#i wanted them up against that wall too but invisible barrier

[elnierah]

I thought to post the Shukita/Kitashu screenshots I created for shukitaweek2023 on Tumblr too!  (ﾉ˵ ͡~ᗜ ͡°˵)ﾉ ❤️ 💙

[chronically-ghosted]

stay sexy and don’t get murdered

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 6K

summary: Trapped behind a secret wall to hide from a murderer, the close proximity forces you and Dieter to confront feelings you rather bury underneath your case to prove your favorite neighbor didn’t commit suicide. 

(This is the Only Murders in the Building smut fic in the chaotic stylings of Dieter Bravo.)

warnings: brief moments of tv-appropiate terror, arguing, mentions of suicide, mentions of death/murder, but more importantly: smut (like half of this is smut), oral (f!receiving), dieter’s bare ass nearly catching on fire, too many feelings for something that started as a crack fic idea

a/n: this is my submission for the Dieter Brainrot Club server challenge! Thank you so much to @sp00kymulderrr for putting this together!

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🤍Dieter Bravo Masterlist

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On the other side of the false door, the floor creaks. Fear arches up the back of your spine, your fingers digging into your thighs, your heart pounding somewhere near your ears. The threads of light that struggle through the nearly invisible cracks fade and emerge as heavy boots cross back and forth over the wooden floor. A thousand panicked thoughts pierce one after the other –

Did you shut the door all the way?

Could the intruder see the seams in the wall? 

What were they waiting for?

And then, like a red, bright flare barreling through your brain: what the fuck were they after in Dieter’s apartment?

Another step closer to the false door and dread smothers every thought in your head, until you can hear the thundering of your own heart, the quick draw of your breath that is obviously so loud, the intruder has to hear it. 

Another bootfall, another creak, less light – he’s coming right for you you’re drawing him in – you inhale sharply, fear beating your heart against your breast bone the closer and closer the shadow comes – all the light is gone – and –

His hand slips over your mouth and draws you against his chest. The chill of the hidden crawl space dissipates against his warm skin, his solid forearm like a protective barrier over your chest, his fingers suddenly around your wrist as if to catch you. Your body must think it's falling because your hands grip him around the forearm, pulling him even tighter, his warmth a balm to the sinking cold of fear. 

Shhh . . .

Maybe he says it or maybe you just hear it in your head, his lips against your ear, not a gust of air between your bodies, his own breathing so faint you vaguely think he might be holding his breath. The heady scent of his muted cologne – days old at this point – mixed with the zing of something citrus-y has your head fogging up faster, fear dripping away like melting ice. You want to keep your eyes trained on the cracks of light, keep your muscles tense and ready for a fight when that door inevitably opens – but you swallow against his fingers when you realize that underlying smell of spice coming from him is the smell of Takis sticks and how much it turns you the fuck on. 

In the silence, the footfalls stop. The pressure and overpowering heat at your back makes sweat peak at your hairline, heartbeat at a low thrum. You’re entirely sure both of you have stopped breathing, just waiting, hoping –

You squeeze your eyes shut – 

And then the boots turn away. Heavy, lurking, but in the opposite direction. The invader paces up and down the length of the apartment, never coming near the secret door again. And then, as quickly as he came, the front door opens and shuts. 

There is quiet, a ringing silence. 

“Oh thank fuck,” Dieter gasps out. He lets you go, giving you space again, and you are instantly cold. He drops his hands to his navy sweatpants over his knees, head dropping down against his chest. “Holy shit I thought we were gonna die.” 

Your lips are still warm from his hand so as if to give it back because you don’t want anything from him, you pout them out.

“If you didn’t fight with me about hiding, we would have had more time. Why are you physically incapable of listening to me?”

You watch sweat roll down his temples and you realize your back is also damp. Your knees quake as the adrenaline subsides. The droplet from his hair continues down his throat, catching on his collarbone between the two folded edges of pink-and-black see-through kimono he wore like it was a totally normal thing. Of course this is his painting outfit. 

If Dieter catches you oogling, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he straightens up and rubs his eye with the back of his wrist, still a bit out of breath. 

“You know, when someone with tits like yours pushes me into a dark closet, I’m not really one to argue, but I think I should get some credit for not calling the cops on the first person who broke into my apartment today. What the fuck were you doing in there?”

You’re not quite sure what makes you flush harder: that he caught you doing something highly illegal or that he thinks your tits are dark-closet worthy. 

“Your apartment is one of the few original rooms built as part of the Rhododendron,” you answer defensively, arms crossed. “And since these passageways never showed up on any later building plans, I figured no one knew they were here.” 

Dieter frowns as he wipes the back of his neck with his palm and your eyes definitely don’t track it. 

“You’re saying there have been people living in my walls, watching me jerk off and I never knew?” His dumbstruck look melts into one of lewd satisfaction. “Nice.”

No, see, this was why nothing was ever going to ever happen between you two. 

“God, Dieter, you’re disgusting.” You shove past him and lean into the door. “People aren’t living down here. Didn’t you hear what I said? Hardly anyone knows about this at all – and they aren’t waiting around – to watch – you come –,”

Three hard pushes and the door remains firmly shut. What the fuck? Your fingers skim the seams, looking for a latch or a handle, something.

“You can yell at me once we get back inside.” He shudders and wraps his arms around his chest. “I’m freezing my nips off in here.” 

“I’m trying, Dieter, but it won’t open –,” you push harder, using even more force than you did to open it on the other side. “It’s stuck.” 

“Move, I’ll do it –,”

“Fuck you, Dieter, I got it.”

“We’d be outta here by now if you did.”

“Just help me–,”

“Ugh – fine –  on the count of three – one –,”

“Two –,”

“Three!” 

Nothing. He slumps to the floor, his bare feet sprawled out in front of him. 

“For this much grunting and sweat,” he pants, “we should definitely be fucking.”

You flick his ear, glaring at him, the heat of exertion sparking up to your cheeks at his words. He scowls up at you and claps a big hand over his ear as if to protect it from further assault. 

With a huff, you take out your phone and slide on the flashlight. As suspected, the crawlspace continues on, long into the dark. 

“C’mon, there has to be a way out somehow.” 

“You’re not serious,” he snaps from behind you. “Even I know in an emergency situation you have to stay put and wait for the authorities.”

“Oh, you mean the authorities that don’t know we’re here and probably will never know, with my –,” you check your phone for emphasis, “zero bars!” 

His hands fly to his pant pockets and groans. “Fuck, I don’t have mine.” 

You step back, hinging at the waist in a low bow. “Then lead the way.”

“Fuck, this is not how I wanted to spend my night.” He groans again and shoves the heel of his palms into his eyes before crawling to his feet. He wraps the air-thin kimono around his torso and fixes you with a solid glare. “Fine, but I’m charging you for every toe I lose to hypothermia.” 

The hallways grow colder and darker the further you go, the air thickening with dust. You walk longer and longer as the passageway narrows until his shoulder bumps yours and eventually he has to follow an inch behind you to get through. But he’s not close enough to be warm.

“Can’t believe my last fucking meal was Froot Loops,” Dieter announces to the darkness after what feels like you’ve been walking for hours. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s scowling. “Fucking nasty.”

Your jaw aches from how tightly you grind your teeth together. 

“If it was so nasty, then why did you eat it?” 

“I couldn’t UberEats Captain Crunch,” he sniffs and you realize how cold your own nose is. “There’s a blizzard going on outside, didn’t you hear? Or were you too busy playing Nancy Drew, Baby’s First Break in?”

“I didn’t think you’d be home so early. You usually stop painting around eight, not 6:30.” 

“And just what were you hoping to find?” The casual sarcasm has been leached from his voice and genuine anger crackles over your shoulder. “I told you Mags gave me that key to her apartment of her own free will –,”

“– which you just conveniently forgot to mention–,”  

“– she gave it to me months ago and, so, yeah, sue me for forgetting!” You want to bite back with something, something to make the painful ache in your chest when you found out he had been lying to you go away. Something to scrape the taste of shame and disappointment off your tongue. But you know everything you’d throw at him would be unfair and childish. You stew so long in a bottle of your own rage and hurt that you don’t realize the silence has stretched on far too long.

When Dieter speaks again, he’s several steps behind you. You shine the flashlight on him and he barely flinches. You can see his broad shoulders shivering and you do think his feet look worryingly pink.

“The last time I saw Mags was just before a six month shoot. She gave me that key and told her to surprise her when I came back.” His teeth are chattering but he won’t look up at you. “I meant to call her, check in, while I was gone, but I just . . .” He shakes his head, eyes tightly shut. “I got back into town an hour after they found her body . . . which means I didn’t kill her, for the record. You can check my ticket.”

Your mouth drops open, shame spreading out like an electric shock across your skin. “Dieter, I never thought that you . . .”

His glare levels you and you wonder what his face looked like after you slammed the door behind you that night you found the key. You had spent two weeks afterwards wandering the halls looking for secret tunnels to peel the image of his face just before you left in a rush from the walls of your brain. What had he done in all that time apart?

“Whatever. Let’s just go. I think you already owe me a thousand bucks.”

He tries to move forward but you block him, standing in the middle of the hallway. The light of your phone hits him from underneath and his jawline plays shadows on his chest. 

“I didn’t leave because I thought you killed her, Dieter. You lied to me. I’ve been running in fucking circles over this thing for weeks and all this time you kept something from me! It felt like you were . . .”

“What?”

The heat of your anger rolls up to the back of your neck. “It . . . i-it felt like you were manipulating me. Play detective with the little idiot in 2B because you’re bored and I was . . . available. Like what we were doing, it didn’t matter to you.” 

Dieter’s teeth clench on the right side of his jaw. “Of course it matters to me. Mags was the only one in this entire building who treated me like a person and not a fucking spectacle. She was important to me and I know she didn’t kill herself. I wanna get the fucker who did it as much as you do.” 

“But you kissed me!” You feel the cold in the air drop down into your lungs so fast your chest aches. “You kissed me, Dieter, and then I found the key on accident – like you were hiding it from me – a-and I heard the message Anika left on your voicemail. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, but . . .” You squeeze your eyes shut, the cold from your lungs seeping into your bones. It’s nearly hard to breathe. “You and I are very different people, Dieter, and there’s not a world I can imagine you want anything to do with me, or Mags. I thought you were just . . . playing with me.”

The light of the phone hovers between you and him. Your toes are starting to ache from the ice-cold concrete and you briefly consider taking off your shoes and giving him your socks because that’s the instinct he draws from you. Despite how you fought it, how you clawed and scratched, you want Dieter Bravo to be okay, to be happy. But you can’t prostrate yourself on the altar of someone who wouldn’t do the same for you.

Not again.

“Dieter, please say something.” You can see his pant leg tremble in the blue light. “I’m sorry I–,”

“Did you ever think I like the fact that you’re different from me? From everything that my world means? That everything that makes you, you is amazing and gorgeous and I’m so fucking drawn to it, I lose sleep at night.” His voice is deep, hulking in a way that fills up the dark corridor until you feel like you are being smothered. But it’s not angry, not aggressive. If anything, his voice is thick with regret. “Anika was . . . a mistake. She knows that now. She’s seen it. So I can’t blame you for r-running the way you did, but . . . I’m not lying to you. Not about Mags, or how I feel, or anything else. I never have and I never will. You got that?”

Swallowing the grisly, meaty knot in your throat that could be mistaken for your emaciated heart, you nod. You are suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to fall to your knees and confess your own sordid past that made you the way that you are because he needs to know you’re NOT amazing or gorgeous or anything resembling someone worth losing sleep over. 

He needs to know he should run from you

“I’m starting to lose feeling in my toes, seriously. We need to get out of here.” 

He stands there staring, the dark shadows abandoned by the light of your phone hiding whatever is in his eyes. And then you realize he’s waiting for you to move. Your knees and elbows locked from the cold and the weight of his confession, you stiffly turn around, heading into the darkness without looking back.

About an hour later, Dieter bursts through his apartment again with a cry of relief and immediately bolts for the fireplace. He twiddles with the switch a second before a massive fire belches from behind the sleek black grate. With another deep groan, he drops in front of the fire and sticks his hands centimeters from the metal fence. He wiggles his toes and props them up on the marble lip. The stiffness recedes, the pink fading, and he glances over his shoulder.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Either come in and shut the door . . . or leave.” 

Your fingers wrap around the edge of the black door. You are cold. Your fingers are cold. The hole in your heart that’s been growing there long before you met Dieter . . . makes you step through the threshold and shut the door behind you.

Dieter wiggles his toes against the marble lip, his elbows over his knees, his eyes the color of earth in autumn. He neither tenses or relaxes when you sit down next to him, extending your own extremities closer to the fire. 

The color has returned to his lips and you can’t find anything else in the room to look at. 

“I’d offer you a drink,” he murmurs to the flames, “but I still can’t feel my feet.”

I lose sleep at night.

“Dieter, look, I’m . . .”

His thick fingers wrap around the bone of his wrist and he shakes his head. “Don’t. You don’t have to say anything. Don’t . . . don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” 

“Thank you, Dieter.” You glance at him. The fire crackles in his eyes, wide in disbelief, fingers tangled together. “I mean that. I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I have without you.” 

He chuckles after a pause. “That’s not what you said when I broke into the super’s storage closet for you.”

“You’re going to get us arrested,” you roll your eyes and bump your shoulder into his. With a grin that is innocent and hopeful and full of bright fire from behind the grate, his gaze drops to the plush of your mouth, the wet crease where your tongue soothes dry skin, and his bottom lip curls between his teeth. 

“Oh,” he murmurs, “I’ve always liked the idea of you in handcuffs.”

As though his gaze has a solid presence, it licks fire down your throat, over the back of your neck, rocketing into your spine and swooping low into the peak of your thighs. It darts over your lips, your nose, your cheeks, your ears, dragging lightning in its wake.

It isn’t the first time you’re consumed by the thought of kissing Dieter Bravo and it certainly won’t be the last, but it’s the first time you are made so overwhelmingly helpless by it, the wind is knocked out of you for a second. 

You wait too long to breathe, too long to tear your gaze away from his lips, too long to realize you’re leaning into him, until his broad hand redirects your forward motion up into his open mouth. 

This is the first time you’ve ever kissed Dieter Bravo and dear fucking god, please don’t let it be the last. 

His tongue lines your bottom lip, tasting, memorizing, marking that place that has you tilting in closer. Beneath your fingertips, the recluse beard scratches and burns and you take his jaw in both palms because you can’t wait to push it between your legs. His fingers wind into your hair and he’s leaning over you, consuming you like only your dreams of this kiss had before. 

All it takes is one soft sigh, one final moan of relief, your fingers curling around the flimsy kimono, and Dieter pins you to the floor in a single fluid motion. His knee digs into your thigh, trapping your legs apart, to make room for himself in the cradle of your hips, pressing himself into you and pushing air from your lungs. You can feel him hard, the tip of his cock warm against you, and that simple fact – the fact he wants you so badly – has you slotting an arm around the back of his neck, tugging him in tighter, closer, because not even sex would bring him deeper inside you. With a grunt, Dieter’s hand leaves your cheek, running hotly down your neck, the curve of your shoulder, and into the dip of your hip. He squeezes and you whine against his teeth. He rucks his leg up under your thigh, squeezes you again, rougher, more intentional, and you tug your head back, gasping for breath, lungs on fire and mind whirling like a book flipping open in the wind. 

You groan, air precious and limited, as he sinks just a hint of teeth into your jaw, your earlobe – harder, then – your throat, his tongue going flat and fat against your skin, then the valley of your collarbone. He mouths lower on your chest over your shirt, need overwhelming logic, and your fingers fly to slide up your own shirt, wriggling between his cock and the floor, and when he sees you peel your shirt up over your ribs, his mouth parts, eyes dark, framed by darker lashes.

“Fuck.”

Your back arches towards his mouth, towards his tongue and lips and teeth and the hot pant of air coming from the back of his throat. The lip of your shirt exposes your heaving tits and Dieter plants his mouth in the curve, groaning with a mouthful of your skin. He sucks, teeth prickling the skin, as if he could eat his way through you. His hips sway forward, heavy against the seam of your jeans and his nose draws up to your jaw before he’s kissing you again. 

“I’m not manipulating you,” he hums out of nowhere. He blinks his bleary eyes at you, his wide hands stilling in their touch, and you want to laugh and grin and tell him he’s being silly but you can’t, you can’t over the wild beat of your heart, the sincerity in his voice a grounding force beneath the bloom of pleasure riding up from where his hips press into yours. He dips his head and drops a hot, open-mouth kiss to your throat. “‘M not, I swear, I swear–,”

“I know, Dieter.” You tug his chin up with the press of your thumb, into your seeking mouth, and he groans, tasting the transference of want, of truth, of pure desperation on your tongue. The slip of lip between his teeth turns his touch frantic. 

“I want this.”

“Me too.”

Shifting over you, he kisses back down your neck, short whiskers stroking tiny burns against your skin, down your chest until he dips his head over your right breast, and bites – then soothes with his tongue. His hand nearly maps your other tit in one palm.

He squeezes as he bites again and your hips drive up into his, bliss sparkling like lightning between storm clouds beneath your skin. You aren’t sure if you moan his name or if it’s just pasted over every thought in your head. He makes you lose all sense. 

With a groan he lifts his head just an inch, the cold tip of his nose drawing senseless shapes over the curves of your breast.

“Wanna see your tits – can I see your tits, please?” His hand slides up your back, between your bra band and your hot skin and digs his nails in. “Please, pretty girl, please.”

You whine your consent, nodding into the messy heap of hair that tickles your chin, and he pinches your bra off before the last dip of your head. He flings it into the darkness behind him and with a strained groan, Dieter opens his mouth around your nipple and sucks.

The corners of his mouth are still a bit cold, the heat of the fire not quite enough, and when he slurps up from the underside, the fat curve of your tit, up to your nipple again it’s like someone outlined your goosebumps in ice. You scratch at his head, begging him deeper into your chest, and he obliges with a wet, swollen hickey on the top of your tit. His teeth hurt but with each suck, it’s like he’s plucking at the string connected directly to your cunt. You throb for him. 

His fingernail grazes the irate pink of your nipple, circling it again and again before he pinches and you arch, right into the flat hardness of his cock. You shake and intentionally, unintentionally, you don’t know your own body right now, rub up against his cock and Dieter, with your tit halfway in his mouth, chokes. 

“Fuck, I’d ask you to do that again, but I’m gonna come like a fucking jet engine in my pants. Lemme in,” he’s babbling as his hands drop to the button of your jeans and wrench the zipper down, “I’m gonna eat you out till you’re fucking dry.” 

Shoulders pressed back against the white shag carpet, you help him yank your pants down over your hips, up your calves, and off your feet. Dieter’s eyes can’t find a place to land – from the purple claim he’s laid over your tits, to the sucker pink swell of your lips, to the wettest cunt he’s maybe ever seen in his whole life –

He sits up on his heels and nearly gets caught up yanking the kimono off his shoulders. With shaking fingers, he unties his sweatpants and tugs himself out. 

You’d never noticed before when your mouth flushes with spit at the sight of a good meal.

You do now. 

He’s not overwhelmingly long, but he is thick, thick and a ruddy red, cream dribbling out. The sweat on his chest and stomach a few inches above sparks gold and warm in the light of the fire. In a single swipe over his palm, Dieter spreads that wet precum over his long cock, easing a few smooth strokes. 

“Mhn, this is what I look like when I fuck myself at night t-thinking – thinking of you,” he groans. His hand curls around your thigh, keeping you pinned, keeping you spread. But the sight of him jerking off and moaning your name drops your knees apart and your hand on your clit. With every swipe, you circle faster until you think it’s his hand on his cock that’s doing this to you. Dieter watches, mouth open, shoulders curved as you spin yourself wetter and wetter. “Came so hard I blacked out with the thought of you like this in my head. Wait, baby, move, I wanna –,” 

His hands on your knees, he shuffles closer and like you can see his words without asking, you tilt your hips up towards him, receiving him as he rubs his cock between your soaked folds. His blunt head catches your clit again and again, and you twitch, as though shocked in an electrical storm. 

“Oh, fuck, baby –,”

You dig your nails into the back of his hands over your knees, using the leverage to speed up his thrusts, the ruddy tip smacking where you need him most but never inside. His eyes flutter as he feels you soak his cock, slick dripping between your thighs and the shine against your skin nearly knocks the wind out of him. He grips you harder. 

“Fuck it, I gotta know what you fuckin’ taste like.” 

In a move that catches your legs over his shoulders, rolls your ass up off the floor, and his body back and further down, Dieter tucks his head and latches onto your cunt, presented high near his face. He inhales as he drinks, as he eats, as he dines on the spillage down to your ass. Dieter moans and suddenly the boiling heat of pleasure rages to an inferno when he wraps his lips around your clit and licks with the flat brim of his tongue. 

“Oh, oh-h-hmy fucking god, Dieter!”

It’s whiny and debauched, but it’s also a plea, a desperate bid to the last traces of your sanity. Your eyes roll back in your head and your back, flat, on the floor, but Dieter lays flat on his stomach, fingers pressing into your thighs, shoulders shoved up against the curve of your legs – his tongue still dragging breathless gasp after breathless gasp out of you. He’s tapping out nuclear launch codes with little licks of his tongue, eyes as effective at pinning you down as his thighs were. 

