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carawenfiction · 3 months ago

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One night you are faced with a dream that alters something within you, forcing you to return to your now abandoned childhood home to search for answers.

Little do you know that the house is connected to another realm where darkness reigns and sunlight is nothing but a distant notion; a realm your family appears to be mysteriously involved with.

Upon encountering a group of paranormal beings of unknown nature, you are drawn further into a strange and unsettling existence as you strive to uncover the truth of your past and find your way back home.

Whatever path you choose, remember to look out for your own shadow.

"The Shadow Society" was first published in 2020 and is currently undergoing an extensive rewrite. The new version leans more into mystery elements with added focus on characters, relationships and how they are forged in a world where nothing is certain.

One sequel is planned to release once the rewrite is finished.

The rewrite of “The Shadow Society” is an 18+ game that includes depictions of violence, mental health, mental illness and sexual content. The demo is roughly 48k words as of June 2025.

Demo | Patreon | Ko-fi

* Play as a male, female or non-binary main character whose personality, actions and appearance are shaped entirely by your choices. * Play as gay, bi, straight, aromantic or asexual. * Discover a hidden world and take the first steps in uncovering its secrets. * Pursue one of five love interests along with two hidden ones, become entangled in a triangle between two siblings or remain single. * Determine who to trust and who to shun, who to befriend and who to antagonize, among a cast of characters with differing secrets and motivations. * Experience a story that explores the meaning of reality and illusion, truth and deceit, in a world of shadows that mirrors our own.

✹ A (Azuridian/Azuridia)

Their eyes, cold and piercing, seem filled with bitter truths that they refuse to share. They protect their knowledge fiercely and disclose only what they believe they need to when the situation calls for it. Some call them arrogant, but to that they would retort that they are the only one who can do what needs to be done. Driven and direct with a dash of sensuous charm, they don't hesitate to pursue what they want.

Appearance (male version): His face is angular and pale, his lashes a fringe of silver-white. His hair is slicked back, the sides of his head trimmed in an orderly fade cut. He wears a form-fitting, navy blue suit that gives a refined and sophisticated impression. A powerful yet subtle presence, he seems to quietly command the very air around him, emanating a sense of confidence that is both inviting and intimidating all at once.

Appearance (female version): Her face is angular and elegant, her lashes a fringe of silver-white. Her hair is gathered into a high ponytail that reaches her lower back, the sides of her head trimmed in an orderly fade cut. A sensual carmine red blooms on her lips, standing in stark opposition to her somewhat achromatic appearance. She wears a form-fitting, navy blue suit that gives a refined and sophisticated impression. A powerful yet subtle presence, she seems to quietly command the very air around her, emanating a sense of confidence that is both inviting and intimidating all at once.

✹ G (Gwyndal/Gwendolyn)

There is something palpably playful about their gaze. When turned your way, it seems to shine with the same kind of interest a child might show a shiny new toy. Though jovial and charming, there's something just beneath the surface of their demeanor that gives the impression that something far less pleasant lurks within. G has certain obsessive tendencies - their tireless interest in anything related to the 'Sunworld', as they are prone to call your home, for one - and seems to prefer the company of humans to the company of their own kind.

Appearance (both versions): They have tawny skin that contrasts with the short, blond hair that frames their rounded face, a slightly upturned nose sitting above charmingly curved lips. Their clothing style is eclectic and flashy, consisting of a torn yellow shirt with red- and black checkered pants. Silver chains hang around their neck and wrists, the metallic sheen matching the piercings that line their pointed ears.

✹ M (Michael/Michaela)

Though they aren't considered particularly bright, their dark eyes hold a reassuring warmth, alight with zest that could lure a smile from even the most jaded of people. But at times, when they think you aren’t looking, that spark seems to dim, the faint creases in their face appearing more prominent.

They are quick with quips and remarks they most likely hope others find witty, and equally quick to lend an ear and protect the things they care about.

Appearance (male version): His hair is dark brown, thick and tousled, often falling into his eyes. As an avid athlete he works out frequently, sporting a toned and muscular figure as a result. His clothing style is simple and comfortable, rarely going beyond casual jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

Appearance (female version): Her hair is dark brown and thick, often pulled back in a high ponytail. As an avid athlete she works out frequently, sporting a toned and muscular figure as a result. Her clothing style is simple and comfortable, rarely going beyond casual jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

✹ Q (Quaiel/Quarie)

A great, invisible chasm stretches between them and the people in their vicinity, a silent yet keenly felt tension seeming to follow wherever they go.

Bereft of the ability to speak, they somehow still appear more forthcoming than the people they surround themselves with. Somewhere deep inside they harbor an unyielding loyalty to A that is difficult to comprehend, especially when the latter's morals and actions often clash with what Q would normally agree with.

Though they rarely seek others out willingly, their eyes are kind, and when gazing upon someone they care about, a subtle tenderness seems to shine through.

Appearance (male version): His creamy skin is dotted with freckles that peek out around the dark muzzle covering his lower face. His red hair is curly and unevenly cut, long in the front and short in the back. A tattered, knitted cardigan falls off one shoulder, reaching a little past his knees. Beneath he wears a white shirt carelessly half-tucked into umber pants.

Appearance (female version): Her creamy skin is dotted with freckles that peek out around the dark muzzle covering her lower face. Her red hair, curly and wild, falls over her shoulders down to her waist. A tattered, knitted cardigan lays half-neglected at her elbows and reaches a little past her knees. Beneath she wears a white shirt carelessly half-tucked into umber pants.

✹ R (Rheylo/Rheyla)

Their gaze is withdrawn, bordering on hostile, their eyes a pair of flames that seem to want to incinerate whoever they’re aimed at. They hide themselves behind long, black hair and a hood, wielding snark and sharp comments as weapons to fend off deeper probing into their psyche. For all their posturing, they get embarrassed easily and may not be quite as laidback as they hope to appear.

Appearance (male version): His skin is medium-dark, a faint of stubble crawling along his jaw on the half of his face that he deigns to show. Though difficult to spot, a small gap that he'd rather keep hidden rests between his front teeth. His straight, midnight-black hair falls down to his elbows, obscuring the right half of his face.

Three braids adorn his left temple - two slim plaits framing a thicker rope that drapes artfully across his shoulder. He is clad entirely in obsidian hues. A form-fitting, sleeveless turtleneck hugs his torso, while wide trousers skim his calves, cinched above knee-high boots. A yukata-inspired, cloak-like garment covers the inner layers, generous sleeves pooling at his wrists. A heavy belt circles his waist, securing the flowing fabric.

Appearance (female version): Her skin is medium-dark. In her upper row of teeth, between darkly painted lips, rests a small gap she'd rather keep hidden. Her straight, midnight-black hair falls down to her elbows, obscuring the right half of her face.

Three braids adorn her left temple - two slim plaits framing a thicker rope that drapes artfully across her shoulder. She is clad entirely in obsidian hues. A form-fitting, sleeveless turtleneck hugs her torso, while wide trousers skim her calves, cinched above knee-high boots. A yukata-inspired, cloak-like garment covers the inner layers, generous sleeves pooling at her wrists. A heavy belt circles her waist, securing the flowing fabric.

✹ Jaelyn

Your ex-best friend/ex-lover. Though quiet and reserved, they are not without humor; once comfortable with a person, their perceived shyness can turn into good-natured smugness and gentle back-and-forth teasing. They have a certain fondness for books and will take whatever opportunity they get to quote a work they enjoy.

Jaelyn works closely with the Shadowman/Shadowlady and is often the one who carries out their orders, though not always without complaint. Though loyal, they are not a blind follower and possess strong opinions of their own. As for their motives and how they ended up in their current position is anyone’s guess.

Appearance (male version): His eyes are a mystery to you, concealed behind a pair of gradient colored, diamond-shaped glasses. He has dark skin and long tight curls that are parted on one side. His lean figure is draped in clothing that appears at once modern and antique, consisting of a violet blouse with an intricately designed jabot, waist-high pants and a pair of leather boots.

Appearance (female version): Her eyes are a mystery to you, concealed behind a pair of gradient colored, diamond-shaped glasses. She has dark skin and long tight curls that are parted on one side. Her lean figure is draped in clothing that appears at once modern and antique, consisting of a violet blouse with an intricately designed jabot, waist-high pants and a pair of leather boots.

✹ The Shadowman/The Shadowlady

It was their voice that drew you in first; the kind that could lure anyone into a sense of security and then cruelly leave you to navigate best you could in its absence. Smooth and mysterious, they grace your life through whispers and echoes of times long gone. When you first meet them face to face, they hide behind masks and shadows alike.

But who are they, really?

Appearance (male version): His turquoise eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. He stands taller than most humans, his long hair streaked with black and silver, gathered in a loose ponytail that reaches his lower back. A few wisps that have managed to free themselves almost appear to float around his face, dark clinging to shining grey like black ink stuck to parchment.

His long lashes, each black one followed by one of silver, curve above tiny streaks and dots delicately painted to accentuate his eyes. A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from his left ear, swaying delicately when he moves.

His skin appears polished and glossy, like that of a porcelain doll, his figure lithe and broad shouldered. He wears an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones. Underneath he wears a fitted, sleek black suit, complete with a tie. Strange, dark dust covers his hands and long, claw-like nails.

