in and instantly gets hugged by a disembodied hand. Diana is enchanted. She’s utterly delighted by Tim’s gothic elegance and Danny's over-the-top adoration. She brings a cursed sword as a hostess gift. They keep it in the foyer.

J’onn enjoys the vibes. He sits with Cassie and Bart as they summon something from the other realm. J’onn helps. They succeed. Nobody talks about it afterward.

Hal is terrified. He doesn’t know why. He won’t go near the punch. Barry trips over a summoning circle and ends up in a mirror dimension for twelve minutes. No one is concerned.

---

It feels like an odd arrangement.

And yet.

No one can deny how much Tim smiles now. How still his hands are when Danny touches them. How soft his voice goes when he says, “They’re our children.”

The house may creak. The shadows may whisper. The candles may flicker without wind.

But it’s warm here.

Safe. Loved. A little terrifying.

Very them.

[targtowerxstark]

Love in Disguise - Cregan Stark x Targtower reader.

requested by anon🫶🏼. send requests!

summary:The princess escapes kings landing after the death of her father and goes to the North. Cregan stumbles upon her “an orphaned woman” in the woods and allows her to work as a servant. As time goes on he becomes suspicious of her formal talk and graceful manner. All the while chaos is erupting in the realm as their princess is missing. Will Cregan soon discover her secret?….

In the early hours of the morning the cold winds howled through the halls of the castle as Princess y/n sat in her chamber, the weight of her father’s death pressing heavily on her heart. The news had shattered her world, yet the small council chamber buzzed with discussions of Aegon’s ascension to the throne, a celebration that felt grotesque in the shadow of her loss.

“How can they be so indifferent?” she whispered to herself, tears stinging her eyes.

Just then, her brother Aemond entered, concern etched on his face.

“Y/n,” he said softly, “I know it’s hard, but we must think of the future. Aegon’s reign will secure our family.”

His words offered little comfort, and as the night deepened, she felt an overwhelming urge to escape the suffocating reality. With a heavy heart, she ran to the dragon pit where her dragon, a magnificent creature named Valyra, awaited her.

"We must leave this place," she whispered, her voice trembling with urgency.

"We will not be a pawn in their game," she murmured to herself Valyra responded with a low growl, sensing her distress.

Together, they soared into the night sky, the wind whipping through her hair as they flew towards the North, far from the treachery of King's Landing. Leaving behind the kingdom that had turned its back on her grief, seeking solace in the farthest reaches of the North.

The biting cold of the North wrapped around the Princess as she descended from her dragon, her Valyrian features hidden beneath a shawl that shielded her from the chill. The forest loomed ahead, a maze of trees and shadows, and she ventured forth in search of sticks to kindle a fire. As she gathered her meager supplies, she was startled by the sound of hooves approaching. Cregan Stark, riding alongside his young son Rickon, noticed her instantly, his keen eyes recognizing the beauty that marked her as different.

“You there,” he called, his voice formal yet curious. “What brings you to these woods?” Y/n hesitated, her heart racing. “I am but an orphan, sir, with no family to claim,” she replied, her words flowing with a refinement that caught his attention. Cregan's expression softened, sensing her vulnerability. “You are welcome to stay at my castle. I could use an extra pair of hands You can help in the kitchens," he replied, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to her than met the eye.

On her first day, Y/n quickly discovered that her skills as a princess did not translate well to servant duties. As she fumbled with pots and pans, Cregan watched with a mix of amusement and concern. "You’re not very good at this, are you?" he teased, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I’m afraid not," she admitted, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "But I can help in other ways. I can read and write, and I know much about dragons. If you please my lord I would be of more use to sweep or clean"

A week had passed since y/n had started her new life at Cregan’s castle, and despite her lack of skill, her grace and kindness shone through. Now away from her kitchen duties she swept the floors, the maester conducted lessons for young Rickon. “Dragons are fearsome beasts that only obey the strongest,” he droned, but y/n’s brow furrowed. “Actually, Balerion the Black Dread was known for his loyalty to Aegon, and his strength was matched only by his wisdom,” she interjected, her voice steady and confident. Cregan, who had been observing from a distance, raised an eyebrow at her unexpected knowledge. The maester faltered, and Rickon’s eyes widened in fascination as y/n continued, recounting tales of Aegon and his sister wives. Cregan’s suspicion deepened; this orphan was unlike any he had encountered before in both her unique features and her graceful manner.

As days turned into weeks, Cregan grew fond of her. y/n’s kindness and intelligence shone through her humble facade, and she quickly formed a bond with Rickon. "Teach me how to read!" Rickon pleaded one afternoon, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

Y/n grinned, pulling out a piece of parchment. "How about we play hangman? It’ll be fun!"

Rickon laughed, and soon they were engrossed in the game, Y/n’s laughter ringing through the halls of Winterfell. Cregan watched from a distance, his heart heavy with conflicting emotions. "She’s just a servant," he reminded himself, but the way Rickon looked at her made it hard to deny the bond they shared.

At night, y/n would sneak away to care for Valyra, hiding the dragon in a secluded glen. The creature’s presence was a constant reminder of her true identity, and she felt the weight of her secret pressing down on her. She would often sit beside Valyra, whispering her fears and dreams. "I can’t go back to that life," she confessed one evening. "But I can’t let them find you, either."

Cregan sat in his study the next night while y/n dusted the frames around the room, the fire crackled softly beside him, but his mind was elsewhere. Thoughts of the new maid, y/n, danced through his head, her laughter echoing in his ears. He tried to focus on the parchment before him, but the words blurred together. He couldn’t focus on anything but her infront of him. Just as he began to open his mouth to speak to her, the maester entered, interrupting.

“My lord, a raven has arrived from King’s Landing,” he announced, handing over the message. Cregan quickly scanned the letter, his heart sinking at the news. “To whom it may concern,” it began, “I write to inform you that my dear sister is missing. A reward will be granted to anyone who can find her.” Cregan organised a group to search the surrounding land with him so he could send a raven back. As he searched the land, Cregan couldn’t shake the feeling that y/n was more than just a servant.

The next day, Cregan prepared for a ride with Rickon, but the young boy had other plans. “Can the new maid come with us?” he pleaded, his eyes wide with hope. “I don’t want to go if she isn’t there!” Cregan chuckled at Rickon’s stubbornness, realizing how much the boy had taken to her. “Very well, I’ll fetch her,” he replied, heading off to find y/n. When he located her, he said, “Rickon insists you join us for a ride. He’s rather fond of you.” y/n smiled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” she teased. “But if it means keeping Rickon happy, I suppose I could manage.” As they walked back together, Cregan found himself drawn to her humor and wit, his heart warming with every shared glance.

The three of them rode through the woods, Rickon demanded he share a saddle with y/n , his hands latched upon hers which were holding the reins with excitement. He was as attached to her as a newborn to its mothers chest. Cregan observed the bond between them, a mix of amusement and fondness swelling within him. Suddenly, a deep rumble echoed through the trees, reminiscent of a dragon’s call. “Wait here I should see what’s happening,” Cregan suggested, but as he turned, y/n panicked, she had to distract him, she quickly banged her elbow against a sharp rock and let out a sigh of pain “Are you alright?” he asked, rushing to her side. She winced, revealing a small cut on her arm, but instead of concern, a playful glint appeared in her eyes. “Just a scratch, m’lord but maybe we should return to winterfell,” she replied, attempting to take his attention away for her dragon. As he took her hand to inspect the wound, a strand of silver hair slipped from her shawl. He instinctively tucked it behind her ear, feeling a warmth spread through him. “You should be more careful,” he murmured, but she playfully responded, “No, m’lord, it’s cold is all.” The tension in the air shifted, leaving both of them acutely aware of the closeness between them.

Later that night, y/n slipped out of the castle, drawn to her dragon, the cool night air invigorating her spirit. As she approached the creature, she felt a sense of belonging in the North, the stars twinkling above her like a promise of adventure. Meanwhile, Cregan found himself restless in his room, thoughts of y/n occupying his mind. He decided to check on Rickon, only to find the boy wide awake. “Can’t sleep?” Cregan asked softly. “I miss the stories,” Rickon admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Rickon is a young boy but winter is coming, Cregan stopped being soft on him and is starting to treat him like a young man but it pains him to remember he is a young boy without a mothers love. An idea sparked in Cregan’s mind. “What if I asked the maid to read you a story?” he suggested, a smile creeping onto his face at the thought of seeing her again. Rickon’s eyes lit up with excitement, and Cregan felt a rush of affection for both the boy and the maid who had unexpectedly captured his heart.

Gathering his courage, he decided to seek her out. He knocked on her door, heart pounding, but when no answer came, he hesitated before stepping inside. The room was empty, yet it was cluttered with books—an unusual sight for a servant. "Where could she be?" he murmured to himself, curiosity piqued.

As he asked the guards, one replied, "She went outside for fresh air, my lord. Said she needed it." Cregan frowned, mounting his horse and riding into the forest. It’s too dangerous for a woman to be out at this hour with deserters and wildlings for the wall being so close. After riding for some time, he spotted her silhouette against the moonlight walking in his direction. “y/n” he called out, his heart racing.

She turned, surprise lighting up her face. "Cregan, What are you doing out here?"

"I was worried about you. Do you want a ride back to Winterfell?" he offered, extending his hand.

Her eyes sparkled as she smiled. "I’d love that. It’s much too quiet out here alone."

Cregan helped boost her up onto his horse and then climbed on behind her. As they rode through the moonlit forest, y/n felt the warmth of Cregan's body pressed against her back, a mix of comfort and tension swirling between them. Their hands brushed against each other as they both held the reins, each accidental touch sending a shiver down her spine. “Tell me, how did you come to be an orphan " Cregan began.

The princess remained quiet, the thought of her father brought tears to her eyes.

“You know," Cregan continued , his voice low and contemplative, "losing my father was... it felt like losing a part of myself. I still hear his voice sometimes, guiding me."

Y/n nodded, her heart aching for him. "I understand more than you know," she replied softly, her breath hitching slightly. "I lost my parents too... though it feels like ages ago. Sometimes, I wonder if they would be proud of me."

"You possess a strength that is admirable,y/n," Cregan said, turning his head slightly to catch her gaze. "I assure you, you could never bring disappointment upon anyone." 

She felt a warmth spread through her at his words, their bodies shifting slightly as the horse moved. "And you, my lord, exhibit that same strength. It is evident in the way you carry yourself, even in the face of adversity."

“I often think to myself after spending time near you that you speak with grace, you don’t have the voice of a maid” Cregan said, although it was a statement it had a hint of curiosity in it.

“Thank you my Lord, It is a great deal to be given praise by a man of your station.” she replied.

As they approached Winterfell, the castle loomed ahead, and the air grew heavier with unspoken feelings. He helped her down from the horse, then he accompanied back to her room and as they stood at her door, the tension was palpable. "This is it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her heart racing as she stood just inside the threshold.

Cregan lingered on the other side, his gaze intense. "y/n, I—" he started, but the words caught in his throat. He took a step back, the distance between them feeling like a chasm. "Goodnight, my lady," he said formally, the weight of his emotions pressing on him. As he turned to walk away he muttered under his breath "I must not allow myself to fall for a servant."

Y/n felt a pang in her chest as she watched him turn away, the warmth of their shared moment lingering in the air, leaving her yearning for more.

That morning Cregan went about his morning duties but hadn’t seen y/n, he felt he had to check on her or Rickon would soon have a fit. The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains as Cregan entered y/n’s room, hoping to catch her before she began her day. He was greeted by a sight that took him aback—her silvery hair cascading over the pillow, a stark contrast to the humble surroundings of her chamber. Realizing he had stumbled upon something more than a mere maid, he quietly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips at the irony of it all.He quietly stepped out of her room and left the princess to sleep. Throughout the day, he enjoyed watched her flit about, serving others with grace, and found it amusing that the princess of the Seven Kingdoms was masquerading as a servant.

Later that afternoon, as they found a moment alone in the quiet of the castle library, Cregan leaned against the shelves, arms crossed with a teasing grin. "You know, the whole realm is in chaos with questions about the whereabouts of their beloved princess," he began, watching her face pale slightly. "But what I'm truly curious about is how you've managed to keep your dragon hidden in the North without anyone catching on." y/n’s eyes widened, a mix of surprise and mischief dancing within them. "You think I have a dragon?" she replied, trying to suppress a laugh and keep her identity hidden.

"Well, it would explain your affinity for the wilds and the late night walks in the forest," Cregan shot back, his tone light yet serious. "I mean, the princess of the Seven Kingdoms tending to a dragon in secret? Now that’s a tale worth telling."Y/n burst into laughter, the tension dissipating as she realized he was not angry but rather intrigued. "You’ve manage to see past my facade Lord Stark.," she admitted, her expression shifting to one of playful defiance. "But if I tell you, you must promise to keep it a secret." The air between them crackled with the thrill of their shared secret, the weight of royal duty momentarily forgotten in the warmth of their connection.

As the afternoon light dimmed, casting long shadows across the library, y/n felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She turned to Cregan, her expression shifting from playful to serious. "I left the capital because... my father died," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't bear to stay there, surrounded by reminders of him. The court was suffocating, and I needed to breathe, to find myself away from all the expectations of marriage alliances but it seems the very thing i feared is what i long for now"

Cregan's heart ached at her words, and he hesitated before responding. "I was worried about you, you know. When I saw you in the kitchens, I thought... falling for a servant would be foolish. A woman I could never truly be with," he admitted, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "But now, knowing it’s you, the princess I thought was lost, I can’t help but feel relieved."

y/n caught the hint of vulnerability in his voice and decided to tease him. "Oh, Lord Stark, Was it my foolishness in the kitchens or my terrible dusting skills that won your heart?" she quipped, a playful smile breaking across her face.

Cregan chuckled, the tension easing between them. "Definitely the dusting." They shared a laugh, the air thick with flirtation.

As their laughter faded, y/n stepped closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You know, I could teach you a thing or two Lord Stark, if you promise to keep my secrets," she said softly, her voice low and inviting.

Cregan took a step forward, his heart racing. "I might just take you up on that offer," he murmured, his gaze locked onto hers. The moment hung between them, electric and charged with unspoken feelings.

Without thinking, y/n leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a gentle yet fervent kiss. It was a kiss filled with the weight of their shared burdens, the joy of newfound connection, and the promise of something deeper. As they pulled away, breathless and smiling, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of them and the secrets they now shared.

[sahashbelvanie]

Nightreign Lore: Windwail Knoll

Windwail Knoll—a distant land beyond the Realm of Gold—is characterized by its vast, hilly grasslands and ever-howling winds.

The Wylder’s tribe were a nomadic people who wandered and roamed across Windwail Knoll. They used iron coins to trade with settled tribes, purchasing supplies to support their isolated way of life. In the tribe, when one warrior gifted another a brooch—pinned to the coat, as was customary—it was a vow to forever fight beside the other, whether separated by land or sea. Flatbread was the traditional food of the Wylder’s tribe, passed down from mother to son. Sweet and salty, it was said to keep one well-fed and never wanting.

For generations, the tribe wore carefully embellished earrings designed to cast patterned shadows when held up to the light. These patterns contained a hidden message: “O mother grass and father cloud, be the fortitude which spurs us on our path.” The Wylder and his younger sister each wore one such earring.