You can feel yourself drip for him, on him, into him because his mouth is pressed right up against the seam of your pussy. Words rise and fall and die in your throat, your mind following the rising path of your orgasm into nirvana. 

“Say it, baby,” he husks into your damp curls. “Tell me how good I fuck you with my tongue.” 

You groan, riding his nose. “So fucking good. Oh, fuck, wait, right there – oh, shit – Dieter, baby, ahh–,”

It comes on without warning, without slowing down, without giving you a second to breathe before bliss flattens you like a train. It courses through you, singeing your blood and showering sparks behind your eyes. You spill more for him, so much for him, and he eats, like drinking honey from the source – spill, and spill until there’s nothing but a thready pulse inside your body. 

He’s sucking directly from your tingling pussy when you finally push him back with a groan. Dieter retaliates with a huff, mhm mm, eyes black like the coals inside the grate, the entire bottom half of his face hidden from view as he hungrily tugs your hips to him with both arms. You’d never seen him quite so sure about something, so possessive.

Like he already owns your cunt. Stop me, I dare you, he taunts with his eyes.

“Dieter,” you plead, mouth dry, heart fluttering with each lick of his tongue. Your poor clit is drenched and stiff. “B-baby, I need you . . . up here.” 

With one last prod that slides just barely between your cheeks, up through your leaky hole, and swiping your clit one last time, Dieter unplugs himself from you, murmuring and wiping his mouth as he goes. Your skin glistens where his mouth leads and he can’t resist shining up that purple swell as if showing off where he lanced you through the heart. 

You half-expect him to shove his pants all the way down and shove himself into you, but he doesn’t. Instead the man known for his hedonism around the world and certainly within the building crawls up your body, drops a grateful kiss into the bend of your neck, and one by one, folds onto his elbows over you. His face smells like you, his aquiline nose inches from your own, his lips still damp and warm, and the soft brush of those lips high on your cheek has you shuddering in his arms, digging your nails into his expansive shoulders and tipping him into your waiting mouth.

He kisses you for a moment, breathing roughly out of his nose, before he wipes his broad palm across your forehead and pushes your hair back over your head, cupping the curvature of your  skull. The motion drags your eyes open.

“Hi there, baby,” he murmurs quietly across your lips, eyes soft and a thousand miles deep. Your legs tuck up around his hips. “Can I fuck you now?”

You nod through the sudden blockage in your throat, the swelling in your chest making your heartbeat twice as hard. You think you might die if he doesn’t. Dieter presses a kiss with just a hint of teeth against your cheek before sliding back down, littering your skin with kisses full of praise and heat, and hovering above your belly button, he knees off his sweatpants, fully down from his hips, the motion bending him forward and pressing his face into the swell of your stomach.

“I wanna make this last,” he slurs into your skin, “but I don’t think I can. Fucking dreamed about you for weeks. Scared out of my mind when you didn’t pick up your phone.”

Dieter covers you with his body, his palm planted by your ear, the other hand wrapped around himself, and his words register in your brain, the desperation peeling back the fog of lust-drunk. 

“W-when didn’t I answer my phone?”

His eyes, dark and wet, glance up from where you’re nearly combined and you nod, hands sliding from his biceps up to his shoulders. With a groan deep in his chest, Dieter rolls his hips forward, the blunt head of his cock sliding you apart and your mind nearly in half. You arch your back to take him more fully.

Half-way in and he drops his other hand to mirror the one by your head. He keeps pushing, keeps making room for himself, the thickness nearing choking you into blackness. You whine, incoherent syllables, and he grinds his jaw together.

“W-when you – fuck, baby, you’re so tight – when you went to that m-meat – ngh –,” he’s almost flushed against you, “that factory, ah-all by yourself.” 

Are you sweating? How are you sweating already? 

He ends against you, and you both groan at the sensation of his thick weight settling inside of you. You bury your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and tug – how dare you make me feel so good why haven’t you done this before please god don’t fucking stop now

“You were f-filming – Dieter! – you were in another countr-ry.” 

With half a laugh, delirium twisting his mouth up into a smile, he lowers down and kisses you, your own mouth slow to follow him. He pulls back, a fraction of an inch. 

“I would have dropped everything for you. Now, hush, I gotta fuck you until you can’t walk straight.” 

His palm cupping the back of your head, his arm curled with his hand flat on the floor, Dieter starts slow, his pace deep, curious just how much of him you can take without actually tearing apart, and his cock brushes something that sends sparks up behind your eyes, splits your mouth apart, and wrenches his name out of your mouth.

“There we go,” he hisses in your ear and speeds up his thrusts. Like music cranked up on a radio, you can feel yourself pulse, your heartbeat in your neck, as every tap of his cock overwhelms your body with pleasure. The least you can do is hold on; you wrap your arms around his heaving back, and tuck your legs up to your ribs and he squelches in deeper. 

“Hm – yeah – needed that–,”

Heat builds between you: between your neck and his panting breath, between the flushed skin of his chest inches from your sweaty one, between the brush of his course curls against your clit. He’s trying to make you remember every fight you had, every touch you shared, every shallow drop of his heart when you pushed him away again and again – he fucks you like he wants you to synonymize him with the very sensation of heat itself. But you’re unspooling rapidly with every thrust of his hips – more of you leaves as more of him comes in. 

For the first time in weeks, you don’t think about Mags. Or her murder. Or her blue-cold apartment. You don’t think about failure or fear, or your anger that you wield like a weapon. You don’t think of your parents or what the fuck you’re going to do with your life when this mystery is over – when Dieter inevitably tires of you – you can’t think at all. He won’t let you.

He knows you want to recuse yourself, retract and hide, but he won’t let you. 

The unimaginable stretch keeps your mind unfocused, blurred, and just when you think you might stabilize under the sensation, he kisses you. Harshly, softly, any kiss he knows you need to keep you in your body, forced to receive every devastating wave of pleasure he gives you. He palms back your sweaty hair off your forehead, salt clinging to his own curls, and sucks on your earlobe, asking how’re you feeling, my good girl? from between his teeth. 

Your stifled sigh is answer enough. 

“Almost there, love, what do you need, huh? What can I give you?” His words, offered in a voice so lust-strained, you feel the vibrations over your skin. You palm the center of his back, muscles hot and tight, and you answer with the only thing that’s on your mind:

“You.”

Breath suddenly short in his chest, he quickens his pace – shorter, faster thrusts that send you higher, sprinting towards an inevitable, bright end. His grip shifts as he squeezes your hip, that low ache tightening and locking down, the overwhelming sense of Dieter spiraling you apart. 

“Show me you mean it,” he whines, the scruff of his beard rubbing your jaw raw. “Come on this cock for me, baby, show me who you need.” 

You yank on his hair again and with a snarl, he snatches your wrists from around the back of his neck and pins them above your head. 

“Gonna fill you up with e-exactly what you need, gonna fuck you so full of me, your undies are gonna drip white for weeks–,” 

“Mhmn, yesDieterplease, yes, m’yours, y-your –,”

Another release, this one wild and spiraling, tears through you, up your spine, out of your mouth in a wide, silent scream. Your body curls around him, clinging to him as you pulse and seize, your legs twitching. Your hands tingle with a sudden loss of sensation as Dieter squeezes down on your wrists, head tucked into your neck, and with a shuddering, “f-f-fuck,” he follows your release with his own. A rough shove and he breaches your squirming cunt with his warm cum, the feel of it tugging your own smoldering orgasm along a bit further. Basking in the last twitches of your cunt, Dieter lowers his head to your shoulder, his thumbs distractedly rubbing soothing circles around your wrist. You can’t move, can barely breathe with his weight on you, but the pounding of his heart through his chest into yours settles the haze in your brain.

You know now you can’t hide the thunderous machinations of your own heart from him either. 

“Don’t wanna move,” comes the dispassionate grunt at your neck, “but my ass is on fire.” 

A smile then a full body laugh, that makes Dieter lift his head. His own smile strikes you in your heart: adoration, a little sleepy, and relief. He glances over his shoulder at the exposed flames mere feet from his bare ass. 

“S’ what I deserve, fuckin’ in front of an open fireplace.”

“We all must suffer for our art.”

At that he turns back to you, grinning wildly and a tad bit proud. His own ego blown up to excuse his softening cock, Dieter slides out of you and onto his back. Without his chest, the heat from the fireplace collides with your bare, sweat-slick chest and you shiver.

“Cold?” He sits up and tries to catch a loop of the sheer blanket on the back of the couch but you still him with a touch of your hand on his back. The look in his eyes, that dopey ease by which Dieter lives his life, makes your other hand on your stomach tremble.

You don’t want your overthinking to ruin a truly blissful mood, but anxiety chatters at the back of your teeth. Instead of suggesting you both go to his room to shower off, or if he thinks the police might know about the secret passageways, you ask:

“Did you mean it?” 

His face softens, eyes go warm. You should specify which part, but he doesn’t need you to.

“Yeah. I did.” He leans down and kisses you briefly on the mouth, knowing you have more to say and worry over. 

“But–,”

“As cute as your but is, we’re not gonna do that right now. You’re going to get under this blanket with me and we’re going to talk about what you’ve found about the case and then we’re going to solve this mystery together.” Dieter reaches back and finally snags the blanket. With a shuffle, he, sweat-streaked and cum-covered, lays down with the blanket over his shoulder and opens his arms to you as though he’d done it a thousand times. Your face hot and your eyes painfully dry, you curl up into him. 

“Together,” he repeats. “Did you hear that part? That’s important. We’re going to Scooby-Doo this together.”

Silence, where all the wrong things sit heavy on your tongue, your own twisted morality desperate to push him away and run out the door – silence stretches, uncomfortable and tight and –

“I’m proud of you for that pun, and not using it like I’m gonna ‘Scooby-Doo-Screw-You’.”

“Fuck,” Dieter groans and you giggle. “It was right there!” 

His chest is warm as you bury your face into his skin. 

You watched true crime television specials to be prepared for the worst. You listened to podcasts about missing women to avoid making deadly mistakes. You fought and hid-away your whole life to keep yourself safe and protected, but nothing – nothing in the entire world – could have prepared you for falling in love with Dieter Bravo.

His smile is soft and he knows you well enough to know that you’re thinking about something. With a brush of his thumb over your cheek, he asks:

“What?” 

And all you can do is shake your head, the deluge of words and feelings trapped behind your lips and the only noise you can make to keep them inside is a squeak.

You press your forehead into his shoulder and his arms smooth across your back, tugging you closer.

“Nothing. It’s just . . . I feel safe with you.” 

Safe, and happy, and loved.

+

[queerfables]

Taking away the glass?

Oh gosh I'm actually so keen to talk about this so thank you for the opening!

Context: Responding to akaitsukicat's artwork of Crowley and Aziraphale separated by a glass wall, I said that the reason we're all such wrecks over their kiss is because after 6000 years in canon and 33 years in real life, that kiss was "taking away the glass".

The glass is a metaphor that media scholar Henry Jenkins uses to explain the appeal of slash, originally published in 1993. Here, "slash" refers to queer re-interpretation of heterosexual media, including transformative works exploring those readings.

This is what Jenkins says about the glass:

When I try to explain slash to non-fans, I often reference that moment in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan where Spock is dying and Kirk stands there, a wall of glass separating the two longtime buddies. Both of them are reaching out towards each other, their hands pressed hard against the glass, trying to establish physical contact. They both have so much they want to say and so little time to say it. Spock calls Kirk his friend, the fullest expression of their feelings anywhere in the series. Almost everyone who watches the scene feels the passion the two men share, the hunger for something more than what they are allowed. And, I tell my nonfan listeners, slash is what happens when you take away the glass. The glass, for me, is often more social than physical; the glass represents those aspects of traditional masculinity which prevent emotional expressiveness or physical intimacy between men, which block the possibility of true male friendship. Slash is what happens when you take away those barriers and imagine what a new kind of male friendship might look like. One of the most exciting things about slash is that it teaches us how to recognize the signs of emotional caring beneath all the masks by which traditional male culture seeks to repress or hide those feelings.

The vid I refer to, inspired by Jenkin's comments, is The Glass by thingswithwings. It's a beautiful vid, sad and hopeful and empowering, with a very moving commentary on fandom history. It was originally published in 2008, which is relevant to understanding the position it takes in the dialogue around queer relationships in media.

Here's thingswithwings' summary of the vid, as it appears on YouTube:

Henry Jenkins, speaking of the Spock death scene from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, said, "slash is what happens when you take away the glass." It has been said, in response, that death also happens when you take away the glass. ie, if you took away the glass Kirk would die of radiation poisoning too; the barrier between desiring men cannot be removed on pain of death. Homosexuality, or just loving touch between two people of the same gender, is equivalent to death in this media narrative. One of the interesting things about slash is the way it takes away the glass, then puts it back, then takes it away, then puts it back, often pleasurably. I think this is both problematic and powerful. It is problematic because it reasserts the impossibility of the touch (it fetishizes oppression in a negative manner); it is powerful - and good - because it dwells on and thinks about and removes the glass (it fetishizes oppression in a transformative manner). One of the interesting things about mainstream media is that it continues to put the glass back up, no matter how hard we try to tear it down. Queer desiring touches have been, and remain, imaginable but impossible. TL;DR ALTERNATE SUMMARY: THERE SEEMS TO BE SOME KIND OF INVISIBLE BARRIER IDK WHAT IT MIGHT BE

In regards to Good Omens, it's relevant that this entire conversation about homosocial relationships in media takes place within the 29 year period between the publication of Good Omens the book and the adaptation of the story to screen. The vid was created 15 years ago - which is to say 18 years after the book was published and 11 years before season 1 was released - and it talks about realised queer desire in mainstream media as being so impossible that it is equivalent to death. That is the kind of resistance that queer representation in pop culture has been up against, these last three decades.

Crowley/Aziraphale, as depicted in the book, is such a classic example of slash. I've seen some people who read the book in a contemporary context saying they didn't necessarily pick up on any subtext between the characters, and I suspect this is a mark of cultural expectations. Firstly, because the cultural references that the intentional subtext relies on have become obscured over time - see Neil Gaiman's explanation of the "consenting cycle repairmen" line. But more importantly because the audience's frame of reference for unintentional subtext has shifted, too. What is unsayable and which silences are emotionally loaded has changed over time. Even if you are intentionally using a queer lens in your reading, you might not see subtext in the same places that someone would even 10 years ago.

For example, take this passage from the book:

On the whole, neither [Aziraphale] nor Crowley would have chosen each other's company, but they were both men, or at least men-shaped creatures, of the world, and the Arrangement had worked to their advantage all this time. Besides, you grew accustomed to the only other face that had been around more or less consistently for six millennia.

On it's face, this line suggests that the relationship between the two of them is a matter of convenience more than desire. Maybe that's the intended reading and maybe that's how it started or how they justify their association to themselves, but taken together with how deeply they know each other and how they are always each other's first thought in a crisis, suddenly "neither would have chosen the other's company" sounds like an extremely British way to say they care about each other far more than they were supposed to. Plus, this is Aziraphale's take on their relationship, and it plays rather beautifully against Crowley's much simpler expression of the exact same sentiment:

Aziraphale. The Enemy, of course. But an enemy for six thousand years now, which made him a sort of friend.

To go back to Henry Jenkin's wise words, what we're seeing here is Aziraphale thinking about Crowley through the glass - through the "aspects of traditional masculinity which prevent emotional expressiveness or physical intimacy between men". If you came up in slash fandom at a time when seeing queer relationships in canon was unthinkable, you probably find it easier to identify the gap between how Aziraphale thinks about his relationship with Crowley and how their relationship actually functions. That gap was where a lot of slash lived.

You might say that the book shows Crowley and Aziraphale watching each other through the glass, and season 1 is them pressing up against it. They're still prevented from showing the full depth of feeling between them, they still hunger for more than they're allowed, but they are reaching for it. We see the history of their relationship developing through the ages. The unsayable is still left unsaid, but we feel the weight of it in everything they do. They come so very close but they still can't cross that threshold.

And then there's season 2. Within the text, Crowley and Aziraphale are not just pressing against the glass, they're actively trying to dismantle it. They're searching for a door to the other side. They're inspecting for weak points where they could cut their way through. And then suddenly they're out of time and out of options and the glass is still between them, and there's nothing they can do.

As the audience, you feel that desperation. You feel that grief. And if you're someone who's been watching the glass go back up on every relationship you thought might stand a chance of tearing it down, it hits hard. You're longing vicariously with the characters, but you're longing for yourself too, to see queer desire made possible. To see queer touch made not just imaginable but real.

And then, with all hope lost, Crowley throws himself through the glass. It doesn't matter that it doesn't save them. They kiss and it changes everything. Queer desire is no longer up for debate. Queer touch is no longer impossible. They kiss and the glass shatters, entirely and irrevocably.

This is why it matters so much that they did kiss, even though the love between them was already undeniable. For thirty years, Crowley and Aziraphale were part of a media landscape that relentlessly reinforced the glass at every turn and flooded fatal radiation through any crack they couldn't fix. In a different context, that kiss would be less vital to affirming their relationship. But in the world we live in, with the specific history that this story has, I don't think anything else could have done what it did. The glass between these characters had been reinforced over decades, in a culture that made the barriers to open intimacy between men inescapable. Their kiss was what it took to break it.

And by shattering the glass, this story has fundamentally rewritten what is possible. It proves the rules preventing true affection between people of the same gender can be defied. Queer people are already becoming more visible in pop culture; we're no longer reliant on slash reimagining queer longing between heterosexual leads. But Crowley and Aziraphale's kiss is cathartic and vindicating in an entirely different way. It turns slash into intentional queerness. It takes a fetishisation of oppression vacillating between problematic and transformative, and finally stands up on the side of powerful, empowering transformation. It confronts the barriers that once rendered this desiring touch impossible, and breaks through them once and for all.

That's what taking away the glass means. That's what Good Omens did.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Blast to the past

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 15

Prompt: Time travel

Rated: T

CW: Mild blood and gore; Mild horror; Monsters

Tags: Steve Harrington whump; Magic; Time travel (duh); Royal Eddie Munson; Steve Harrington needs a break

Notes: Some days, you get up, think of nothing bad, and you check your phone and your artist buddy @house-of-the-moving-image has sent you the most incredible mini comic in the world and the brainworms go crazy and you bash out 990 words in a weird fugue. We mayyy have been screaming about this to each other a bit too excessively. It may have grown a back story. I may wanna write 100k of this. Help.

“Oh, Steven, let's go to Europe, they said,” Steve grouses. “There’s culture and shit, they said. We can visit the castles. It’ll be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, they said.” 

Well, it damn well is turning out to be one hell of an experience! 

His side is on fire, his ankle stings with every step he hobbles, and he’s starting to bleed through his clothes. Just what he needs! Leave a warm, coppery trail to lead these things right to him. 

While he drags himself down the dark corridor, he wonders if he can sue. The guides did warn against leaving the travel group, on the one hand. 

On the other, they should probably have detailed the possible consequences. Like getting lost in the ruins and being chased by monsters with rotting grey skin and maws full of fangs, and fucking claws that slice through clothes and skin like a knife through butter.

This kind of shit never happens in Hawkins. He’s never going on holiday with his parents again.

Something behind him clatters. When he whips around, the shadows at the end of the corridor move. He hears snarls and sniffing, the tick of claws against stone. They’re coming closer. 

“Shit,” Steve swears, forces himself to go faster, using one hand against the wall for support. “Shit, shit, shit, c’mon!” 

He doesn’t even know where he’s going, just that he needs to get away if he doesn’t want to be monster fodder. 

His fingers catch on something. 

There’s … a narrow doorway in the wall, half hidden by a tangle of thick vines. A sliver of silver light is falling through it. 

“What the-” 

Something behind him shrieks triumphantly. 

Steve doesn’t think for another second, just ducks through the doorway. 

He finds himself in a cavernous room, moonlight trickling in through arched windows. Right in the middle, on a dais, is a throne carved from solid stone. On it is a tall, hooded figure. 

Except that isn’t true. As his eyes adjust to the light, he realizes that the throne is covered in what looks like an old shroud, tattered and torn with age and vaguely human-shaped. It’s overgrown by more vines, like it has been here for a very long time. 

And that is the moment the monsters slam into the doorway behind him. 

He yelps and stumbles further into the room, trips on the first steps of the dais and lands square on his ass. The monsters snarl and snap at him, and for a blissful second, he thinks they won’t fit through the doorway. 

But then the first distorts its body like a snake’s jaw and squeezes through. Steve watches in horror as they trickle inside, surrounding the dais like a pack of feral dogs. One of them swipes at him with its claw, and he instinctively shuffles up the stairs, backwards and on all fours. The monster lunges after him-

-and hesitates at the foot of the dais.

Like it’s afraid, like there’s some invisible barrier. 

It’s only now that he realizes the steps are inlaid with an intricate pattern of symbols, shining in the moonlight like liquid silver. The monsters try to get at him, but every time they touch the symbols, they recoil as if burned. 