Appearance (female version): Her turquoise eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. She stands taller than most humans, her long hair streaked with black and silver and pulled back in an elaborate updo. A few wisps have managed to free themselves from the chignon and float gently around her face, dark strands clinging to shining greys like black ink stuck to parchment.

A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from her left ear, swaying delicately when she moves. Her lashes are long, each black one followed by one of silver. She wears purple-blue eyeshadow and shimmering purple lipstick.

Her skin appears polished and glossy, like that of a porcelain doll. She wears an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones. Underneath she wears a low-cut dress that clings to her voluptuous figure. Strange, dark dust covers her hands and long, claw-like nails.

Appearance (non-binary version): Their eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. They stand taller than most humans, their long hair streaked with black and silver and pulled back in a loose ponytail that reaches their lower back. Their lashes are long, each black one followed by one of silver.

Sometimes their figure appears soft, shaped by feminine curves, other times lithe and slender with broadened shoulders. They wear an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones and slide off their shoulders, baring the intricate piece of golden jewellery tied around their neck.

Their long lashes, each black one followed by one of silver, curve above shimmering purple-blue eyeshadow and purple lips. A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from their left ear, swaying delicately as they move. Strange, dark dust covers their hands and long, claw-like nails.

Current Progress:

Written/reworked chapters: Prologue, chapter 1, beginning of chapter 2.

Edited chapters: Prologue, chapter 1, beginning of chapter 2.

Demo wordcount: ~48k as of end of June 2025.

Total wordcount (on Patreon): ~70k as of end of June 2025.

Credits

@filopay for the gorgeous cover art

Canva for the other images used in this post

#the shadow society #tss #interactive fiction #carawenfiction #choice of games #cog #hosted games #if #rewrite #gwyndal #rheylo #quaiel #the shadowman #jaelyn #characters #demo #has a demo

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kyunghwannie · 4 months ago

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Entangled In A Dance Of Love (Part-2: Confirmation of Love and Heartbreak) [18+]

Ft. TWICE's Hirai Momo, Minatozaki Sana x M!Reader

Genre: Romance and Love Tension- mostly, Smut-15%? (Only with Momo..yet), Love Triangle

Tags: Anal, Titjob, Breeding, Dom!Momo, Roughness(?), Face-fucking, subtle degradation and praise

Description: Well, Why is Momo so hard on you? Who knows what's gotten into her after Sana joined the game.. But you can't deny that there's going to be some confrontation or confirmation but surely a heart break as well.

(This is my first ever smut I've ever written, iam generally a shy person so i tried my best on the smut. Iam still learning on how to write it with good depiction. So bare with me for now)

Stream MISAMO "Haute Couture" album!

Two Months Later -

Time had slipped through your fingers like sand.

Somewhere between the grueling practices, the unrelenting training schedules, and the ever-present pressure of living up to your title as JYP's ace trainee, the days had blurred into weeks.

And now, two months later, you were here-late 2023, sitting in your dorm room after yet another brutal dance session with Momo.

You barely had the energy to lift your arms, much less process how much had changed in such a short span of time.

Momo's training had been ruthless.

She pushed you to your limits-and then past them.

At first, it had been purely professional, her guidance sharp, her expectations high.

But as the weeks passed... something shifted.

It wasn't just about polishing your dance skills anymore.

There was an undercurrent, a silent tension that neither of you addressed but both of you felt.

The way her gaze would linger a fraction longer than necessary.

The way her voice softened-just slightly-when she corrected you.

The way she seemed... almost possessive when others brought up your name.

And then there was Sana.

You weren't stupid.

You had noticed the way she had inserted herself into your life.

Unlike Momo, Sana didn't push you until you collapsed.

She didn't demand perfection.

Instead, she snuck into your world like a warm breeze-effortless, natural, dangerously comfortable.

She'd drop by unannounced with snacks, casually throwing her arm around your shoulder as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

She'd tease you, flirt just enough to keep you on edge, but never enough to make it clear what she truly wanted.

And the worst part?

You didn't know what to do about it.

Momo was your mentor.

Sana was your sunbae.

And you? You were just a trainee-caught in the crossfire between two of TWICE's most unpredictable women.

Leaning back on your dorm bed, you let out a long sigh, staring up at the ceiling.

This was getting dangerous.

But the question was...

Dangerous for whom?

---

You exhaled, staring at the ceiling, letting your body sink into the mattress. Every muscle in your body protested in soreness, a dull ache settling deep into your bones from the past two months of non-stop training.

And just when you thought you could have at least one evening to breathe...

Your phone vibrated.

You barely had the strength to lift it, but curiosity won over exhaustion-a mistake you instantly regretted.

[JYP Training Schedule]

Dance Training (Mentor: Momo) - Last Session of the Day: 6:30 PM

Your fingers went limp, the phone slipping from your grasp, landing on your stomach with a soft thud.

Y/N: "No... no, please... Not today... Not her... Not again..."

You could feel tears stinging at the corners of your eyes.

The kind born from pure, existential suffering.

It wasn't just dance training.

It was training with Momo.

Two hours-minimum-of relentless footwork, brutal conditioning, and the suffocating feeling of her sharp gaze analyzing every single one of your movements.

You could already hear her voice echoing in your head-

"Again."

"That was sloppy, Y/N."

"Are you giving up already? I thought you were the ace."

Y/N: "I just... I just wanted a moment to exist..."

You turned your head to stare at the clock. 4:12 PM.

Two hours and eighteen minutes until your inevitable demise.

Your stomach twisted, knowing exactly how the evening would go.

Momo wouldn't go easy on you.

Not even a little.

And worse? She'd be in one of her "moods."

Ever since Sana had inserted herself into your life, Momo had been different. She masked it well-still the same strict mentor, the same composed sunbae-but you weren't an idiot.

She was being pushy, more intense than usual, as if trying to stamp out any external influences-especially a certain Minatozaki Sana.

And that meant hell for you.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

Maybe if you faked death, you could get out of it.

...No, Momo would probably still drag your lifeless body onto the dance floor.

You stared at the ceiling, lips trembling, tears welling up as a dramatic sense of despair settled deep in your soul.

Y/N: "Why... why must I suffer like this?"

You turned to your side, clutching your pillow like it held the answers to life's greatest mysteries.

Y/N: "I was just an innocent ONCE... a devoted fan... a humble admirer of my sunbaenims..."

A single tear rolled down your cheek as you sniffled dramatically.

Y/N: "I used to be the one watching their performances from behind my laptop screen, replaying their dance practice videos like a student of the arts... And now... now I am the victim of one of them..."

You turned onto your back again, eyes glossed over as you remembered the first time you saw Momo dance. The way she owned the stage, her movements effortless yet deadly, as if she were born to command the rhythm itself.

Y/N: "I admired her... I loved her work... I treated her like a goddess..."

You sat up suddenly, gripping your blanket in sheer betrayal.

Y/N: "So why is she the reason I collapse after every session like a shrimp?!"

You had never doubted your love for TWICE before.

But after two months of merciless training under Hirai Momo...

...you were starting to question if this was what ONCEs were meant to suffer.

Y/N: "I just wanted to support my idols... not be tortured by one..."

The irony wasn't lost on you.

You had spent years as a dedicated fan, hyping them up, watching their performances in awe, admiring their talent.

Now?

Now you were personally experiencing that talent in the most agonizing way possible.

And yet...

Your stomach sank as you realized something even worse.

Even though Momo put you through hell every session...

...you never once considered giving up.

Not because you had to.

But because you still admired her.

Y/N: "Damn it..."

You rolled onto your stomach, burying your face into your pillow with a muffled, frustrated scream.

You sat up instantly, heart pounding in your chest as an existential dread settled in.

Y/N: "No... no, no, no, no, no!"

Your hands clutched your head as your brain spiraled into a worst-case scenario. Momo wouldn't do that to me, right?

She wouldn't... she wouldn't make me do that again.

Not "Set Me Free.".

The hell that was TWICE's powerhouse anthem, a song that burned every fiber of your being every time you danced it.

A song that drained the very soul from your body.

A song that, at this point, you had danced so many times under Momo's supervision that even hearing the intro sent a traumatic jolt down your spine.

And yet... what if she made you do it again?

Your breath hitched.

No. No. NO.

Your hands clawed at your blanket as a flashback hit you like a freight train.

- Two weeks ago. -

Momo stood before you, arms crossed, lips curling into a satisfied smirk as you gasped for air, drenched in sweat, kneeling on the hardwood floor of the practice room.

Momo: "Again."

Your soul left your body.

Y/N: "Sunbaenim... I... I can't..."

Your arms trembled as you barely held yourself up, your body on the verge of collapse after dancing Set Me Free five times in a row without a single long break.

Momo tilted her head, raising a brow.

Momo: "Oh? But weren't you the 'Ace Trainee'? The one who can do everything?"

Y/N: "I can... but I also want to live..."

Momo hummed, crouching before you, her sharp gaze locking onto yours.

Momo: "Then prove it."

She reached for the speaker, finger hovering over the play button, and in that moment, you swore you saw your life flash before your eyes.