The Wylder’s father was the tribe’s chieftain. Among the tribe were his mother, younger sister, his cousin Farhad, a girl known as Little Shirin, and many others. The Wylder and his sister would often go horseback riding across the hills—the horses themselves were a rare, healthy pair of twins. As a young warrior, the Wylder carried a small shield bearing a crest symbolizing the grasslands and the winds that forever swept his homeland.

[dustyrkives]

Blood And Divinity

PAIRING: Ada Wong x fem reader

WARNINGS: dragon god ada, human female priestess r, dark Ada, conqueror Ada, if Nemean Ada was feral, this one's cruel yet just, dark fantasy, greek myth and ASOIAF inspired, power imbalance, tension, monotheism, religious themes, immortal/mortal pairing, power dynamics, seduction, teasing, sensual tension, head, GP Ada BECAUSE I SAID SO, dragon cawk yep, multiple orgasms, unprotected seggs, raw seggs, breeding, slight bondage, katoptronophilia, choking, c*m play, clit-slapping, biting, marking, missionary, backshots, felatio, rough seggs, and oviposition–jesus.

SYNOPSIS: In a world where the gods have ruled with cruelty and excess, divine justice arrives not in the form of salvation—but vengeance. The great black dragon descends, bringing ruin to the false gods and striking terror into mortal hearts. When your goddess falls to its wrath, you are left with nothing but a dying faith and a fragile hope to survive. Bound by divine will and insatiable desire, you find yourself in the arms of a goddess—one who claims you as her own. Ada, a being of celestial power and primal hunger, seeks more than just devotion; she demands your very essence. As passion and power collide, you are drawn deeper into her realm, where love is worship, pleasure is sacred, and your fate is sealed beneath her touch.

MEN, MINORS DNI

The reign of the new gods was nothing short of... chaotic.

No, chaotic is an understatement. Humanity is living in a new dark age.

They have done nothing but use mortals for their pleasure and entertainment. Fueling their greed and depravity and spreading darkness faster than any plague the realm has ever witnessed.

The weak are preyed upon by the strong–a never-ending cycle of greed and corruption.

You knew you wouldn't survive in such conditions where women are seen as nothing but cattle for the whims of men; what choice did you have other than to turn to priestesshood under Lannis, maiden Goddess of agriculture, fertility and prosperity.

Life as a priestess is simple—prayer sustains you, offerings honor your goddess, and rituals ensure prosperity and a good harvest. You learned to find comfort in this simple way of living, white, and gold robes, with exquisite cloth covering your face while wearing the amulet of protection that your goddess has given you–no man or other deity, whether popular or not, shall touch you unless they will face her wrath.

Life has been peaceful, the skies were blue, crops were healthy and the seas were cool.

Until it wasn't.

As if to punish the new gods for their arrogance and greed–a great beast–a dragon, descended from the heavens, its scales are black and sharp, wings so big they covered the sun, casting a gargantuan shadow that covered the realm in darkness, eyes cruel, bright gold as it looks down at the ruined realm–fire so hot it burned castles and blackens the land, a color akin to disease and teeth so sharp–it cuts through the gods' skin, spilling ichor blood across the land.

It killed the king of the gods first, the whole realm watched with terror and trepidation as it dragged the poor deity by its teeth, sinking into his shoulder–the skies were dark as the god howled in pain before the cruel dragon pulled his flesh apart–spilling his insides across the land and dropping his corpse.

The sea god was next, the sailors watched with macabre interest as the dragon hovered over the sea before grabbing something–someone from the depths of the sea; the god struggled, shouting his pleas for freedom before the deity devoured him and spitting his head back to the sea and disappear into the thick school of clouds.

Humanity can only watch as the beast brutally destroys and devours the gods that had once ruled the realm, their corpses on display for humans and lesser deities to see–a representation of what could be their fate if they followed their example.

One of them was Lannis, her death was the most merciful of all–the dragon had devoured her upper half, it didn't even give her the chance to react–you can only guess that the last thing she saw was the dragon's maw before it ate her upper body.

More humans approach the crude burial site, some paid respects, others loot the bodies... and perhaps even violate them.

You tear your gaze away from the sight.

Take these savages next.

As if the heavens listened, the same black dragon descended from the sky, crushing the bodies along with the mortals near the decaying corpses. For the first time, you've seen the beast in all its glory: obsidian-black scales, a lithe yet devastating stature, wings so huge that when they spread, they cover half of the realm, horns elegantly curved back, and eyes ichor like the blood of the dead gods. It stands before humanity, looking down at all of you.

It lowers its head, a voice feminine, distorted, steely and cold bellows, shaking the ground.

"The old gods are no more," It hisses, "Bend the knee to the new god of the realm."

Ruled by fear, the citizens obey, those who were too slow were shot with black spears through the chest and head. Yelps and screams echo in the atmosphere. You flinch at the sound of flesh being pierced, you felt blood splatter on your robe and face, eliciting a terrified gasp from you as you slowly look to your side; breath hitching as the body next to you is riddled with spears.

A pause. Pregnant with fear and silence.

"Which among you was a priest or priestess to any of the former gods?"

No one dared to open their mouths, even the other priests and priestesses kept quiet, including you.

The dragon rumbles, "Answer me or I'll tear you all limb from limb."

You lock eyes with the beast, and your breath stills as its eyes sharpen, and it didn't miss the medallion of Lannis hanging from your neck. With one wing, it points at you, eyes stabbing through your soul.

"You," The obsidian-scaled dragon breathes. "Come to me."

Presented with no other choice, you obey the conqueror. Your knees shake as you stand, you feel as if you don't remember how to walk. The city folk parts to make way for you. You present yourself to the conqueror with bloody robes and blood splattered on one side of your face like a demented face painting.

"Name, priestess."

You obey, voice barely above a whisper as you offer your name.

The great beast purrs, "You served one of the gods, yes?"

"Ye-yes, your grace." Your voice sounded so far away, stuttering with each syllable as you realized how insignificant your size is compared to the former. "I was served Lannis, goddess of the–"

"I'm aware." The beast moves deliberately slow, its golden gaze drinking you in. Your body trembles under its scrutinizing, inquisitive gaze.

And in those golden crevices… amusement. Twisted. Knowing. As if it had already decided your fate. "Do you value these people, priestess?" It purrs, neck craning to as if to look at its unworthy subjects.

You hear sobs in the background, mothers begging for mercy while carrying their children, fathers pleading for leeway–their voices weigh heavy on your shoulders. The dragon looks at you before it snarls at the terrified citizens, well, what's left of them.

"Silence! Let the priestess speak."

"Yes," You say with closed eyes and a shaky breath.

The dragon narrows its eyes, "Would you serve me to help them reap the benefit of obedience and sacrifice?"

"Yes," You feel as though with each agreement, oxygen is knocked away from your lungs.

"Will you swear your maidenhood and loyalty only to me?"

What?

You snap your head to the beast. "P-pardon?"

You wanted to take your own life right then and there as the beast's expression sharpens.

"Let me put it simply for you, mortal." It circles around you, never mind the screams of the citizens as they are crushed by the beast.

"You are to appease me by becoming my priestess and my bride. You value your life and people, yes?" The beast growls.

Your knees buckle while you swallow harshly. It was either you or you'll die with everyone else... Your lips purse to a thin line, almost morphing into a frown.

Be a bride for a villainous deity, or die?

With a shaky exhale, you give her your answer.

"Y-yes,"

A purr of delight rumbles from its chest. "Good,"

Then a black pomegranate manifests from thin air. "Swear it to me. Eat this fruit, and you shall be mine as I will be yours."

With trembling hands, you take the fruit. It stings against your skin. You look at it with faltering eyes before looking up at the beast.

"B-before I do that," You swallow harshly. "May I see the face of my god?"

The moment the words leave your lips, the earth stills. The cries of the people fade into distant echoes, drowned beneath the suffocating silence that follows.

And then—laughter. A low, purring sound that slithers into your bones.

"You wish to see me?" It's voice—rich, terrible, divine—reverberates through the ruins, carried on embers and smoke. "You are bold for a mortal, priestess."

The wind howls as her massive form begins to shift. Its obsidian scales melt into shadow, and its wings fold inward as the monstrous grandeur of her body contorts, collapses, and reshapes. The great dragon does not disappear; it merely becomes something else.

When the transformation ends, she stands before you.

She is draped in black armor, edges gilded like the molten veins of a dying star. Her helm—tall, crowned with curved horns—frames her face, but it does nothing to hide the sharp, inhuman beauty beneath. Her lips, dark as spilled wine, curl into something between a smirk and a warning. Her eyes, slitted like a serpent’s, glow with the same gold that burned within the dragon’s skull.

She takes a step toward you, and it is all you can do not to stumble back.

"You wished to see the face of your god?" she murmurs, voice softer now, yet no less dangerous. "Tell me, now that you have seen me—"

Her gauntleted fingers brush the pulse at your throat, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.

"—will you take your oath willingly?"

The pomegranate still rests in your palm, its cursed weight heavier than before. The skin of the fruit glows like molten coal, searing into your fingers. A choice, simple yet absolute.

To eat is to be hers. Priestess. Bride. Devoted. Owned.

You didn't reply, instead you took a bite of the fruit.

The skin of the pomegranate splits with a sickening crack, its juice thick and dark as blood as it spills over your lips. The taste is unlike anything mortal—sweet, rich, yet carrying an undertone of something ancient, something binding. The cries of the crowd fade into nothing as your vision blurs, and the last thing you see is the cold smile of your goddess before everything fades into black.

You wake up with a jolt.

Sitting up from the bed, you take in your surroundings.

Where are you?

The room is vast, yet shrouded in darkness. Shadow-pillars stretch high into the unseen abyss, their gilded edges catching the flickering glow of invisible torches. The walls, smooth as polished obsidian, gleam like liquid onyx under the candlelight, their jagged veins pulsing with a faint ember-like glow. The air is thick with incense, its scent intoxicating yet suffocating—like something sacred, something ancient.

Your body feels strangely light, the remnants of sleep clinging to your limbs like a veil. When you shift, silk glides against your skin—soft, delicate, unfamiliar. You glance down. Gone is your priestess robe, torn and bloodstained. In its place, an elaborate garment drapes around your form, black as the void, embroidered with twisting golden patterns you do not recognize.

Your breath catches.

The medallion of Lannis is missing.

And then—the pomegranate.

The taste still lingers on your tongue—sweet, thick, binding. It sits heavy in your stomach, an unspoken contract woven into your very being.

And then—

A presence.

You are not alone.

A voice, feminine and rich, smooth as silk but edged with quiet amusement.

"Do you know this place?"

You turn.

She stands at the edge of the room, framed by the glow of flickering braziers. No longer a dragon, but a woman—if such a word could ever hope to capture what she is. Her armor gleams like molten gold, dark fabric pooling beneath it like liquid shadow. Her helm is gone, revealing a face inhumanly sharp, achingly beautiful.

"N-no." Your voice is barely a whisper as you warily eye the goddess.

Her lips curve in a cold, knowing smile. "This is where the gods used to live."

Beautiful, yes—but the moment she names it, you feel like an intruder.

She notices.

A low chuckle rumbles from her throat as she closes her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Uncomfortable or not, this is your home now, sweetling."

She strides toward you, slow, deliberate. You shrink into the sheets, instinctively hugging your knees as she perches on the edge of the bed.

Her golden eyes drink you in, slow and measured.

"You consumed the fruit willingly," she muses, tilting her head. "And yet, you tremble in my presence."

Her gaze flickers to your hands, still clutching at the silk of your garments, knuckles white. You hadn't even realized.

She scoots closer.

"Do you fear me, sweetling?"

A gloved knuckle brushes against your jaw, tilting it up, forcing your eyes to meet hers.

"I—I don't even know your name."

Your breath catches as her thumb glides over your lower lip.

"Exquisite," she whispers.

Her touch lingers, a cruel thing. A test. Then, a sigh—slow, indulgent, and far too amused.

"You do not know my name," she repeats, tilting her head as if tasting the words.

Then, she smiles—a terrible, sharp thing that sends a chill through you. "Then allow me to correct this... oversight."

She rises, and the air shifts.

Heavy.

Charged.

The torches flare. Shadows stretch unnaturally along the obsidian walls, writhing like things with minds of their own.

Her presence fills the chamber like a storm.

"When the gods grew fat on their indulgence, I was the reckoning that tore them from their thrones." Her voice deepens, reverberating in the very stone beneath you. "When their sins drowned the realm, I was the fire that burned their corruption to ash."

She steps forward, and your pulse quickens.

"I am Aedarys—end of the old gods, beginning of the new. The one to whom all kneel, whether they wish to or not."

Her fingers trail along your throat, stopping just above the frantic pulse that betrays you.

"And you, sweetling..."

Her lips curve. A slow, knowing thing.

"You are mine."

Then, she laughs—low and sharp, a sound that cuts through the silence like a blade.

"Ah. You do fear me, don't you?"

She steps back, folding her hands behind her back. "Perhaps I'll make it simpler for you—warmer, even."

A thoughtful pause. Then, a smile.

"Ada."

"Pardon?"

"You may call me Ada, sweetling."

"A-Ada." You repeat it without thinking, the name unfamiliar yet smooth on your tongue.

Her golden eyes gleam with something dangerous.

"Very good."

She turns on her heel. "Come along now."

You hesitate.

"W-where are we going?"

Ada doesn't answer as she leads you through the winding halls. The palace of the gods has been remade in her image—dark, regal, draped in the colors of shadow and flame.

Finally, she stops before a grand hall.

A banquet table stretches before you, piled high with delicacies. Bread, cheese, olives, roasted meats, golden fruits—each dish arranged with exquisite care. The scent alone is enough to make your stomach clench in hunger.

Ada gestures to the feast with a lazy flick of her hand.

"I figured you would prefer mortal food over ours. Nectar and ambrosia can be... overwhelming." She pauses. "I had some mortals compile a list of their finest delicacies for me. They were rewarded for their efforts."

You blink. "You... rewarded them?"

Ada hums in amusement, taking a seat at the table. "I'm not a cruel god, priestess." She picks up a piece of fruit, rolling it between her fingers. "I am fair and just. But if I must remind mortals of my power, I will."

You hesitate, eyeing the food. Ada notices.

"And no, sweetling—" her lips quirk, "it isn't poisoned."

Still, you reach tentatively, plucking bread, cheese, an olive. Ada watches, her gaze gleaming with quiet amusement as you eat.

The air between you shifts—no longer suffocating, but not entirely safe.

Not yet.

She leans back. "Ah, before I forget..."

You pause mid-bite.

"You will resume your duties in the mortal realm soon. A temple will be raised in my name, where you will burn sacrifices and accept offerings on my behalf."

Your fingers tighten around your cup. "When?"

"Three nights from now."

A dark fawn scurries forward to clear the table.

Ada stands.

"Rest, dear one. You will need your strength."

She turns, heading toward the far end of the hall, swallowed slowly by the shadows.

You hesitate.

"Ada, wait!"

She stops.

You swallow. "Are we... sleeping in the same chamber?"

For a moment, silence. A slow, disarming smile.