“Ha!” Steve’s mouth tugs into a hysterical grin. “Can’t cross, huh? Well, too bad, you ugly-” 

The largest of the monsters steps over the barrier. A sizzle of silver sparks runs over its form as it does and it jowls like an injured cat, but it still advances. Steve swears and skitters further back, until his back hits something solid. The throne. 

The creatures are moving slowly, like something is physically holding them back, but they are gaining on him inch by inch. There’s no escape, except … 

Steve clambers onto the throne with clumsy limbs. The shroud is cold and brittle under his hands and the vines tear into his bleeding skin, but it’s the only place he can still go. If the monsters are afraid of the dais, maybe the throne will be enough to deter them. Maybe he’ll be safe here, maybe he can wait until help arrives, maybe- 

And then it happens. 

A sound booms through the silence, rattles his bones. A sound like the chime of a clock. 

Then another. 

And another. 

Steve yelps and covers his ears, screws his eyes shut. The light of the sigils on the ground seems blinding all of a sudden. 

The creatures howl. 

And then everything goes quiet. 

Steve waits with baited breath for the feeling of claws tearing at his legs, but nothing happens. The snarls and growls are gone. 

Instead, birdsong fills his ears. The faint sound of footsteps and voices, hooves on cobblestone and the clang of metal against metal. Instead of dust and decay, the room suddenly smells like wood and smoke and forest. The light shining through his eyelids isn’t silver anymore, but golden. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathes. “The hell was all that?” 

“Oh, those?” somebody chuckles. Somebody very close by. “Those were wraiths. Scary little fuckers, aren’t they?” 

Steve swears his heart misses a beat. Because upon closer inspection, the roughness of the vines and shroud against his skin is gone. Instead, there’s a body under his, a hand running idly down his side, all the way down to his ass. He’s sitting in someone’s lap. 

Steve snaps his eyes open. There’s a guy looking back at him, a guy with a shit-eating grin set in a handsome, dimpled face, framed by a spill of dark curls. There’s a crown on his head. 

“Now what I’d like to know,” says the guy, and gives Steve’s ass a hearty squeeze. “Is what I did to deserve getting a pretty little thing like you dropped in my lap. Not that I’m complaining.” 

Steve does what any sensible person would do in his situation. 

He faints. 

And that’s his first encounter with King Edward the Banished. 

Part 2

All my holiday drabbles

[blogfullofemos]

Read Between The Lines

*Okay so after watching The Challengers, I just had to rewrite the threesome scene with these 2 right here. DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT SPOILERS OR IF YOU ARE UNDER 18!!!*

Warnings: def not proofread, just an intense make out sesh, some touching, and a mention of the female nub.

Enjoy :)

Sitting in a circle, you take another swig of beer and your face winces from its bitter taste. Eddie and Steve watch you, well more like pace you, while finishing off the shared joint. “What made the both of you want me?” you ask, resting the empty beer can next to the ashtray. 

“It’s not normal to see a princess wade the waters and NOT test her stride.” Eddie simply retorts. Steve nervously finishing the blunt in his hand, the red in his cheeks never once fading. 

“Oh!” your taken aback from the rather refined answer from Eddie, his dimples deepening even more, “Well how bout’ you Steve?” you say leaning towards Steve’s side. Steve chuckles as he watches himself put out the blunt within the ashtray, “Well, I think Eddie said it better.” he admits, his pink-hazed eyes shyly locking with yours.

“Uh-uh.” slowly moving from your sitting position, you crawl to him “I want you to tell me..” you trail off. You watch as both of their breathing falter from the sudden change in atmosphere, heightened anticipation seeping from their glazed eyes. Eddie’s head slowly follows your predatory crawl while Steve unintentionally bares his neck for you. You breathlessly laugh “Was it my eyes Steve?” you push, giving him your best vixen stare, breaking into his invisible barrier. His adams apple bobs quickly, an auditory gulp cutting through the thick need between the men. “Oorrr..” you drawl seductively. You pounce at him suddenly, making him drop his back to the wall behind him with a gasp. Gently resting your hands on his hairy chest, you smile “Was it my tits Steve?” you whisper against his neck. 

   “Fuck.” he finally exhales as you nip at his neck. Trying his best to restrain himself from showing you why, his body shudders as you lick up the side of his neck to suckle at his earlobe. His eyes roll back as he moans out loud by your devious actions, his hands quickly finding solace on your waist. You let go of his earlobe with a wet pop and instinctually he brings his face to yours, his lips thirsting for your next move. But you pull away. Standing up, you walk away from them and stop towards the foot of the bed. You turn to face them again, pressing your thumb against your bottom lip as you decide on what happens next. Steve remains in a lustful daze, his hand combing through his hair as he tries to recollect himself. Meanwhile Eddie watches you intently, leaning on his left hand while the other rests upon the middle of his boxers. You pace a few times, nibbling your bottom lip as your needs and morals combat within you. “What are you thinking about (Y/N)?” Eddie asks, snapping you from your thoughts.

   You couldn’t help but hungrily scan his tatted body, the way it added more oomph to his rather playful spirit. “It seems to me, we’re all on the same train of thought here.” Eddie cocks his head to the side, letting his flared hair drape over his shoulder.

“Shut up Eds.” Steve shoots making Eddie whip his head to him, “Let her do…. What she’s doing.” he tries to explain while still adjusting himself. And fuck it. You take off your oversized tee and drop it on the carpeted floor, both men’s attention being pulled by the tee’s soft thud. You smirk as 2 brown eyes slowly scan up your exposed body, your black thong with matching sheer bra settling the deal. You plop down on the end of the bed, leaving space on either side of you. The men still staring at you with dropped jaws, you giggle, “Soo whose-.” before you can even finish, Eddie and Steve race to sit on either side of you. You couldn’t help but laugh at their boyish antics making them laugh too. You quickly calm, leaning towards Eddie as he stills expectantly. You teasingly glide your lips to the left side of his lips, placing your hand on his neck, but he still doesn’t kiss you. You look at his eyes and gently nod, allowing his hungry kiss to envelop your lips. You moan as his kiss deepens, his hand resting under your right breast to pull you closer to him. Unexpectantly you hear Steve growl before he nips at your neck, to then suck at the area.

    You pull away from Eddie’s intoxicating lips to breathe out a moan, looking into Eddie’s eyes lustfully. Steve’s working on your neck causing goosebumps to wave through you, your legs closing tightly against each other to calm your pulsing clit. Eddie wastes no time place his hand on your chin to guide you to look up, his mouth now kissing the other side of your neck. You tremble as you rests both of your hands on the back of their heads, your eyes rolling back at the intense barrage of wet tongues and slick lips upon you. You tug at Steve’s hair, making him come off of you just to make out with him with just as much need. Eddie proceeds to lick up to your jaw, just to nip the area, to then suckle at your earlobe. “Fuck.” you say breaking the make out with Steve and pulling away from Eddie’s devilish mouth. Both men quickly closes the distance to kiss your lips, Steve giving your bottom lip a nip while Eddie slips his tongue between your lips. Sloppy open mouth kisses continue as you gently guide their heads to each other. Suddenly Steve jerks back as Eddie fully kisses him. 

     Your right brow raises at Steve’s refrain after the slip up, Eddie silently concerned by his friend’s racing thoughts. “Have you ever-.”“No.” Steve stops you, looking away at the both of you. You see as Eddie’s concern quickly turns to regret. Quickly you place your hand on Steve’s chin and turn his face back to you, while simultaneously placing a hand on Eddie’s hand as reassurance “Whatever happens here, stays here.” you say, starting another make out session with Steve. In minutes your filled with roaming hands, consumed by searching tongues and lustful moans. You bring the 2 of them closer to each other again, but this time Steve deeply kisses Eddie. You slowly lean away as you watch the both of them make out, Steve taking the reigns completely. When you finally rests on your elbows you couldn’t help but smile, biting your bottom lip once more. Eddie continuously moans as Steve is more of a go-getter, feeling up Eddie’s body while occasionally feeling your legs. For them to never kiss each other, they sure had a dynamic between each other.

[emadarkblog]

lust (4)𖤐 wednesday addams

𖤐 wednesday addams x vampire!reader (she/her - but imagine any pronouns you want) 𖤐 reader realising what she feels for wednesday, bloodlust 𖤐

underneath the pale glow of the moon, a clandestine encounter unfolded between wednesday addams and y/n. the night air was laced with a sense of forbidden longing, and the two found themselves drawn together by an irresistible force.

with trepidation and anticipation swirling in the air, wednesday and y/n found themselves standing in the shadowed embrace of garden of the Nevermore Academy. the moon cast an ethereal light upon their faces, illuminating the unspoken desire that had ignited between them.

y/n's heart raced as she dared to break the invisible barrier that had kept them apart. their eyes locked, and in that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the magnetic pull between them. a shared understanding passed between wednesday and y/n, a recognition of the emotions that had silently unfolded.

in the hushed silence, y/n reached out, her hand trembling ever so slightly, and cupped wednesday's cheek, the coolness of her skin sending shivers down their spine. wednesday's dark eyes glimmered with a mix of vulnerability and longing, mirroring the emotions that y/n had so desperately tried to deny.

the tension between them escalated, their bodies drawn closer by an unseen gravitational force. in that suspended moment, their lips finally met — a collision of conflicting emotions and suppressed desires.

the kiss was soft and gentle, a meeting of souls hidden beneath layers of animosity. the moon bore witness as their lips moved in perfect synchrony, an unspoken confession of the feelings they had both tried to bury. the world seemed to stand still, allowing them to immerse themselves in this stolen moment of passion and vulnerability.

as their lips parted, a breathless silence settled between them, their gazes locked once more. in that lingering moment, the weight of their unspoken truths hung in the air, mingling with the tender affection that had blossomed between wednesday and y/n.

the moonlight continued to bathe them, casting a spell upon their intertwined destinies. it was a moment that defied logic, a forbidden connection that defied the boundaries of their worlds. they both knew that this encounter would forever alter the course of their lives, setting in motion a path fraught with challenges, but brimming with the promise of an extraordinary love, and…

*beep* *beep*

y/n woke up from her dream in utter shock, not knowing what happened or if it was real. that is until flashbacks come crashing at her.

“i think there's some tension between you and wednesday"

“romantic tension”

”there's a certain energy between you”

“there's also this spark of attraction”

“you two have been hiding your feelings”

“spark”

“feelings”

“tension”

“romantic tension”

“wait but- i can’t-“ y/n stopped, air leaving her lungs not allowing her to continue.

goosebumps ran over her body, her fangs weren’t much helping, creating a toothache.

confusion and turmoil consumed y/n as she grappled with her conflicting emotions. how could she harbor affection for someone she had long considered their nemesis? her once rock-solid convictions began to crumble, and a new truth emerged — she were falling for wednesday addams.

fangs now fully out, y/n didn’t know what’s happening, other than her realizing her feelings, but that wasn’t important right now.

she couldn’t express what she was feeling right now because of the pain that was leaving her entire body in numbness.

her eyes turning red, her own saliva filling her mouth as she smelled a prey in the distance, so she ran as fast as she could so no one could see her or hear her. she was faster than the light, sound or anything else in this existence.

she knew she couldn't feed on humans, but the temptation was sometimes too strong to resist. now, she found herself on the brink of losing it until…

as wednesday stood against the wall, her usual composure faltered for a moment. she could sense an intense presence approaching, an alluring force that she couldn't resist. it was y/n, consumed by her bloodlust and drawn to wednesday's unique essence.

as y/n pressed wednesday against the wall, her fangs bared, a mixture of desire and hunger danced in her eyes. but in that crucial moment, something unexpected happened. wednesday's piercing gaze met the y/n's intense stare, and a flicker of realization crossed the vampire's face.

a surge of conflicting emotions rushed through y/n's veins, battling against the primal urge to feed. the familiar darkness inside her collided with a newfound spark of humanity. images of the addams family's unwavering loyalty and peculiar charm flashed in her mind, challenging the nature of her existence.

in that brief pause, wednesday, never one to shy away from danger, placed a hand against y/n's cheek. the touch was gentle yet grounding, reminding the vampire of a forgotten sense of connection. their eyes locked, sharing a silent understanding.

with each passing moment, y/n's bloodlust waned, replaced by a profound curiosity and a yearning for something beyond hunger. she realized that in this vulnerable state, she had nearly succumbed to her primal instincts, ready to harm someone who had unexpectedly captivated her heart.

reluctantly, y/n released her grip, stepping back to regain control over her impulses. wednesday, always intrigued by the unknown, tilted her head slightly. she noticed the inner struggle the vampire faced, sensing a bond formed in that intense encounter.

“i nearly killed you.” y/n said in utter shock. she always dreamed of killing wednesday, but from now on, she would rather be pierced by thousands of wooden stick than existing without wednesday breathing.

“i apologize for my bad actions, i wasn’t planning on doing this and i would very much appreciate keeping this just between us,” y/n said and wednesday was surprised by the vampire’s words. she never talked like that. why does she sound so mature?

“i accept your apology. i will keep this scenario a secret.” wednesday continued, “but if you do this again, i guarantee you, i will grab the nearest thing and stick it into your heart repeatedly.”

y/n smiled, relief washing over her.

if it brings you joy, i would let you stab me millions of times only to see you smile for the first time.

but y/n never said that out loud.

[kiwi2229]

Worth it

(James Potter / Regulus Black | 1 160 words)

For @jegulus-microfic prompt: Eyes closed

CW: Torture (Crucio), Injury

James is lying on the floor of the hall of Grimmauld Place. He can see the front door. They were so close. He hears Regulus shouting at his mother to let him go, the muffled noise of Regulus banging on the invisible wall that keeps him separate. The desperation in the voice of the boy he loves breaks his heart. He failed him, and now he will pay the price.

Walburga raises her wand at him. Before the pain hits him he thought he knew what to expect. He couldn’t be more wrong. Nothing makes you prepared for this. The pain is blinding. It consumes him. James screams as he feels every nerve in his body lit up in fire. Time stops making sense after a while. He tries to keep his eyes closed because the light is blinding. The last thing he hears before he blacks out is Regulus’ pleades.

James wakes up in his bed. The first thing he sees is the worried faces of his parents. He tries to move, but his body is aching. “James?” His mum whispers.

“What happened?” James is surprised at how raspy his voice is, and then suddenly everything rushes back. “Regulus! We have to go back for him!”

Effie holds him by his shoulder so he doesn’t try to get up. “You are safe, honey. Both of you…”

“James!” the dark-haired boy rushes into view. He has his hand on James immediately. He pats over his body to make sure James is really here. “I’m so sorry. James. I’m sorry.” His cheeks are strained river of tears. James wants to tell him it’s okay, just to make the devastated look of his go away.

“What happened?” James asks.

His father is the one to answer his voice carefully controlled. “You were under cruciatus for some time.” James waves his hand to let them know he is aware of this part. He notices his hands are still shaking. “According to Regulus, after you passed out he succeded in overcoming the magic barrier, and he apparated both of you out. Walburga is in Saint Mungos.”

“How?” James asks because Regulus didn’t have his wand if he recalls it right.

“Accidental magic,” Effie says softly.

James wants to reach out to Regulus. To thank him. Or just to touch him but when he reaches out his hand violently twitches.

Regulus lets out a loud sob. “No! No no no. I’m sorry. It was too long. I was slow. James!” He captures James’ twitching hand. He climbs onto to bed, pressing the hand against his chest until it stops twitching.

“It can be a side-effect of strong crucio. It should go away.” Effie comments, but James can see the worry on her face.

“He is hurting!” Regulus shouts as he starts patting around the bed looking for his wand.

“Darling, he is safe. No one is hurting him anymore.” Effie tries to calm him down, but Regulus snaps at her.

“You don’t understand. The body remembers.” He doesn’t explain further. James’ heart breaks for the fact that Regulus is right. He hates the idea that Regulus clearly knows the feeling first-hand. Every time his hands twitch for a split second the pain is back. “I’m gonna fix it! I’m sorry, I’m gonna fix it.”

Regulus is frantic, mumbling to himself as he takes James' left hand. He points his wand at the veins there and casts a spell James doesn’t recognize. He drops the wand and starts swiping his fingers across James’ forearm all the way to his fingers. The movements are too shaky to be consistent. He repeats the process over and over. Spell. Massaging the hand. Pleads for it to work. Apologies. And repeat.

James really tries not to let his hand twitch just for Regulus' sake, but there is no use. “NO! Please work. I… it has to work. I will fix it. James… Jamie… I’m sorry. So sorry.”

James watches Regulus' fingers. There are several cuts on them. He looks up, and he notices the cut on Regulus' forehead. Why wasn’t he healed?

“Reggie.” James tries to stop him. Regulus doesn’t look at him. James thinks he can’t without breaking. He is focused on his fingers desperately trying to help him. “You are injured. I’m gonna be fine. It's better already.”

Regulus’ breathing is getting more panicked by the minute. James' hand twitches again, and Regulus just folds. He collapses on the bed clinging to James’ hand. He kisses the hurting mussels. “Please work. Why is it not working? I… I have to… James, I’m sorry. Fuck. Why is it not working?! Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

James grits his teeth as he lifts his hand urging Regulus to look at him. He is a mess. This is what a broken person looks like. “Regulus. Listen to me. We are okay. You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I do! It’s my… fuck, it’s my fault. You were there for me. And she… she hurt you. You. My Jamie. She… and you… I’m sorry.”

“Love. I need you to listen to me.” James urges softly pushing past the pain to swipe his thumb across Regulus’ cheek. “You are hurt…” Regulus opens his mouth to object. “Listen. You are hurt, and I want you to sit there and let my mum heal you. Will you do that for me, please, love?”

“But you…”

“For me. Please?”

Regulus looks like all the fight in him left his body. He walks across the room without another word. “Thank you.” James whispers to his mum.

“Son, we did everything we could. I’m not sure what Regulus was doing. Did it help?”

James shakes his head. “It would have, but he is in too much of a shock to be in control of his magic. I could feel what he was attempting to do, but… Don’t tell him, tho.”

Monty looks at James with a solemn expression. They both are thinking about the reason why Regulus knows the spell. James can’t handle it. It’s too much. Instead, he looks at the boy again. He is sitting in the chair Effie waves her wand around him. James can see him clenching his fists to keep himself in place.

Effie is talking to him in her special soothing voice. Regulus doesn’t respond, but he looks up at Effier after a while. And James can see it. The surprise someone is caring for him. That someone is treating him kindly. He looks like he never experienced adults treating him well.

“Dad, look,” James breathes out not looking away from Regulus who whispers something back to his mum. “Look at him. I mean. He is here. We made it. And he is gonna stay with me. I’m gonna make sure he will finally have a safe loving home.”

Monty puts a hand on James’ shoulder. James looks up at his dad and says proudly. “It was worth it. For him, it was worth it.” 

[mint-yooxgi]

{23} - Hotel California - Yandere!Demonic Entities!Ateez X Reader

Yandere AU & Demon AU - Based off of This ask and Hotel California by Eagles

Genre: Mature, Horror, Angst, Fluff, Slight Humor

Pairing: Ateez X Reader 

Words: 8,448

Warnings: Intense/Extreme Violence: mental and physical torture, Verbal Abuse, Physical Abuse, Mental Illness: depression, anxiety, failed suicide mention and pointed verbal assault regarding failed suicide attempt, Blood and Gore, Slut Shaming, Past Smut mentioned, OC really goes through the wringer this chapter, but nothing is done or said by any of the guys. I think that’s everything. This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.

A/n: I have been planning this chapter since the very beginning of this story, so I really hope that if you read it, you enjoy it. OC really goes through it, but I think OC stays pretty strong. Reminder, if any of the topics of this chapter make you uncomfortable, please do not read it. I am more than happy to do a jot point list with the key plot points you may have missed by skipping this part of the series. Just let me know! The next chapter will have some serious action in it, and the boys will return. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy~

Main Story - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve - Part Thirteen - Part Fourteen - Part Fifteen - Part Sixteen - Part Seventeen - Part Eighteen - Part Nineteen - Part Twenty - Part Twenty-One - Part Twenty-Two - Mini Masterlist

“Miyeon,” the low gasp of her name falling from your lips is synonymous with the way Kuroo lets out a threatening hiss beside you.

Three things happen then, simultaneously. 

In the instant you go to reach out to all eight of them within your mind, it feels as if a glass case is slamming down over your void. No matter how hard you try to break through, the invisible wall prevents you from being able to contact any of them. The black water of your void ripples against this barrier, splashing against the sides as panic begins to seize your entire body.

Your only way to contact them has now been cut off.

All while this was occurring, Kuroo had lunged at Miyeon. 

Too easily, she deflects his attack. An invisible force knocks Kuroo back, slamming him into the wall quite harshly and causing a loud cry to escape him. As soon as he hits the floor, he attempts to stand back to his feet, only for that invisible force to begin crushing his sides. 

“No!” Without thinking, you attempt to reach for Kuroo in the next second, seeing him struggling to breathe as more whimpers escape his little body.

The next moment, you feel yourself being slammed against the wall, a hand digging into your throat and cutting off any and all air to your lungs. Miyeon’s nails dig so harshly into your skin, that you can feel the trickles of blood beginning to drip down the side of your neck where her nails puncture your skin.