- Now. -

You shot up from your bed, panting.

Y/N: "SHE WOULDN'T DARE!"

...

...would she?

You grabbed your phone, scrolling to your messages, desperately searching for something-anything-that would confirm today's training agenda.

Nothing.

Y/N: "No. No, no, no, no, no-"

You shoved your blanket off, scrambling out of bed like your life depended on it.

You had to mentally prepare.

If Momo wasn't planning to make you dance Set Me Free tonight, then fine.

But if she was...

You needed to have your will written.

You stepped into the practice room, shoulders still tense from your earlier panic attack over Set Me Free.

The air was still, the mirrored walls reflecting your nervous figure as you set down your bag.

Your legs still felt wobbly, the trauma from past training sessions etched into your muscles, but you tried to shake it off.

Y/N: "Alright... maybe today won't be that bad..."

A loud thud made you flinch.

The door swung open.

Hirai Momo had entered the chat.

And she looked pissed.

You froze, watching as she walked in, a storm brewing in her dark eyes. Her lips were pressed tight, jaw set, and if looks could kill-

Well, you would have been dead before you could even breathe.

Your soul left your body.

You hadn't even done anything wrong today!

...Had you?

Momo dropped her bag, cracking her neck as she eyed you like a predator sizing up its prey.

Momo: "We're doing variations today."

Her voice was calm. Too calm.

That was not a good sign.

Y/N: "V-Variations?"

Momo: "Mhm."

She stepped closer, rolling her shoulders.

Momo: "I want to see how fast you can adapt to different styles of choreography. So we'll be doing various TWICE songs."

...Huh?

Your stomach sank.

Y/N: "Wait, wait, wait. Why only TWICE songs?"

Momo's sharp gaze flickered toward you.

Momo: "What? You have a problem?"

Y/N: "N-No! But- mean, can't we add some boy group songs too? Maybe something with less-"

Momo: "No."

Your words died in your throat.

Momo crossed her arms, her expression unwavering.

Momo: "You think TWICE choreographies aren't intense enough?"

You went silent.

Y/N: "I... I never said that-"

Momo: "Good. Because I'd shut you up either way."

Your soul fled to another dimension.

Y/N: "...I see."

There was no escape.

---

Your chest heaved, lungs aching as you gasped for breath.

Y/N: "Haaah-haaah-hrrgh-"

Your body shook from the exhaustion, sweat dripping from your chin as you leaned forward, bracing yourself on your thighs.

But even then-it wasn't enough.

Your body was starved of oxygen.

Your mouth parted wide, sucking in deep gulps of air, but it felt like you were drowning on land.

Your vision blurred for a second, and for a terrifying moment, you thought you were going to pass out.

Momo: "...Y/N."

Her voice was calm, but you barely registered it over the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You slumped forward, catching yourself on your hands, palms pressing against the cold floor.

Oxygen.

You needed more oxygen.

Now.

Your mouth hung open as you desperately sucked in air, but it still felt like you were being strangled.

Momo sighed, stepping closer.

Momo: "You're hyperventilating, idiot."

You barely heard her as your mind frantically tried to regulate itself.

Then-suddenly-

A hand grabbed the back of your shirt, yanking you up.

Before you could react, something cold was pressed against your lips.

Momo: "Drink."

Your fingers trembled as you took the bottle from her hand, water spilling down your chin as you took huge, greedy gulps.

Your breathing finally began to slow, the rush of air into your lungs less suffocating.

Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering closed as the cold liquid cooled your burning throat.

A few more minutes passed before Momo sighed, her arms crossing.

Momo: "Pathetic. I thought you had more stamina than this."

Her words stung-but you were too tired to respond.

Your entire body felt like it was made of lead.

Your arms trembled as you weakly pushed yourself up from the floor, still breathing heavily, your vision slightly swimming from the sheer exhaustion.

Momo had already grabbed her things, a towel draped over her neck, as she headed toward the door.

You didn't even know why-but something inside you twisted painfully.

Even though your body screamed for you to stay still-

Your lips parted, your voice hoarse and breathless.

Y/N: "...Momo-sunbaenim."

She froze mid-step.

You didn't even see her reaction-you were too busy staring at the floor.

Y/N: "...I'm sorry."

Your fingers curled into your sweat-soaked shirt.

Y/N: "I-If I disappointed you today... I-"

You sucked in a shaky breath, still not daring to look at her.

Y/N: "I really... tried my best."

A long silence filled the room.

Momo stood motionless, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.

Then-without a single word-

She turned and walked away.

The door shut behind her, the sound echoing through the empty practice room.

You barely had the energy to react.

You just slumped back down on the floor, your head resting against the cold wall.

Her grip on her bag tightened, her jaw clenching as a sharp wave of guilt slammed into her chest.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Why did she push you so hard?

And why-when she heard you apologize so sincerely, with so much raw emotion in your exhausted voice-

Did she feel like the worst person alive?

Momo: "...I'm such an idiot."

Her eyes shut tight, frustration bubbling inside her.

Momo: "Why am I being so immature?"

This wasn't what she wanted.

She had plans. She had reasons.

But today, she let her emotions take control.

And now, you-had apologized to her, even when she was the one being irrational.

She exhaled harshly, gripping the strap of her bag before walking away-

But the guilt lingered, crawling under her skin like a heavy weight that she couldn't shake off.

A Month Later - Under Her Control

The past month had been... strange.

At first, Momo was just your strict but talented mentor-pushing you past your limits, making sure your dance flowed, your rhythm synchronized, your every step sharp yet fluid.

But somewhere along the way-she started worming her way into your daily life.

At first, it was small things.

Like handing you a water bottle before you could reach for one yourself. Or grabbing a towel and tossing it at you before you even realized you were sweating buckets.

Then it escalated.

Momo: "Y/N, you're eating way too much junk. I'm sending you a proper meal plan."

And the next day-boom.

Your phone buzzed, a detailed meal plan from her sitting in your messages.

And because you were a good student, you followed it.

Then it became clothes.

Momo: "Y/N, are you seriously wearing that?"

You looked down at your black hoodie and sweats. What was wrong with it?

Momo: "You look like a sleepy high schooler. Hold on."

The next thing you knew, she dragged you to a department store, making you try on outfits that-frankly-you never would've picked yourself.

And because you were too tired to argue, you let her pick.

Soon-she wasn't just your mentor.

She was your meal planner.

Your stylist.

Your supervisor.

And somehow-you let it happen.

Not because she forced you.

But because... you were getting used to it.

Hell-was she even controlling you?

Or were you just stupidly obedient?

You had no clue.

But right now-you sat in the practice room, sipping on the protein shake that Momo had forced upon you, staring at yourself in the mirror.

Y/N: "...What the hell happened to me?"

Your hair was neatly styled. Your outfit? Approved by Momo.

Your meals? Decided by Momo.

Your training schedule? Dictated by Momo.

Y/N: "...Am I even my own person anymore?"

The door suddenly swung open, and you didn't even need to turn around to know who it was.

Momo: "Alright, dummy. Time to start."

You sighed, finishing off your drink.

This was your life now.

And you let it happen.

At first, it was just a mentor-student relationship.

Momo was my dance coach. A sunbaenim I admired. A K-pop legend whose movements were so sharp yet fluid that even idols envied her.

But now?

She had become something far more than that.

Something deeper.

Something I couldn't even describe.

I didn't even realize how much she had wormed her way into my life until I looked back and saw just how deeply entangled I was in her presence.

At first, she was just strict and demanding.

But then she started staying back after practice, watching over me as I cooled down, asking if I was eating well, correcting my posture even outside dance.

Then she started sending me good morning texts.

Then reminders to eat on time.

Then checking in on me whenever I got too silent.

Then one day-when I was just sitting in the practice room, drained and lost in my own thoughts-she just sat down next to me and sighed.

Not as Momo the Mentor.

But as Momo the Person.

Momo: "Y/N... you okay?"

I didn't even know how to answer that.

Because truthfully?

I didn't know how I was feeling anymore.

My whole life had been practice, training, expectations, and the relentless pursuit of being good enough.

And somehow, Momo became the only person I could talk to about it.

She didn't push. She didn't force words out of me.

She just sat there-waiting.

And before I even realized, I was confiding in her more than I had ever confided in anyone.

I told her about the pressure, about the expectations, about the nights where I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if I would ever be enough.

And she just listened.

Really listened.

And when I was done, she just patted my head and said-

Momo: "You're too hard on yourself."

It was such a simple statement.

But for some reason, it almost made me tear up.

Because for the first time in my entire career-someone wasn't demanding more from me.

She just... saw me.

And that was when I realized-

Momo wasn't just gaining control over my training.

She was gaining control over me.

My habits. My daily routine. My emotions.

And I-being the obedient fool that I was-just let it happen.

Months of Momo slowly taking control of my life.

Months of her presence growing larger, more influential-until she wasn't just my mentor anymore. She was my constant.

She picked my meals.

She picked my clothes.

She picked when I rested-because without her, I wouldn't.

And yet, I never once complained.

Because despite how strict she was, despite how much control she had over me... I trusted her.

She took care of me. She understood me. She was the only person I could confide in.