"Not yet, sweetling." Her voice is almost gentle. Almost.

"Though the idea is rather tempting."

And with that, she vanishes into the dark.

The realm has slowly begun to worship Aedarys. It started as a whisper, a prayer uttered in desperation—pleas for safe labor, bountiful harvests, and victorious conquests. Small offerings at first. A bowl of honey, a carved token, a name spoken with reverence beneath the full moon.

But whispers grew into chants, and chants into devotion.

Temples rose in her name, their obsidian spires clawing at the heavens. Her sigil, the golden dragon entwined with shadow, was etched into banners and armor, a silent oath sworn in blood and steel. The old gods, once mighty, were forgotten. Their altars crumbled, their names swallowed by dust.

Aedarys–Ada, the dragon god of dominion and retribution–had become the sole deity of worship. Monotheistic, absolute.

And you–her chosen, her priestess–stood at the heart of it all.

You heave a sigh as you retreat back to the temple, pulling back the hood from your head, allowing your whole face to breathe. Your feet take you to the empty throne of Ada–only today, it wasn't empty. There sat a hooded figure, a pale hand examining what seems to be a necklace.

Your stomach drops, could that possibly be in one of the offerings for Ada?

"You shouldn't be here." You immediately call out with a warning substantial in your tone. "Unless you wish to face the wrath of Aedarys for this disrespect."

The figure didn't heed, and you ground your jaw. "Do you not hear me, stranger? Remove yourself from her throne at once!"

Finally, the hooded stranger looks up, and a gasp leaves your lips upon seeing the familiar gold glow of her eyes, fair skin, short hair, wise and all-knowing eyes, and that blasted smile.

"Kicking me out of my throne now, are you, sweetling?"

"A-Ada," you stumble back, flushed. "Forgive me, I didn't know it was you."

She hums and leans back against her throne of obsidian and granite. "Don't apologize, sweetling. You were merely protecting my throne."

"With words," You snort.

"A sign of loyalty regardless," Ada stands from the throne and descends the steps, allowing you to finally realize that it isn't a simple robe she's wearing.

The fabric is thick, woven with the finest threads of shadow, its texture betraying a subtle pattern—scales, perhaps, or the whispers of something ancient stitched into the very weave.

A high collar guards the nape of her neck, a silent declaration of her stature, while the bodice molds to her form, fastened with obsidian clasps that gleam like polished onyx. The sleeves, adorned with intricate embroidery, trail down her arms, each delicate stitch a contrast to the hardened presence she exudes. Silver adornments, shaped like fangs or claws, run down the length of her sleeves, glinting in the dim light like a silent warning.

Over her shoulders, a cloak of midnight spills in heavy waves, lined with blood-red silk that flickers like embers in the wind, ornaments hang from her hair, a stylish choice that suits her.

You blink–she isn't wearing the helm, allowing her to look less imposing, but powerful nonetheless.

"I brought you something," Ada moves her hand towards you, a necklace made from black metal, or so you think. The deity's ichor eyes glow with mirth. "Do you know what it is?"

You look up at her, "No. Do enlighten me."

She retracts her hand, her eyes leaving you for the necklace. "Celestial obsidian steel." Ada returns her gaze to you. "A piece of my origin. I took a piece of my helm and forged it to a necklace."

A pause, and then...

"Turn around," Ada commands in a soft voice, and you wordlessly obey as you turn away from her and grasp your hair, moving it to your front. Your breath hitches. The necklace is cold, but Ada's hands are colder. With deft efficiency, she rests the necklace at the base of your neck.

Your back straightens as her breath fans against your nape, leaving goosebumps on its wake. "

And now," Your spouse rasps, "You own a piece of me." The air was still until you felt her lips press against your nape, a gasp befalls your mouth upon the rousing sensation of her lips against your skin. "Turn around for me again, love." You obey without hesitation.

Forged in silver and shadow. The chain is intricate—delicate yet unyielding, woven from countless interlocking links, each adorned with tiny, blood-red gemstones that catch the light like embers smoldering in the dark.

At its heart, a pendant—an endless knot of metal, its loops and curves twisting in a perfect, inescapable design. At the center of this tangled maze sits a single red gem, deep as a pomegranate seed, its surface gleaming with quiet menace. A seal. A promise. A binding.

It is not merely jewelry. It is a statement. A mark of power draped around the throat, where devotion meets possession.

A devilish grin plays on your lover, "Beautiful."

Dividing your duty as the priestess and wife is a surprisingly easy task.

In the morning, you are the priestess, at night–you are her wife.

That includes your duties in your shared chambers to please her.

The candlelight flickers, casting shadows that dance across the chiseled perfection of her form. Stripped of her divine armor, Ada is no less imposing. No less powerful. The ridges of her muscles flex beneath your touch as your fingers ghost down her abdomen, tracing the fine lines of strength that speak of both battle and blood.

She watches you, golden eyes sharp with amusement, with possession. She has already won, and yet she allows you to think you have a choice in how this unfolds.

Her voice is molten, dark and smooth. “You hesitate.”

You swallow, fingers stilling just above the proof of her dominance—the part of her that separates her from mortals, from men and gods alike. The thick weight of her arousal rests heavily against her thigh, veined and flushed with need, an undeniable testament to her power.

"I don't."

Ada chuckles, low and indulgent. "Then prove it."

You obey as your eyes land on her pink, soft-scaled length; rigid, proud, and her spiky head leaking with pre-cum and the way the goddess lays in bed, her robe open for you to witness her in all her glory.

Your lips brush against the head of her length first, reverent and slow. Ada exhales through her nose, but she does not rush you—she never does. She enjoys the tease, the anticipation, the quiet devotion in the way you take your time.

But you know better than to test her patience for too long.

Your tongue traces along the underside of her, tasting the salt of her desire, the warmth of her, the sheer size of her. You hollow your cheeks, taking her inch by inch, feeling her thighs tense beneath your hands as she exhales a pleased sigh.

“Good,” she murmurs, her fingers tangling into your hair, not forcing, but guiding. Her voice is smooth, unshaken. She is composed, in control, but you can feel the heat simmering just beneath the surface.

You take her deeper, jaw stretching, the fullness of her overwhelming and intoxicating. She groans this time, a quiet thing, but no less powerful—a sound of approval, of ownership.

The room smells of incense and burning wicks, but all you can breathe in is her—musk and spice, heat and divinity.

Ada tilts her head, watching as your lips stretch around her, watching as you serve her, worship her, love her the only way a mortal can love a god.

“Look at me,” she commands softly.

You do, gazing up through lidded eyes, lips stretched, cheeks hollowed, taking her like you were made for this. For her.

A wicked smile plays on her lips.

“There’s my good wife.”

Your cheeks heat up and you let out a moan, creating a vibration around her slick-scaled cock, Ada's eyes close and retrains herself from bucking her hips into your face as you finally begin sucking her. Your pulse quickens as you resume pleasuring the goddess, the muscles of your mouth making contact with the veins beneath her scaly appendage, her arousal salty in your tongue.

The atmosphere grows thick with mingled scents of burning incense and heated flesh, the space between you pulsing with sacred urgency.

Ada's grip becomes vice-like, guiding you with a possessive tenderness that speaks of power and absolute claim. Her voice, low and resonant like a distant thunder. "That's a good wife, come on, you can take more of me."

You bob your head in reply while she watches you devour her hard cock through half-lidded eyes, heavy with satisfaction, and insatiable hunger that only you seem capable of appeasing.

"Steady, my love." She murmurs, a warning and a praise.

Cold as night-forged steel, a hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the corner of your lips, where reverence has left them slick and parted. You inhale, drowning in the scent of her—smoke and spice, embers that refuse to fade.

With a soft moan, Ada moves. Slow and deliberate, guiding you while she thrusts into your mouth. You gag as the bulbous, sharp head pokes at the back of your throat, the spiky base taps against your chin. The sharp inhale she takes is almost imperceptible, but you hear it–felt it in the way that she throbs in your mouth.

Her restraint is cracking, unshaken godhood fraying at the edges.

Your cunt throbs in need.

Your hands grab onto her thighs, bracing yourself as she juts her hips. Your jaw aches, your lips stretch, but you take her still. The sound she makes–a low, rumbling sigh, half-groan, half-praise–is its own form of benediction.

She tastes of salt and heat; divine as you suck her dry. Your moans providing a warm vibration that as your spouse throbbing, her balls tighten as your chin taps against them, prodding her hot seed. Ada throws her head back, her eyes close and her jaw slack as she fucks her cock into your mouth.

Ada plants her feet on the sheets before bucking her hips up, repeatedly hitting the back of your throat, eliciting moans and gags from you which are muffled by her cock.

You could tell she was close by the way you feel her veins bulge and throb from the horizontal ridges on the underside of her cock and with how frequent her pre-cum oozes from the tapered head.

"Sweetling, I'm close." She grunts, the thick futon mattress dips and creeks, your arousal dripping from the seems of your pussy, aching to be catered to.

But no. Your wife, your god–comes first.

Your nails dig against the pristine skin of her thighs as you meet her thrusts, your eyes well with tears from the way the sharp muscled head pokes at your throat, slobber and pre-cum dribble down from the soft-spiked base to Ada's balls and down to the silk sheets.

With one hand, you fondled her balls, gently squeezing them. The veins on Ada's neck bulge as she lets out an erotic moan, your folds flutter with slick at the sound as ribbons of Ada's seed shoot down your throat. You swallow it quickly, your throat bobbing at the action as you taste her.

Ada's chest heaves, raising her head to look at you and smirk at the way her cum and her saliva coats your mouth and chin–her cock, semi-rigid.

"On your stomach, sweetling." Ada pants as her eyes flash gold. "Now."

You obey without complaint, not wanting to displease your mistress. Ada leans away to allow you to lie flat on your belly, the goddess hums in satisfaction whilst you wonder what will happen next. Her nose bumps against the back of your neck, lips grazing the sensitive skin, making you gasp against the sheets, hands palming the mattress when the older woman traverses your back, leaving kittenish licks and soft kisses; you feel her saliva trailing down your back down to your ass as she spreads them apart.

A soft, hoarse moan leaves your mouth when her tongue licks the trail of slick dribbling down your thighs.

"Hips up," Ada murmurs, you comply, allowing her to see your swollen cunt that's dripping with arousal. "Good girl," Your wife purrs and slaps your folds, eliciting a cry from you as more of your essence oozes out. The goddess uses your slick to coat her unique shaft before looming above you, her hands trapping you on opposite sides, her hand moves to your neck, applying pressure.

The older woman tilts your head up, your eyes locking at the plain black headboard, suddenly, a mist appears–manifesting something.

A mirror

Your eyes widen, pupils dilating and your hands crumple the sheets with Ada's hand n your neck, her short hair messily combed back, the depiction between the two of you was so accurate yet so erotic.

You are watching yourself be taken by a god.

A breathy mewl escapes your lips when the tip grazes your folds, Ada's breath shakes upon seeing her pre-cum mix with your dripping arousal, the older woman fists her sheets before leaning down.

"I'm going in now, sweetling." She husks, "May I?"

"Yes," You breathe out without hesitation, and Ada complies–self-control nowhere to be found.

Her hand returns to your neck, nails digging against the skin–eliciting a hiss in both pain and pleasure as she thrusts her entire length, the head easily parts your folds as she glides into you with one swift motion, impaling you entirely with her cock. The sheer girth of her shaft spreads your cunt until your walls are stretched thin around her length. You find yourself screaming in a mix of pain and erotic delight as you claw the sheets and you gasp for air, practically winded by the first thrust.

"Ada!" You cried out; both of you bemoaning in carnal delight. Ada's hand leaves your neck, making you whimper, only to be hushed by a kiss on your shoulder.

Ada's hips hit the curvature of your ass, you can feel her toned stomach flex and stiffen under her pace.

"Gods," The goddess snarls. "You. Feel. So. Good!" She groans in between thrusts, her hands snap to your wrists, holding you down as she jackhammers into you, moaning in delight at the feeling of her scaled-cock dragging against your warm, velvety walls, her pre-cum mixing with your arousal as it drips out of your folds and down to your thighs, your body becomes attuned to her.

You can feel Ada's kisses leaving marks on your skin, you can feel the ridges of her member, the veins that mapped around her shaft protrude and rubbing deliciously against your slick-covered walls. You let your head fall down on her pillows, moaning as you let the older woman have her way with you and your cunt finally adjusts to her length and speed.

Ada's right hand leaves your wrist and spanks the side of your thigh, making you yelp and shoot your head up to see her in the mirror's reflection.

Her gaze intensely locks yours from the mirror as she bites the column of your neck harshly, making you cry out as she spanks you again, making you jolt and clench around her, causing her dick to throb.

"Look," Ada growls at your ear, gently biting it. "I want you to "Look,"

You strain your head to look at your reflection with Ada, here she is, her body looming from behind, her hips jutting back and forth, you can see your body moving with hers to meet her every pound, thighs shaking to keep up with the position she made you do. "I want you to see that you're being such a good girl for me." She groans hoarsely when you clenched around her tightly while you keep your head up, you grind on her hips in hopes to satiate your need for more.

Ada grits her teeth, her body feels like fire, her senses scattered all over the bedroom as she trailed kisses down your spine, her kisses are gentle in contrast to the speed of her hips, moans, mewls, whimpers, all such lewd sounds that were emitting from your lips etched on her brain, including the way your body molds with hers, sweat thinly coating your skin, you're body is hot, compared to her cold, marble-like body.

And with every thrust, your cunt clamps around her cock, making her throb and whine and–

Oh no

The goddess lets out a growl when you drop your head due to intense pleasure, your eyes closing and tears welling up in your eyes. Ada lets out a "tsk," and snaps her hand to your jaw, gripping it tightly, almost digging her nails against your skin.

"I said," She husks, her voice becoming distorted, making your insides quiver as her eyes flash gold again from the reflection.

"Look"

Black smoke seeps out of her fingers as she applies pressure on your jugular, your face contorts as a black chained collar attaches itself on your neck, its chains rattling as Ada pulls it, and thrusts into you earnestly, fucking you against the sheets, pressing you harder, her hips slamming in and out mercilessly, making you let out broken moans, chokes of pleasure echoes in the room with every tug of the collar, the cold metal chokes you as if they were Ada's hands.

Your cunt clamps vigorously, sweat finally dripping from your temple as lust has finally taken over you, moaning with abandon, your mixed juices now trailing down your thighs, body covered in both sweat and Ada's marks.

The older woman digs her nails on your hips, pounds becoming more desperate, feral.

Your stomach coils, your arms, shake under her thrusts as she keeps her body close to yours, her hands groping any skin available for her as her cock throbs painfully on the verge of exploding. You aren't far behind her either.

Ada, your goddess, your wife–can tell.

The way your stomach coils and twists, toes curling, back arching and your moans were high-pitched, sobs choked and your mewls were breathy.

Black tendrils begin to protrude from her skin as she begins to thrust with abandon, you drop your head as you cry out her title, incensed by your wails, her pace inhumanly fast and–

You let out a loud moan as you felt her cock brush your g-spot, making your back arch against her front. A grin breaks into Ada's red lips as she repeatedly aims at the spot; your arms become weak and your thighs quiver with every penetrative slam and moan after moan falls on your lips.