“Ah-ah, none of that,” she tuts, shaking her head as she meets your gaze. “Don’t go ruining our fun before it’s even started, Love.”

The way she mockingly drawls out the nickname has disgust flooding your veins. The glare you send her way is deadly, but it seems to only amuse her for the time being.

A moment of silence passes as she eases her hold on your throat just the slightest.

“I can’t have you dying on me just yet,” she grins, nails still harshly digging into your skin. “I have much planned for you.”

You blink, yet nothing happens. Still, you hear the muted whines of Kuroo in the background, becoming less and less frequent the more time passes. 

Your heart absolutely aches for him right now. All he wanted to do was defend you, and he ended up getting hurt. If only you could reach out and contact at least one of the guys to inform them of your situation, but that damn glass wall keeps blocking your every attempt.

Faintly, you hear Miyeon curse, looking to the side.

“Damn warlock,” she hisses, releasing her hand from your throat. “I knew he would end up being good for nothing. Can’t even get us out like he promised.”

Immediately, you start coughing, gasping for air. You attempt to move away, but the glint of a dagger suddenly held to your throat has you freezing in your tracks.

“Well, since that good for nothing warlock’s magic doesn’t seem to be working, looks like I’ll have to improvise.” She sighs. “So much for the manhunt I had planned.”

“I’m not playing any of your stupid games,” you go to shove her off of you, but she barely moves an inch.

“You think you have any power here?” She laughs, pressing the blade that much further into your skin, and drawing a faint trickle of blood as the edge slices your throat. “You’re dumber than I thought.”

“Choking me? Pressing a blade to my throat?” You quirk a brow, gritting your teeth for the moment. “If I didn’t know any better, Miyeon, I’d say you’re obsessed with me. At least buy me a drink first.”

“Shut up, you stupid whore,” the back of her hand sends you tumbling to the floor. Her eyes flash black as she stands over you, looking down at you from her nose. “Well, since we can’t leave now, why don’t you give me a tour of my new home. I’ll be living here after I kill you, anyways.”

You realize what she must mean now. The wards are too strong. She may have been able to get in, but now she can’t get out. Not even with the aid of Dimitri, apparently.

You just hope you can survive long enough until the guys get back. Though, from the looks of things, you bet everything that that’s what she’s hoping will happen, too.

What better way than to break them by killing you right in front of their very own eyes?

Swallowing thickly, your gaze scans over her figure. A second dagger is strapped to her one thigh, and you finally register the one that she holds in her hand. The jewelled handle is all too familiar to you, and you realize with a crushing sense of dread that she was the one who bought the ceremonial dagger from David’s shop all those weeks ago.

“Your new home?” You slowly begin to crawl backwards and away from her. Only, Miyeon doesn’t seem to like that, stepping on your ankle quite harshly in the next second. 

The sound of crunching bones reaches your ears and pain erupts beneath your skin. You can barely move your toes, but you do everything in your power to prevent yourself from crying out in pain. After all, it’s exactly what Miyeon wants.

“You don’t get to ask questions here.” She spits, eyes narrowed as she glares down at your form still on the ground. “Get up, and show me around my new home.”

Gritting your teeth once more, you slowly raise yourself to your feet. However, you cannot prevent the wince of pain from showing on your features as you put any sort of pressure on your now broken ankle. Wordlessly, you begin to limp down the hallway. 

Your hands clench into fists at your sides in an attempt to control your anger for the moment. The way you can hear her ominous footfalls following mere inches behind you has you praying to whatever gods out there that at least one of the guys returns soon to help you. 

Still, you attempt to reach out to any one of them in your mind. One second, you focus your energy in on that vibrant red string you know is attached to Hongjoong’s own mind to no avail. Then, you’re rushing across your void to try and pluck the soft pink string you know belongs to San, only for what feels like a harsh burning sensation to erupt in your mind.

Now, at each point of contact, that burning becomes more present, pushing you further back into the recesses of your own mindscape. So, you still your void, doing whatever you can to rest mentally before you wear yourself out. If Miyeon is blacking your communication with the boys, then she clearly doesn’t want them interrupting whatever she has planned for you. Not only that, but she obviously wants to break through to shatter whatever she can of your mental state, if that throbbing pain returning is anything to go by. You would bet anything now that she had been the cause of your various headaches over the past few months this whole time.

Approaching the first door, you don’t even say anything as she steps inside your own bedroom.

“Disgusting,” her nose crinkles. “I’m going to have to seriously air out this room to get rid of your scent before I even attempt to sleep in here. Then again, maybe I’ll just have to fuck all of them one by one in the bed to mask the stench of you.”

Something in your eyes flash. “Like hell they’d ever touch you.”

“They did, once,” she grins, shoving you quite harshly down the hallway as she steps out of the room. “I doubt you’ve been able to truly satisfy them. You’ve probably fucked them all over this house, you slut, letting them use you like the toy you are. I’m simply trying to save you the heartache. They don’t love you. They never have, and they never will.”

You bite your tongue as your eyes flash once more. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears, but you know it would be in your best interest to keep your mouth shut for the moment. The last thing you want is to set her off and really have her kill you. The guys can’t help you if you’re dead.

“Keep moving,” she shoves you again, causing you to brace yourself on that broken ankle of yours. The way you flinch as you apply sudden pressure to the crushed bones has a maniacal smile stretching across her features. “Believe me, when I’m done with you, that foot will feel like child’s play.”

Keeping silent, you press your lips into a thin line. You manage to make it through the game room, Mingi’s bar area, the kitchen, the dance studio, and the cinema room all without another incident. Of course, Miyeon makes little comments here and there, hoping to rile you up, mainly about fucking them ‘where you have before’. You can just tell she’s attempting to assert her dominance over you, but you’re not having it for one second.

Finally, you make it to the music room, watching as she steps inside. The way she continuously looks around the rooms with such disinterest has your blood boiling.

“They really did all of this for you?” She scoffs, shaking her head. “Pathetic.”

Then, her eyes are catching on one instrument in particular. An instrument that has you hobbling across the room in an instant as you see her reach for it.

The sound of a smack echoes quite harshly through the room, and you watch as Miyeon’s nostrils flare. Her eyes flash as you hit her hand away from touching Yeosang’s violin for a second time.

“Don’t you dare touch his violin.” You’re voice is low, deadly.

For a moment, you can tell that she’s caught off guard. The glare you send her way is the darkest she’s ever seen you look, and she actual blinks in shock. That is, until a harsh scowl is pulling at her features.

In an instant, she’s grabbed the wrist of the hand you used to smack her own with, crushing it beneath her grip. Your lips part in a silent gasp, arm twisting in the direction she’s forcing you to go before flinging you across the room without another thought.

A pain filled cry escapes your lips as your back makes contact with the grand piano, landing on top of the wood and managing to smash the lid inwards. Before you can even attempt to move, you feel a crushing weight surrounding you, hearing the strings begin to snap beneath your body as they whip across your exposed flesh. Blood begins swelling along the small cuts, and you feel the legs of the piano crumble as you crash to the floor.

Nothing but crushed wood and snapped strings surround you, tiny slivers sticking into your skin as you attempt to catch your breath. Tears line your vision, but you do everything in your power to prevent them from falling for the moment. There is no way in hell you are going to allow Miyeon the pleasure to see you cry, or hear you scream. You will not succumb to her so easily. You are not going to give her what she wants.

Vaguely, you can register footsteps walking towards you, and again, you attempt to reach out to Yunho in your mind. That bright yellow string glares at you from behind the invisible wall, and you nearly cry out in frustration.

So close, yet so far.

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me that that was enough to kill you,” Miyeon rolls her eyes, kicking your foot quite harshly on the side of your broken ankle.

You hiss in response, watching as she leans down to physical pull you out of the remains of the smashed piano. You can feel wooden splinters digging into your back, and probably drawing even more blood in their wake.

“Stand up, you stupid human,” she hisses, kicking you once more as she rights herself. “I don’t have all day.”

Putting any sort of pressure onto your now crushed wrist has a searing pain travelling up your arm. You can feel your whole body throb as you move, your ankle groaning in protest. The worst twinge comes from the middle of your back, sure you’ve probably herniated a disc in your spine as you feel a pinch every time you go to move.

Yet still, you remain alive. Like hell you’ll let her kill you.

Keeping your head held high, and your tears at bay, you begin to exit the room. Of course, you do whatever you can to prevent your limp from slowing you down right now, cradling your wrist to your chest as you make your way back down the hallway. You will not let on just how hurt you are, even if your head begins to throb worse with each passing moment.

The dining room is the next to appear as you lead her down the side corridor. A room of which you surprisingly haven’t been to since that evening all those months ago.

But Miyeon doesn’t know that.

“Ugh, how many times have they indulged themselves in you on this table?” Her face contorts in disgust. “Guess that will have to be replaced. I don’t need reminders of whores in my house.”

Let her think what she wants, it won’t make her hate you any less than she already does. Not to mention the fact that she probably wouldn’t believe you even if you tried.

Oddly enough, when you pass by each of their bedrooms, Miyeon doesn’t even bother to look. Granted, none of their doors remain open, a habit you’ve noticed they all have since you started living with them.

Finally, you make it to Seonghwa’s tailor shop, and Miyeon doesn’t even hesitate to invite herself in.

“I wonder if he’s working on something actually good,” she hums, almost thoughtfully, to herself.

Your nostrils flare, that familiar heat of anger rushing through your veins.

“Oh, what’s this?” She turns to look at you with a quirked brow, slinging her arm around a bust which holds one of the most extravagant dresses you’ve ever seen in your life. 

The skirt flares out at the waist, knowing without a doubt that the soft colour is meant to match well with you. You can tell that a lot of thought and effort has gone into this literal definition of a ballgown fit for a Queen, and you just know that Seonghwa has been making this dress for you. It was probably what he was working on before Stella came to get them.

“Oh, this will never do,” she tuts, shaking her head.

You can see what she’s about to do before she even starts. The way her hand raises to the sweetheart neckline has you moving in an instant. Guess you’ll never learn.

“No!”

This time, she’s ready for you to pounce, batting you away like she would a pesky little fly.

You stumble to the floor, landing harshly on your wrist and hearing it crack again in protest. Looking up just in time, you watch her pull out that damned jewelled dagger and begin slashing at the material. Miyeon even goes so far as to tear the fabric with her hands, shredding the delicate detailing, and tossing the scraps around the room.

“Stop it!” Your voice comes out much more firm that you expect, and you can tell she’s just as caught off guard by it as well.

“You dare to give me orders?” Her voice booms, the lights in the room seemingly dimming as her form towers over you. The dagger she has clutched in her hand glints dangerously. “One more protest out of you, and I’ll make you regret the day you were ever born.”

Your blood runs cold as you know her words are true. There is no telling just what Miyeon will do to you, so prolonging this little ‘tour’ for as long as you can is really your best bet. 

The eight of them will be back soon. At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. You don’t know if you could survive without that small shred of hope you desperately cling onto as your attempt to once again reach out to Jongho is thwarted in your own mind.

Two minutes later, and after Miyeon completely leaves Seonghwa’s tailor shop in tatters, you’re in the library. Your heart begins to pound in uncertainty as to what Miyeon will do next, worry furrowing your brow. Though, from the way you see Miyeon smirk, you’re convinced she believes it’s in pain.

“What makes you so fucking special that they would do all of this for you? A library? Really?” She shakes her head, clear disbelief on her features. “Pathetic.”

“It’s more than they’d ever do for you.” You spit, venom on your tongue.

Looks like you really cannot control yourself today.

Instantly, her hand is back around your throat, lifting you in the air so that your feet dangle helplessly beneath you. You go to kick her, only for that invisible force to be back, squeezing tightly around your legs.

“When I’m through with them, they’ll do everything I want them to.” She snarls, voice low as anger pulls at her features. “Without question.”

“They will never love you.” You choke out, clawing desperately at her hand as her nails manage to reopen the punctures on your neck.

“No, maybe not,” she hums, tilting her head threateningly. “At least not willingly, but I have my ways.”

With that, she throws you harshly against the closest bookshelf, a few books toppling off and crashing into your body as they fall to the floor. You wince as a particularly thick hardcover hits the top of your head, leaving you in a slight daze.

With nothing but hatred in your eyes, you watch as she walks over to the double doors at the far end of the library. Ungracefully, she flings them open, her whole body shaking in fury as she sees the garden presented before her very eyes.

“They made you a garden?” Her voice is low, ominous as she turns her gaze sharply to you. At the way you remain silent, she snaps. “Speak, you useless mortal!”

“You have eyes, don’t you?” You retort, narrowing your own gaze back at her. 

You know your worth. You’re not just going to let her walk all over you anymore. She doesn’t deserve to believe she has that type of power over you.

That same unknown force pulls you towards her, and you notice her still shaking in fury.

“Watch your tone, mortal,” she hisses, grabbing the material of your shirt as she spits harshly in your face. “I’m this close to changing my plans and skinning you alive right where you stand.”

“At least tease me if you’re going to fuck me over like that,” you smirk, hoping to rile her up even more.

At the way she shrieks in response, shoving you back in an instant, you know it’s worked.

Unfortunately for you, it causes you to land badly once more on your fractured ankle, and this time, you cannot hide your grimace. A fact which has a smirk of her own tugging at her lips.

“Weak,” she spits, rolling her eyes. “Looks like I’ll have to burn this place to the ground to sanitize it before building it anew with my Kings.”

“If they don’t burn you first.” You spit back, just as harshly, a sneer tugging at your lips.

“Have you ever smelt the way fire melts human flesh?” Miyeon’s eyes are crazed, hand coming up to grip your jaw harshly as she forces you to turn your head to the garden spread out before you. “It’s quite disgusting: the way your frail skin bubbles beneath the heat, the smoke choking every last breath from your scorched lungs.” Slowly, you begin to see the plants begin to wither as she drags you towards the fountain still trickling peacefully in the centre of the space. “I can’t wait to watch you burn.”

Before another word of protest can leave your lips, she’s shoving your head beneath the water. No matter how hard you struggle, or attempt to resist her hold, you cannot break free. 

Your lungs scream desperately for air. Water invades your senses, flooding your nose and slipping past your parted lips as you do whatever you can to fight against Miyeon’s hold for the moment. Not even the way your own nails claw at her skin causes her to flinch.

A maniacal grin stretches across her features once more as she sees you struggling to breathe. Of course, just as she feels your body weakening, she pulls you back, holding your gaze to her crazed one as you wheeze, coughing water from your lungs all the while.

“It would be so easy to kill you in whatever way I see fit,” she says, voice mocking sympathy. “You should remember that the next time you want to run your mouth. In fact, you should be thanking me for keeping you alive this long after you stole My King from me.”

You do not fail to notice how she uses the singular form of that word this time, and your whole body shudders in disgust. Only, Miyeon believes it’s in fear. A fact which makes her grin widen.

“Once I free that mind of yours, you’ll be grovelling at my feet, practically begging me to kill you,” she leans in, whispering lowly in your ear. A violent shiver wracks your spine as you heave for air. “I have no use for filth in my New World.”

Again, your head throbs, and you nearly fall to the ground in pain. With everything that you are, you focus on strengthening that void in your mind. It seems as if she hasn’t quite been able to break through completely yet, and you will do whatever you can to make sure that she cannot.

The worst part is, the stronger you reinforce your void, the more your head throbs. It’s like she’s practically coaxing you to lower your defences to make that pain go away.

Her face scrunches in annoyance.

“Ugh, why do you insist on fighting me?” She begins to drag you out of the now dead garden and up the stairs to the second story of the library. “This stupid void of yours won’t protect you for much longer. I’ve already cut off all contact with them from you, and it will only get worse from here. You should just give in. I promise I’ll make all the pain go away then.”

“There is no promise you can make that will make me ever surrender to you.” You spit, tone harsh as she drags you out of the library for the moment.

“You really are dumber than I thought,” she sighs, shoving you in front of her. “Continue the tour of my new home.”

You say nothing as you stumble down the hall. You can feel the material of your shirt clinging to your chest as water drips down your torso. Once more, you cradle your wrist to your body, the bones pulsing as the struggle at the fountain aggravated the break. Even your back twinges worse than before, given the angle Miyeon had you pinned down in. Your ankle is fairing no better, either.

At least the small cuts all over your body have seemed to have stopped bleeding. For now.

For the second time that day, Miyeon completely ignores the bedrooms on this side of the house. Which leaves only one room left.

A room which you will guard with your life.

“Move.” She commands, just as you fling yourself in front of the closed door.

“I would rather burn alive than let you into this room.” Your voice trembles in anger, keeping your tone low and somewhat threatening.

“What’s so fucking special about this room, anyways?” Her face contorts in a sneer, inhaling sharply. “It reeks of Yunho.”

Your nostrils flare, eyes flashing as pure hatred courses through your veins at the tone she uses. “You don’t deserve to speak his name.”

“This must be his stupid art room.” She huffs out a breath. “I don’t know why he even bothers. He’s not even that good of an artist-“

You lunge.

The sound of smashing wood greets your ears, and the breath gets knocked right out of your lungs as Miyeon lands on top of you. The shattered remains of the door lay around you, splinters once again digging harshly into your back as she begins to choke the life out of you.

“How dare you!” She screeches. “You dare try and lay your hands on me? Me?”

Desperately, you claw at her hands, scratching her harshly and drawing blood only for her cuts to instantly heal in the next second. In the blink of an eye, that jewelled dagger is back at your throat.

“I was willing to skip this room, but because of how passionate you seem to be in protecting it, I think I’ll leave a little gift for him to find.” Purposely, she slashes a faint line on your neck as she pulls away, standing off of you in the next second.

Your entire body throbs, vision blurring at the edges as you turn yourself onto your stomach. Your mind screams at you to move as she slowly stalks around the room, twirling the dagger in her hands as she begins to hum to herself.

Quirking her brow, she shifts past the couch and walks right up to the dried out flower crown hanging proudly on the wall beside the windows. Slowly, she begins reaching for it.

“Don’t touch that.” You manage to just push yourself up onto your hands and knees, blood rushing through your ears.

Her smug grin says it all.

Instantly, she’s tearing the object from the wall, pulling the brittle flowers apart and laughing as they crumble to the floor.

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Pushing yourself up even further, you can only collapse back to the floor in pain, your arms giving out beneath you as your whole body trembles.

A moment later, and she’s walked over to his shelves, pulling a sketchbook into her hands. As soon as she opens the cover, a scowl is pulling at her lips, taking the time to tear each page out one by one. Slowly.

“Stop it!” You yell, eyes shining with unshed tears as you watch each sketch flutter to the floor, displaying every piece of artwork he has drawn of you. For you.

Miyeon’s maniacal laughter fills your ears. “Do you actually think any of these are good?”

Her breath catches in her throat as her eyes flash black as seeing the next drawing presented to her on the page.

“What is the meaning of this?” Instantly, the sketchbook is shoved in your face.

Of all the pictures you would have thought she would put on display - the one of your hands intertwined with Yunho’s, you with Brego in that open field, the portrait he drew of you that day where you fully claimed each other with one another’s blood - you never expected it to be one you haven’t seen before.

There, on the page before you, rests your image. Swirls like wisps of smoke cover your naked torso, a design unlike any other painted over your heart as you toss your head back in pleasure. From the angle, and the way your one arm is positioned, you can tell that this is his own memory being drawn onto paper once more. For there, staring back at you is the exact visage of your body, orgasming as you sat on his face.

Your wide eyes meet Miyeon’s wild ones, a fury unlike anything you’ve seen before shining within her gaze.

The page is torn to shreds.

“You vile creature,” you hiss, hands clenching into fists on the ground as you glance at all of the scattered pages torn from Yunho’s sketchbook littering the floor.

“Takes one to know one,” she grins, turning the book around only to scowl in the next second. “You really are a whore.”

Another page is torn to shreds. Then another, and another. Until a snarl is slipping passed her lips once more.

“You slut! You let him watch?” Again, she turns the sketchbook around to display the drawing on the page. 

This time, you see your image being held in Jongho’s lap, his face pressed into the side of your neck as Wooyoung kneels before you. With the way his hands are pressing into your thighs, it’s clear that he’s happy to be eating you out, your fingers tangled desperately in his hair. Even with your head tilted back, your blissed out expression is obvious, lips parted in what you’re sure is a moan.

“Just how many times have you let the others watch as one of them fucks you? You really let them use you like this?” She laughs in disbelief, shaking her head in the next second as she tears this page out of the book. “Fucking whore. I bet you’re so fucking cockdrunk on them you don’t even care about who they actually are.”

White hot fury courses through your veins as your head throbs, and you feel your void slip the tiniest bit. You can tell she jumps at this opportunity, watching as the water ripples out, your mind feeling as if the whole area is rumbling within your skull.

“Says the bitch who only cares about herself.” You retort, teeth clenching as your jaw twitches.

“I simply learned from those Kings of yours,” her voice is low as she slams the sketchbook closed, tossing it across the room.

It is then that her eyes land on the lone canvass resting upon an easel at the side of the room.

“Oh? What’s this?” She hums, as if she hadn’t glanced the painting the second she crashed into the room.

Your eyes go wide, panic seizing your throat and causing it to tighten as you watch her twirl the dagger in her hand once more. Slowly, she stalks towards that stunning portrait of you wearing that flower crown. 