And that's why-when Sana started spending more time around me-I didn't think much of it.

She was a sunbae too.

She was warm, kind, playful.

She made the long, tiring training days feel lighter.

But what I didn't realize... was that Momo noticed.

And she did not like it.

---

It happened late at night.

I was still in the practice room, running through choreography alone. Sweat dripped from my temple as I exhaled sharply, trying to keep my stance firm despite my exhausted legs.

Then-the door swung open.

And there she was.

Hirai Momo.

Her expression was unreadable.

Her gaze was piercing.

Her stance-too relaxed, too controlled-like a beast preparing to pounce.

Y/N: "Momo...?"

She didn't answer.

She just closed the door behind her and walked forward-slow, deliberate, almost predatory.

I instinctively stepped back.

Why... did she look so intense?

Why did she look like she was about to do something irreversible?

Then, her voice cut through the thick air.

Momo: "You've been spending a lot of time with Sana lately."

I blinked.

That's what this was about?

Y/N: "Oh... yeah. She just-"

Momo: "Why?"

Her voice was sharp.

It wasn't curious.

It was demanding.

I swallowed, suddenly feeling like a cornered prey.

Y/N: "She... checks in on me sometimes. We talk. She's nice-"

Momo: "And I'm not?"

That made me freeze.

Y/N: "What? No, I didn't mean-"

Momo: "Then why do you need her?"

She took another step forward.

I stepped back.

But my back hit the mirror.

Now I had nowhere to go.

I had never seen Momo like this before.

Her eyes weren't just sharp.

They were burning.

Not with anger.

Not with irritation.

But with something deeper.

Something that made my breath hitch.

And before I could even process it-

She placed her hands on either side of my head, caging me in.

I inhaled sharply.

Y/N: "Momo, wh-"

Momo: "Look at me."

I did.

And in that moment-I understood.

This wasn't about Sana.

This wasn't about me spending time with another sunbae.

This was about her.

Her claim.

Her possession.

Her dominance.

And I-the fool who had let her take control of my life-hadn't even realized what was happening until now.

Then she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Momo: "You're mine, Y/N."

My breath hitched.

Her hand brushed against my jaw-light, teasing, but enough to send a shiver down my spine.

She was close.

Too close.

Her scent surrounded me-vanilla, sweat, and something uniquely Momo.

My heartbeat was erratic.

My knees felt weak.

I was trapped.

Not just by her presence, but by her aura.

By the sheer power she exuded.

Then-her fingers ghosted over my collarbone.

Slow.

Deliberate.

I just stood there-helpless beneath her gaze.

And she smirked.

A small, knowing, dangerous smirk.

Momo: "You're such a good boy, Y/N."

Her voice was low, sultry, laced with amusement.

She was toying with me.

And she knew I wouldn't stop her.

Then she tilted her head, brushing her lips dangerously close to my ear.

Momo: "I won't let you go."

I could feel the heat radiating from her-too close, too overwhelming.

Her fingers traced the collar of my shirt, barely touching my skin but leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

I swallowed hard.

Y/N: "Momo..."

My voice came out weaker than I intended.

She smirked.

Her hand moved lower, teasing the fabric near my chest, barely grazing my collarbone.

I felt my breathing hitch.

This wasn't playful Momo.

This wasn't strict mentor Momo.

This was something else entirely.

She loved that.

Her lips brushed against my ear, her breath sending shivers down my spine.

Momo: "What is it, Y/N?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, my fists clenching at my sides.

I needed to get a grip.

But then-she tilted my chin up.

Forcing me to meet her eyes.

Dark. Intense. Possessive.

My breath caught in my throat.

I could see it.

Desire.

Not just lust.

Something deeper.

Something that had been building for months.

Then-her lips curled into a smirk as her thumb brushed against my bottom lip.

Momo: "You let me control everything, Y/N."

I needed to breathe.

I shuddered.

Momo: "Your food."

Her other hand trailed down my side-slow, teasing.

Momo: "Your clothes."

My pulse spiked.

Momo: "Your training."

Then she leaned in, her lips barely an inch from mine.

Momo: "So why not this too?"

My mind went blank.

I felt her fingers slide under the hem of my shirt-just barely, just enough to test me.

To see if I would stop her.

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

Because the truth was...

I didn't want to.

And she knew it.

Her smirk deepened.

Her nails lightly dragged against my stomach, making me tense.

Then-she finally closed the gap.

Not a kiss.

But a whisper.

Right against my lips.

Momo: "Tell me to stop."

I couldn't.

I didn't.

Because at that moment...

I wasn't sure if I even wanted her to.

---

(A/N: Bare with my smut scene. Iam still learning to write beautifully and shy shy shy person hehe)

The dance studio is quiet now, the mirrors fogged with the ghost of your sweat-drenched rehearsals, the floor still vibrating with the memory of Momo’s sharp critiques. She leans against the wall, arms crossed, her gray tank top clinging to the curves of her perky breasts, damp from hours of drilling you. Her eyes—normally playful, even when she’s yelling—glow with something darker, hungrier. You’ve seen her like this before, but not like this. Not with her teeth digging into her full lower lip, not with her legs shifting restlessly under those high-waisted leggings that cup her plump ass like a second skin.

Momo: voice low, her Japanese accent thickening with tension “You… and Sana. You laugh with her. Let her touch you. Fix your hair. Her hands clench into fists at her sides. Why do you let her get so close, Y/N? Hmm?”

Your throat goes dry. You’ve spent months memorizing the way Momo’s hips pop during choreography, how her toned stomach flexes when she demonstrates a move, how her perfect, pillowy lips purse when you’re not giving 200%. But this? This is new. Her jealousy coils in the air like smoke, mingling with the musk of your exhaustion.

Y/N: “Momo…Sana-sunbaenim and i aren’t close in that way...

Her pupils blow wide. In one fluid motion, she’s on you—hands fisting your shirt, slamming you against the mirror. The glass chills your back as her nails scrape down your chest, her knee wedging between your thighs, pressing greedily against your hardening bulge. Her breath hitches, warm and sweet against your neck.

Momo: growling, lips brushing your earlobe “Prove it.”

Her tongue is in your mouth before you can blink—hungry, demanding, tasting like coconut water and mint. You groan, hands sliding down to knead the supple swell of her ass, squeezing until she whimpers. She breaks the kiss, panting, and yanks her tank top over her head, revealing pert, pink-tipped tits that bounce lightly as she shoves you to the floor. You land with a grunt, staring up as she peels her leggings down mile-long legs, leaving her in nothing but a lace thong soaked through at the center

Momo climbs over you, her pussy hovering inches from your face

Momo: “You want to worship me, Y/N? Start here.”

You don’t hesitate. Gripping her hips, you drag her down onto your tongue, lapping at her slick folds. She moars—a high, broken sound—as you suck her clit, your nose buried in her pelvic bone. Her thighs tremble, her hands fisting your hair as she grinds against your mouth, juices dripping down your chin.

Momo: voice shaking “F-fuck, just like that! God, your tongue—ahn!—should’ve shoved my panties in your mouth weeks ago…”

You flip her suddenly, pinning her beneath you. Her tits jiggle as her back hits the floor, nipples pebbled and begging for your mouth. You oblige, sucking one while your hand snakes between her legs, two fingers plunging into her sopping cunt.

Y/N: muffled against her breast “You’re the only one I want, Momo. Only you.”

She arches, crying out as your thumb circles her clit. Her hips buck, fucking herself on your fingers, those dancer’s legs hooking around your waist to pull you closer.

Momo: “I need your cock. Now. Don’t care if it’s my pussy or my ass—just fuck me!”

You flip her onto her stomach, spanking her round ass hard enough to leave a red handprint. She gasps, spreading her legs shamelessly, her tight little asshole winking at you. You spit into your palm, slicking your dick—throbbing, leaking pre-cum—before pressing the fat head against her puckered entrance.

Y/N: “This what you want, Momo? You want me to ruin this perfect ass?”

Momo: face mashed into the floor, voice garbled but fierce “Fucking break me, Y/N—nngh!”

You slam home in one brutal thrust. She screams, her walls clenching like a vise around you, but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. Her ass swallows you whole, every snap of your hips earning a ragged moan as her tits sway beneath her, nipples scraping the floor. She reaches back, clawing at your thigh.

Momo: sobbing “D-don’t you dare hold back! I’ll fucking kill you if you—AHHH!”

You lean over her, one hand fisting her hair, the other groping her tit as you piston into her. The slap of skin echoes off the mirrors, her creamy cheeks reddening with every impact. She’s babbling now, a mix of Korean and Japanese curses and pleads for more, her asshole milking you relentlessly

Y/N: “Momoring-! Hnngg, iam close.."

Her body seizes, her scream ricocheting off the walls as her pussy cums, her ass squeezing you like she’s trying to drain your soul. You follow, burying yourself to the hilt as hot ropes of cum flood her depths. She collapses, trembling, as you pull out, your baby batter dribbling from her gaping hole.

---

Later, as you both lie tangled on the floor, her head on your chest, Momo traces the bite marks she left on your collarbone. Her voice is soft now, almost shy.

Momo: “Sana… she doesn’t make you cum like that, does she?”