"Are you close?" Ada asks in between groans, she can't control the distortion of her voice, her eyes hungrily drinking at your reflection, the headboard begins to fog due to the heat emitting from the two of you.

"Y-yes," You whimpered with your eyes closed, a broken sob escapes your lips when Ada's teeth dig against your nape, sending shocks of pleasure shooting right through you. Causing your thighs to shake violently as you cum, your eyes shut close, your mouth hung agape as you feel your cunt milk around her cock strongly, her name leaves your lips in a broken moan, eliciting a gasp from Ada as she continues to thrust your juices back into you, your upper body gives out, the chain rattles as your face falls on her pillows.

Ada bends down to press a kiss on your marked shoulder before stilling her hips and cum inside you. Your walls fluttered, you muffled a mewl as her cock shoots out spurts of warm cum, further mixing your essences, rope after rope, filling you to the brim and causing your cum to leak out of weeping cunt. Pants resonate around the bedroom, your body felt heavy, sweaty, yet euphoria fills you.

Ada leans her head against the back of your neck, her warm breath fans your sensitive skin, her arms wrap gently around yours, swallowing thickly as she pulls out gently. You let out a frail mewl as more of your mixed juices leak out of your abused cunt, the older woman delicately helps you lay on your back, finally allowing you to see her and gasp inaudibly.

You've seen Ada always keeping herself clean and presentable. She takes pride in keeping her appearance no matter what.

It's astonishing to see her look so disheveled, her short black hair messy, her bangs sticking on her forehead, sweat covering her skin, and her lips were slightly tinted red from being grazed repeatedly on your marked skin.

The sight is arousing.

You're not the only one though, you're perfect, all laid out for her, looking better than the palace of the gods, her cock twitches at the sight before her, blood rushing to her already hard member, she wants you so badly, take you in so many different ways.

Your eyes shamelessly drink at the sight.

The way Ada's toned abdomen relaxes and contracts, the muscles of her neck move and flex–oh, it ignites your lust that was satiated earlier.

Without thinking, you prompt yourself on your elbows and pecked her slightly swollen lips, before trailing down to the tendons of her neck, kissing it softly, before giving it an experimental lick; making Ada close her eyes and tilt her head upwards, giving you more access to the expanse of skin. Your hands pressed on her back to draw her closer as you begin to assault her collar with feather-like kisses that turn to kittenish licks and suck the skin gently.

Ada lets out a soft exhale before pressing you down on her sheets, breath labored and shaky as she leans on your ear, chills creeping your spine. "I hope you're not too tired, sweetling," She rasps, "Because it'll take more than just one for me to properly sire a new batch of gods with you."

What?

A smirk breaks past her pretty lips upon seeing your face as if she had read your mind and pressed a gentle kiss on your brow. Her hands traverse sensually down to your inner thighs and spread them as she settles herself in between your legs.

Ada then takes a pillow from you side.

"Hips up, my love." She gently commands, you obey her and raise your hips, wincing at the sore feeling that shoots on your hips.

Ada hastily placed the pillow underneath your hips and you let your hips fall on the pillow, without a second thought, Ada's lips chase yours–consuming you once again.

Your hands circle around her neck as you give in to her kiss, hands gripping themselves on your waist, pressing you hard on her bed as if to keep your scent there and moaning softly when the ridges of her cock grazed your inner thighs with pre-cum smearing your skin.

The older woman grinds her pelvis against yours, smearing your thighs with her arousal as her lips latch onto your neck, biting her marks making you roll your eyes to the back of your skull as shocks of pleasure ripple through you.

Her left hand traverses down your shoulder, grazing her nails on your pebbled nipple down to your stomach and teasingly tiptoes to your flushed cunt.

She traces circles on your folds, making you quiver with soft whimpers before pressing two fingers; her index and middle finger on your folds and spreading them. She waited for a moment while you eyed her with anticipation and frustration.

Why is not doing anything? Can't she see your arousal? The way your cunt pulsates with need?

Then you feel something leak out of your pussy.

It was your mixed cum dripping down your folds, proof that Ada had filled you properly earlier.

"Wonderful," She grumbles before withdrawing her fingers; not wanting to waste more of it than she already has. The older woman plants her knees firmly on her bed, her hands guiding her member to line up on your entrance, eyes closing as the sharp tip pokes your pulsating folds.

"A-Ada," You whine softly, making the veins that mapped her cock throb with excitement. Sheer libido sticks in the air as she pushes herself inch by inch. Nails digging against the skin of her back; a breathy mewl breaks past your lips and the sting of sensitivity ripples through you. Ada hides her face on the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as she further pushes herself deeper, indulging at the euphoric feeling of having your walls clamp and flutter around her dick, reveling at small noises you make and your nails clawed her skin for leverage.

"Shh, I got you, sweetling." Ada coaxes with a soft kiss on your shoulder and her hips begin to move. You let your head fall back on the pillows, gasping at the intrusion as she pounds into you with newly-found vigor, your body falls limp, allowing her to use you as she further spreads your legs apart to create more room for her to fuck herself into you, her pace bristling with need.

"Ah-fuck!" You cry out with ecstasy when she impulsively bites the center of your neck.

The goddess growls and pulls away with a wolffish grin on her lips as she immediately snaps her hips.

"Language, pretty thing." Ada purrs and presses a kiss on your lips. "Or do you want me to gag you, hmm?"

"N-no," You hiss when she digs her nails on your waist as if it was the first and last warning.

"Then good," The older woman groans as your walls clamp viciously, "It'll be a shame if we silence your moans now."

The dark-haired goddess suddenly slows her pace, pulling out until the bulbous head remains, before slamming right back in and a wanton moan befalls your lips, eyes closing and mouth agape, letting out your sounds of moans of delirium, and Ada is incensed by this and angles her hips in a particular fashion that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, whimpering her name on the lobe of her ear, driving your lover insane and increase the power of her thrusts rutting into you whilst you litter her neck with kisses, all the while leaving red vertical lines on her strong back.

You could hear the thud of the wood against the wall as the giant canopy bed moves with the two of you, the wood mimicking you as your legs tremble beneath her. Ada's breath is hot in your ear as your cunt takes her, the squelching sounds adding to the symphony between the two of you. The older woman growls and presses you harder, fucking you to her bed, hips snapping back and forth, teeth gritted, beads of sweat rolling down her temple, strands of hair falling to the side of her perfectly sculpted face. You pull her close to you, legs trembling as they wrap around her waist, attempting to pull her closer and giving her the advantage of pushing her cock deeper inside your weeping walls, hitting your bundle of nerves.

The veins around her dick drag deliciously inside your velvet walls, mixed essences dripping down your folds, body hyperaware and your skin flushed with sweat.

"That's it, my love." The short-haired goddess moans hotly in your ear. "Keep me close."

Ada whines as your pussy consistently clamps around her.

"Gods," Her distorted voice sent your insides twisting as her eyes flashed gold as she looked at you with a lust-filled gaze. "You feel so divine."

"Look at you! Being such a pliant little wife for me, letting me have my way with you, fill you up with my essence."

The goddess grunts with effort, her pace inhuman and merciless, that it pushes you upward, causing her to wrap her toned arms around you, her grip vise-like.

A dark smile tugs on the elder girl's lips as her shaft throbs again, making you gasp and grind your hips against hers, but her strength prevents you from doing so and digs her nails into your hips, leaving red welts on your skin.

"It's time that we create a new batch of gods." Ada pecks your clammy temple and moves her hips back to her original speed. You let out a lewd wanton moan when she hits your g-spot, making you see stars as you viciously claw her back, making her purr in satisfaction, hitting deeper inside you, targeting and familiarizing the angle of your g-spot.

"With you as my queen." Tenderly, she cups your jaw and massages your cheek, startling you as her hips are in contrast to her hand. "Will you rule the realm with me, beloved?"

You let out a broken sob of carnal delight as her cock keeps hitting your spongy spot. "Y-yes,"

The woman above you closes her eyes, her heart fluttering when she hears her name falling perfectly from your lips. "I-I'm close. Please, please don't stop."

She pushes her scaled-cock deeper, the sensation rippling within you overwhelms your body, you're pushed over the edge with the sob of her name, your body racking with pleasure as another orgasm crashes through you like a sudden tsunami, falling limply as you squirt around her member, the dark-haired deity gasps as you strongly milk her hardened member, and triggering her orgasm unannounced as she stills her hips, letting out her goopy, thick spurts of cum with a low, rumbling groan from her with your name escaping your lips.

But Ada remains hard and begins to move her hips again.

"Ada–" You sob, "Please!"

"One more, sweetling." Your wife pants, "Just one more, hm, can you do that for me?"

You can't, your legs feel like lead, your body already covered with sweat and her marks, your lower region felt like it was about to split in half. But in determination to please your goddess, you nod, with tears welling in your eyes before she moves her hips at a smooth, steady pace. You cry out as the ring of sensitivity and overstimulation shoots in your cunt as she takes you raw, your eyes already spilling with tears as her speed picks up, pulling her closer until your bodies feel like molding together. Every drag of her cock makes your cunt leak out with your arousal and her cum.

Ada slaps your clit, making you jolt and cry out in a mix of pleasure and pain.

"Keep my cum inside you," The older woman orders and kisses you feverishly, your whimper was greedily swallowed by her as she doubles the pace, making your back arch on her front.

You cry out helplessly as she throws your legs over her shoulder, allowing her to hit much deeper spots within you and running with effort as her pace becomes sloppy, her cock throbbing painfully for another release and fueled by your broken moans and sobs, the pain blurring to a thin line of pleasure and you begin to grind your hips against hers, beseeching for more.

"A-Ada–" You pant and claw her back for leverage. "Don't stop-more, give me more." You moaned into her ear as she pounded you into the mattress. Your legs ached from how she held them as she uses them for balance while stuffing you with her cock.

She panted her eyes stayed gold, hardening with lust, moaning when she felt your stomach bulge from all that thrusting, losing herself on feeling the silhouette of her cock prodding your womb.

"I'm going to lay my eggs in you." You screamed as her tip kissed your cervix, you tangled your hand around her locks and tugged it harshly, making Ada hiss and speeding up to an inhuman pace, causing desperate whimpers falling from your lips eyes rolling to the back of your skull as the tip keeps hitting your cervix; drawing you closer to your impending orgasm.

You latch your lips around her neck, sucking and biting her collarbones and her hoarse moans filled your ears as you bite the center of her neck, feeling her stutter in her thrusts and punishing you for it by drilling into you at a bruising pace, your vision hazy, your body heavy, skin covered by a veil of sweat as your hands grab onto her biceps or anything that will anchor you from her frantic pace, the skin on your inner thighs burning from the contact, her balls slapped on your ass as she keeps going, dragging her shaft in and out of your quivering folds.

Small hips jutting in sharp precision that she flaunts whenever she has a chance, she palms your cheeks, tilting your head up for a kiss, tangibly tender and sensual compared to her pace, the older woman kisses you gently while fucking you senseless, the goddess imprinting on her mind to give herself to you with each stroke.

She smirks at how helpless you are underneath her, with each pound, both of you draw closer to your orgasms, excitement curled in your abdomen along with the pleasure that shoots straight to your core as Ada drives herself into your heat.

Then, you feel her cock-head expand, splitting open, your eyes widen as Ada holds you down. "Relax, sweetling–I got you–oh–nghh!"

Your eyes roll back as her cock throbs, the ridges on her cock contracting–her shaft expanding as you feel her insert her eggs into your womb. A moan breaks from your lips as she slots her offspring into your womb in little batches. Ada groans and dips her head into your chest while she pumps more of her cased-children inside you, adapting to your human DNA.

Your lower stomach bulges with her eggs, Ada collapses on top of you, but she is careful not to harm her children.

"P-perfect," She groans, her voice returning normal–winded from bliss as she looks down at the fruits of her labor.

"You'll make a wonderful queen and mother." Ada pants, pressing a kiss on your forehead while you lay limp in your shared bed, gulping before caressing her face.

"Knowing you, my love..." You caress her cheek. "You'd make me a tyrant."

"No," Ada shakes her head sideways.

"I have already made you my queen–fair as the sea and the sun. We will rule justly, with our children inheriting the realm."

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Alliance of Shadows (1)

Author's note: This is the beginning of a new series! I just need our baby boi to find happiness somewhere. Also no beta- we die like our hyperfixation

Pairing: Adar x reader

Warnings: none- we're just getting started babes.

Next

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Adar stood at the edge of the forest, his sharp eyes trained on the distant horizon, where the lands of men and elves and dwarves spread out like a patchwork of history he had no desire to join. The offer from Galadriel still echoed in his mind—empty promises of peace, woven with the threads of distrust and superiority. He could never trust the elves. They would never understand his mission, his children, the ones he had shaped and led, the ones he was trying so desperately to protect.

But he had heard whispers. Rumors of a dark queen in the East, hidden away in the Black Mountains with her people. She, too, did not trust easily, shrouding her realm in magic and mystery. If anyone could understand what it was to protect those you created, to keep them safe in a world that rejected them, it would be her. The Witch Queen. Her reluctance to step into the light intrigued him—her strength, her caution. Perhaps she would see his vision as something more than mere conquest. Perhaps, she would understand what it meant to carve out a place for those the world would rather forget.

____________________________________________________________

You sense him long before he crosses the threshold of your realm. His presence is a disturbance, an anomaly cutting through the ancient wards woven into the mountains. No one comes here unless they are lost, desperate, or seeking something far beyond their reach. You wonder which he is.

Standing at the balcony of your stone fortress, you watch the dying light of day slowly succumb to the night. The wind is cool, whispering through the peaks like an old song only you and your people remember. Down below, the forest stretches like a black sea, the trees swaying in rhythm to the unseen forces that rule here. Your people have thrived in these dark places, far from the prying eyes of men, elves, and dwarves. The world beyond is not your concern.

And yet, he is coming. Adar.

You've heard his name on the lips of your seers, in the cries of the earth, and the howling winds. A figure of contradiction, neither wholly elf nor something else entirely. You’ve felt his ambition pulsing through the air, a thread of fate pulling him toward you. He wants something, and you know men like him are rarely content with what they already possess.

Still, there is something about him that intrigues you. It is not just the magic that hums within his veins, dark and ancient like your own, but something deeper. A hunger. A sense of belonging, perhaps? The thought amuses you—he does not belong here, and yet he comes. Perhaps, in some way, you have called him.

The sharp knock on the great doors of your hall shatters the stillness. He is here.

When your guards open the doors, Adar steps inside, his tall figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the moonlight streaming in from behind. He meets your gaze almost immediately, as if he has been seeking you through the mists, through the wards, through time itself.

You remain seated on your throne, carved from the stone of the mountain, cold beneath your touch. The air between you feels charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. He approaches slowly, his eyes fixed on you, dark and unreadable.

"Adar," you say, your voice calm but carrying an edge of curiosity. "You’ve traveled far for someone so reluctant to forge new alliances."

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact. "I come seeking something greater than an alliance, Witch Queen."

You let a faint smile touch your lips. His arrogance is a thin veil, hiding something deeper. "And what is it you seek, then? Surely not the fleeting loyalty of my people."