Yunho’s prized possession, other than you, of course.

Miyeon raises her one hand, jewelled dagger glinting in the light of the setting sun.

Your legs move before you even register you’ve stood to your feet.

In one fluid motion, Miyeon brings the dagger down with every intention to slash the canvass in two. Only, instead of tearing apart the portrait, your figure shoving into her side sends the dagger tumbling from her hand. The two of you go crashing to the floor, and it takes no time at all for Miyeon to be on top of your struggling figure, pinning you beneath her frenzied form.

A gasp escapes your lips as she grabs you jaw harshly in her grip, raising your head up only to slam it back to the ground. 

Spots dance in your vision, and again, your void ripples from the sudden attack. Your entire body aches, heart stuttering in your chest as your lungs burn with each breath you take.

While you remain momentarily stunned, Miyeon is quick to stand back to her feet, grabbing her fallen dagger and turning back to the painting. Again, she raises the knife.

This time, you manage to swing your legs, catching her off guard as she tumbles to the floor. You manage to scramble to your feet just as she does the same, jumping in front of her as she slashes her arm upwards to finally cut the canvass.

The feeling of the tip of the blade dragging across the front of your body has a grunt escaping you, Your shirt now rests in tatters, barely clinging together by a thread as red begins to soak into the material.

“Fine!” She shouts. “Since you want to die that badly, I am more than happy to begin the process!”

In the blink of an eye, she’s wrapped her hand back around your neck, cutting off your air flow as she drags you from the room. The way she can see your blood dripping onto the ground as she pulls you down the stairs, legs kicking uselessly behind you, has a smirk pulling at her features.

She knows just the place to do it, too.

The moment she reaches the opposite side of the house, she’s shoving the door to the dance studio open. Your struggling form is dragged carelessly into the room, Miyeon throwing your body against the wall of mirrors and watching on with glee as one of the panels shatters from the impact.

You can feel blades of glass sticking into your back, more blood escaping your broken and beaten body. As soon as you go to move, your head spins, nausea building in our chest as you attempt to catch yourself on your broken wrist.

The moment your wrist touches the floor, bile rises in your throat. You can barely catch your breath as you empty the contents of your stomach onto the ground, blood dripping from your mouth as tears gather in your eyes. Your head is absolutely pounding right now, becoming as worse as it had been last night. Your skull feels as if it will split open at any moment. Any attempts to swallow the bitterness that lingers in your mouth burns your throat, breaths coming in ragged pants as Miyeon stalks towards you like a predator would its prey.

“You’re going to watch as I carve you up so badly, they won’t even be able to recognize you when they get back,” she growls, dragging a chair over from the side of the room to place it directly in front of one of the intact mirrors. “And then, you’re going to have the pleasure of watching their hearts be crushed as I destroy you as soon as they return.”

Miyeon grabs you by the back of the neck, right where your skull meets your spine. Squeezing enough to have your vision swirling once more, she pulls you to your feet, slamming you down in the chair in the next second. You barely register her tying your wrists to the arms of the seat you’re in, wondering where she got the material to do such a thing. In the back of your mind, you figure she probably stole something from Seonghwa’s tailor shop.

Blinking, you focus back in on your surroundings. Again, you work on keeping your void intact as you feel that pounding ice pick like sensation return, eyes squeeing shut as your breathing deepens. Whatever you do, you will not give in. Besides, the guys should be home any minute now. Right?

Glancing down at your figure, you notice your shirt has been torn off, blood dripping freely down your torso from the cut she gave you back in the art room.

“I’ve been waiting to use this,” she grins, pulling the other dagger from it’s holster on her thigh.

The dagger she admires is clean, an intricate design gracing the handle from what you can see. It’s certainly longer than the other one, a slight jagged edge sitting right above where the blade meets the pommel. From the glint alone, you can tell that it’s pure silver, polished and sharpened meticulously: with the utmost care.

“A shame I don’t have the matching one,” she pouts mockingly. “Though, after today, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about the set being separated for much longer.”

Your brow furrows in confusion, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly as she paces slowly around your shaking form. The way your heart continues to pound in your chest has a nervous sweat breaking out onto your forehead. Your body feels way too hot for the time being, throat raw with the dryness of anxiety. The bitter taste of bile resides on your tongue, and you can only do your best to watch Miyeon’s every move carefully, following her figure in the reflection of the mirror when you cannot see her in front of you.

Stopping just behind your back, Miyeon meets your gaze in the mirror.

“You know,” she begins, shoving the dagger deep into your back as you body lurches forward in response. “I almost missed out on this entire opportunity.”

The way she slowly removes the dagger has you feeling every inch of the blade as she pulls it from your body. You begin to pant, gritting your teeth together to keep the whimper from falling your lips that so desperately wants to escape.

“It must have been so difficult for you,” you manage to spit out, voice strained as she stabs you once more in your back, only in a different spot.

“You have no idea,” she breathes, repeating the action once more. “That idiot almost ruined everything.”

It is then that you realize what she’s doing. Each new stab she gives you is in exactly the same places as those arrows were that pierced your back all those weeks ago.

Your eyes flash in recognition. “The warlock.”

“Looks like I made him too devoted to me,” she hums, nonchalantly. “Damn bastard thought I would be so ecstatic to know he killed you himself when I explicitly told him the honour would be mine. Guess that’s what happens when you alter somebody’s mind so intensely.”

“He wanted to kill me for you.” You state, just as she walks around to face you, leaning over your body as her one hand rests on the back of the chair.

“Thought it would prove his love for me,” she rolls her eyes. “I already know how devoted he is. After all-“ she catches herself, a smug grin pulling at her lips, “no, I shouldn’t boast.”

“Oh, please, Your Majesty,” you drawl out, suppressing the roll of your eyes as you attempt to stroke her ego for the moment. If you can pull as much information out of her as you can, you will. It will help you tremendously. “Boast away.”

“Well, if you insist,” she giggles, that same maniacal grin stretching across her features. “It took me a while to perfect it, but I finally learned how to weave myself so fully into someone’s mind that they becomes completely devoted to me. Of course, there were a few kinks I had to work out, but Dimitri was just the test run. Once I got rid of that pesky family of his, things became that much easier to invade the recesses of his mind, and make him mine.”

“You killed his family?” Your breath catches in your throat as she teasingly trails the blade of the dagger down the side of your cheek before lightly cutting the skin of your jaw.

“He didn’t need them, anyways,” she hums. “One less attachment that could break the spell.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You briefly recall how Mingi told you about Dimitri and his supposed wife and two kids. Looks like they were right in thinking the warlock had settled down, only for Miyeon to completely destroy everything he had.

Your eyes flash. “And I suppose Malik is just collateral, then?”

She laughs, boisterous and full of hidden malice.

“How do you think I got the chemical imbalances right with Dimitri?” A wicked grin pulls at her face.

“Dimitri wasn’t your first.” You state, disgust pulling at your features.

“Oh, no, Malik truly does love me. He loved me twenty years ago when I convinced him to stage a coup to dethrone those unbelievably gullible Kings.” She giggles. “He still loves me now, and he would do anything and everything I ask of him.”

“I’m sure he loves knowing that you’re in love with another.” You observe, keeping your expression blank for the moment.

“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes, mocking playfulness. “What he doesn’t know won’t kill him. As long as he bends to my every will, and creates my New World, that’s all that matters.”

“Do you truly care for no one but yourself?” You recoil, appalled by her very being even more so than you were before.

She leans in further to you. “I care about My King, and only My King. Everyone else can burn in hell.”

“You’re a monster,” you spit, slamming your head forward as hard as you can, and managing to catch her off guard.

“You bitch!” She shrieks, hand coming up to clutch at her now bleeding nose.

Though, with the way your head spins, especially after she slaps you hard enough to send your entire body tumbling to the floor, chair and all, you’re not quite sure it was a good idea.

An annoyed breath escapes her, yanking you back upright by your broken wrist and causing you to let out a pain filled cry as she tightens her hold on you.

“Do you want to die before the time is up?” She snarls, eyes crazed as she meets your gaze. At the way you remain quiet, she smirks. “I thought so.”

“Oh, so you do think.” You scoff, feigning being impressed.

A resounding smack echoes around the room as she backhands you across your other cheek.

“Is that all you’ve got?” You huff, spitting out some blood onto the floor. “Pathetic.”

Miyeon tuts, shaking her head. “All I try to do is save you from a life of heartache at the hands of these demons, and I get called pathetic? How sad.”

“Save me?” You quirk a brow, tilting your head forward in disbelief.

“You really think they’re in love with you?” Her voice drawls out, a dark laugh escaping her in the next second. “I thought I told you that they only see you as a sex toy. They’re only using you for their own selfish desires. As soon as you fuck all of them, they’ll kill you right where you stand. I’m only protecting you before that happens.”

“You think I would believe a word you say?” You scoff, rolling your eyes.

The mental ice pick slams into your skull, and your vision blurs.

“I’m only telling you exactly what they did to me.” Miyeon replies, dragging the blade down your arm and drawing more blood. “They pretended to love me, once. I’m simply saving you the heartache.”

You remain silent, worried that if you open your mouth for the moment you might let out another pain filled whimper.

“You’re far too ugly for them, anyways,” she continues. “What the fuck would they want with you? You’re nothing but dirt compared to them. Do you really think they see you as their equal?” She scoffs. “Don’t make me laugh. A human on the same level as Gods?”

“Yet you still seek their validation at every opportunity you get,” your voice is low, glaring up at Miyeon as your hands tighten around the arms of the chair you’re in. “Tell me again who the desperate one is? They will never want you. Not after today. Not after this.”

“Shut up!” She screams, slashing the blade across the upper portion of your chest in anger and barely missing your throat. “I won’t need to worry about whether or not they’ll want me. After I’m through with them, I’ll be the only damn thing they’ll ever desire in their entire lives! I’m their true Queen. Not you.”

“Oh, Miyeon,” you tut, shaking your head. “Miyeon, Miyeon, Miyeon.” You blink, grinning widely all the while as blood drips down your face. “You’re nothing.”

A violent scream tears from her throat as she stabs the dagger in her hand through your right thigh.

You cannot help it. The wound inflicted on you makes you cry out, your head being tossed back as you squeeze your eyes shut. Tears cling to your lashes but you refuse to let them fall. At this point, maybe it would be better if you just riled her up enough to kill you. It would save you the pain of going through any more of her torture.

Opening your eyes, you see Miyeon’s chest heaving in front of you. If you thought she looked wild before, she looks absolutely insane now. Her hair is ruffled, teeth bared in a snarl as her gaze bleeds black.

The corners of your vision begin to fade, and you can feel your void beginning to slip more and more with each passing second.

“You are nothing to them.” You pant, nails beginning to crack from how tightly you dig them into the wood of the armrests.

You feel a crack appear in your mind, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot cover it up. The way your lake begins to drain has panic seizing your entire being. The worst part is, you can see the way Miyeon smirks, a victorious gleam shining in her eyes as she searches your own, seemingly staring into your soul.

“You really are burdensome, aren’t you?” She drawls, twirling that jewelled dagger in her hands once more.

You huff, “is that the worst you’ve got?”

“Nobody likes you,” she continues. “All you are is a good for nothing, waste of space. You should never have been born.”

No matter how hard you try, that crack keeps getting wider and wider, the water dissipating faster and faster. Your head feels as if it’s splitting open, that familiar feeling of nausea creeping up inside of your chest again.

“Ugly. Vile. Pathetic.” She spits, circling you slowly as she berates you with every breath.

“I’ve passed kidney stones bigger than you.” You counter, a frown to your brow.

“Do you think they actually desire you?” She huffs out a dry laugh. “How could anyone desire you? Why would anyone love you? What can you offer them?”

Once more, Miyeon comes to stand in front of you. The dagger stills in her hands as her eyes flash.

“Your sister hated you so much for what happened to her child, she tried to kill herself.” She sneers. “It was all your fault.”

“No,” you shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as you attempt to maintain some form of control of your thoughts.

That crack begins to get wider and wider, the water almost completely drained at this point.

“I bet she wishes she never found you that day,” Miyeon adds, her eyes glinting beneath the artificial light of the dance studio. “After all, how could you fail to do something as basic as that?”

“No.” The grip you have on the arms of the chair is deadly, blood sleeping from your fingertips as you hold on for dear life.

“You should have never been born.” She repeats, nothing but a hiss to her lips. “Fucking useless, pathetic, unlovable whore. I bet they’ve all gotten tired of waiting for you to fuck them all, that they’re just waiting for an opportunity to get rid of you. They’ll probably thank me as soon as they get back, revelling me as their saviour from your unwanted presence.”

Your whole body begins to shake, and your mind begins to slip from your grasp.

A victorious smirk tugs onto Miyeon’s features. “You should have died the first time.”

Your mind goes completely blank.

A silence so still settles over the room as your head falls forward. The throws of unconsciousness threaten to pull you under at any moment, feeling your mind being shredded through at a rapid pace. Memories upon memories are unveiled, more being added to your mind that you don’t recognize, but you believe to be true.

Brief flashes of all eight of them appear in your mind, nothing but disgust on their features as they look on at you in anger.

“I never cared for you in the first place.” Hongjoong snarls, eyes as black as night.

A brief glimpse of a conversation in the garden flits through your mind.

“You mean nothing to us.” Mingi states, looking down upon you with a blank gaze.

A figure holding you in bed, whispering his undying love for you over and over again as you sleep.

“You are nothing.” San’s entire body begins to shake in rage, eyes flashing black as he looks upon you with complete abhorrence on his features.

A figure bows to you on the ground, surrounded by three other males in the same position, all with their heads pressed to the floor.

Then, the scene is shifting, and you faintly register something being carved into the skin of your chest. The sting of each incision almost pulls you from your mind, but something drags you back beneath the surface instantly, drowning you in your thoughts once more.

You see Yeosang standing before you with a look of complete and utter contempt on his face.

“I have never wanted you,” he sneers, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Nor will I ever want you.”

It is those words that finally break you.

Your lips part in a silent scream, mind battling within itself as images of that one intimate morning shared with Yeosang flood your every sense. Almost as if your memories are fighting against once another. As if to say that, no, those aren’t real. Remember what’s real.

Miyeon’s eyes go wide with an unbridled fury unlike anything before. Her chest heaves as these memories of yours wash over her, hands beginning to shake as she sees Yeosang touching you so intimately while staring at you so fondly, embracing you so lovingly.

That should be her. That will be her, even if it’s the last thing that she ever does.

“You fucking whore,” she spits lowly, voice nothing but a feral snarl as it rumbles out from her chest. “I’ll kill you for touching him.”

The dagger she’s holding onto slams into your left hand. The same exact hand that had touched Yeosang so tenderly - so intimately - with. She has half the mind to carve out your tongue right this very moment, but she doesn’t want you to choke on your blood just yet.

No. She has much more planned for you, especially now that she has free access to your mind. Perhaps she’ll start with slicing off your fingers one by one.

Faintly, you register someone screaming in the distance, their voice shrill, desperate, and raw.

Oh, wait. That’s you.

[paraliveimaginesblog]

I would like to request 47 for nayuta ! btw is it possible with a mc who is too tender for her own good so he can't help but want to hug her?) maybe :') , thanks youu <33

Nayuta Yatonokami:

47. A kiss paired with a tight hug, knocking the breath out of the person being hugged.

It felt like there was a boundary, a line that he couldn’t cross.

It had been so long since you’d last seen him he worried you might not recognize him, or worse, that you would and you’d be reminded of the emotions you felt that day. He so coldly broke it off with you, no explanation, hardly able to walk on his own as his body grew weaker. He had said unforgivable things to you, and then when he ‘died’ in front of Shiki, he knew the word would get back to you. You had been friends with Shiki as well, and he could only imagine the pain he put you through when Shiki had to tell you about his supposed end.

He never expected to contact you again; he had long since resigned himself to losing your love and your friendship. Nayuta had assumed that since it had already been so long since seeing you he wouldn’t have the urge to reignite the flame you once held between you regardless, but he never knew how wrong he could be. After winning at Kanata’s side once, with cozmez’s name out for all to see, he knew you knew he was still alive—he didn’t know if you were still good friends with Shiki, but some quiet yet insistent part of his brain told him the least he could do was explain what happened.

Arranging a meeting with you was easy but finding the words to say was hard beyond reason. He thought he’d rather sleep on the streets again than have to hurt you with his words. How could he explain he came back? How could he explain the reasoning behind not reaching out to you immediately, even if you may decline his call?

You stand a good distance away from each other, your eyes taking all of him in. He looked just like he did before he disappeared, pretty and much less sickly than he had once been. You can still see many familiar things about him that has your heart lurching, your stomach tied in knots, your brain unsure of how to react to him. He had offered nothing other than a quiet greeting and a hesitant wave, and now the staring contest had begun.

Nayuta didn’t think he deserved to see you. He can feel all the memories rushing back into his head, the concrete wall in his heart broken yet he can’t break past the invisible barrier that existed in person. He wanted to hold your face, to hold you, to kiss you like he had wanted to on the day of his ‘death’ but forced himself to hold back on in fear of not being able to let go. You had to have hated his guts, going through your own memories of him, remembering those awful final days together where he could hardly muster a kind word to the person he loved—

Yet you were tearing up, looking at him with a smile on your face as you saw he was alive.

“Nayuta…” You cried out, tears sliding down your cheeks, your hands rushing to brush them away as if he didn’t already see them. As if they weren’t already hitting him right where it hurts, knowing that he was the cause before and after. “I saw… I heard about you and Kanata but I was still…”

You’re too good a person, he thought, too kind-hearted and gentle for someone as direct as him. As harsh as he was. Someone who didn’t trust anyone aside from his brother, though if there was anyone else who would win him over, he supposed it would be you. Yet he still kept you on the outside.

He’d never do that again.

Nayuta thought nothing would happen in this reunion, nothing aside from angry words exchanged, with him accepting the punishment of knowing you hated him with an intensity that would make a hardened criminal wince. He stepped over that invisible line that he had drawn, his arms wrapping themselves around you, his lips pressing hard against yours.

You were caught off guard, the breath knocked from your lungs, because not only was he squeezing you so tight you could hardly breathe but because your dream was coming through. You were getting to kiss your love once again, the man who haunted your dreams night after night, taunting you to come find him and gain the closure you desperately desired. This wasn’t closure, if anything it was only urging him to stay nestled firmly in your brain, but if this kiss was anything to go by…

Maybe a second chance was in both of your futures.

Nayuta would play it right this time.

He had to.

[shuxiii]

A ˡⁱᵗᵗˡᵉ ᵇᵒᵗᵗˡᵉ ᵒᶠ ˡᵒᵛᵉ

ᴷᵃⁿᵍ ʰᵃᵉʳᶦⁿᵎ ʷᶦᵗᶜʰ ˣ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

My school wasn’t normal not the slightest, from flying brooms to flying rats and an invisible barrier protecting it, it was sure an odd sight for you to witness. You could call your school a magical one, even the students themselves looked less human but still human some just had cats for ears and sharp fangs in short vampires, hybrid humans, and others, you on the other were just normal student with a normal body nothing exciting at all.

Except, for one thing, the scary witch with the resemblance of a black cat who would always glare and stare at you ever since you became a student in the school. You were surprised she hasn’t put a curse on you, witches were something to be terrified of in your school of how much black magic they could do and other more. So, you expected the moment you woke up, you’d have your limbs torn piece by piece by that witch.

Her name was Kang Haerin, a name you could never forget. She only had a few friends, and she barely spoke, her aura was completely dark. Other students always warned the newcomers to avoid her, if they don’t want their entire bloodline cursed.

You wished someone told you sooner, it was too late for you. Because the moment you spoke to her the forever curse was now inflicted on you.

It was a lovely Monday morning, it was your first day in your new school. A little nervous, but excited.

The moment you walked into the classroom, everyone was nice and well-mannered, it took some time to adjust to the sight of fur ears and intimidating-looking sharp teeth.

You met a fairy-looking girl (of how pretty she was) introducing herself as Hanni, who agreed to tour you around the school.

-

‘‘This is the library where you read those boring books, careful though some books are laced with a dark curse whoever opens it!’‘ Hanni explained with a smile on her face.

You fell silent staring back at Hanni, before she starts laughing a little.

‘‘I’m messing those books are kept in a locked room’‘ She giggled, you laughed back awkwardly, still slightly startled at the thought of a dark curse placed upon you.

‘‘Um Hanni? can I go to the bathroom real quick?’‘ You asked.

‘‘Oh, sure just go straight and right you’ll see it’‘ She pointed in the hallway.

‘‘Thanks, I’ll be right back!’‘ you hurried, turning your back on Hanni.

-

You walked across the linear hallway, gazing at the historical portraits hung on the walls, you swear sometimes their eyes moved which creeps you up a little but expect the unexpected in a school filled with magic.

You were too distracted by the paintings to not notice a person coming your way, The moment you took a right you accidentally bump into a girl.

‘’Ack!’’

feeling yourself falling backward makes you hold her arms for support. it was a little late as both of you fell on the floor, you fell on your butt with the girl on top of you.

‘‘I’m so sorry-’‘ Before you could apologize, the girl hurriedly stood up, startling you a bit.