You sigh, tugging her closer.

Y/N: “No has Only you, Momoring.”

Momo: “Oh? Iam Good. Now… let’s see how many times you can make me scream before the cleaners show up.”

Dragging you up, Momo’s painted nails dig into your shoulders as she pushes you onto the studio’s leather couch, her eyes glinting with predatory intent. Her tits—full, peach-perfect, still glistening with sweat from your earlier pounding—brush against your chest as she straddles your lap, her core grinding against your already hardening cock. She grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head, her voice a velvet command.

Momo: “You don’t get to move. Not until I say so.”

You nod, breath catching as her thumbs flick over your nipples, her lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. She smirks at your shiver, then rises to her knees, dragging her tits along your shaft, the soft weight of them making your hips jerk instinctively.

Momo: slapping your thigh “I said still, Y/N. Or do I need to tie you to this couch?”

Her breasts engulf your cock, the slick heat of her cleavage squeezing you like a vice. She rolls her hips, making her tits bounce rhythmically, the pink peaks brushing your tip with every sway. Pre-cum beads at your slit, smearing across her skin as she leans forward, her breath hot in your ear.

Momo: “This what you wanted? To watch Twice’s main dancer turn herself into your personal fucktoy? She licks a stripe up your cock-slit. Bet Sana’s tits couldn’t even wrap around half of this monster…”

You groan, fists clenching as she works you faster, her japanese tits jiggling obscenely, the wet sounds of flesh on flesh filling the room. Her dominance is intoxicating—every command, every touch, a reminder that she owns this moment… owns you.

Y/N: “Momo, I’m close—fuck—!”

Momo:slowing her pace, smirk venomous “Uh-uh. You cum when I tell you to cum.”

---

She releases your wrists abruptly, slithering off the couch to kneel between your legs. Her hands grip the base of your cock, stroking roughly as she tilts her head up, lips parted. The sight of her—makeup smudged, hair messy, those doe eyes locked on yours—sends a vicious throb through your dick.

Momo: “Cover my face. Now.”

You don’t hesitate. Pushing her aback to pump your cock in her cleavage once more before pulling out, aiming for her smug, pretty face. Thick ropes of cum stripe her cheeks, her eyelids, her tongue as she sticks it out greedily. She moans, lapping at the tip, swallowing every drop that lands in her mouth.

Momo: “Look at me. Perfect, right? Bet you wanna take a photo for Sana… show her who you really belong to.”

You’re still panting when she stands, marching you toward the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She spins you around, your back pressing against the cold glass as she drops to her knees again, her cum-streaked face staring up at you devilishly.

Momo: “You’re gonna fuck me in front of this mirror. And you’re gonna watch.”

---

Giving you a few minute of dirty talk, She stroked your bulbuos cock, already hardening again. Rising fluidly, she hikes one leg around your hip, guiding your tip to her soaked entrance. The mirror fogs where your palms press against it, Momo’s reflection a blur of golden skin and messy blonde hair as she sinks onto you with a cry

Momo: clawing at your shoulders “F-faster! Don’t just stare—fuck me like you mean it!”

You obey, driving into her with deep, punishing strokes, your eyes locked on the mirror. Her tits bounce wildly, her ass clapping against your thighs as she throws her head back, swearing in a mix of Korean and Japanese yet again. Her hands fly to her nipples, pinching them hard as she rides you, her cunt fluttering around your cock.

Momo: “See that? She grips your chin, forcing you to look at your reflection—your cock disappearing into her glistening pussy. That’s where you live now. In. Me.”

You spiral closer to the edge, but she senses it, suddenly pulling off and spinning around. Her back presses to your chest, her hand snaking behind to grip your shaft, guiding it back into her ass without warning. You shout, the dual sensation of her tight heat and the lewd mirror image overwhelming.

Momo: panting “Don’t you dare cum yet. I want your dick down my throat first.”

---

She drags you to the floor, lying back with her head hanging off. You loom over her, cock glistening with her juices, and she opens her mouth like a starved thing, tongue out, eyes blazing.

Momo: “Facefuck me. And if you make me gag, I’ll bite.”

You hold her hair rather gently, sliding into her throat with a groan. She takes you greedily, gagging slightly but never breaking eye contact, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes as you thrust deeper. Her tits heave with every ragged breath, her hands squeezing her own nipples roughly, and you can feel her vibrating around you—a submissive paradox, still utterly in control

Y/N: “Momo—I can’t hold back—”

Momo said glaring up at you, lips stretched obscenely

Momo: “Do. It.”

You explode down her throat, her neck working to swallow every drop. When you finally pull out, she coughs, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, then licks it clean, smugness radiating off her like heat

Momo: “Now… clean me up. My pussy is dripping again with your generous work.” She spreads her legs, fingers parting her swollen lips. “Use. Your. Tongue.”

---

Momo’s fingers are knotted in your hair, yanking your face upward until your eyes water. She’s perched on the edge of the studio’s grand piano now, legs spread wide, her puffy, glistening cunt inches from your mouth. The scent of her arousal—musky, addictive—hits you like a drug, your cock twitching helplessly in your pants. She smirks, grinding her hips forward, her swollen clit brushing your lips.

Momo: voice sharp, commanding “Lick. And if you stop before I say, I’ll make you choke on my strap-on for a week.”

You dive in, tongue slashing up her slit, lapping at her juices like a man starved. She hisses, thighs clamping around your head, cutting off your air as you suck her clit into your mouth. Your nose buries into her soaking folds, her taste flooding your senses. She rocks against your face viciously, grinding her pussy into you, her moans sharp and needy.

Momo: panting “Fuck—yes! Harder! Bite it, you coward—ahn!”

You nip her clit gently, and she shrieks, slamming your face deeper into her cunt. Your jaw aches, but you don’t stop, tongue flicking her entrance before plunging inside. She gyrates, fucking herself on your mouth, her hands raking through your hair hard enough to tear strands out.

Momo: “That’s it—! Make me cum so hard I forget my fucking name!”

Her thighs quake, her orgasm hitting like a freight train as she jerks your head side to side, milking her pleasure from your tongue. You lap at her greedily, swallowing every drop, until she shoves you back, gasping.

---

Before you can breathe, she’s on her knees, not letting your cock rest as she started slapping against her already cum-streaked face. Her eyes blaze as she grips your shaft, slapping it against her cheeks, smearing your pre-cum with her saliva.

Momo: “You wanna fuck this throat? Prove you deserve it.”

You nod frantically, and she snarls, slamming her mouth onto your dick. Her throat opens, taking you to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You gag, reflexively bucking upward, but she pins your hips, nose buried in your pelvis as she gags, tears streaming down her face. She pulls off just to gasp, “Harder!"

You fist her hair, fucking her throat like a toy, her mascara running, lips bruised and shiny. She gags, spit dripping down her chin, but never breaks rhythm, her nails digging into your thighs. The wet, obscene sounds of her throat stretching around you echo off the piano’s polished surface.

Momo: between heaving breaths “Cum—ghck!—cum down this throat or I’ll never let you touch me again!”

You explode, hips stuttering as you pump her mouth full. She swallows every drop, coughing violently when you finally pull out, her voice hoarse but triumphant.

Momo: “Good boy. Now… breed me.”

---

She climbs onto the piano bench, ass in the air, her pussy glistening, still twitching from your tongue. You grab her hips, lining up, but she stops you.

Momo: glaring over her shoulder “Ask.”

Y/N: voice wrecked “Please, Momo… let me fill you up. Please.”

She smirks, reaching back to spread her drooling cunt..“Beg harder.”

Y/N: “I need to cum inside you—please—I can’t think about anything but your fucking pussy—”

Momo: cutting you off “Then take it. Breed me like the slut I own you to be.”

You slam into her, her walls clenching like a fist as you fuck her with desperate, jackhammer thrusts. The piano keys jangle discordantly beneath her trembling hands, her tits swaying wildly, nipples scraping the wood. She screams your name, her cunt gripping you like she’s trying to suck your soul out through your dick.

Momo: “G-gonna put a baby in me? Huh? Do it—fill me till I’m dripping!”

You grunt, knotting inside her as you cum, pumping her full even as she climaxes again, her juices mixing with your spend. She collapses onto the piano, gasping, your cum already leaking down her thighs.

Momo turns to kiss you, ferocious and sweet

Momo: "I fucking love you so much.."

---

The room was silent except for the sound of our heavy breathing.

Bodies tangled.

Skin damp with sweat.

My chest rose and fell erratically as I lay sprawled on the cool floor, my limbs utterly spent.

And on top of me—Momo.

Equally breathless.

Equally wrecked.

Her face was buried in my neck, her hair sticking to my skin.

She didn’t move.

Neither did I.

For a while, we just existed.

In the aftermath.

In the silence filled with unspoken emotions.

Then—her arms tightened around me.

Momo: "You okay?"

Her voice was hoarse. Soft, but laced with exhaustion.

I swallowed thickly, my throat dry from everything that just happened.

Y/N: "I… yeah."

It came out more like a breath than a word.

Momo finally lifted her head, her deep brown eyes meeting mine.

Something flickered there.

Something gentle.

Something warm.