He takes a step closer, his movements measured, as if testing the air between you. "Your power. Your aid. Your people’s strength. I need them. You know the war that comes."

A war. You know of many wars, past, present, and those yet to be born. But your people have lived untouched by them, your magic keeping you hidden from the eyes of those who would exploit it. The mountain has always been your sanctuary. His presence, however, threatens to disrupt that balance.

"What makes you think I will give you what you seek?" you ask, rising slowly from your throne. The power in you ripples out, subtle but unmistakable. You want to see how he reacts to it, to you.

Adar’s gaze sharpens, but he does not waver. "Because you want what I want. You want something beyond this mountain. Beyond what you’ve kept hidden for so long. I can give that to you."

You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued, but you keep your tone neutral. "And what exactly do you think I desire?"

He steps even closer now, his voice lowering, his dark eyes burning into yours. "Freedom. The world beyond. A kingdom of your own, forged not in the shadows, but in the light of your enemies’ ruin."

His words stir something in you—something dangerous, something you have buried for longer than you care to admit. The promise of power, of stepping out from the sanctuary of the mountains and into a world that could be yours.

But you are not foolish, nor easily swayed.

"Why should I risk the safety of my people for your war?" you ask, your voice as cold as the stone beneath your feet.

For a moment, he hesitates. And that hesitation tells you more than his words ever could. He needs you, truly needs you. And perhaps, there is more to this than simple ambition. You see the hunger in his eyes, the same hunger that burns quietly within you, waiting for the right moment to be unleashed.

"Because we are not so different," he finally says, his voice steady once more. "You feel it, as I do. This world was never meant for us, for those like us. But together, we could make it ours."

You study him, your mind racing through possibilities, the risks, the gains. He is dangerous, yes. But so are you. And maybe, just maybe, he is right.

Still, you will not be moved so easily. "Perhaps," you say softly, stepping closer to him, until you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "But I will need more than promises, Adar. If you want my aid, you will have to earn it."

For the first time, a flicker of something like surprise crosses his face. Then, it is gone, replaced by the smoldering intensity that draws you to him.

"I intend to," he replies.

You smile—a dark, knowing smile. "We shall see."

[societyfolklore]

Wandering Soul - Part 1

Title:  Wandering Soul - Part 1

Pairing: Loki x Asgardian!Female Reader

Fic Summary:   You were inexplicably drawn to Loki, a presence that existed in the shadows of your mind-an allure you could neither explain nor escape. He whispered in your dreams, tempted you with promises of power and freedom, and left you questioning where his magic ended and your own desires began.

Loki, exiled and secluded in an ancient, enchanted realm, watched and waited. He didn’t take- you wanted to give. By the time you realized you were never truly free to resist, it was already too late.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI Smut (eventually), slow burn, softDom!Loki,No beta…

A/N:  I have been obsessed to POTO since I was small, and it was m hyper fixation 2005-2007 This whole fic is inspired by Wandering Child .. this originally going to be a one shot but I’m breaking it up (Not sure how many parts..) The ruins loomed ahead, shrouded in the quiet breath of forgotten time. The path leading to them was rough and overgrown, jagged stones breaking through the earth like remnants of a long-forgotten road. The wind howled through the crumbling arches, carrying with it the scent of damp moss and old magic. Every step felt heavier, as if the land itself resisted your approach, yet the pull in your chest drove you forward, heedless of the warnings whispered in your past. You had seen them before—not in books or records, but in your dreams. Each night, they had called to you, whispering promises, taunting you with secrets you weren’t meant to uncover. You hadn’t ridden out from your home with a map or direction—the only guide leading you here was a whisper, some pull from a place you couldn’t quite explain. And now, standing here, you weren’t entirely sure that you weren’t still dreaming.

Your teachers had warned you against this. You were not to chase the things that lurked beyond knowledge, not to heed the whispers of the unknown. Stick to text, to the tasks that suited you, they had said. There was no need to search for power, no need to answer a call that would lead you astray. You had heard the cautionary tales—students who had followed voices like this before, only to return shattered, their minds lost in something they could never explain. Some never returned at all. But the warnings had done nothing to quell the yearning in your chest. Deep down, you knew—the pull had to be answered. There was no ignoring it. No denying that something here was meant for you.

Your steps echoed through the vast halls, the flickering green flames casting long, shifting shadows against the weathered stone. This place was old—older than Asgard itself, perhaps. Once, it had been a Jotun war outpost, long abandoned after the great wars that left Jotunheim a frozen wasteland. Now, it was nothing more than a skeleton of a battlefield, a fragment of history left to decay in the outskirts of Asgard.

Yet, as your fingers brushed against the icy stone, a shudder ran through you. It felt alive, pulsating beneath your touch, as though remnants of the past still lingered within its walls. The air was thick with a sense of something watching, something just beyond the veil of what you could see, but you sensed it. The presence that had been calling to you… leading you here. The voice that had started as a whisper in your dreams now seeped into your waking hours, threading itself into your thoughts like a slow, insidious poison.

A whisper curled against your ear, though no one was there. A chill followed, ghosting down your spine like a breath of winter air, raising goosebumps along your skin. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, an involuntary shiver rolling through you as if something unseen had traced fingers along your flesh.

"You wander, little one. Lost, searching… but I see your potential. Let me guide you.” The voice was rich, deep, its cadence curling around your thoughts like a velvet ribbon.

You spun, breath catching, but the ruined chamber was empty. Only silence remained, pressing against your ribs, seeping into your skin. Yet the presence lingered—a phantom caress against your senses, a pulse of warmth and chill interwoven.

I imagined it.

But the thought was hollow, unconvincing. The feeling didn’t fade.

Your fingers traced the spine of an ancient tome left open on a pedestal, the runes etched into its pages pulsing faintly as if breathing. Your pulse stuttered in response, an unspoken recognition coiling in your chest, irrational yet undeniable. The symbols were old. Magic and stories that had been lost, fallen out of memory, now etched into the stone like a lingering whisper of the past. A record of wars fought, of kings and warlords long buried beneath ice and time. But beneath it all, something more—an insistent, invisible pull, like a thread wrapped around your ribs, tugging you forward. It was not just knowledge waiting here. It was something alive, something watching, something calling for you.

A chuckle, low and knowing, echoed from the shadows.

"Patience. Or is it that you want to see me, little one? You want to know who calls to you in the dark?”

A shiver ran down your spine. You should have left. Should have turned back.

But you didn’t.

Hadn’t you dreamed of this? Of standing here, in this place, the air thick with the weight of something waiting? Or had those whispers been more than dreams, more than illusions conjured by a restless mind?

A flicker of movement in the corner of your eye—something just beyond comprehension. The presence was closer now, threading through the air like a tangible force, pressing into you, testing you. You swallowed hard, pulse skipping as you fought the illogical, the irrational, the undeniable pull toward the unknown.

A breeze, though no windows gaped open to the world beyond. The scent of frostbitten pine, of something rich and forbidden, curled into your lungs. The weight of unseen eyes caressed your skin, the air buzzing with a silent hum of something ancient, something patient.

The ruins weren’t empty. They were waiting—not for something long forgotten, nor for a presence to return, but for someone. For you? Or for the one that had called you here?  As though they had been holding their breath across centuries, expecting you to come, to find them again. You could feel it in the way the air thickened around you, in the way the shadows stretched, beckoning. Whatever force had once occupied this place had not truly left. It had been patient, expectant, lingering just beyond the veil of time, waiting for your arrival.. You could feel it in the way the air thickened around you, in the way the shadows stretched, beckoning. Whatever force had once occupied this place had not truly left. It was patient, expectant, lingering just beyond the veil of time, waiting for you.

A hush fell, an expectancy so thick it was nearly suffocating. The silence between heartbeats stretched longer, time distorting as though reality itself bent to accommodate this strange moment. The very air seemed to pulse with an unseen force, crackling with latent energy, pressing in on you, testing the boundaries of your will.

A whisper of fabric, a movement unseen but felt—closer now, just behind you. A shadow too deep in the periphery, shifting when you tried to focus. The sensation crawled up your spine, raising the fine hairs on the back of your neck.

You took a slow step forward, drawn deeper into the unknown. Your fingers brushed against the stone walls, smooth yet humming with hidden energy. The ruins were not dead. They were merely waiting.

A flicker of green shimmered in the distance, gone too quickly to be real. Yet something about it stirred a strange familiarity in your chest, a fleeting sense that you should know what it meant, who it belonged to. But you couldn’t grasp it—it was just beyond reach, slipping through your mind like mist. The recognition was there, buried deep, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t place it. The sight of it left you breathless, your heart stuttering as if it recognized something your mind had yet to recall. And yet, the feeling of being watched only grew stronger. A warm breath at your ear, ghostly, taunting.

"You’ve already started searching, little one. Why stop now?"

Your heart pounded. Logic screamed at you to turn away, but desire—curiosity—whispered louder. The walls pulsed again, not cold, not lifeless. The energy surrounding you was growing thicker, pressing into you like an unseen presence wrapping itself around you, drawing you deeper into its grasp.

Your lips parted as if to call out, but the words never came. Instead, the silence deepened, waiting, stretching, unraveling.

The shadows coiled closer, an unseen force curling its tendrils through your mind, drawing you in like a moth to flame.

Then, a whisper, softer this time, almost coaxing.

"Come find me."

[the-mortuary-witch]

MELINOË

WHO IS SHE?

Melinoë is a chthonic goddess represented as a bringer of nightmares and madness. She has characteristics that seem similar to Hecate and the Erinyes, and Melinoë's name is sometimes thought to be an epithet of Hecate. The name "Melinoë" also appears on a metal tablet in association with.

BASIC INFO: 

Appearance: Melinöe is often depicted as a half black and half white shadowy, ghost-like figure, often with the ability to shape-shift and take on various forms. She is said to be able to haunt the living and cause them to experience disturbing dreams and visions, making her a powerful figure in the realm of the supernatural. 

Personality: her personality with her devotees is likely to be intense, intimidating and mysterious. She is often depicted as a fearsome and powerful deity who strikes fear into the hearts of mortals, but also as a protector and guide for those who seek her aid. With her devotees, Melinoë is likely to be protective and supportive, guiding them through difficult times and offering strength and resilience. She is also reputed to be a guide in the realm of dreams and nightmares, offering insight and revelation to those who seek her guidance.

Symbols: skulls/bones, the moon, ghosts, rivers, graveyards, and howling dogs

Goddess of: ghosts, spirits, madness, and nightmares

Culture: Greek

Plants: wormwood, mugwort, absinthe, nutmeg cypress, nightshade, wormwood, poppy, birch, and lilies 

Crystals: moonstone, obsidian, selenite, tourmaline, bloodstone, and clear quartz

Animals: butterflies, ravens, bats, crows, snakes, owls, and dogs 

Incense: opium, myrrh, patchouli, dragon's blood, black blossom, frankincense, and sandalwood

Practices: death witchcraft, shadow work, necromancy, lunar magick, and spirit work

Colours: black and white

Numbers: N/A

Zodiacs: N/A

Tarot: The Moon, Death, The High Priestess, and The Hanged Man 

Planet: Moon

Days: Monday and Samhain

Parents: Hades and Persephone

Siblings: Makaria and Zagreus

Partner: N/A

Children: N/A

MISC:

Spirits: Melinoë is often associated with ghosts or spirits because she is the goddess of nightmares and the dead. She is often depicted as a frightening and unearthly presence, capable of inducing terror and dread in those who encounter her. In some myths, she is said to have power over the souls of the dead and is sometimes depicted as a psychopomp, guiding souls to the underworld. Additionally, the name "Melinoë" is often translated as "black-veiled," suggesting a connection to the shadows and the world of the dead.

Nightmares: she is the daughter of the god of the Underworld, Hades, and the goddess Persephone. She is associated with nightmares because in some stories, she was born at night during a full moon and was believed to bring bad dreams and nightmares to those who encountered her. In ancient Greece, dreams and nightmares were seen as messages from the gods and were often interpreted as warnings or omens. As the daughter of Hades, who was feared as the ruler of the Underworld, Melinoë was often seen as a bringer of nightmares and terrifying dreams.

The Underworld: Melinoë, as the daughter of Hades, was closely associated with the Underworld, as she was born there and grew up in its dark, dismal surroundings. Additionally, as the daughter of Hades, she was sometimes believed to have magical or supernatural powers related to the Underworld and its inhabitants, such as the ability to bring about nightmares or to control the spirits of the dead.

Hecate: in some stories, Hecate is depicted as a mentor or guide to Melinoë, offering her guidance and advice as she navigates the dark and mysterious realm of the Underworld. Additionally, Hecate is often depicted as a powerful and dangerous figure in her own right, with the ability to bring forth spirits, cast spells, and control the forces of nature. As such, her association with Melinoë, who is also a powerful and otherworldly figure, makes sense in the context of Greek mythology.

Butterflies: her associations with butterflies stem from the idea that butterflies are symbolic of transformation and resurrection, due to their metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly. As the daughter of two gods associated with the Underworld and the cycle of life and death, Melinoë was often depicted as a deity of rebirth and transformation. Additionally, butterflies are also sometimes associated with dreams and sleep, which are also themes associated with Melinoë in some stories.

The moon: according to some versions of her birth story, Melinoë was born at night during a full moon, and her emergence into the world was accompanied by the light of the moon. Additionally, the moon is often associated with mystery, magic, and the supernatural, which are all themes that are closely linked with Melinoë and her role as a deity of the Underworld and the night.

FACTS ABOUT MELINOË:

She is sometimes confused with Hecate, the Titan goddess.

Melinoë can see, talk to, and guide ghosts and spirits. 

According to a hymn about her, Melinoë brings night terrors to mortals by manifesting in strange forms, and can drive mortals insane. 

She wanders the earth at night with a train of ghosts that scare anyone in their path. 

Little is known about Melinöe, but ancient Greeks used to conduct rituals and acts of praises to her as a sign of devotion and to garner protection from ghosts.

She wanders the earth at night with a train of ghosts that scared anyone in their path. 

Melinoë grants madness to those she haunts. 

She's a very kind goddess. She can be firm and demanding like Hecate and Hades, but like Persephone, she's very understanding and kind and will help you grow. 

Her connections to Hecate and Hermes suggest that she exercised her power in the realm of the soul's passage, and in that function may be compared to the torchbearer Eubuleus in the mysteries. 

She is also sometimes confused with Angelos, the god of purification. 

Melinoë lives in the Underworld with her parents. 

She is described mainly as a chthonic deity, but more so represents duality of the heavens and the Underworld, dark and light, and death and life.

HOW TO INVOKE MELINOË:

Since she’s considered a minor goddess, how the Greeks would have worshipped and honoured her is unknown. She’s only mentioned in the Orphic Hymn as an ode to her domain and power, and acknowledgment of her being a goddess. She would have been prayed to as a protector of nightmares, and an incitor of them.

In modern times, she can be worshipped much the same; as a protector of nightmares and help with facing one’s fears. She would be an especially important goddess to call upon when doing any kind of shadow work. It also believed that she becomes queen of the Underworld while Persephone is on earth during the spring and summer seasons. This is not confirmed in her ancient worship though.