You abruptly stood up too, now finally focused on the girl. She wore a black cloak with jet-black hair.

‘‘I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. I got a little distracted by the paintings, are you okay?’‘ you look around her to see if she got injured, your eyes darted to the slight red liquid dripping on her fingers.

‘‘I’m okay’‘ her voice soft-spoken, her gaze still looking down.

You quickly took your handkerchief, holding her hands on yours covering the blood that dripped on her fingers, your actions were abrupt making her startled.

‘‘Ah- did I scare you? I’m sorry, Your knuckles are bleeding, it was probably from the fall’‘ You explained, your voice filled with guilt.

You took out a band-aid with a cat for a design, and you always hand band-aids carried around, well your mom always made you carry them around for situations like this.

‘‘This might sting a little’‘ You carefully put it on the back of her hand, before blowing air against her knuckles.

‘‘My mom always told me to blow air on a bruise to help it heal faster’‘ you spoke

‘‘What’s your name?’‘ You asked, and for a brief moment, you saw her eyes.

Her eyes resembled a black cat, they were hypnotic, but before you could get a name, she quickly left not giving you any time to stop her.

and that was the first and last encounter you ever had with her, but ever since you told Hanni about the incident she prayed for your soul that you wouldn’t get cursed by her. You didn’t get it at first but now you were terrified mostly guilty but still terrified.

Yet despite being a little afraid of what will come to you, you slightly doubt how others viewed witches, sure they are malevolent in many fairytale stories but are they really?

But ever since that accident, She always glared at you. She must be really upset be upset, you have tried apologizing properly but she’d always disappear in a blink of an eye.

That is, until today.

The class shortly ended, You began packing your bag. oddly enough it was only you left in the room making it quiet, it was a few minutes before you finished packing up for the day.

As you turned around you shrieked a little falling back down to your chair, there stood the same black cloak jet-black-haired girl everyone feared of.

She was holding a small bottle that looked like a coffee cup and a thick book in both of her hands. She gazed at you.

‘‘I didn’t notice you there’’ You stuttered a little.

She motioned the cup to your face, ‘’This is for you, drink it’’ She spoke.

With care, you took the cup from her grasp and look at it before returning your gaze to her. She looked at you eagerly, eyes shining with anticipation.

At that moment, you swore the drink had poison or what and expected the worst of worst to come, from poison ivy to a snake’s venom.

You abruptly drank it, closing your eyes and anticipating the worst.

huh. that’s odd nothing happened the coffee tasted normal-

As the coffee slips from your grasp, a cloudy air emits the room, you opened your eyes to see a tense look on Haerin’s face.

that’s weird, is it me or did the view of the room get a little bigger. Your eyes darted down your hands that now... looked like paws?!

You started screaming, well barking.

‘‘Why am I dog?!’‘ You started yelling.

You glance back at a befuddled Haerin, hastily flipping through her book and muttering to herself.

‘‘There must be a mistake here, did I read the wrong spell? it should have been a love potion’‘

You were getting a little agitated.

‘‘Hey, you better find a way to fix this, my mom is allergic to dogs, and I can’t be a dog forever!’‘ You squealed (barked)

You gave Haerin a stern look as she closed her book and turned to face you. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she looked anxious.

‘‘There is a way to fix it, well the only way’‘

‘‘And that is?’‘

‘‘There is one called a Multipurpose of lower magic, as long as the castor and the cursed share a touch the magic can be lifted immediately off the body’‘

‘‘What does that mean’’

‘‘it means let me kiss it, yn’’

‘‘let you what?’‘

‘‘A kiss’‘

‘‘A WHAT?’‘

You became increasingly anxious as she moved a little closer to you.

‘‘You’re joking right there’s got to be another way here’‘

"Nope, there isn't." Her tone of voice sounded slightly more cheerful than usual.

"You can't just kiss me. You'll be taking away my first kiss!" you exclaimed.

‘‘This was planned wasn’t it!’‘

‘‘What! No- this is purely an accident’‘

She lifted your small body, slowly pulling you close. You moved both your paws onto her lips, giving all your force to push her off.

"Wait, wait, wait! I'm not ready!" You exclaimed, quickly shutting your eyes.

You felt a soft brush against your lips, the gentle lingering sensation struck a nerve, making you feel the burn on your cheeks, without even realizing it, you were back to normal.

Both of you flushed, looking everywhere but at each other’s eyes, who knew witches could be this cruel? well a little too cruel for your heart.

A curse she cast on you with no cure, a cupid's arrow piercing your heart.

[mamawasatesttube]

42 “i know you” with either tim or kon saying it to the other 👉👈 or both

"Stay back!"

Tim freezes. The wind whips at his hair and clothes, cool despite the sunny California day; white-capped waves roll across the San Francisco Bay off in the distance, and the Golden Gate stretches across the water to the north. It would be a peaceful, pristine day, if not for what happened earlier.

"Kon," he tries, taking a slow step forward, then another. Kon sits at the very edge of the rooftop, arms wrapped around his knees; he doesn't turn around. "Listen—"

His foot rams into an invisible wall. Tim reaches out with one hand to touch it, skims his finger along it, and finds that it extends up as far as he can reach. No footholds, of course.

Kon still won't look at him. His voice is taut and brittle, and Tim aches for him. "I said, stay back."

"Kon." Tim pushes against the TTK barrier helplessly; it doesn't give even an inch, of course, but he bangs a fist against it anyway. "Let me in."

"What if I hurt you?" Kon challenges. The day may be sunny, but in the dome of TTK in front of Tim, a storm is raging; he can see the strain on all the pebbles and bits of rubble on the rooftop, being pushed and pulled this way and that, trembling from the pressure. "I've done it once. What if I do it again?"

"No, you haven't," Tim corrects. "Lex Luthor hurt me once, using you as a weapon."

"That's just it!" Kon's hands slam down onto the edge of the rooftop. Tim notes, though, that they leave no cracks in their wake. "I was—I was made as a weapon, Tim, I was made to hurt people, and—and those guys earlier, they were right to be scared of me! I'm—I'm dangerous and I could hurt so many people if I get used as a weapon again!"

He whips around, finally, and Tim can see the tear-tracks staining his cheeks. His heart cracks a little bit further in his chest.

"I'm not afraid of you, Kon." He lifts his chin. "I never could be."

The TTK surges forward, suddenly; it wraps around Tim faster than the blink of an eye, pinning his arms to his sides and his legs together as it pulls him close to Kon, until Kon tips his chin up with one finger. His eyes are teary-bright.

"I can feel all the blood pumping through your body right now," Kon says, his voice raw. "I can feel all the air in your lungs. I could—I could just—it would be so easy, if I wanted to—if I wanted to just stop your heart. Freeze your lungs. Suck all the air right out of you and watch you suffocate surrounded by fresh air. I could—I could do so many horrible, fucked up, awful things to you! And you say you could never be scared of me?!"

Another tear escapes, rolling down his cheek and dripping from his chin onto his shirt. God, seeing those two kids terrified of him earlier, when he appeared from the sky, furious with Metallo, his eyes glowing red... that really did a number on him, didn't it?

"Yeah," Tim agrees easily. Kon will know it's the truth; he already must know the way Tim's heart rate hasn't spiked at all despite the manhandling. Tim trusts him far too much for that. "Because you'll never do any of those things, no matter how easy it is to think of them."

Kon's invisible grip on him slackens, then falls away entirely, setting him back on his feet so gently Tim could weep. "Tim," he manages, voice even rougher. "Tim, I... they made me as a secret weapon against Superman, and then they told me I was a hero. I'm not... They... How can you say that?"

Tim reaches up and cradles Kon's face in both hands, his thumbs stroking tenderly over his tearstreaked cheeks. Kon is still, frozen, petrified, as Tim leans forward, draws him closer, until he can press their foreheads together, and their noses brush. Kon's skin is warm to the touch, and he smells faintly of sunshine.

"Because." Tim strokes his cheeks again, thumbs away another stray tear. "I know you. And I know you are so much more than what you're scared of."

"Tim," Kon pleads. He sounds so lost and heartbroken that Tim's chest aches; he slips one hand around to cradle the back of Kon's neck, keeping him close. "Tim, I—I didn't mean to scare them, I didn't—"

"I know." Tim rubs their noses together, staying close; he wants to make sure he's all Kon can see. "I know you didn't. It's okay. They were already scared by everything going on. It's not your fault, Kon. You're good."

Kon sucks in a shaky breath. Tim offers him a slight smile; Kon bites his lip, clearly torn. "I... I don't want anyone to be scared of me."

"I know. I know." Tim rubs a slow, gentle circle into the back of his neck, his chest tight with tenderness. How can he possibly get it through his Kon's head, just how wonderful he is, just how bright and kind and trustworthy?

Kon sniffles. Tim thumbs away the next tear that falls. He almost wants to kiss away the one after that, but chickens out—reconsiders—at the last second; this doesn't seem like the time to spring his feelings on Kon. Not when he's already so vulnerable. God, Tim just wants to protect him.

"You listen to me, though." He gently taps a finger against Kon's nose. "You're a hero, and a damn good one. So many people feel safer with you around. You give us hope. And me, personally? You've saved my ass so many times. There's no one else I'd rather have at my back. And beyond that, you're my best friend. You make me happy, Kon. And I trust you. So I will never, ever be afraid of you."

(In fact, and Tim knows it is definitely not the time to bring this up, but he can't quite stop himself from thinking it: the fact that Kon can manhandle him without even lifting a finger? Not at all scary. More like kinda really hot.)

(Ahem.)

Kon's lower lip wobbles. For a moment, he just stares at Tim, his eyes wide; then the dam finally, finally bursts. He chokes on a sob, buries his face in Tim's neck, and clings to him like a lifeline as he starts to cry in earnest.

Tim hugs him tight, rubs his back, and rests his cheek against his hair. He has never felt more protective in his fucking life. "I got you, clone boy," he murmurs. "I got you."

And he'll happily sit here in the sunny remnants of that ebbing storm and hold him, for however long as it takes.

50 Prompts About Devotion

[lowkeyerror]

No Escape pt3

Dark!WandaNat x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Stalking, Attempted suicide, kidnapping

Summary: Y/n learns she's trapped in Westview. Knowing this pushes her over the edge.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Similar to the last time Wanda invaded her dreams, Y/n began to pack up her belongings. If Wanda and Natasha were in the room with her unconscious body, they were too close.

Natasha had tasted her, had laid on top of her, and she was none the wiser. If it wasn't for Wanda telling her, she wouldn't have known. They were toying with her. Wanda and Natasha could've gotten her right there. She would have woken up with them standing over her, powerless.

She had to move quickly.

It didn't take long for her to put some clothes on and grab her things. As soon as she was ready, she left the motel.

For some reason, she was having trouble remembering how to leave the city. Usually she wasn't so forgetful, but today it had escaped her. She searched her bag for her map, yet she came up empty. Though it was frustrating, none of this mattered. Y/n still had to leave the town, whether she knew where she was going or not.

She picked a direction and started walking. If she walked long enough, she knew she'd hit the town's limit. She was right, eventually Y/n hit the town limits, but something was wrong. Something felt off.

Y/n tried to walk out of the town, but there was a barrier. She pushed and pushed, but it wouldn't budge. The image in front of her seemed to buzz.

Frustrations started to build up in her. She dropped her bag and ran at the barrier. She did it over and over again. Her body collided with the invisible wall each time. Her body hurt by the time she finally relented.

She slumped against the barrier, tears welling in her eyes.

" Fuck."

Y/n stared at what should've been her way out. She didn't let her tears fall. She set her jaw and grabbed her things.

The woman walked back to the motel. Agatha still sat at the helpers desks.

" Late night stroll, hun," the woman tried to engage in small talk.

Y/n smiled politely," Something like that. Hey Agatha, do you happen to know how to get to the next town over?"

She stared blankly at Y/n, " The next town over?"

" Yes, is there-"

" There's only Westview," she cut off Y/n. The far away look in her eye was off-putting.

" But my map-"

Agatha raised her voice," There is only Westview!" The harsh tone disappeared as soon as it arrived," It's the perfect little town. Who would want to leave?"

She followed it up with a laugh. This wasn't right, Y/n knew that much. She didn't stay with the laughing women, instead she went back to her room. Y/n sat on the bed with her head in her hands. This town wasn't what it seemed to be. It was a trap for Y/n.

The border stopped her exiting, the people weren't going to help, and she was cut off from the outside world. They finally trapped her. Now the tears fell. The frustration finally exited her body. What started out as a few stray tears turned into full on sobs. Her body shook violently, her throat became raw, snot fell from her nose.

She didn't know how long she cried for. It felt like an eternity. She felt small again. Y/n felt like the little, fragile girl that got her into this situation in the first place.

She marched to the restroom to stare at her reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot, staring back at her.

It didn't matter how strong she looked on the outside. The weakness was in her eyes. She could craft her body to mimic strength and resilience, but staring into her own eyes, she saw weakness.

It was as if she watched herself shrink back to the girl she used to be. There was no backbone in that girl. That girl needed Wanda and Natasha. She was lost without them.

" I hate that you make me feel this way. You like me like this, when I can hardly stand on my own two feet. All helpless and pitiful."

Y/n went back to the main room and dug through her bag. She got what she was looking for and returned to the bathroom. Her movements and breathing were erratic.

" Let me out, or I'll end it all right here. I know you can hear me. I know that you're watching. I'm not bluffing."

Y/n put the gun to the temple of her head," Let me out of here."

She cocked the weapon. Her reflection was mocking her, daring her to pull the trigger.

" I don't believe you, sweetheart."

Wanda was in the mirror. Natasha at her side. Wanda looked confident. Natasha looked like she was on edge. She was fidgeting, she knew that Y/n wasn't bluffing.

" I loved you, both of you, at one point. But I told you, I will never love you like this."

Her hand is steady, her face is straight. Y/n takes a breath and closes her eyes. Then she pulls the trigger.

" NO."

Wanda tries to stop Y/n. She reaches through the mirror and tries to push the gun away, but she is too slow.

Then Y/n opens her eyes. Her heart is beating like it never had. She looks at the gun and then at herself.

She took out the clip, there were no bullets. The gun slipped from her grasps. Before she can process what's happening, there's a pair of arms wrapping around her.

"Get off of me. Get off of me. Get off of me," she repeats it through her tears.

Y/n tries to push the person off of her, but the body won't budge.

" Just let me hold you, please. Just for a moment, dorogaya."

Y/n relents, and for a moment she allows herself to feel safe in Natasha's arms. The woman holds her as if she would disappear.

" It's not fair," Y/n viciously wipes her eyes," It's not fair that I want you to hold me after pushing me over the edge."

She pulls herself away from Natasha, only to stumble into Wanda’s frame. When Y/n catches Wanda’s eyes, she sees the trail of mascara trailing down her face.

" How could you do that?"

Her eyes began to glow that dangerous hue of red. Y/n takes a few steps away from her.

" Wanda," Natasha says, trying to calm the witch.

" Don't. Her brains would've been splattered all over the wall. She would lay dead here, if that gun was loaded," she pauses," She'd rather die than be with us."

" That's not true," Natasha shakes her head.

Y/n didn't want to be here. She wasn't supposed to be here. It was all supposed to be over. She couldn't keep running, but she'd rather die than be caught.

" Please, let me go," Y/n says amidst the tension.

" Why? So you can kill yourself? "

Natasha yells at her again," Wanda, stop it!"

" You aren't going anywhere."

The witch made it impossible for Y/n to move, just like in that first dream. Instead of strolling over to her, she appeared behind Y/n, wordlessly. Wanda began to use her magic to lull the young Stark to sleep.

" The chase was fun, bunny, but I'm not ever letting you leave me again."

Taglist: @bibliophilicbi @tigerlillyruiz @coollemonsaresour @captains-simp

[skaikruswan]

I have a request somehow Morpheus observes yn and her dreams and also in the waking world bc he likes her?!? And yn has no clue I mean she has seen him In her dreams but she doesn't believe that it's real and also Morpheus gets jealous when he sees yn hanging out with her guy bestfriends and that's when he confronts and tell her?!?

WC: 2.7k Ao3

Relationship: Morpheus x reader

Notes: oblivious reader, smitten and jealous Morpheus, fluff.

Dear anon, there you go, I am sorry it took me so long, but then I really liked writing this. I hope you enjoy :)

If you liked this story, i have written others.

Oblivious affection

You like your dreams. They allow you a break from real life. Sometimes you forget them, trying and failing to cling to the details as you wake up, but you usually remember them. 

In your dreams, you can travel wherever you want to, rewrite the past and make a better decision, or even get creative and become the ruler of the chocolate kingdom. Sometimes, you dream nonsense and shake your head at your weird fantasy. More often than not, you let your imagination run wild. After a long day, you can’t wait for your imagination to find yourself a new way to unwind or to maybe continue a dream. 

You let out a yawn, put away your phone and close your eyes. 

You find yourself inside a huge, spacious stable, the neighing and the scraping of hooves sounding like music to your ears, while the smell of hay grounds you. 

“Which one of you beauties wants to go for a ride?” you ask aloud, passing the spacious stable boxes of the unicorns. Their coats are lovely, gold or silver, white as snow, black as the night, or every color of the rainbow.  

Choosing your favorite, you bring the unicorn outside and grip the reins, opting for a ride through a lush forest. 

As you gallop over meadows and scream with joy, you see a dark figure at the edge of your field of vision, but you simply shrug, too immersed in the glee of the moment. 

Unicorn riding remains one of your favorite dreams. 

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

“What is your favorite dream?” you ask Max, one of your best friends as you take a seat, balancing the tray with your lunch. You enjoy your lunch breaks with him, and you love that you can talk to him about everything. 

“Superpowers or just chilling,” Max answers immediately, and you grin at him. 

“Who would have thought, Mister Marvel?” you tease him. Max has always loved comics and has seen every superhero movie there is. The small cinema closest to you sees you both so often, you wonder if you should ask for a discount. 

“Well, what do you dream about?” Max counters, taking a bite from his sandwich. 

“My dreams are amazing and complex and can’t be reduced to a mere sentence,” you answer grandly, causing Max to roll his eyes at you. 

“In my last dream, I rode a unicorn,” you reveal, and Max snickers. You give him a playful punch. 

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

This dream is quieter, calmer. You’re lying on a cloud, high above the sky. If you tear off a part of you cloud, your fingers become sticky with sugar as you hold a piece of cotton candy. A thought is enough to move the cloud higher or lower. 

You just relax, allowing the cloud to float wherever it wants to, or more likely, wherever your subconscious wants to go. 

You feel a soft breeze tugging at your hair, the close sun warming you, and you let out a content sigh. 

You’re ripped from your thoughts when your cloud suddenly stops moving, as if it has reached some sort of invisible wall or frontier. Far below, you see glades, rivers, cities, and lakes, generic but familiar sights you’ve come to expect of your dreams. 

“Huh,” you wonder as you urge the cloud to continue. Who knew that dreams had limits? Again and again, you feel as if you’re hitting against a barrier, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t get through. 

A thunder growls far in the distance, and suddenly your cloud is gone, and you scream as you fall and fall and fall. 

You also scream when you wake up. 

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

“Do dreams have limits?” you ask Max, lying down on the soft grass in the park, enjoying your break as you watch the clouds pass by. As much as you dislike it, you’ll steer clear of cloud-dreams for a moment. 

“I don’t think so?” Max answers. “I think that dreams are supposed to give us a break from the real world, to give us some introspection. Maybe that limit is something you set for yourself? After all, we usually control our dreams.” 

“When did you become so wise?” you ask after a moment, giving him a grateful smile. 

“You have much to learn, young padawan,” Max says with an overly serious voice, and you start giggling. 

Your alarm goes off, and you get up with a sigh. Your break is over. 

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

With Max’s advice in mind, you decide to inquire the mysterious barrier. Taking your favorite unicorn, you ride through the forest and over the glades, your curiosity boundless and your body singing with joy. Did your own mind make up a mystery to keep you entertained? 

You almost fall out of the saddle when your unicorn abruptly halts, nervously prancing around. It seems like you’ve reached your destination. 

After dismounting, you extend your hand, cautiously walking forward, expecting to run into a barrier every moment. 

You let out a gasp when you feel resistance underneath your fingers. No matter how hard you push, it doesn’t budge. 

“You cannot pass.” You let out a startled scream when you hear an unknown, deep voice and whirl around. As if he’s appeared out of thin hair, a man dressed in black is inside your dream, giving you a curious look. You’ve never seen him before, so you conclude that you’ve made him up. Your mind must have been inspired because he’s very handsome. His black hair is messy and fits his black clothing, from his shirt to his long coat and jeans. His skin looks as if it’s cut from marble, and his eyes are icy blue. 

“Are you the guardian?” you ask, deciding to just roll with it and talk to this figment of your imagination. 

“In a way.” Your question seems to amuse him, for his lips quirk up for a moment. Maybe you must somehow convince him to let you through? Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something? 

“I wish you a nice day.” Before you can reply to his cryptic answer, you feel your dreamworld suddenly crumble, and you wake up. 

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

Your figment of your imagination was right, and it turned out that you had a nice day. Yet you can’t wait to go back to the mysterious border and maybe meet the man again. 