A complete contrast to the way she had just ruined me.

Her fingers brushed across my cheek, her touch softer now.

Momo: "You're shaking."

I blinked.

But now that she pointed it out—yeah.

I was trembling like a damn leaf.

She frowned.

Then, before I could react, she shifted, pulling me into her arms as she flipped onto her back, bringing me on top of her.

My head landed against her bare chest, her heartbeat steady and calm against my ear.

I sighed.

Letting my body relax into hers.

Y/N: "…You’re warm."

Momo chuckled.

Momo: "So are you."

I felt her hand rub soothing circles against my back, her fingers tracing lazy patterns.

It was comforting.

So much that I nearly melted into her touch.

A deep yawn escaped me, exhaustion creeping in fast.

Momo hummed, her lips pressing lightly against my forehead.

Momo: "You did good."

A warm feeling spread through my chest at her praise.

Y/N: "You too…"

Momo chuckled again, the sound vibrating against my cheek.

Then—she pulled the blanket over us.

When did she even grab it?

I didn’t know.

Because I was already drifting.

Momo exhaled softly, shifting slightly before whispering—

Momo: "Sleep, Y/N."

I wanted to say something.

Something witty.

Something snarky.

But all I managed was—

Y/N: "Mmm…"

Momo smiled.

I felt it against my skin.

Then—she held me closer.

The silence between us stretched for what felt like forever.

Momo’s grip on me never loosened, her arms still locked securely around my waist. Her fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns along my bare skin, as if grounding herself.

I wasn’t sure what she was thinking.

But I could feel the weight of it.

Something heavy. Something serious.

And then—I asked it.

A question that had been lingering in the back of my mind since the haze of exhaustion had started to clear.

Y/N: “…What will we do now?”

Momo stilled.

Her fingers stopped moving.

She didn’t answer immediately, her breath warm against my temple as she mulled over her response.

And then, after what felt like a small eternity, she finally spoke.

Momo: "I’ll handle it."

There was an edge to her voice.

Something firm. Unwavering.

Like she had already decided.

Like she had already claimed me.

The air shifted.

Her hold on me tightened, her presence demanding in a way I had never felt before.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of just how intense this moment was becoming.

Then—her next words came.

Words that felt like a command.

Momo: "Focus on loving me."

My heart skipped.

My eyes widened slightly.

She pulled back just enough to look at me, her dark brown eyes searching mine.

Something about her stare made me feel bare.

Momo: "Do you love me?"

Her voice was low.

Not a whisper.

Not loud.

But it held weight.

A question that left no room for games.

I sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly feeling like the air in the room had gotten too thick.

Love?

I hadn’t even had time to process what we had just done, and now this?

I felt her fingers press against my jaw, tilting my face toward hers as she waited.

She was serious.

And yet, despite the suddenness, despite the intensity—

Maybe I was.

Maybe I did feel something.

Something undeniable.

Something that had been building from the very first moment she stepped into my life.

So, I gave her the only answer I could.

Y/N: "Maybe… I’m reciprocal."

It was soft. Uncertain yet honest. And that seemed to be enough.

Because Momo’s lips curled into something dangerous.

Something possessive.

And then—she leaned in.

Her breath fanned against my lips, her fingers tightening around my jaw just enough to make me shudder.

Terms of Loving Momo

Momo lay beside me, her body still warm, pressed close as if she had no intention of letting me go anytime soon. Her fingers, slow and deliberate, traced the ridges of my collarbone, down to my chest, before stopping just over my heartbeat.

Her breathing had calmed, but her grip on me remained possessive.

She was thinking.

And then, she spoke.

Momo: "If you’re going to love me, you need to know what that means."

Her voice was firm but not cruel.

It wasn’t a demand, but a declaration.

She didn’t want a half-hearted answer.

She didn’t want uncertainty.

She wanted assurance.

Her eyes locked onto mine, waiting to see if I understood.

I swallowed, feeling my throat dry, but nodded anyway. "Tell me."

A slow, almost dangerous smile played on her lips as she adjusted herself, shifting so that she was hovering slightly over me, her arms caging me in.

Momo: "Good."

Then—the rules came.

1. No Lies, No Secrets

Momo: "If you love me, you don’t get to lie to me. Not about the small things. Not about the big things."

Her fingers slid down to my wrist, where my pulse was still racing.

Momo: "I want to know everything. What you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. What you want."

Her eyes darkened, her expression serious.

Momo: "If something’s wrong, you tell me. If you’re upset, you tell me. If I do something that hurts you, you tell me."

Her voice softened just slightly, but her fingers tightened.

Momo: "I won’t play guessing games, Y/N."

A lump formed in my throat.

She meant it.

This wasn’t just about trust.

It was about respect.

I nodded. "I understand."

She studied me for a second before continuing.

2. I Am a Priority—Not an Option

Her fingers trailed back up, resting against the side of my neck.

Momo: "I’m not saying you can’t have your own life."

Her thumb stroked over my skin slowly.

Momo: "But if you love me, you don’t put me second. You don’t make me an option while you figure things out."

Her expression hardened slightly.

Momo: "I refuse to be a second thought."

There was a vulnerability behind those words.

A truth she wasn’t saying outright.

She had probably been made to feel like an option before.

She wasn’t going to let that happen again.

I inhaled, pushing myself up slightly so that I was no longer lying down. "I wouldn’t do that to you."

Her eyes softened—just barely.

Momo: "Good."

Then, her lips curled into something more playful.

3. You Don’t Get to Look at Anyone Else

She tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at her fully.

Momo: "This one is obvious."

Her voice dropped, turning dangerously sweet.

Momo: "Your eyes? They’re mine."

She leaned in, her lips brushing against my jaw.

Momo: "Your hands? Mine."

Another brush of her lips—this time against my throat.

Momo: "Your thoughts? Your body? Your time?"

Her breath was warm against my skin.

Momo: "Mine."

My breath hitched.

She meant every word.

4. I Set the Pace

She pulled back just enough to look at me again, her gaze locked onto mine.

Momo: "I don’t like rushing things."

She studied my expression, as if making sure I was really listening.

Momo: "That means I decide how fast or slow this goes. If I want to take my time? You let me. If I want to keep you waiting? You wait."

I blinked. "Even if I’m dying?"

A small smirk.

Momo: "Especially if you’re dying."

I groaned. "That’s cruel."

She only grinned.

Momo: "I like watching you squirm."

I swallowed hard.

I didn’t doubt that.

Not even a little.

5. You Don’t Break My Heart

And then—her expression shifted.

Her teasing faded.

Her grip loosened slightly, but her voice turned more serious than ever.

Momo: "This is the most important one."

She leaned in closer, pressing her forehead lightly against mine.

Momo: "I don’t care how strong I am. I don’t care if people think I can handle anything."

Her fingers curled into my shirt, gripping it tightly.

Momo: "If you ever break my heart, I will never forgive you."

A lump formed in my throat.

I wanted to say, “I would never.”

But something told me she had probably heard those words before.

And that they had probably meant nothing.

So instead—I said something else.

Something I knew I could promise.

Y/N: "I’ll be careful with it."

Her breath hitched—just slightly.

And then—she sighed.

Momo: "You better be."

Conflicted Thoughts: The Minatozaki Sana Problem

Momo was asleep, curled up against me, her breathing soft and even. The warmth of her body and the weight of her arm draped over my chest should have lulled me into a peaceful rest. But my mind wouldn’t stop running.

I stared at the ceiling, heart still trying to process the whirlwind of everything.

And then—Sana came to mind.

Y/N (in mind): "Shit."

I had been so wrapped up in Momo’s storm, in the way she took control of me, of us—that I hadn’t stopped to think about the chaos I was walking into.

Sana… She wasn’t dumb.

She was playful, teasing, and at times, chaotic. But she wasn’t dumb.

She had been watching me.

I had seen it—felt it.

The way her eyes lingered, the way her jokes sometimes carried a hint of something deeper.

The way she stuck around a little longer than necessary whenever we talked.

The way she reacted to Momo's presence around me.

And now that I thought about it—Momo had noticed too.

That was why she had been so aggressive.

That was why she had pinned me down with her emotions, her control.

She wasn’t just trying to claim me.

She was trying to beat Sana to it.

I let out a slow exhale, gripping the sheets.

Y/N (in mind): "Sana-sunbae… I wasn’t too dumb to notice that you… might have a thing for me."

The problem was—Sana wasn't someone who took defeat well.

She wasn’t the type to back down when she wanted something.

Sana was competitive.

She was possessive.

And yet—she was sensitive.

For all her flirting and confident demeanor, she was the kind of person who, once she realized something she wanted was out of her reach, would break down.

Y/N (in mind): "And if Momo’s revelation hits her… it won’t just be jealousy. It’ll be heartbreak."

I turned my head slightly, watching Momo’s sleeping face.

She looked peaceful.

Composed.

But earlier—she had been terrified.

For all her dominance and control, there had been something fragile in her voice when she had told me her rules.

She was afraid of losing me.

And now, I feared the same for Sana.

Would she fight for me?

Or would she cry herself to sleep the moment she realized she had already lost?

I bit my lip, torn.

Y/N (in mind): "Shit."