PRAYER FOR MELINOË:

I call upon Melinoe, saffron-cloaked

nymph of the earth, who revered

Persephone bore by the mouth of the

Kokytos river upon the sacred bed of

Kronian Zeus. In the guise of Plouton

Zeus and tricked Persephone and

through wiley plots bedded her; a

two-bodied specter sprang forth from

Persephone’s fury. This specter drives mortals to madness with her airy apparitions as she appears in weird shapes and strange forms, now plain to the eye, now shadowy, now shining in the darkness—all this in unnerving attacks in the gloom of night. 

O goddess, O queen of those below, I

beseech you to banish the soul’s frenzy

to the ends of the earth, show to the

initiates a kindly and holy face. I hail to you, Lady Melinoë. 

SIGNS THAT MELINOË IS CALLING YOU:

Recurrent dreams or nightmares related to the supernatural or the Underworld.

A growing sense of connection to the night and the dark.

Strong presence of butterflies or other animals associated with transformation and rebirth in your life.

A sense of being drawn to the Underworld or the world of spirits.

Sudden feeling of transformation or a desire to break free from old patterns or beliefs.

Strange or mysterious occurrences that seem to have a supernatural origin.

Feeling drawn to the colours black and white, which are often associated with her.

Having a fascination with magic, witchcraft, or the supernatural.

Experiencing feelings of transformation or growth in conjunction with lunar cycles or the changing of the seasons.

A growing sense of comfort and ease in the dark.

A desire for deeper self-reflection or inner work in the form of shadow work or dreams.

OFFERINGS:

Black and white candles. 

Food and drinks: onions, garlic, potatoes, carrots, wine, honey, baked goods, water, olive oil, pomegranate seeds, milk, and black & white items/food (like oreos). 

Animals skulls or bones (collected humanely).

Dead butterflies (that died naturally, DO NOT kill them).

Crow or raven feathers. 

Dark crystals. 

Graveyard dirt (collected respectfully).

Moon water. 

Images or drawings of her associated animals or ghost figurines. 

Dried or dead flowers (especially poppies and funerary flowers).

Oil lamps. 

Incense: opium, myrrh, patchouli, dragon's blood, black blossom, frankincense, and sandalwood. 

Fire. 

DEVOTIONAL ACTS:

Honour the goddess’s family members of the Underworld. 

Facing your fears. 

Visit cemeteries. 

Pay repeats to loved ones who have passed on. 

Honour the ancient heroes. 

Read poetry. 

Celebrating Halloween/Samhain. 

Wear black and white colours. 

Doing spirit work and shadow work. 

Pour libations/give offerings to the goddess, the other Underworld deities, and The Souls of the Dead on Hecate’s Deipnon. 

Take walks at night. 

Pray/meditate in the dark. 

Collect dark crystals. 

Leave flowers at empty graves. 

Connecting with your ancestors. 

Respecting nocturnal animals. 

Honouring the other chthonic deities. 

Taking baths in candle light and have candle lit dinners. 

Respect earthbound spirits. 

Adopt black cats. 

Clean up local graveyards and cemeteries (with respect).

Donate to bat rescues/sanctuaries. 

Light black and white candles. 

Watching supernatural horror movies/tv shows. 

Read ghost stories/research hauntings. 

Grave rubbings. 

Embrace the darker parts of yourself. 

[moonlight-joy]

The Blood of the Dragon

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: You are a healer with Valyrian roots, summoned to Dragonstone to tend to Daemon after a battle. Your forbidden past with him resurfaces when you realize that he still carries a dragon’s flame for you, even as he fights to stay loyal to Rhaenyra.

Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen

The winds of war howled through Dragonstone, carrying with them the scent of salt and smoke. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, mirroring the tension that hung heavy over the realm. The Dance of Dragons had begun—a war of fire and blood that would decide the fate of the Targaryen dynasty.

You stood on the balcony of your chambers, gazing out at the restless sea. Your hand rested on the stone railing, your fingers tracing the ancient carvings as your mind wandered. The world beyond the castle walls was unraveling, yet here, with the dragons in their lairs and the sea crashing against the cliffs, there was still a fragile sense of peace.

“Lost in thought again?” Daemon’s voice pulled you from your reverie.

You turned to see your husband standing in the doorway, his silver hair tousled by the wind. He crossed the threshold with the grace of a predator, his violet eyes fixed on you with a mixture of amusement and concern.

“There is much to think about,” you replied softly. “The war, the realm, our family…”

Daemon closed the distance between you, his hands settling on your waist. “The war will come and go. But you… you are eternal.”

You smiled at his words, leaning into his touch. “You always know what to say to ease my mind.”

“Because I know you better than anyone,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re my wife, my queen, my equal. And when this war is over, we will rule together.”

Your heart swelled at his declaration. Daemon had always been fiercely devoted to you, his love as passionate as dragonfire. But it wasn’t just love that bound you to him—it was trust, loyalty, and the unbreakable bond of shared purpose.

“I will ride into battle with you,” you vowed. “Not as a princess hidden in the shadows, but as a dragonrider. A warrior.”

Daemon’s eyes gleamed with pride. “Then let’s win this war together.”

Preparations for battle consumed Dragonstone. The great dragons roared from their lairs, sensing the tension in the air. The castle buzzed with activity as warriors sharpened their blades and maesters poured over maps, plotting strategies.

You stood in the courtyard, your dragon’s saddle in hand as you inspected your mount. Your dragon, a fierce creature with scales the color of molten gold, watched you with intelligent eyes.

“Are you ready, my love?” Daemon’s voice called from behind you.

Turning, you saw him approaching with Caraxes at his side. The Blood Wyrm’s long, serpentine neck stretched toward you, his deep growl reverberating through the courtyard.

“Always,” you replied, fastening the saddle in place. “Our enemies will know the fury of the Targaryens.”

Daemon’s grin was feral as he mounted Caraxes. “And they will tremble before us.”

With practiced ease, you climbed onto your dragon’s back. The bond between dragon and rider was ancient and unbreakable, and as your mount took to the skies, you felt the familiar rush of freedom and power.

The battle was fierce, the clash of swords and the roar of dragons echoing across the battlefield. Flames engulfed the enemy forces, and the ground trembled beneath the weight of dragonfire. You and Daemon fought side by side, a united front against those who sought to tear the realm apart.

When the smoke finally cleared, victory was yours. The banners of your enemies lay trampled in the mud, their forces scattered like ashes in the wind.

You landed your dragon beside Caraxes, your heart still racing from the thrill of battle. Daemon dismounted and strode toward you, his armor scorched and dented but his spirit unbroken.

“We did it,” you said, breathless.

Daemon pulled you into his arms, his lips crashing against yours in a fierce, triumphant kiss. “We did it together.”

As the sun set over the battlefield, casting the sky in hues of red and gold, Daemon took your hand and led you to a secluded hilltop. From there, you could see the expanse of the realm, the lands that you had fought to protect.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” Daemon said, his voice uncharacteristically serious.

“What is it?” you asked, your heart fluttering.

Daemon dropped to one knee, his violet eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve called you my queen in every way that matters, but it’s time the world knows it too. Will you let me crown you as the queen of my heart and my realm?”

Tears filled your eyes as you nodded. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

Daemon rose, pulling you into a kiss that spoke of love, passion, and an unbreakable bond. As the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, you knew that no matter what the future held, you and Daemon would face it together—as king and queen, dragonriders, and soulmates bound by the blood of the dragon.

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[novaursa]

hi hi!! i love your writing so much!!

could i request a robb stark x targaryen!reader where the reader is a ward of the starks after robert's rebellion?

Silver in the Snow

- Summary: Short story about your life as a ward of Winterfell and how you came to love a wolf.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Robb Stark

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: Due to lack of information provided, this short story has only around 950 words.

The snows of the North were merciless, but you learned to love them. It began with your first breath of frigid air upon stepping out of the carriage that had brought you to Winterfell—a castle of grey stone and colder silences. You were barely six when Ser Willem Darry’s last trusted man placed you in the care of Lord Eddard Stark, murmuring half-truths about a noble girl in need of protection after her family’s misfortunes. They never told the truth, not fully. That you were the blood of the dragon, that you were Daenerys's twin, born with the same pale hair and violet eyes—traits too dangerous in a realm still pulsing with Robert’s wrath. But Lord Stark looked into your eyes, and you saw the flicker of recognition—he had known your mother, once. He didn’t speak of it. He never did. Only accepted you with quiet honor, as he did all burdens.

You slept in a tower room overlooking the godswood, and in time you learned the rhythm of Winterfell. The way the wind howled like wolves. The way the direwolves stirred when you passed. Ghost followed you often, red eyes locked on yours as though he knew what blood ran in your veins. You were schooled alongside the Stark children, your accent too soft and your manners too courtly at first, but Sansa took to you kindly, and Arya—brash and wild—taught you to climb trees and stain your hems with grass. You grew into yourself in Winterfell, the fire in your blood tempered by Northern snow, your laughter sometimes echoing down those somber halls.

It was Robb who changed everything. You knew him as a boy, all proud shoulders and a mop of auburn curls, trying to be a man too fast. At first, he regarded you as another sister—gentle but distant, formal in the way of boys taught to guard their hearts behind swords and honor. But you were never quite a Stark, and he was never able to look at you like a sister for long. Not after you started to grow tall and graceful like your mother had been, or when your pale hair, braided with blue ribbons, gleamed in the sun. Not after the day you bested Jon in archery—your arrow slicing the air and sinking deep into the hay target, and your triumphant grin turning Robb’s breath shallow.

One afternoon, you stood in the godswood alone, your cloak pulled tight around you as you traced your fingers over the bark of the weirwood. The red sap stained your fingertips like blood. Robb found you there, quiet and strange, the way you always were when the air turned heavy with memory.

“You always come here when it snows,” he said, stepping closer.

“It almost always snows,” you replied with a faint smile.

He tilted his head, watching you. “Is it that you miss somewhere warmer? Or is it something else?”

You looked up at the carved face of the old god. “I don’t remember warmer. I only remember stories of fire and death.”

His expression softened. “You never speak of where you came from.”

“And you never ask.”

“I do now.”

You looked at him then, really looked—into those blue eyes that held the weight of the North and something gentler beneath it. “I came from fire,” you whispered. “From smoke and shadow and screaming. But I live now in snow and stone and silence. I’m not sure which is better.”

“I think you were meant to be here,” Robb said quietly. “The North suits you.”

“And you,” you replied, voice low, “do not fear what I am?”

He stepped closer, and when his gloved hand brushed yours, it was not the weirwood that made your heart race. “I never have.”

From that day, something changed. He began to seek you out in little ways—in the training yard, where he’d pause his sparring to smile at you; in the solar, where he’d sit beside you as you stitched poorly and cursed under your breath, earning his soft laughter. You rode together often, his direwolf Gray Wind trotting beside your white mare, and sometimes you’d sneak away to the lake that froze over in cold. You showed him how to dance—an art foreign to Northern boys—and he showed you how to fish beneath the ice, his hands steady on yours as you held the line.

“I never thought I’d fall for a girl with dragon blood,” he murmured one night by the hearth, the fire casting gold across your silver hair.

“And I never thought I’d fall for a wolf,” you answered, not meeting his gaze. “Yet here we are.”

He leaned closer, the scent of pine and snow clinging to him. “Tell me you feel it too.”

You turned your head slowly, until your lips brushed his. “I do.”

It wasn’t a kiss of wildfire—it was something slower, deeper, like embers banked beneath furs, something you could bury yourself in and never feel cold again. His hands framed your face with reverence, and your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling him closer, never wanting to let go.

Your love grew in secret, a thing of shared glances and whispered goodnights, stolen touches beneath the stars. Only Jon seemed to suspect, his eyes flicking between you with quiet knowing, but he never said a word. Even Lady Catelyn, sharp-eyed as she was, never looked twice—perhaps because you had always been the quiet ward, the girl of "unknown" origin who kept to the shadows and smiled when spoken to. But in the quiet corners of Winterfell, in the hush of snowfall and the hush of your joined hands, you were no longer a stranger.

You were his. And he was yours.

[etherealevangeline]

Midnight Morgue—The Flower Shop

summary: reader finds simon in a flower shop—cute moment ig? If simon wasn’t being dickish lol.

notes: this story deals with explicit themes such as smut, gore, horror, alcoholism, mental health, delusions, surgical themes/terms. minors do not interact! just love the look of 2009 simon riley in this morgue AU. morgue may or may not be haunted :) ritualistic themes/cult like behavior. random sketchy ass town. Price is the supervisor. Mactavish & Garrick are small town police officers. slow burn simon x reader, enemies to lovers, simon has a huge chip on his shoulder. reader is questioning her belief in the spirit realm. feminine pronouns are used

The next hours are filled with dread as you wait. This morning you had a doctor's appointment—bloody blood work. You despised hospitals and doctors offices. The smell of antiseptic was enough to put you to sleep, considering their slow pace of calling peoples names.

But eventually you made it out in one piece. Your shift started at around 7pm, so what did you find yourself doing before it all? As you walked down the clammy, and rainy streets of Jim Thorpe, the windows were stained with fog. It concealed shadowed figures moving inside. Neon signs blinked pathetically out in the distance, blurred by the fog which left it hazy.

Nevertheless, you caught wind of gossip that a new flower shop opened recently. This one happened to be closer to the cemetery you visited, saving you gas money. You found yourself gravitating towards it, your usual frown decorating your face like rainbows.

You walked in, hearing the ominous jingle that provided no joy—just a reminder of your position in life. A tall hunky figure stood behind the wooden lattice counter, as pots of eucalyptus, vine-like, caressed the edges. It smelled of rose water and musky cologne, as your eyes shifted to him. His hands grappled carefully at the stem bundles he held, inspecting them.

He hissed and muttered something—-or what sounded like a curse, “Bloody hell.” He wiped his finger with a rag quickly that he grabbed off the side. He then shoved it into his back pocket of his motel jeans. It was a wash out style, and dark.

You’d recognized that voice. The thick Manchester accent resonated deep in your core, like a sinking weight.

You strode forward hastily on your wet boots that squelched, announcing your presence once more. He turned around to reveal a sharp set of features, his usual balaclava mask hiding his face. The light from the fogged windows revealed his eyes, and his nose bridge, highlighting the curve of his lids.

“I need a set of flowers.” You muttered.

“What kind?” He asked, although sounding indifferent.

“Don’ matter.” You murmured. Your finger tapped at the chipped wood to which his languid eyes glanced at, then up at your avoidant gaze. You appeared far away in thought, like something beckoned your attention. The pinch in your brow didn’t help to hide it either.

He didn’t comment on it, but turned away and got to work. Your eyes then darted over to his back. Maybe it was the sense of privacy you had when he turned, finally able to look. You couldn’t shake it, something was unnerving about his stare. All these military men and their stares were like punches to the gut. You figured he was ex military, since Price briefly hung up a picture unframed, on his desk.

If you remembered, there stood Price in the middle. He was clad in his khaki military pants, a hat covering his features slightly. Simon was to the left, hunky and geared up, holding his assault rifle, with no obvious smile. Just ominous eyes bleeding behind the mask. Mactavish was off to the right, daringly smirking, arms crossed. And Garrick, he held a service dog, grinning and crouched down in front of the team.