It turns out that you don’t even have to go to the border. Your subconscious has decided to send you back to high school, and you really hope that this isn’t that kind of nightmare during which you have an examen and you didn’t study, because that would suck. 

Fortunately, it’s not the case, and you simply follow your best friend through various classes, recognizing some faces of your classmates and not even bothering to listen to the gibberish of your teachers. As you talk to the dream-version of your best friend, you decide that a meeting in the real life is long overdue. 

As you head to the last class, you see a shadow passing through one of the hallways. 

“I’ll be right back,” you say to your best friend, and turn around. You push through the crowd of students, following the blur of black, but he remains fast, and you fear that you won’t catch up. 

“Dream, wait!” you order, deciding that this part of your subconscious should listen to you. He actually does, turning around and scowling at you, his glare as dark as his clothing. Oh dear. 

“Would you like to go together to the last class?” you ask politely, giving him a charming smile. 

He doesn’t respond, he only cocks his head to the side, and you feel exposed under his scrutinizing gaze. Why did your mind make him so intense? Can he reject you? Is this meant to teach you a lesson about rejection? 

At last, he nods, and you let out a long exhale before grabbing his hand, pulling him with you. He stiffens and you fear that you may have overstepped, but then he follows, his long strides allowing him to easily keep up with you. His slender fingers are intwined with yours, and it feels surprisingly good. 

You enter the classroom and take the last two remaining seats in the front. Your best friend pouts at you, and you shrug. 

You take out your notebook, but not to take notes. You rip out a page, and channeling high-school-you, you start to write letters with your neighbor, in this case, the enigmatic man. You’re well aware that you’re technically writing to yourself, but hey, your mind wants you to go all in. 

What is your favorite subject? you write and quickly slide it over to him, while pretending to listen to the teacher explaining Shakespeare to you. You watched Shakespeare in love last week; your mind isn’t that slick. 

Dream – you call him like that as long as you haven’t come up with a better name – grabs a pen and quickly writes his answer. 

Languages, art, and history. I have always been fascinated by humanity’s urge to create and share the products of their mind, to inspire emotions. That is an eloquent answer, and you ponder a while. It’s a nice sentiment, one you didn’t expect to come from your dreams. His handwriting is sharp and neat, and it doesn’t surprise you that he has used a black pen.

What is your favorite color? You quickly glance at his clothing and bite your cheek to hide your grin. That one’s a no-brainer. 

Nobody has ever asked me this before. You frown at his weird answer. Is your mind too tired to write black or does it want to you to investigate? You pretend to write down some notes about lyrics while you subtly study Dream. He seems lost in thought, his attention elsewhere. 

The bell rings and you startle, enough to wake up. Damnit. 

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

Dream starts to appear in your dreams more often. You enjoy your time with him when he’s there, and you miss him a little when he’s not. 

Oddly enough, you once tried to make him appear to see your fantasy palace from your childhood dreams, only for him to remain absent. You never had problems with conjuring something or even someone up, yet he wouldn’t appear. It upset you, to be honest, and a thunderstorm had brought rain and storm to your little kingdom. That dream had ended in gloom, but it taught you to appreciate Dream’s presence. 

Talking to Dream is nice, and you really have to commend your imagination for making up such an agreeable companion. You try not to interpret too much into it. Is he the adult version of an imaginary friend, or even something more? 

Sometimes you can’t believe that he’s made up; he feels and acts so real. Sometimes, you wish he was real. He’s someone you could imagine losing your heart to. 

You miss snow, so you create a winter wonderland inside your recent dream. Dressed in warm clothing, you admire the world covered in white, taking a deep breath of the crisp air. You could make snow angels, build an igloo, or even start a snowball fight. 

Dream’s black attire makes him stand out like a sore thumb, and you walk over to him, enjoying the crunching snow under your boots. While it is a dream, he still only wears his trademark coat, and you shiver when you see him. That’s a problem you can fix. 

You approach him and before you can chicken out, you wrap a blue scarf around his neck, draping it over his shoulders. Dream remains perfectly still, not leaving you out of his sight. 

“There you go. I hope you feel better now,” you grin at him, and to your surprise, Dream gives you a small smile. 

“I can’t remember the last time someone has given me a gift,” Dream muses, and you roll on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do or say. His hand glides over the soft fabric, and you feel relieved that he’s seems to like it. 

“Well, I think it’s time then,” you say earnestly before the silence becomes awkward. 

“Thank you.” Dream reaches forward with a hand and gently drags his knuckles over your cheek. The cold surrounding you makes the heat rising in your cheeks even more scorching, and your heart beats faster than a drum. 

“You’re very welcome.”

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

You love hanging out with Max, and you can talk with him about everything, yet you hesitate to tell him about Dream. You don’t even know how to start. Hey, remember our conversation about dreams? It turns out that I have a man constantly appearing in my dreams, and he is truly dreamy. No freaking way. 

So instead, you walk through the park, your arms linked, listening to him ramble about the latest show he watched. 

In your dreams, you’ve become quite good at spotting Dream. Sometimes he seems to prefer to observe you before engaging you, and while it is a little bit weird, you didn’t think too much of it. 

It is almost a reflex to recognize the man dressed in dark clothing, leaning against a tree, a thunderous expression on his face. 

Your shoulders sag as you realize that you haven’t made up Dream after all, that he’s just a person who enjoys the park. Disappointment tastes bitter on your tongue, and you don’t want to imagine the consequences this has for your dreams. 

It only gets weirder when the man approaches you, and his graceful movements resemble Dream’s so much, it makes your heart ache. 

“Do you know this man?” Alex leans closer and whispers into your ear, and you sigh. 

“It is complicated.” You do and you don’t know him. 

“I would like to have a moment alone with you,” the man addresses you, his voice sounding just like Dream’s, but more formal and almost chilly. 

Giving Max a thumps-up, you follow the man to a secluded area near an empty bench. 

“Are you courting him?” the man asks, his voice sharp and his glare sharper, and you gasp at the audacity. Who does he think he is? 

“No!” you snap at him, glaring at the man who wears Dream’s face. “He’s my best friend.” Your answer seems to put the man at ease, and some of the tension leaves his body. 

“I don’t think we’ve met,” you state coldly, crossing your arms as you continue to stare him down. Unfortunately, he looks just as good in the real life as he does in your dreams. 

“We’ve met in your dreams.” The man seems confused, his eyebrows furrowed for a moment, but there is no doubt inside his voice. 

“That’s impossible,” you reply, biting your lip. You’re not about to confess to a rude stranger that he looks like the companion inside your dreams, the man who has enchanted your nights. 

The man gives you such a tender look that it roots you to your spot, your heart skipping a beat. He crosses the distance between you and him and his knuckles glide over your cheek, just like in the dream. 

“This can’t be,” you whisper, your mind and heart screeching with confusion and hope. How can this man be real and in your dreams?

“Do you remember when you asked me my favorite color?” the man – Dream – asks, and you can only nod, unable to speak or form coherent thoughts. What is going on? 

“My favorite color is the color of your eyes.” Your heart swells at his declaration, and you let out a delighted giggle. You have forgotten your surroundings, drowning in Dream’s blue eyes and his soft touch. 

“That was cute and cheesy,” you tease, and boldly repay his favor, brushing your knuckles over his sharp cheekbones. He leans into the touch. 

“In your next dream, I will explain,” Dream vows. You can’t wait. 

[celestemagnoliathewriter]

Supernova - Sneak Preview/Snippet

Based on this poll, one of the two winners for snippets was Supernova! I'm giving you all a snippet, and I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!! No context, but I think you can guess what's happening ;)

“First things first—Millie’s a Muggle. She doesn’t know anything about magic, and it’s got to stay that way. That includes your morphing.”

“What?” Dora sputtered. “You’re married to her!”

“Yes, and we live in a Muggle neighborhood. I don’t need a letter from the Ministry every time they detect magic here. I’m the only wizard for miles. We do everything the Muggle way here.”

“What if you have kids? Won’t they—”

Ted’s lips came together and he shook his head. 

“That’s not a topic I need to visit anytime soon,” he said. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, I need you to promise me you won’t perform any magic—you shouldn’t be doing so anyway—and learn to do everything by hand.” 

Dora gaped at Ted, aghast at what she was hearing. She had nothing against Muggleborns, but to spend her summer without magic? 

“That’s a non-negotiable,” Ted said sternly. “I promised your mother I would keep you safe. She understood my limitations.” 

“Wait—Mama actually wanted me here? Here? Not Iris’s or, or—”

“Here, Dora.” Ted sighed and put his face in his hands. “This house. This is your home now.” 

“Home? I hardly know you! I want to go to Iris’s—or Maisie’s, even, if I’ve got to live like a Muggle—” Dora stood up to get to the guest room, but Ted grabbed her wrist to hold her back. 

A sudden sense of terror overcame her. She was transported back to the library at Travers Court, and instead of Ted grabbing her wrist, it was Claudius. 

“No, no, no! Get off! GET OFF!” Dora screamed. She fell to the floor in a heap, terrified and abruptly crying, her wand too far away for her to protect herself. She crawled on the shaggy carpet, desperate to get away from the madman her mother wrongly trusted, but she hit an invisible barrier. 

“Dora, Dora, stop!” Ted shouted. “I’m not going to hurt you! I’m not your brother! I’m still Ted—Ted Tonks—a Healer! I’m not Claudius, and I will never hurt you, I promise!”

The mention of Claudius had Dora’s head spinning. No one had known about that, much less believed it when Andromeda tried to defend herself in her trial. The Aurors dismissed the story, even when Dora tried to corroborate it, but Ted believed them. 

The man who had just dropped his wand on the floor and put his hands up believed Dora and Andromeda. Ted fell to his knees, keeping his hands up in the air, and blinked at her. 

“Dora, I’m sorry. I know he hurt you. I didn’t mean to frighten you, and I promise, on my own life, you’ll never be hurt here. I promised your mother I would take care of you if something happened to her. I won’t hurt you, sweetheart. We need to talk about a few things, and I need you to listen. Can you stay for a few minutes and listen? If—if you don’t like what I say—I’ll take you to your friend’s house. Please hear me out.”

Dora was backed into an invisible corner. She held her knees against her chest, her face wet with tears, and tried to focus her gaze on Ted. But the feeling of his hand on her wrist, and all the nightmares it inspired, continued to terrify her and made her tremble against the wood-paneled wall.

“You know me. I’m still just Ted, the Muggleborn Healer from St. Mungo’s,” he continued, falling back on his heels. He kept his hands visible and his gaze on hers. “Your mother and I knew each other, long ago when we went to school together. We were friends—very close friends—and everything had to change when we were out of school.”

Ted sighed and rubbed his eyes with his palms. Dora wiped away the tears from her face and found his eyes glistening, much to her astonishment. 

“I was in love with your mother, Dora. I loved her more than anyone I ever knew. She—I think she felt the same way, even if she said she didn’t—and she had to live a life that I couldn’t give her because of who I am. She had to marry your . . . Byron. She had to marry Byron Travers.” 

The revelation of Ted’s love for Andromeda was enough to momentarily let the terrible memories of Claudius disappear. Dora sat up straighter, but still holding herself tightly against the wall, and stared, her attention transfixed on the Muggleborn declaring his love for her pureblood mother. 

“I moved on as best as I could. That day you met me in Diagon Alley—that was the first time I had seen her since we had to say goodbye—that was the day I learned a secret your mother had been keeping from me for over eleven years.” Ted’s body trembled and he closed his eyes briefly. Taking a deep breath, he continued. 

“What I found out . . . it changed my life. It’s going to change yours. No one but your mother and I know the truth . . . and before you ask, even Millie doesn’t know what I’m going to tell you. I’m going to tell her when she gets back—God only knows how she’ll take it. It’s not going to be easy for any of us.” 

Dora had stopped crying and her vision cleared somewhat. Her nose was running, but she wiped it against her knees and gaped, openmouthed, hanging on every word that Ted was telling her. He ran his hand through his hair and tilted his head back. 

[minsyal]

The Great Stone Knight, Pt. IV

Sandor Clegane x Reader

Warnings will remain vague and be for the work as a whole as opposed to each part individually: violence, death, assault, my shitty characterizations, explicit language, sexual content (will be noted), and having too good of a time reading this.

Masterlist

Dear father, 

I continually fear for my safety here in Kings Landing. Please send a new escort. Ser Lorric has been killed. I am alone now as the sellswords have been dismissed by the Lannisters. I beg you to ensure my safe return.

Princess (Y/n) of Antonia, Lady of the Hill

~*~

Dear father, 

I have not heard back. It has been weeks. I require a new escort for my return. 

Princess (Y/n) of Antonia, Lady of the Hill

~*~

Dear father, 

I want to return home. Please, send for me.

Princess (Y/n) of Antonia, Lady of the Hill

~*~

Harrowing and draining as it was, you persisted. Many letters were drafted and sent to your father, or anyone in your homeland for that matter. Power, it was all those who populated Westeros thrived to gain. Their desire to rule was unlike any other; if it meant killing family, they would surely do it without question or reason. A new country on the western border would only benefit them as winter approached with a steadfast ferocity. The Princess simply fell into their hands by the grace of the old gods and the new. 

You walked the halls, joined by Clegane who seemed unaffected by your circumstance. He continued on with his mundane life of smirks and snide remarks. After all, he was sworn to the king who sat atop the Iron Throne and he would do as they commanded. 

“Lady (Y/n).” The sound of Tyrion’s voice had you raising your guard. The unbreakable walls burst from the ground below you, encasing you in an invisible shield. Despite his calm and welcoming demeanor, he was still a Lannister. The same blood coursed through his veins and those of the boy who commanded the death of your knight. “You’re in good company, better now that I have arrived.” 

Slowing your step, you moved beside Tyrion with his guard and Sandor following closely behind. “I do hope the Hound is treating you well.” 

“Yes, Sandor is lovely company, my lord.” Deciding to throw a passing glance to your rear, you caught the haughty eye of the man who seemed to be attached to Tyrion’s hip. He was older, likely close in age to Sandor. The wrinkles of laughter extended from his worn eyes, displaying years of amusement in one form or another. Whether it was from the bowed kick of his legs or the hands that stayed firmly attached to the buckle of his belt, you could tell he was a flirt. “It seems you’ve brought company as well.” 

“Indeed, I have.” Tyrion’s voice fought against his stature, booming in a way that his presence did not. “One cannot simply stroll about without protection. Lady (Y/n), this is Bronn of the Blackwater. Bronn, Princess (Y/n) of Antonia.” Bronn gave you a wicked grin as he musically bobbed his head from side to side and let out a humph. “My lady.” He greeted grandly, overdoing his bow in a way that you had only seen commoners and suck-ups do in the past. The confidence he oozed was like thick suffocating water in your lungs.  

A melancholy sigh forced itself from Tyrion’s lips, sweeping into the air and disappearing as if it had never happened. “I do want to extend my deepest condolences for the death of Ser Lorric.” The mere mention of his name made the hurt return as your mental barrier perpetually fortified itself; the masons hurried their efforts, working around the clock to keep your façade strong. 

“Some knight he was.” Sandor scoffed beneath his breath. His words were said with such little volume that you questioned whether Bronn had even heard him. From the aloof look on his face, you were sure he hadn’t, far more focused on the way your dress hung from your hips. 

There was an attempt, you thought. Tyrion was the one Lannister who seemed to hold an ounce of humanity in his breadth, at least of the ones you had met. But he was a Lannister, nonetheless. He did not truly care; he was only doing what was best for his family – looking out for their interests. Currently, their interest should lie in keeping Antonia from waging war against all of Westeros.

“Ser Lorric served my family for thirty years. He was my personal guard since air first touched my skin. I spent more time with that man as I grew than I did with my own father or mother.” Your steps beat harshly against the yellowed stones of the walls, threatening with each clack of your heeled shoe to send streaks of crumbling cracks through them. Fire burst from your heart, you spoke in a calm rage, addressing Tyrion directly. “Lord Tyrion, I do hope you can understand that this drastically puts my intentions of uniting the lands in a negative light.” 

After a short staccato of a moment, concentrated contemplation crossed his features and fled as fast as it appeared. “I understand.” He finally said, the gears in his head turning intensely. “Well. I must depart, but should you need anything, do not hesitate to ask.” 

Turning to fully face you, he gave a short bow and your typical words of departure, followed quickly by Bronn who decided to leave you with a wink and a grin. 

“Some knight?” You swiftly turned on your heel and faced Clegane, the mental walls falling around you as you tore them down brick by brick. His face held the same look it always did, unchanging and uncaring of your sudden rage. “He is a loyal man who served his country well.” 

“Was.” He corrected. “He let little Meryn Trant kill him. Any boy whore could kill three Meryn Trants. Your fucking knight spent his nights in Baelish’s brothels when he should have been stationed at your chamber door.” 

“I will not have you speaking ill of a man I admired for my entire life.” 

“Then what’ll you have, girl?”  

He leered forward, bringing his face down to settle above yours but leveled all the same. The distance between your bodies was mere inches. The creases of his eyes appeared as he narrowed his eyelids and hardened his features; he decided to pair this with the slight snarl of his upper lip. Pure white anger flowed through every nerve in your body as you made a sudden decision. Your palms pressed firmly against the chain breastplate of his chest, giving the hardest push you could. The entirety of your body’s weight was put into that shove, and yet he didn’t even budge. There was no stumble, no balancing step backward, not even the sway of his body. Enraged further, you broke the contact of your hands, drawing them quickly back to your sides in balled fists and retreating down the hall in the opposite direction in which you were originally heading. 

The doors of your chambers were within sight in short time, and you wished nothing more than to lock yourself away for the rest of the day. It was incredibly tiring, the way your body wanted to slack and your shoulders wanted to slump. But you would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing you mourning. You could not let them win. Throwing the door open, you didn’t spare a moment before you pushed it closed and turned the lock. 

Slowly, the sun split the horizon in two as it descended below the vast landscape with a short promise of return after the moon performed its show. Handmaidens came frequently with food, knocking and trying the door handle before turning away in their many attempts to serve you a proper meal. A dark shadow laid at the split of the door, unmoving from the moment you turned the lock. Every now and again, you could hear the faint sound of armor shifting or the slight grumble of a complaint as his legs filled with static. The iron windows of your room had been drawn shut and sealed with a chain, as per the orders of the King. 

There you remained. As you felt the catatonic whispers of the night deepen, so too did the suddenly loud walls. The bricks and stones spent hours in conversation, discussing the past at length as they relayed every moment you had spent in the room back to you. They cast shadows of a dead man who leant against them, arms crossed and smile proud. Murmurs of castle gossip frolicked through your ears; echoes of petty scolding bounced off the ceilings. 

The once warm steaming basin of water at the back of the room was now frigid with stale water. All of the water’s warmth had long since cooled from the bath you had taken in the morning. You didn’t dare to slip in for a quick wash for you feared the water would solidify on contact, freezing you in place. Instead, you chose to lay down atop the expertly crafted blankets that were piled high on the bed. Your head found a feather pillow, sinking deeply into its silken casing. The night begged you to allow yourself to sleep, and so you did. You dreamt of better times, of better company, and of a better future to come. 

“Father!” You walked with purpose through the hall from your chambers, straight into his where he sat at an ornate antique desk. A scrawl of hardly read scrolls laid out across his desk, many discarded in favor of more important subjects. Your father sat with crescent glasses perched on his nose, his hair wild from a sleepless night. There hadn’t even been time to break your fast in the morning. No, there were much more pressing matters at hand. “Lorric refuses to let me train with him. He is out in the yard with all those silly boys who can’t even pick up a training sword, and he won’t let me go too.” 

“Actually, I’m inside now.” Lorric’s voice took you by surprise as he patted a firm hand on your shoulder, giving it a slight shake and a squeeze. “It’s not my choice that you’re not being trained, little lady.” 

“Then who?” You demanded. 

“That would be my choice, (Y/n).” Your father set his glass quill aside as he earned an unamused glare from his unwavering daughter. “I’ve given you many freedoms that many ladies do not get in our society. You sail, you ride, you certainly do not talk like a lady in most circumstances.” He chuckled. “Fighting is something I will not argue on, you will not do it.” 

“Because of what society wants?” 

He nodded. 

“Then change society, not me. You’re the king for god’s sake!” 

You stormed from the room like a tsunami, one sudden burst of energy as you retreated down the hall deeper into the castle. “She’s a spitfire.” Lorric said to your father as he sighed and set off to find the smoldering princess before she lit the whole castle on fire. 

With the rising of the sun came rays of glittering light reflecting off the sea. The light waltzed through the iron laced bars that held the windows closed, fighting through the shadows that cast themselves over the intricate beds lining in a war of day and night. You woke to the eerie peaceful lull of birds chirping in the distance, singing loudly over the morning rush that hummed from the city below. 

Empty voices carried downward through the hall, speaking of nothing in particular. Women chattered together as they made haste to their duties as handmaidens to the other ladies and lords of the Red Keep. Their shrill giggles could be heard swaying through the courtyard below as they spoke freely with one another - unchained by their master’s watchful eyes. Outside your door stood the same imposing figure that had been there the night before. You could once again hear the shifting of his armor, the grumbling of his breath, and the steps as he repositioned himself upon static legs. 