This wasn’t just a love story anymore.

This was a battlefield.

The Moment Everything Changed

The air in the room was warm, thick with the remnants of what had just happened. Momo’s body was still tangled with mine, her breath slow and even against my skin.

I hadn’t moved much, still too caught up in my own whirlwind of thoughts about Sana.

And then—the door clicked open.

Sana: “Y/N-ah! I brought—”

Her voice was cheerful. Giddy, even. The kind of excitement that was infectious, like she had been looking forward to seeing me after practice.

But the moment her eyes landed on us—her whole body froze.

Her smile faltered.

Just slightly. But I saw it.

The way the corners of her lips twitched.

The way her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before something—something else—crossed over her expression.

I didn’t move.

Momo didn’t either.

She was still draped over me, her bare shoulder peeking out from under the sheets, her legs tangled with mine.

There was no way Sana could misinterpret this.

There was no way she could pretend she didn’t see it.

And yet—for a second, she tried.

Sana: “Oh…”

She let out a soft laugh—forced, nervous.

Sana: “I, uh… I thought you’d still be practicing.”

Her eyes flickered between us, searching.

For an excuse.

For an explanation.

For something that would make this make sense.

But there was nothing I could say.

Nothing that would soften the reality that she was standing in front of.

Momo shifted slightly, lifting her head.

Her eyes locked onto Sana’s, and for the first time in a long time—there was no teasing.

No playfulness.

Only silent acknowledgment.

And Sana understood.

The realization hit her like a bullet.

Her fingers trembled around the snack bag.

Her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something—but she didn’t.

Because what could she say?

That she had been too late?

I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice.

Y/N: “Noona, I—”

(A/N: The OC is a 97 liner. Thats why Momo and Sana or older to him)

Sana smiled.

It wasn’t her usual bright, dazzling grin.

It wasn’t the kind of smile that made people feel warm inside.

It was the kind of smile that people used when they were trying not to cry.

Sana: “It’s okay.”

She took a step back.

And then another.

Sana: “I should go.”

Her voice was quiet, too quiet.

The way her eyes glistened under the soft lighting of the room made something in my chest tighten painfully.

She turned toward the door.

And then she was gone.

Just like that.

The sound of the door clicking shut echoed in the silence.

Momo let out a small breath, but she didn’t move.

Neither did I.

Because this wasn’t over.

This was just the beginning.

To Be Continued....

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stillalivebydemand893 · 9 days ago

Text

Always for you

18+ (repost)

Story: You and Erik are just best friends. You only cuddle, hold hands, sit in each other’s laps, and almost kiss sometimes — totally normal stuff. Everyone else sees it, even the damn lizard. But no, you’re definitely not in love.

You and Erik? Best friends. Ride-or-die. You dated other guys, sure—but it never got serious. Every time things started getting real, you’d just... shut down. In your head, none of it mattered. You had Erik. And he was everything you ever needed in a man. Soft cuddles. Horror movie nights (he lived for horror, the weirdo). Endless 2 a.m. conversations until the sun crept through the windows. Family dinners. And those little, forbidden touches—so casual, no one ever questioned them. A hand on your hip to steady you at a concert. Fingers laced with yours when anxiety threatened to spiral.

It made your heart stutter. But say something? Risk this? Ruin what you had for a few traitorous butterflies? Hell no.

You’d ruffle his hair, place your hand on the back of his neck every time he said something so stupidly cute it made you forget he was this pierced-up, inked-to-hell bad boy (and yeah, you knew about that piercing too). You had feelings, no doubt. But cuddling into his chest on a Friday night felt safer than risking it all.

And then there was her. Brina. That smug, plastic little heart-shredder. After she broke him, you were the one who picked up the pieces. Three straight months of late-night crying and way too much whiskey. You. Always you.

It started as a regular night at the Campbells'. You were playing Until Dawn—again. Legs thrown over Erik’s lap. Comfortable. Familiar.

“GO FASTER! ERIK—PRESS THE DAMN TRIANGLE!”

“I’M TRYING! This thing’s broken, I swear—”

You grabbed the controller, definitely not thinking about how big and inked his hands were. Nope. Not even a little.

“Give me that! You play like a twat—Wendigo’s about to eat Jessica and Matt, and you're over here flailing like a grandma on Wii Sports!”

You beat the level—barely—and smirked. “Matt’s too hot to die.”

Erik laughed, that deep, throaty sound that always got under your skin. “Jessica’s hotter. She deserves to live.”

“You only say that because she looks like fucking Brenda.”

“Brina, Peach . Brina.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost sprained something. “Whatever. Save the game. We need to get ready for Jessica’s birthday before your mom kills us.”

You stood up—or tried to. A firm hand yanked you back onto the couch. Erik was on top of you, hovering close. Too close.

“Where do you think you're going after calling me a twat?” His smirk was dangerous—pure sin. Your brain screamed do not soak your panties, but it was a losing battle.

“Get off. I’m already sweating.”

His eyes darkened. That look. You hadn't seen it since he punched your ex for slapping you in public—and yeah, that trip to the police station was worth every second.

“Kiki?” you asked, voice low. If he kept looking at you like that...

His leg slid between yours. His breath was minty. His lips soft. The space between you? Non-existent.

“Peach—”

“HAS ANYONE SEEN PACO?! I’M STARTING TO PANIC!” Bobby barged in like the goddamn Kool-Aid Man, derailing the moment with all the grace of a freight train.

Erik groaned, helping you sit up. “Come on, Foxy. Let’s get dressed.”

“Yeah. In a minute.” You watched him walk away, heart thudding, panties—yep, soaked. Fantastic.

“Paco’s in the fridge, Bobby. Delicious side dish.” Erik smirked.

“Oh thank God. Then who the hell did I put in his cage?” Cue: beef jerky in a lizard tank. You wheezed.

Later that night, after Jessica’s party, all the siblings were crammed in the car. You offered to Uber to avoid the chaos.

“Don’t be stupid. Peach can sit on my lap,” Erik said, hand resting on your shoulder.

“Promise I won’t get a boner,” he whispered, his palm sliding to your waist.

“Yeah? Bet.”

The car ride was quiet. Parents up front. Bobby passed out. Jessica glued to her phone.

You? Tortured.

Short skirt. G-string. Erik’s lap. Worst. Decision. Ever.

“Remember when we first heard this song?” he asked as House of Balloons played.

You leaned back against his chest, fingers intertwining with his on your thigh. “Yeah. Then someone ruined it by playing it on loop for 24 hours.”

He chuckled. “Only because I couldn’t stop thinking about you that day.”

Your breath caught. His hand tilted your chin to face him. Eyes locked. Lips close.

“You looked beautiful tonight, Peach.”

You kissed his cheek, squeezing his hand the way you do during panic attacks—the silent I’m okay now, because of you.

“Can I stay over tonight?” you asked, voice louder so his parents could hear.

“Of course, sweetheart,” his mom replied. “Erik, be nice this time.”

You squeezed his hand again, drawing his attention back. “Yeah, Mom. I’ll be nice.”

The last 10 minutes of the ride were spent with Erik softly kissing your cheek, hand creeping dangerously high on your thigh. Your hips shifted. His bulge pressed against you.

“You lost the bet,” you whispered.

“You’re such a brat sometimes,” he murmured, draping his jacket over your lap, hand slipping under.

“What are you—”

Hot. His hand on your panties. Soaked.

“Fuck, Erik—”

“All that for me? Maybe you’re a good girl after all, Peach.”

You were melting. You needed more. More of him. More of his everything.

“It was always for you,” you whispered. His eyes widened, the smugness replaced by something softer. Real.

“We’re home!” his dad called. “Let’s go!”

Erik helped you out of the car. You both avoided each other for the next 40 minutes. Separate showers. Awkward silences. Doubt creeping in.

Did you mess it up?

Later, lying in his bed, backs turned, dim light casting long shadows—you couldn’t take it anymore.

You climbed out of bed and straddled him, waking him up.

“Kiki…”

“Peach? You okay, love?”

Love. That did it.

“I love you,” you blurted out, palm flat against his tattooed chest.

Silence. Your brain screamed. Panic. Regret.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” you babbled. “I just had to say it. And if it ruins things, I’m sorry, I’ll drop it, we can go back—”

You didn’t finish.

Because Erik kissed you like his life depended on it.

Tongues,, desperation.His fingers tangled in your hair. Yours clawed at his back.

“Do best friends kiss like this?” he murmured, breathless.

He kissed your collarbone, biting down just enough to leave a mark.

“I’ve been in love with you since you tripped and made me slam my head on the concrete in third grade, my Peach.”

“Erik… kiss me.”

And he did.

Your mind was spiraling. Is this really happening? You forgot how to breathe. His lips—soft, warm, sinful—had you melting into the moment.

“What took us so long?” he murmured against your mouth between fevered kisses.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, breathless. “But god, ... I need you. Don’t hold back. Please.”

You paused just long enough to meet his gaze—and there it was. That dark, dangerous glint in his eyes. The one you’d secretly begged for in a hundred quiet fantasies.

The devil had finally answered.

With a growl deep in his throat, Erik grabbed your thighs and flipped you onto the bed like you weighed nothing. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and before you could even blink, his lips were back on yours—hot, greedy, possessive.