As his gruff calloused hands gathered some babies' breath, lilies and a few red roses, the wind outside howled demandingly. A sharp contrast top the delicacy of the flowers. It ached, almost resembling the sound of a pained cry to be held, to be nurtured.

You clutched your leather jacket closer, hoping he’d finish soon enough. The jacket was dark and distressed from years of use, taking on less of a shine and more of a matte look. It hung heavily on your shoulders like the weight of grief.

Meanwhile his ratted hoodie was rolled up at the sleeves, unzipped and revealing a dark undershirt, which hid his tattoos. The hood was pulled up, giving him an overbearing look despite the flowery essence of the shop. All bright and ditzy and yet he was all hunk, poison, and death met you in his stare.

“Why are you even working here?” You found yourself asking, amidst the silence, a brow cocking. This was the last place you expected Simon to be.

“I’ll be done with you soon.” His gruff reply came. You scoffed—actually grinning at the jackasses reply. Was it that hard to answer such a simple question? Somehow, it amused you, his nonchalant attitude.

Also, add pissy to the list.

“Just askin'. This is the last place I’d expect you to be.” You continued, eyeing his back as the hoodie stretched and pulled this way and that. He gathered a crinkling white plastic to wrap the flowers—large hands folding it neatly.

For a war criminal, he sure had patience with this.

“And this is the last place I’d expect you, f'someone who dips her hands in body cavities.” He returned, his bitter gaze meeting yours. It was hypocritical, how he deemed you as odd for showing up, when he himself, stained with blood of those long gone wrapped flowers. Maybe we had more in common, you thought.

Your eye then twitched, maybe it was the way you couldn’t get much of a read on him. What was lurking underneath those eyes, in his mind. What those fingers itched to really do—instead of sitting here wrapping pretty flowers all day long.

“Can’t a woman buy her flowers in peace?” You said. Yet you knew, there was no peace to be had. It came off as a bitter reply.

Simon silently taped the bouquet carefully and then raised the bundle. His eyes traced over the curve of the petals, the flowers. The way it fell, the way it was organized carefully. You watched, as his pale scarred hand came up to tilt the flower. He seemed pleased with his work, and then turned fully to hand you the bouquet.

If he wasn’t so pissy the sight would’ve been welcomed. But you snatched the bouquet and looked down at it, before slapping down the cash on the cold wood.

“Got a lad?” The Brit had the nerve to ask. Why was he concerned? You picked up on a slight condescending tone to it, as if he didn’t expect someone as raggly as you to have one. His eye twitched, as if the muscle were celebrating your annoyance.

God, I mean—

Besides your hair falling out the clumsy braid it was in, strands brushing your cheeks—the way your eyes were baggy with fatigue—

He wasn’t wrong. You shut off all kinds of intimacy eons ago. But him, something about him irked you and lit a flame of irritation. It was small yet, having room to grow and fan out. You weren’t sure if you should shut the windows and let the flame starve. Deprive it of oxygen.

It wasn’t an affectionate flame either. It wasn’t the kind to wax and wane, leaning in for a lover's caress.

It was the kind that would grow gnarly and burn everything in its path, driven to consume. Combusting. Touching skin and traveling up like a stiff line. You recognized it.

“None of your business.” You then simply stated and turned around, leaving. Time to shut the windows.

Simon tipped his chin up slightly at your form, as you opened the door and disappeared into the thick fog. He could see just a little of your form walking down the pavement from the window, flowers gripped tightly in one hand.

You were heading to the cemetery, he figured it was up that way.

When he counted the cash you’d given to him, the bills moving with ease in his larger hands, he noticed you left two dollars extra. He shrugged and took them. He grappled for his worn out leather wallet, thick with cards and wads of unnecessary singles sticking out. He placed your bills in there, cashing the rest in the register.

He couldn’t bring himself to ask why you left for the cemetery. Instead, he found it appealing to spin stories. Lord knows, maybe that was your only getaway to eat lunch with the dead. He bit back a sleazy grin behind the mask.

His eyes then floated up from the chipped wood, gliding to the hooks. His apron, unworn and unused, hung uselessly at the hook by the door. His eyes bore holes into the fabric as if willing it to burn. The Brit was often confused for not working there since he never wore it—to which the store manager rang his ears a few times about it.

But he never listened. One cigarette and the manager found himself shutting up about the damned apron. Easy.

“You’d ave to let me kill you if you wanted to see that.” Simon muttered roughly before pushing off the counter and fixing his next order from the POS.

—-

As evening rolled in, you found yourself sipping a cinnamon latte. Both MacTavish and Garrick brought in batches of coffees and donuts, to which you took gladly. Your appetite was a mess which needed your attention. But for now, you focused on sipping the warmth, as you held it with both hands.

Price was sitting across on a stool, his form hunched and biting into a powdery donut.

Both of you were in the break room, downstairs in the morgue when you spoke, sighing as the liquid washed down.

“Morgue life.”

Price glanced up as if not expecting you to have talked. The furrow of his brow eased and he relaxed his eyes, before dusting off his hands. “Got anything better to say?”

You felt an itch at your lips but concealed it by lifting the rim to your lips, where you sipped. Your eyes darted away from his shifting form, a hand curling around his knee, shoulders angled to gaze at you.

“Was it bad?” Cringe.

“What?” Price muttered, a slight cock of his head conveying confusion. “You gonna speak up, or gonna keep hiding behind your cup?”

You shifted in your spot. There it was. The way he did this. All of the time. The old crank just loved pointing out the obvious. You weren’t as stealthy as you thought you were around him.

You lowered the cup before straightening your shoulders, squaring them.

“The military.” You clarified, your voice clearer and bolder.

Price rubbed at his scruffy jaw with the hand that was free, glancing away for a moment. He then looked at you, admittedly a little too casually, a brow raised, as if he’d been down this course many times. His forearms were decorated with long scarring, jagged and rising upon the flesh.

“It’s over now. What’s it to you?” Price asked, jerking a chin at you. Your fingers curled around the cup to seek more warmth under his cold, prodding stare. It felt like ice chafing against your skin, rubbing and melting. That's what he did to you.

And you realized he knew a heck of a ton more than he let on. It intrigued you. What kind of military tactics did he learn?

“Realized I don’t know much about you.” You conceded, and then stood up from your own stool. Your scarf suddenly hooked onto the drawer from behind, threatening to strangle you. You made a noise of shock and confusion, your free hand flying up to your neck.

Suddenly, a rush of tobacco consumed your nose and nicotine. The smell of aftershave was faint. When you processed it all—Price had gotten up, and in a swift move yanked the piece out from the drawer. He towered over you.

“Watch your six, you might be the cause of your own death.” Price said dryly. You rubbed at the tightened fabric around your throat, eyes glancing behind you to the ajar drawer, the red scarf flowing down.

You then met his darkened eyes.

“MacTavish wouldn’t stop teasing your dead body.” He breathed out, the sir hitting your cheeks.

Your heart was pounding at your own clumsiness. Was it the coffee? The lack of sleep? So many things.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” You whispered, to which he seemed to find amusement in. His eyes crinkled, his resolve weakening slightly. Even so, there was still something unnerving about the way his instincts moved like a feather. You didn’t even register the sound of his footsteps towards you. You couldn’t imagine how efficient he must’ve been in the military.

“Get goin’. You’re working with Simon tonight.” Price ordered gruffly, stepping back on his old boots.

This time, you almost threw your latte into his face. But your resolve held on, and you glanced away.

You then responded curtly, “Thanks for the warning.”

Price watched—-slightly amused and questioning your reply as you hurried off. No doubt probably needing to cool off. He scoffed, shaking his head and rubbed at his nose bridge as if stressed by trying to figure you out.

“One day it’s the bloody drink rumor, the other it’s this.” He sighed, knowing he also had questions himself for you, before putting both your stools aside. He didn't really understand your sudden interest in him. He was an old, retired military man who cracked beers on the weekend. Alone. Staring at the cresting sunset.

The break room lights flickered to which he then looked up. His small eyes narrowed at the yellow, dingy light boxes, stained by years of dirt and grime.

“Damned wiring.”

Down the hallway in the morgue, you were met face to face with Simon. The Brit leaned on the empty metal table, burly arms crossed. Tired pale eyes dragged from your distressed boots, to your jean clad thighs, and then your scarf that hung limply from when price yanked it free. You cleared your throat, setting the cup down on the nearby shelf to unravel it.

“You’re late.”

“You’re not the first to have said that.” You quipped, then hung your scarf inside the closet. You heard the fellow footsteps of Price, and then Simon went about scrubbing his hands in the sink.

You joined beside his taller form, begrudgingly. Price opened the doors and he sighed, drawing on the chalkboard.

Simon spared you no look or glance, just focused on each of the thick jagged scars marring his flesh. It no longer hurt to touch, but the man knew each and every story of them all. His tattoos now showed as he rode up the dark undershirt, his hoodie hung on the hook beside your scarf.

“Where’d you get those done?” You quipped, brow cocking as you scrubbed your palms red. You needed a hair tie, because your hair was in the way and distracted you from leaning down. Every brush of the strands irritated you.

He was quiet, until he spoke.

“Must be a reason why the drinking rumors started.” Simon spoke roughly, low enough so you could hear. Over the agonizing pound of your heart, the way your breath froze, Price worked the board. Most likely drawing the human body.

“Good. So don’t ask questions.” He said after your stunned silence. You didn’t dare raise your head, eyes casted low as a frown pulled at your lips.

If it was possible you scrubbed harder as he walked behind you to grab some gloves. You could hear him snapping them on, as if nothing ensued. The snap even had your blood boiling. Festering like welts.

That flame was beginning to breathe again.

You avoided him until it was time to bring in the body. Simon angled the overhead lighting, as MacTavish rolled in, his hands on his vest whilst Garrick swiftly rolled the gurney to you both.

Price and Garrick lifted the body onto the table, whilst you stood aside. Simon looked over MacTavish with a nod of approval. a sense of familiarity.

“Unknown female. Found by a church, locals say they called it in after praying in the night. Priest was almost certain this was a sign from the Lord.” Garrick muttered.

“Ain’t that a wake up call.” Price grumbled from beside Simon.

MacTavish grinned, although less from what Price said and more so to you. His eyes strayed to your form as you hassled to tie your hair up, fingers working fast, head tipped low. You managed to get it in a ponytail.

“Aye, don’ stress it. Looked pretty down.” MacTavish just had to comment.

Before you could respond, Price cut in gruffly, “That’ll be.”

MacTavish winked at you and waved a little “bye bye,” at a certain Simon. Simon stared void of any emotion whatsoever, like he had gotten long used to the Scotsman's behavior.

You wondered how he didn’t at least bother to crack at him, the way he did with you.

That was because maybe a part of him trusted MacTavish. Which he didn’t with you.

Your stomach shriveled and you turned your head away, as Price unzipped the body. You felt similar to being homesick. Like you didn’t fit in. Too new. Shiny enough to stick out. And yet broken, the cracks in you dried up and became more of a wound that didn’t fully heal. It didn’t bleed anymore, as it was a drought.

“Assisting John Price, are two coroners Simon Riley, and…” He added your name as he spoke in the voice recorder. Contrary to the feeling you just had, you felt a twinge of belonging as he said it. It happened before. And now it keeps repeating.

Almost like, it became a sort of sappy moment in the goddamn morgue. You shoved it away harshly, biting at any sort of feeling to belong. You were perplexed by your inner monologue.

If I don’t want to fit in, why does it bother me to see he trusted MacTavish more?

And why did the mention of my name make me feel present?

As if Price—the way he so firmly said your name had you realizing you were alive. That you existed behind the foggy chaos of your life. That when he said it, when he affirmed it, you felt a part of life itself. Risen from the dead itself.

You were torn out your thoughts as Simon moved to begin inspecting the body. He leaned over, blonde lashes brushing the curve of his cheek, barely concealed by the mask he wore. The light made his skin translucent and angelic almost. You found yourself staring a bit too long, this time.

“Unidentified female. Long black hair. Caucasian, looks to be mid twenties.” Simon described efficiently, his thick Manchester accent rolling out smoothly. Price wrote on the board, arm jostling.

You found yourself intrigued by the way the words slipped confidently off his tongue like he’d done this a million times. What perplexed you was how his hands worked so patiently and tenderly in the flower shop, and now he handled a dead corpse. It only made you even compelled to unveil him. This part of you to figure him out, to eye him like a hawk. But you knew you’d get nowhere considering how private he was.

You stepped forward and looked at her limbs. You reached a gloved hand out to check her ankle joints, finding them broken. The skin was bruised and mottled. The area was severely swollen, puffing up. “Both ankles are broken like the last, Price.”

Price writes it down, circling the ankles. He cocked his brow at the observation, two in one week? He tapped the chalk, pondering.

Simons’ eyes glanced up at you, before flashing to Price, “Certainly can’t be good.” He muttered. The Brit wasn’t here for the last exam, but surely MacTavish must’ve filled him in.

You flexed her ankle, seeing as the rotation was hyperextending from the break. You trailed your eyes up to her hands which you noticed dirt under her fingernails.

Before you realized it—Simon already handed you a scraper and a petri dish.

You glanced at his pale void eyes, and then scraped the substance off. He watched you like a hawk, your smaller hands moving efficiently. His hands would probably drop the scraper easily.

“Found something. Looks like dried blood.” You said.

“Use the microscope.” Price spoke gruffly. He continued his writings, and Simon watched as you turned away to sit on the stool. Your form hunched over as you eyed the substance, in the microscope.

Meanwhile, Simon then busied himself with checking her irises. He leaned in, his gloved thumb holding the eyelid to reveal cloudy eyes. His brows set lower, deeply, as if trying to figure out who she was. What her story was. How she ended up here. And then, he thought he saw her eyes shift. Like a lizard. Flickering to him. His gloved hand withdrew, hovering, barely stroking her skin.

He remained largely where he stood, faltering in the slightest. He made no sound, just stared at her corpse as if he’d imagined it. She was completely still and lifeless.

“It's blood.” Your voice then cuts through the air. He exhaled, his chest lowering and then flickered his eyes to you before rounding the table, closing the distance.

Awkwardly, and suddenly you’re shoved to the side as his torso looks close to your face. He leaned down, looking into the microscope to see what you saw, a hand gripping the base. You scowled up at him as the Brit knew no personal space.

“She must’ve fought it off her captor.” Price muttered, then glanced at you two. “Back it up.” He spoke as if you were a mutt that needed training. You didn’t like it.

“I was just doing my work.” You muttered and rolled your eyes at Simon. He moved away and crossed his arms, staring down at your sitting form like you were an insect to behold.

You didn’t like it one bit. You turned your cheek away over to Price, seeing what he’d written down. “That means there was a struggle involved.” You figured.

“Clearly.” Simon added, behind you like a sound board. Except he wasn’t exactly helping you. You bristled and kept your eyes trained on the chalkboard.

“Were her wrists broken as well?”

“Yes.” Simon spoke. He moved away to your thankfulness, and looked once again over the table. Surely enough, her wrists also had signs of bruising and swelling.

“Same M.O.” Price sighed, recalling the last male victim.