“My lady.” A small knock came to your door as you rubbed the crusted sleep from your hazed eyes. “I am here to prepare you for the day.” The voice continued as you begrudgingly stepped from your bed to the door, unlatching it and allowing her inside. Sandor caught sight of you before it closed, taken for a moment by the mess of your hair and unchanged clothes he had seen you in the night before. 

“I’ve brought honey and lemon cakes and autumn pears.” There the same young handmaiden who had been serving you since you arrived said, laying a golden tray down on the bare dining table. “Allow me to draw you a bath, my lady.” 

“Thank you.” The cakes were all delicately decorated with shavings of herb and rind, leaving a sweet aroma of sickly sweetened goods lingering in the air. You plucked a blackberry from the top of a honey cake, bringing it to your lips. The sour taste of earth and sugar exploded in your mouth as you bit through the seeds. Splashing water could be heard from the back of the room as the girl emptied the musty basin and replenished it. Water flowed freely through a viaduct that was then transferred into a pot that boiled viciously above a smoldering fire. Moments later, she returned to the room and clasped her hands in front of her body. “The bath is cooling, my lady.” 

Only acknowledging her comment with the nod of your head, you leant back in your chair. “Have you broken your fast?” You asked suddenly to the surprise of the maiden. Her widened eyes softened as she gave a small shake of her head from side to side. 

“No, my lady. I will eat later when you are prepared for the day.” 

“Nonsense,” you motioned for her to join you at the table and kicked a chair out slightly with a rather unladylike move. “Please. It would be rude to deny a lady’s request.” You noted, more to encourage her to eat with you. Without a word, she sat at the table. 

“Which do you favor?” 

She focused on the options in front of her, not expecting you to give her a choice of what she would have. Without argument, she answered, “I quite enjoy honey cakes, my lady.” 

The cake had a spongey texture, bouncing pleasingly as you lifted it from the serving tray to a spare that had been brought along. It held its shape well, jumping right back into place as if on cue. The handmaiden continually failed to wipe the look of confusion from her face, slightly elated at being served instead of serving others, but also worried that perhaps it was all some sort of strange trick. You took a lemon cake for yourself, breaking pieces from its sides to eat. She followed, politely taking small bites of her own.  

“What’s your name? I’d much prefer to call you by that.” You covered your mouth as you chewed. 

“It would be improper, my lady.” 

“I suppose I’ll just be improper then.” 

After a second of hesitation, she answered “Lillianya, my lady.” 

~~~*~~~

“The little lady leaves her chambers.” Sandor narrated as you emerged cloaked in a velvet dress of blood red sent by Cersei. The color was harsh against your skin, overpowering your being instead of complimenting like your Antonian garb did. It was also far heavier, feeling as though they had added secret weights to the hems and seams. 

“The big man stands outside her chambers.” You retorted. The hair even felt wrong. It had been divided into two parts and then divided many more times to form the traditional southern style that Lorric had described as a ‘birds’ nest.’ Braids trailed their way up from the middle of your head to sit high above like a headband usually would. The rest was twisted and laid across your shoulders to fall down your chest. 

“The King requests your audience today.” Sandor said, falling into stride with you as you directed your body toward the throne room where he was surely holding court. 

“For what purpose?” 

“For whatever purpose he damn well pleases.” 

Arriving in the throne room, you were greeted by a sea of eyes. Each pair was trained diligently upon you, picking apart every fiber of your being like vultures. They judged the way your hair looked, the dress you wore, and the choice of guard the king assigned you. Joffrey splayed himself upon the throne like he had the first day you met more than a month prior. His pointed elbow ground into the throne’s armrest, his leg was kicked open, and the crown of gold sat awkwardly on his greased head. 

“Lady (Y/n),” Joffrey’s shrill voice cut through the heavy air of the room. “Come.” Ser Meryn Trant held a conceited smirk on his features as you approached with Clegane trailing at your stead. His upper lip was crimped as mischievy rollicked in the depths of his deathly hazel eyes. Hesitating at the bottom step was all he needed to approach and give you a forceful shove in the shoulder with the palm of his hand - leading you up the steps to stand before the King. Joffrey kicked his leg from the throne and withdrew a crumpled scroll of parchment from where he had pocketed it. The delicate stamp of a purple seal was broken on the page, the handwriting that strikingly resembled your father’s peeked from the rolled paper. “Read.” He commanded. 

Taking the paper from his fingers, you delicately unraveled it and looked over the words, unwilling to believe what you were seeing. It was a mistake, you thought. A mistake, perhaps, or more likely a fever dream concocted by the insane boy that began to tower of you as the flicker of your eyes said all that needed to be said. 

“Out loud, Lady (Y/n).” He chastised, tsking at you with the wave of his dismissive hand. 

A warmed breath filled your aching lungs; the stagnant pungent air of the Keep fermented inside. The gods of fate spun your string in their malicious fingers, savoring the contempt that leached from your body like a black ooze of a lethal poison. Your stomach jumped to your throat and then to your feet, unsettled by the revelation that laid in your palms. 

“To the King of the Seven Kingdoms and his council.” You started, focusing on the midnight ink that flowed into words that you refused to believe your father wrote. “We are pleased to hear of the arrival of our princess and company. After the discussion of your offer for unification, the men of our small council would like to extend our offer through the hand of Princess (Y/n) Belross of Antonia. She is,” you stopped, breathing deep and ragged as you attempted to keep your composure. The words that followed were not foreign to you, but to read them coming from your father was like another blade being dragged through your already aching heart.  

“Go on.” The boy king demanded in an eased tone. 

“She is still innocent. This will strengthen both of our kingdoms for many years onward. I will send an advisor to aid in any wedding plans in the coming year.” Joffrey’s pompous look could stand in the place of a thousand words. He won, he thought, still bobbing his head. “This is falsified. My father would never cast me out in this way.” You crumpled the parchment and tossed it to his feet. This earned you no points with the guards that already hated you, they watched with brutal eyes for your next move.

“You are questioning a king’s words? Even when they’re from your own blood.” Joffrey spat; glowing rage painted across his reddened features. 

“I refuse to believe it.” The toe of your shoe ground the paper into the stone at his feet. 

“Believe it.” He dangled a small coin of purple and silver wax in front of you, stamped with your house’s crest that he had kept from your gaze until now. There was only one stamp that could form an imprint like that, and it laid on your father’s desk in his study thousands of miles away. “You belong here in Kings Landing now, Lady (Y/n)… So, who shall it be?” He professed with a self-congratulating grin, most pleased that you chose to hold your tongue instead of forcing him to order it be ripped from your body should you speak against him again. “You are far too old for dear Tommen, that and I don’t think you’re worthy of him. Martyn or Willem? Perhaps, someone loyal to the crown? The Dog? Ser Meryn? ...No,” he debated himself, proudly continuing his monologue in front of the small audience, “they cannot marry for they’ve sworn themselves to me, the King. I believe it possible that we unite our lands through you and any man loyal to my name.” 

Joffrey grasped your hand and twirled you around to face the audience of the room. You could feel the sparks of thought from his body as he pressed his back into your shoulder. “Who better than Gregor Clegane?” The lids of his eyes widened as he snapped his fingers twice and pointed it at you. “The Mountain! Yes. That would be a perfect pairing. We will have to start calling you ‘The Hill,’ after all you are the Lady of one. You’ll be the lady of two before the year’s end.” 

The Mountain’s name came to be a dark cloud of ash that never ceased to loom from your head. As you passed people in the halls, his name would grace their lips - Gregor Clegane. The Clegane brother had earned himself a title worse than that of the one that stood behind you. He was taller, bigger, and more sinister in his intentions to others. You’d seen him once, but he quickly disappeared to fight at Tywin Lannister’s side in the war.

“Are you scared?” Sansa was at your side the moment you left the throne room on weary, but firm, feet. In the weeks since Lorric’s passing, she had spent much of her free time in your chambers or at your side. Much that left her mouth was still considerably carefree for what the girl had endured. She still held hope for a fairytale ending to her grim life. She would tell you stories of her siblings and life in Winterfell, insisting that you must visit sometime in exchange for stories of Antonia - to which you insisted she visit as well. She was a kind girl, far too kind for her circumstances. “I don’t know what I’d do if I were betrothed to the Mountain. I’ve heard stories.” Her arm tangled in yours. “He once tore a man in two with his bare hands for bringing him the wrong wine... I’ve heard that- “ 

“Sansa.” You tensely interrupted her, patting a gentle hand to hers. “Have you eaten?” 

“Not yet.” The smile that formed on her lips as she spoke sent winds of calm coursing through your body. She was so young, still so jaded to the world around her. 

“That solves it. Come, let us have tea in the garden.” 

As selfish as it was, Sansa was happy to hear that you would remain in the Red Keep. For she finally felt as though she had met a true lady. She could relate to you on several levels, most being your shared love of feminine virtues. While you strayed far from what women traditionally partook in, you were raised by the Queen – your mother – who managed to instill these ideals upon you before you took off to journey the lands. 

“What are the knights like in Antonia?”

“Well,” you watched pleasantly as the woman who followed Sansa walked around the garden, noting the way she avidly avoided Sandor who was stationed within speaking distance of the two of you, “our knights are lovely men. In fact, there are many stories about the knights of Antonia.” Sansa had a bite of lemon cake, which she insisted were her favorite. “Women tell tales of the Great Stone Knight.” Her curious eyes enlarged as she listened dearly and you reveled in the moment of peace after such news was bestowed upon you. “When he was a child, the young man met a lady of one of our great houses. He instantly fell in love with her beauty and wit. She was known as the winter flower of our lands, her hair was of fire, and her eyes of ice.” 

“Like me.” Sansa smiled gently, her puffed cheeks pulling upward. 

“Yes, in fact, this lady greatly resembled you. Just as kind and poised for a noble home.” You breathed a sigh. “But she was betrothed to another, a man with a bad reputation among the people of Antonia. She cried and begged her father to allow her to marry someone else, but he continually denied her of a unification from love.” 

“Did they end up together?” 

“They did, but not with ease. She was stolen away in the night, her betrothed plucked her from the castle and set off for his home country which lay 10,000 miles from Antonia. Upon hearing the news, the young man took off with nothing but the clothing on his back, his broadsword, and horse. When his horse gave out, he traveled on foot, not stopping once as he followed his heart. He traversed a great distance, going many nights without sleep and many days without food.”

“Did he save her?” 

“Eventually. It was her wedding day, his love stood before a crowd with tears of sadness in her eyes as she faced the man she did not love. She thought back to the knight who held her heart, closing her eyes, and hoping for him to save her. She prayed to the gods, all of them, any that would listen. She begged them to return her home as she longed for her family and more importantly, the knight. Suddenly, the doors burst off their hinges with the force of a thousand suns. There stood the Stone Knight, tired and weary from his travels, but determined to make his heart whole again.” 

“Did they release her?” Sansa’s interest was growing with each word; she leaned forward expectantly. 

“No, not without a good fight. The Stone Knight challenged the man to a duel, a single fight to determine the fate of the Lady. They fought atop the castle with the wedding’s audience now turning into one of their own. The Stone Knight wielded his sword, and wearing no armor, he was the first to attack. The other man threw him from the roof to another terrace below and thought he had won. But the knight persisted, he climbed the wall and attacked the man as he gloated, quickly wrestling his weapon from his grimy hands. The two struggled for power; one was not willing to give into the other as the princess was the finest prize in the land. She watched with fear in her eyes, she prayed for his victory, and just when things were looking bleak, the wall of the castle gave way.” Sansa gasped, leaning back in her seat. “The stone swallowed everyone. Many lives were lost, but when the ash cleared, and the sky illuminated the wreckage… there stood the Stone Knight with his stolen princess encased in his strong grasp. They both lived without a single scratch to their bodies. The Knight and the princess shared an everlasting kiss and disappeared into the sunset. Rumor has it that they married and lived in a small seaside cottage until their last days.” 

“That’s so romantic.” Sansa swooned at the story of the Stone Knight, wishing dearly that her life would end up like the winter flower’s. “Do you think,” she timidly opened and lowered her voice to the point of a whisper, “that I’ll have my own Stone Knight someday?” 

“I do.” You took her chilled hands in your own and rubbed your thumb to the back of her shaking fingers. “I know that you will have a brave and handsome knight someday, and perhaps you’ll be the one saving him instead.” 

“(Y/n),” Sansa snickered, “me? Saving a man? I simply do not see it.” 

“Perhaps not now, but you’re strong. I’d say, just as strong and willful as the Stone Knight.” 

Sansa left soon after your story finished with a belly full of lemon cakes and a heart full with your tale. She dreamt of the Stone Knight, wishing for a man like him to come for her one day. Her handmaiden had given you a sweet smile, nodding her head as she followed behind the young winter flower. 

“That story wasn’t true, was it?” Sandor finally spoke, his gaze trained on your face as you watched Sansa disappear into the gardens. 

“No. There’s no such knight in Antonia.” 

“Then why’d you tell it?” 

“Sandor, believe it or not, we all need something to hold onto. She has been ripped away from her family and watched her father die. She deserves a shred of hope, we all do.”

Tag List (lmk if you want to be tagged):

@madameasbjorn @yaskna @xakilicious

[saiakv]

Satoru arrived at the scene of the crime with a pout on his face and hands on his hips, clearly exasperated. He'd debated not coming at all when he'd felt Suguru cursed energy carelessly lingering in the air, but the allure of his lover's presence was too much to resist. They hadn't seen each other in nearly three weeks— an eternity.

"You could have just called me." He ignored how the trail of Suguru's energy winded to the apartment complex behind them, leading to a thick knot of cursed energy clear as day in his sixth vision on the second floor. The kind generated by fear and grief in those unable to control their output. Clearly teasing Satoru with his arrival hadn't been his only goal here today.

That was none of his concern. With quick long strides he closed the distance between them, a small veil dropping around just the two of them as he wrapped his arms around Suguru's waist and pulled them close. "I have to put on a show; they'll know we were both here. So whatever you do, don't let go of me."

His pout curled into a vicious grin, his trap having already been sprung. He leaned down to press a quick kiss against beloved lips and then he whispered into them as fingers crossed into a hand sign: "Domain Expansion...Infinite Void."

Infinity exploded into existence around them, imbued into the existing veil. Conventional senses were rendered meaningless in the massive flow of information, but Satoru's practiced mind filtered and interpreted it into something manageable for those within his protection. Just as once he'd sought to share in the sight of the stars in the same way Suguru would have experienced it, he wanted to share this world as he alone could comprehend.

Imparting even just a glimpse of it was a treasure, the reason he'd envisioned such a technique in the first place.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

Treat the cause.

A distant whisper carries her voice from the depths of time — it melts into the muffled cries that bounce off of bloodstained walls and the squelching of the curse's maw reaping its fill. Eyes violet as a bruise linger wordlessly over the absent faces; the whites of their eyes had been just as wide when the door had opened to the charming smile of a young monk coming to their aid. His chant orchestrates hopeful faces; the barrier is hoisted to ensure it won't get away. They watch him summon a lesser spirit to aggravate the resident curse and gasp in awe upon that which they cannot comprehend. And call it magic.

Well, there was nothing magical about what followed.

He guides it to the parents first. The young ones will be more potent that way. A curse can no longer grow after it is consumed, so he fattens it up. He stays silent while the children scream for help, he blinks a splotch of red away when it lands over his cheekbone. A moment before it's done feeding, when it's not yet present enough to turn hostile, calloused fingers pluck at invisible threads to collect it. Futile resistance, met with bites and snarls from the headless dogs he has summoned; the same spirit that so viciously devoured those apes from before is then devoured in turn. Suguru stands alone as the ultimate predator; the last fish in the pond.

Until something bigger ripples the waters.

That hollow cruelty still lingers in his gaze when he steps outside, a brow quirking before the trilling residuals. He's eerily still before the greeting; the afterglow of a kill always brings him that strange clarity. He imagines this is how it feels for a horse to gallop or a bird to graze; this must be what it feels like to fullfill one's purpose. Or maybe he's hollow — maybe he's intoxicated from the foul spirit ingested; Satoru moves and sweeps the whole world with him, so Suguru's thoughts are immediately dismantled and rearranged to focus on the space between his strides. The sheen of a curtain begins to manifest around them and his foot plants firmly, fingers tethered to invisible threads offering a light twitch. It sends the inugami dogs running in the sorcerer's direction — but their paws only rattle the ground beside him, running past and into the darkness beyond the veil that is being lifted. ( Satoru loves deluding himself with these barriers, he has noted; deluding himself that he may one day cast a wall high enough to house their bond. But it would only ever be a dam. One crack would suffice to have the ugliness of this world flooding in. )

❝ You invited yourself here, Satoru. ❞ A smirk plays at the corners of his lips, hands idle by his hips — until he's grabbed and his palms stain a splotch of crimson on his partner's lapel. A grunt escapes almost reflexively, the lovestruck smile thinly held between his teeth as Suguru pretends there was nothing charming about being chased down so persistently. Most would know better than to feel excited for this particular hound coming after them — but he was the dolphin that got its kicks off of being hunted by the killer whale; and if that is madness, let him be mad. A grunt is shushed by soft lips carrying with an aftertaste of fruity gum; Suguru leans on his tiptoes to steal a second one.

❝ Oh, you have to show off, huh — is there a knife held to your throat about it? ❞ As if he wouldn't take any crumb of a chance he can find — Suguru's playful snickers are short-lived, however. His lips had been lazily lingering over the other's, when the words caressed them as gently as the petals of a venomous bloom. His eyes flash wide, then, gasping Satoru's name just as the world around them begins to crumble — no, unfurl.

What mundane words could be used to describe the inner world of Limitless? He imagines this is what it would feel if one could move with the speed of light and yet not feel dizzy; the image is as rich as it is refined down to detail and in that way he knows Satoru has taken his chaos and made it into something digestible. For what? Wouldn't this sort of attack work best if it was raw, in a way that only his six eyes could handle? Instead, it has been molded into something comprehensible, with structures and patterns and algorithms — like the fractals on snowflakes that Satoru had doodled on his notebook once or the lines comprising the image of that feline that lives etched on Suguru's thigh. His eyes are too small to take in everything in this endless expanse that surrounds them, but he doesn't have to see it. It's all so distinctively him.

Conceptually, Suguru instictively grasps onto the vision — his mind traverses back to a much younger Satoru enthusiastically yapping about his idea to him over the steam of hot noodle soup. Infinite Void has been made into a palpable image here; he begins to pull back from the tight hold and marvel upon the sight. It resembles the universe. The stars. The connection hits him with a pang to his chest.

The smell of wet earth and the feel of it seeping into his uniform, the way Satoru had inched a little closer that night ( 'Suguru! Hello, earth to Suguru! Are you listening to me?' ) It is all there, in the endless void that surrounds them, as deep as the wound they have left on each other's soul. One hand falls from Satoru's shoulder, where it had been resting, and dangles indly by his side. They're still linked, holding hands, but Suguru's mind is plagued by a haunting reverberation of those words left behind to collect dust in his old diary.

I wanted my arms to be the place that holds all your wonder, because I know that I will never be a star.

And now he knows that he can't even be that. Suguru knows won't ever be able to hold all of this; all of him. They are so far removed from each other and this mere glimpse into Satoru's inner world solidifies it.

Maybe in another life, things would have turned out differently for them — but not this one. He gives a squeeze to Satoru's palm; he knows that Satoru knows it too. But he has only ever known how to fly — the same as Suguru learned how to fall. Why does it have to be his own hand that cuts his lover's wings? Seeing those perfect blues beam back at him with glee and excitement now, hearing that childlike pride mixed with anticipation in his question; he cannot bring himself to do it. He lets the scissors drop again, knowing they will remain on the floor until he picks them back up — it's not fair.

In this world he envisions, the distance between them would diminish without the weight of monkeys tipping the scale. He can see it now, amidst the infinity surrounding them - this perfect world. This makeshift dam they're in might be able to hold the weight of the world; but there was no dam that could hold back Suguru's tears in that moment.

He turns. He looks at him through wet lashes; the same man he wants to build a world for, is the one standing in the way him making it a reality. And still — his palm is warm when it comes to rest on Satoru's cheek, caressing his face gently, as though not to soil him with blood any further. Because there's still blood, on Suguru. Splashes of it on his wrist, a drizzle on his robes — gallons of it coming up his throat. He knows he could do it; in the way Satoru looks at him, melts for him, he knows he could exploit the purity of his love and exploit his power; but he can't.

❝ It is beautiful. ❞ But his eyes are on the soft curve of his jaw and the way snowy lashes crinkle when he smiles. That's not a powerhouse. That's not a killer whale. That's not a god. That is just his friend — his Satoru looking back at him. His Satoru; who is so kind and gentle and pure and so desperately longed to share a glimpse of the world as he sees it.

His own lips press taut into a smile, redirecting the course of those fleeting, silent tears. Suguru knows in that moment that he is already a dead man. The weight of limitless will always loom over him no matter what he does; and the worst part of it is that he finds comfort in the way it presses down on him. Inadvertedly, his fingers begin to break their connection, languidly slipping away, picking up the scissors, about to let go—

❝ I could look at it forever. ❞