You got up from the stool and walked over to Price. “If it fits the M.O as last, this could be a serial killer.” Your voice was low, in a hushed tone. Simon watched on the interaction from behind, thumb stroking the edge of the table with a sense of distrust radiating off of him.

“Surely enough.” Price then responded, eyes darkening with something unbridled. It was an intense need to figure it out, like a missing puzzle piece. His hand stroked his scruffy jaw before sending his eyes over to Simon.

“Proceed with the internal examination.”

You joined along—more than happy to assist. But now you were beginning to feel like the lap puppy beside him rather than an efficient practitioner. You disliked it.

It only brought up feelings of being constricted. Cast away like a chore being ticked off the list for the evening.

Simon's hands worked deftly to make the Y-shaped cut. Soon enough the ribs were exposed, decaying organs laying underneath. Your eyes assessed the damage.

“No hole in the heart.” You said, brows furrowed.

“Odd.” Price sighed through his nose and then strode to assess the two of you. He was even more perplexed by the lack of the corkscrew hole missing.

Simon lowered his scalpel onto the metal tray on the cart beside his hip. His gloves flexed.

You watched the body cavity, eyes flitting around. You then leaned away to look at Price, “I’ll have that blood analyzed by the lab.”

“Do it now.” Price ordered firmly, eyes cutting into yours. He needed to figure this out. The look in his eyes told you enough.

You wasted no time in stripping your gloves, throwing them in the can, and then grabbing the sample. You were glad to be out the room filled with too much testosterone. Simon began working the rib cutters as you left out the two metal doors.

The lights flickered above as you approached the broken and small elevator shaft. The smell of cigarettes met your nostrils, and you tilted your head this way and that. The cold, white and depressing floors of the morgue disappeared as the doors shut.

Suddenly it was just you and your thoughts—holding the sample. No elevator music. Then your mind wandered. You wondered what kind of music both of them would listen to.

You could predict Price having an 80s Latin pop music playlist. Ana Gabriel thrown in there, along with some 90s throwbacks. The usual Whitney Houston, Creed, and some Pearl Jam. It fit his divorced dad persona. You had to stifle a scoff at the crude thought. You tilted your head up, hearing the cogs slowly work in the elevator going up. If he knew you had this thought he’d probably do more than just free your scarf—No, he’d find a way to choke you.

And Simon? You never really thought of that one. You wouldn’t know. If you had to take a stab at it, probably Metallica, Iron Maiden, and of course you threw in a sappy song, Take My Breath Away.

You could imagine his eyes peering around, wired headphones plugged in. In the flower shop he would work on cutting the stems carefully, back facing you. Lights from above were cold and gray as it flickered. His pocket was hefty from his phone, wires tangled carelessly by his masked jaw. The headphones fit snug underneath. And he’d listen to Berlin, her silky voice as his rugged features seemed captivated by the petals. How the red petals graced his scarred, pale form. Like blood cascading in rivulets, soft and inviting.

Maybe Top Gun would be his favorite movie, you sarcastically thought. He’d probably think Tom Cruise an idiot, or found him to be a die hard with a raging hard on, eager to prove something.

Just a thought. A handful of thoughts. You snapped out of it when the doors opened but this time, the doors opened to a warmly lit floor. Soft music of a record played, almost jazz like despite the crude, and surgical environment. The moment bursted like bokeh’s, fluttering and glittering. Some nurses walked about, humming. Some pushed carts. Some checked their lists off.

“Hello, where is the lab, please?” You asked quietly to the woman ahead. She appears soft, almost with a trusting look. Her brows are higher set, giving her a wide eyed appearance, and lips smeared with pink gloss. She smiled tightly, pointing her pen down the converging hallway of music.

“That’ll be it.” She said, and it went well with her looks. You felt odd, like a wolf in sheeps clothing here. Everyone appeared too nice. What an odd contrast to your dark, null and devoid personality.

Your ears caught on, head moving to the source of music. It came from the ends of the hallways which converged, but you barely saw the entrance.

You began to slowly walk, bristling past some nurses and to the yellow hallway. The music became louder and clearer, scratching momentarily.

The room had a cabin feel, from the dark oak wood, to the linoleum floors. A brown couch was ratted and old, sagging. There was a vinyl spinning untouched. The soft lamps glowed eerily, marking a presence unknown. You could see the lab wasn’t too far from the room, located just beyond it. It seemed like a wavering mirage, placed behind a mirror.

“Now I’m on my knees. Darlin’ please. It’s time to die—“

The music got cut off as if the vinyl got scratched. Your hand that was resting on the door, holding it open now moved to your side. The door shut and you felt oddly singled out. Like prey being trapped in the four corners of the room. The lights danced like Christmas lights, suddenly buzzing with a high frequency, before it got overwhelmingly loud.

The buzz even shook your core, vibrating your organs. You felt like you were shifting left and right, hands covering your ears as you let out a soft sound. Confused, you looked around.

You spied what appeared to be some whiskey and a nurse coming out, her giggling eerie voice appealing to yours, “Have some, would you?” She beckoned softly. They all sounded the same too.

Unless that was you being pious, and pessimistic. You scoffed and shook your head as she poured into a clear glass. Your eyes narrowed.

“No thanks. On the job, ma’am.” You said, although you itched to taste the burn and feel it satisfy the rotten parts of you momentarily. Your brow twitched as you held onto the sample, looking past her into the lab.

“Don’t be like that…here. My names Sarah. Sarah Lockman?” She introduced, and walked forward to you. Her green eyes peered out, like foliage shining in the sun. The glass was present in her hold, shining too. You eyed it and swallowed and grabbed the sample tightly.

“I don’t know you, really.” You said, voice stiff like steel.

“Of course you wouldn’t…you know. I’m not supposed to be drinking on the job. I mean. It’s a lab and all…what would they think?” She whispered as if only you two were meant to hear. She sighed and carelessly chucked the drink down her throat, her pale fingers grabbing the glass.

“But it feels good to let go.” She added and sighed, her eyes lighting up.

You knew exactly what she meant. And the feeling of it all. You eyed her and watched the glass become empty, the brown liquid gone. “They’ll find you, you know.”

Sarah smiled softly and shook her head, “It isn’t bad until I’m caught.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” You muttered and looked down at your shoes. Who were you to judge her? To diss her? When you did the same thing. You sighed and pinched your nose bridge with a free hand, and then peered past her, to the mirror.

“I gotta get in there.” You said and moved past her. She then grabbed your arm softly, gently. Her voice shook almost like a tremor.

“I know you do it too.” She said, almost hesitantly. As if she could be wrong, but yet astoundingly correct. You stiffened up and you slowly turned your head to her, glancing at her pale hand clutching your lab coat.

“Do you, now?” You whisper and eye her shorter form. She swallowed, feeling impeccably small under you.

“Then tell me I’m wrong. Judge me. But don’t think you’re right, because you’d do the same one day.” Her words wrap around you like a blanket, feeling oddly too comforting. It’s as if you understood her, and you did. You sigh and remove her hand, facing her fully. A soft glimmering light cast upon your faces, glowing and softening the edges.

Like an old film. Like a teardrop catching the suns rays.

“Drink.” She urges, keening her head just slightly to bat her lashes at you. Her lip lifts at the corner almost slightly. A wave of submission befalls you and you shudder.

She suddenly moves light a feather to the drink, pouring it. Half a glass. You spun and reeled at the sight and before you knew it, the liquid burned. It tasted like sin and guilt and yet, a wavering dream.

“There. That’s all. Something to take the edge off, right? Seeing all that death.” She explained, giggling unceremoniously to you.

You sighed and wiped your mouth, when the room felt fuzzy and dizzy. Like an echoing dream. A cadence drifted softly around you two, cocooning a strange, twisted, intimate moment. You then lowered the glass onto the stand where the record played, lips parted.

“You drink strong for a little nurse.” You concluded, tasting the whiskey.

“We all need liquid courage, don’t we?” She mentioned your name, and you sat on the sagging couch, slumping slightly. The sample could wait. The lab was right there, after all. Your head spun and you looked at her, lids hooded and lips parting to breathe out warm puffs of air.

“Damn right. How old are you?” You asked.

She shrugged, “Age means nothing, not when the trauma happens without a care.” She said lightly, sitting beside you.

The couch sagged and your head threatened to tip back slowly, as her voice echoed. The room constricted and you felt her gaze on your slack form. She seemed to be amused, more than anything, watching you spiral.

“You get me, I think.” You whisper, feeling the drink spread like hot fire in your belly.

“I do. Trust me, I get you much more than anything.” She said.

After a while, the room became distorted and her voice faded completely. It was you and your mindless thoughts, and the steady thump of your heart. The rush of your blood sent you in a heat, and this was the high you more focused on. Just a second, you thought. Your eyes shut.

When it opened, you had no idea how much time had really passed, but you knew this. You were spinning. Unsteady. You rose up, seeing Sarah move past you and into a smaller room.

“Let me get you some water, you have to get back to work don’t you?” She whispered uncannily. You eyed her and nodded, clutching the sample and waiting. You stood in the warm room, seeing how the sudoku papers we’re spread on the coffee table, the tall lamp buzzing.

She crossed the distance, disappearing into a closet. The mirror of the lab faded and became a wall of brick, and you blinked dizzily at it. Had you really thought the lab was there? You remember the nurse pointing to a different room. Shit, maybe it was the one across this one instead.

A foot emerged from the closet. Soft, gentle, and bare. Like a child taking its first step.

Your eyes unsteadily caught it, expecting Sarah to come out with the water. And there she were in her glory, glowing, shining with this sort of essence you couldn’t describe. Something out of a dream. You weren’t really sure if it whispered soothingly or if it screamed. It all blurred.

Her pallid, molten fingers caressed the knob as if beckoning you to come closer. Then, you trailed up to see a knee lean in view, shaky as if disgruntled. Mangled. Malnourished.

You saw her pale, soft, and rancid-like skin she had. For someone out of a dream you felt you were seeing her as clear as daylight, with her auburn hair and deepest eyes. She appeared vixen like, and yet disgruntled.

Your breath froze. Her hand rested on the knob, steadying itself before her head rose to you. Long auburn hair curled around her form.

She whispered uncannily, or rather produced a whisper from behind you. You slowly walked to her, not before your stomach hurled and you stopped.

Before you knew it, you ran out, forgetting the water as she shouted your name.

[reverse-void]

The amount of LEGO ninjago aus I have that begin with the idea that

"Somethings just a little off with Ignacia (where Kai and Nya grew up)"

is funny.

To me atleast.

A couple are crossovers like:

Sky connected Ignacia (my sky:cotl and ninjago au)

Where the realm of Sky: cotl is connected to Igancia and many of the residents are sky children/spirits. Including Kai.

When the FSM was making the islands of Ninjago he found himself on an island in the sky. Here he met a guide with what seemed to be owl feathers in their hair. After some time he extended an invitation to them and their people. After the fall of Eden and the destruction of many places, some sky children fled into the area promised to them by the FSM.

Here, they named it "Ignacia" after the flames that kept them alive, and for the future, they forged by leaving a life behind.

Kai has a cloak similar to that of the phoenix cloak from the season of dreams. Nya didn't want a cloak when she was old enough to choose so she can't fly on her own.

The typical ninjago city resident and nearly all non-Ignacia residents don't know about this.

Kai has to keep it a secret from the ninja. He doesn't trust them fully. Not yet.

Nya knows. Wu knows (he knows everything). But the ninja don't know.

But then alot happens and someone just had to have released the dark dragons. Or as Kai and so many others have called them, "Krill". And Kai makes the choice. He pulls out his cloak and flies over, using his fire to make himself brighter, attracting the Krills attention.

After that attack is over, the truth spills out.

Unnamed steve saga origins/steve saga and ninjago au (by which

So. In this au for "some" (around 6-7) months, the school Nya goes to has a field trip. During this, many people from Ignacia are kidnapped. Taken into an alternate plane of existence by someone playing God.

They are turned into the chromatic steves.

Specifically the SSO steves.

And some experiment with the new powers bestowed upon them. Some experiment on others.

Cue the two steves becoming Nightmare steve and then becoming the Nightmare King.

Cue one of the youngest steves. Turned from an orphan child. Being taken by the elders and turned into something else. Something more.

He collects artefacts brimming with power. He lives. He smiles. He mourns. He laughs. He cries. He fights.

He fights for his own survival.

For everyone's survival.

Ninja never quit.

...but he doesn't know that. Not yet

The powers feel foreign. He has to be taught how to weild lightning and manipulate water. He is taught how to fly, it isnt second nature for him. He is taught everything. Nearly everything. All but fire.

Time moves slowly in this new plane of existence.

By the time it's over. Ended with Sabre's sacrifice. Only some months have passed in ninjago. But hundreds, thousands... so many years have passed in the newly dubbed steve realm.

Those that were dead that were once human are returned to being human.

Sure, they have a couple of new physical scars. But they now understand one another so much more.

When the school trip ends after another month or so, Ignacia has a new norm.

Nobody questions the new scars. The new friendships that seem to have been there longer than the months long school trip. How some people flinch away from lightning. Or how the elements seem to flow with others.

Nya questions why some new people come around Four Weapons. Why they don't buy anything. But why they help.

Kai simply says they are friends.

Not wanting to explain the rainbow scars, he hides underneath gloves and long sleeves.

Or how when he's mourning them, his lost friends, the sky howls with his grief. Making all of ninjago suffer with him under thunderous rain storms.

Or even why sometimes he looks... blue. And why there are two sets of footprints in the metal dust. And why another shadow trails behind his own.

Not wanting to explain why he acts so much older.

Not to Nya. Not yet.

But Nya is told. Years later. When both are in their teens.

Nya is told with some of the others, other survivors of that place, in the room. They, of course, leave out details. Like how Blue is now haunting Rainbow Kai. Both tied to one another by their sacrifices.

Then Skulkin attacks and Kai learns that not even this world is safe.

He agrees to become a ninja to save Nya. To save one of the only remaining family members he has.

And later he stays. But only once it is promised that he can visit Ignacia. The ninja questions why but Wu, who seems to know why, accepts and let's Kai return to the ancient feeling village and landscapes of Ignacia.

Years later. When Zane sacrifices himself, Kai doesn't cry in the immediate aftermath. He doesn't cry at the funeral. He wants until he can leave, until he can walk in the forest around the burnt monastery.

Once he is alone. He grieves. He mourns.

And like last time, the sky howls with him. But it's worse than last time.

Lightning strikes near where he is and the rain feels like burning ice.

Months later, once everyone else left. Kai remains to help. But he eventually leaves. A visit to Ignacia.

When they go looking, Kai is found in a graveyard nobody had seen before. Blue orchids braided into his hair and a flower crown on a gravestone.

Nya tells Lloyd to let him mourn for a bit.

But months pass.

Then, the tournament of elements starts.

Nya goes and collects Kai.

When she finds him he's fighting with someone. Someone with stars in their hair and whose eyes glow a golden yellow. Some other once steves stand on the sidelines. Ready to step in.

But many of them are laughing.

They know the two are doing this because they miss others, the list being too long to name. They know the two won't permenantly harm one another, not again.

Nya takes Kai. And the tournament of elements goes along...similarly to canon.

Needless to say Rainbow Kai isn't too pleased when Chen and his lackeys turn themselves into anacondrai to try and beat them.