He kissed you like a starving man, like he'd waited years for this moment. And you? You surrendered to it, every single part of you burning for more.

You could feel his bulge growing, hard and heavy against your thigh. His hands slipped beneath your—his—shirt, cupping your breasts like they belonged to him. Like they’d always been his to touch, to hold. The way his palms fit you was almost unfair.

Your moans—soft, breathy, desperate—drove him over the edge. He couldn’t hold back anymore.

In one slow, deliberate motion, he slid your panties down your legs, his eyes never leaving you. He paused, gaze devouring the sight of you in his shirt, laid out on his bed, wrapped up in his arms.

Exactly where you were meant to be.

He could count the times he had imagined this moment. You, exactly like this. But now it was real—and for once, there was no guilt weighing him down. Just you, and the way you looked at him like he was your whole world.

“Gorgeous,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “And mine.”

His hand trailed down your body, fingers brushing your heat—light touches that made your hips jerk and your breath hitch. You were trembling under him, your body aching, begging.

“Please, baby... touch me,” you whispered, your voice cracked and breathless. Was that really you? Desperate, pleading for the thing you’d craved for so long.

He didn’t tease you this time.

He pushed one thick finger inside, and you nearly came undone—your body arched, a choked moan slipping past your lips as pleasure took over.

“Oh God—” you gasped, trying to muffle your cries with your hand, terrified the whole neighborhood might hear.

But he just smirked, dark and wicked, the devil in human form.

“God’s not here, Peach,” he growled. “Beg for me, not Him.”

And then he slid the shirt up, exposing your chest. One hand still working you mercilessly, the other grabbing your breast, fingers rough and hungry. His mouth followed, lips wrapping around your nipple, tongue teasing, sucking—claiming.

Every part of you was unraveling.

I need you to stop covering your moans, baby,” he pleaded, his voice husky, strained with need. “I need to hear your voice. Don’t hide from me.”

The way he said it—don’t hide from me—it cracked something open inside you. You were already blushing so hard you could barely remember your own name. But the way he looked at you, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered in the world, made you want to give him everything.

“Erik… please,” you whispered, breath hitching, eyes glassy with heat and emotion.

Your hands fell away from your mouth, lips parted, chest rising with each shallow breath. And when his fingers moved again—slower this time, deeper—you let the moan out. Loud, raw, unfiltered.

And Erik? He looked like a man finally tasting heaven.

He took his time, working his fingers inside you with maddening control—first one, then two. Each thrust stretched and filled you in ways that made your back arch off the bed, every nerve begging for more. You bit your lip hard, trying not to scream his name, but the tension building in your core was impossible to hide.

Then he moved lower. You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on you, tongue stroking your most sensitive spot, licking you like a man possessed. Holy hell— he wasn’t just good at this. He was lethal.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, trembling. “I’m so glad you got that tongue piercing—fuck—”

That comment alone could’ve made his ego break the ceiling, if it hadn’t already. He glanced up at you, smug but focused, eyes locked on your every breath, every twitch, every flutter of your lashes as he pulled you closer and closer to that edge.

“I’m gonna cum if you keep going like that,” you warned, voice cracking.

But he didn’t stop. He devoured you—slow, deep, hungry licks that sent shivers through your entire body. And every time that cold metal barbell rolled against your clit, it sent a jolt straight through your spine. You were burning, unraveling, teetering on the edge of total destruction—

Then he stopped.

Your breath caught. “Why—?”

Before you could even finish the question, he was above you, thick and hard in his hand, the head of his cock glistening as he rubbed it against your entrance—ready. Perfect. Dangerous in the best possible way.

You couldn’t look away. Sure, you’d caught glimpses before—quick peeks in the bathroom when he forgot to lock the door—but now? Now it was right in front of you in all its gorgeous, pierced glory.

“Like what you see, princess?” he smirked, cocky and damn well knowing the answer.

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. You were soaked—drenched—just from looking at him.

He leaned down, kissed you hard, rough and claiming, before his mouth moved to your breasts again, lavishing attention like they were sacred. But his hands? Gentle. Careful. Like you were something rare.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” he whispered, that flicker of worry in his eyes—because you knew, no matter how wild this got, he cared. So much.

You reached up, placing your palm on his cheek. He kissed it softly.

“I love you,” you whispered, brushing your lips to his. “But I really need you right now.”

And that was all it took.

His eyes darkened, something primal overtaking him, and then he was inside you—deep, raw, thick.

The first thrust knocked the breath from your lungs. He moved like a man losing control, hips snapping forward with power and purpose—but still kissing you softly, like he needed you to know this was more than lust. This was everything.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he filled you over and over, his pace brutal, the stretch intoxicating. The friction. The heat. The way he whispered your name in your ear like it was a sacred prayer.

You came undone—hard and fast—your whole body shaking as the climax ripped through you like a tidal wave.

He followed right after, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, coming deep inside you with one final, shattering thrust.

And then—for a moment—there was only silence. The sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, and the weight of years of want finally fulfilled.

He pulled you into his arms, bodies still tangled in warmth, your fingers laced tightly together. His eyes—stormy, glowing like stars—locked onto yours as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

“I can’t believe we actually did that,” he murmured, breathless, voice low with disbelief and something softer—something real.

You giggled, brushing the sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes. “Believe it, Campbell.”

His gaze stayed fixed on you like you were something sacred. “I love you, Y/N. Please, please let this not be another one of my horny-ass dreams or I swear to—”

You silenced him with a slow, lingering kiss, your lips smiling against his. “It’s not, you dork. But if you’re still not sure…” You winked. “We could go one more round—just to really make it sink in.”

That was all it took.

With a mischievous grin, he scooped you back into his lap, hands firm on your hips like he never wanted to let you go. He stared at you in total awe—Erik Campbell, pierced and inked and bruised by life, finally letting himself feel love, not just lust.

And you saw it written all over his face.

“I love you too, dork,” you whispered, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

Within moments, you drifted off, curled against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. And Erik?

He held you like you were everything.

Because to him, you were.

#erik campbell #erik campbell fanfiction #erik campbell x reader #erik campbell final destination #final destination #final destination bloodlines

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book-of-forbidden-knowledge · 5 months ago

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Magic in Ancient Greece: An Introduction

I have seen some people claim that magic or witchcraft did not exist in Ancient Greece. This is not the case. So, I thought I'd take the opportunity to introduce you all to the strange and wonderful world of Ancient Greek magic!

First, what do we mean by "magic"? Radcliffe Edmonds, one of the leading scholars on Ancient Greek magic, defines "magic" as "non-normative ritual behavior." In short, what makes something magic, and not just normal religion, is that people in a given culture think it's weird. The word "magic" itself refers to the magi, Zoroastrian priests — the Ancient Greeks thought they did magic because to them, Zoroastrianism was foreign and weird. They also thought that Ancient Egyptians could do magic for the same reason — what the Greeks thought was spooky magic was just normal religion in Egypt. Within their own culture, magic was basically heteropraxic religion. Magic was not considered hubristic, at least not inherently.

There are multiple Ancient Greek words that refer to magic. The word μάγος, magos, itself means "magician" or "charlatan." There's also γοητεία, goetia, usually translated as "sorcery." The word most often translated as "witchcraft" is φαρμακεία, pharmakeia, the use of drugs or herbs to transform or influence people. This is what Medea and Circe do.

One of our best sources on Ancient Greek magic is the Greek Magical Papyri, or PGM, a set of magical texts from Hellenistic Egypt. When I first learned about it, I thought it was too good to be true, but here it is: uncorrupted ancient pagan magic! Essentially, the PGM is one of the oldest known grimoires, and the ancestor of the entire Western magical tradition. The papyri contain spells and rituals for almost every purpose: curses, love spells, divination, dream oracles, summoning daimones, necromancy, even full mystical rites. Most of them include invocations to various gods, which are heavily syncretic. Helios/Apollo (treated interchangeably) is invoked the most often. Aphrodite appears pretty often, too. Hekate-Artemis-Selene-Persephone (conflated with a whole bunch of other chthonic goddesses, including Ereshkigal) has her own set of spells. You'll even find the names of Egyptian gods and Hebrew angels in there.

One of the most common features in PGM spells is voces magicae or barbarous names, nonsense words that are supposed to be the secret names of the gods, which give you the authority to call them up. They act almost like a written form of glossolalia. Most are supposed to be spoken or chanted aloud. Some sound like actual names, or are well-known magical epithets like ABRASAX. Some are just strings of Greek vowels. Some of them are palindromic; there's lots of spells that use the "abracadabra" disappearing-letter-triangle format. There's also charakteres, apparently-meaningless magical symbols, the distant ancestor of modern sigils.

Another major source for Ancient Greek magic are defixiones or katadesmoi, curse tablets. They're little lead leafs called lamellae, which are inscribed with curses and then deposited in wells, graves, and other chthonic places. Thousands of them have been found.

Here's the text of a curse tablet that invokes Hekate and Hermes Kthonios (copied from Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World by John G. Gager):

Hermes Khthonios and Hekate Khthonia Let Pherenikos be bound before Hermes Khthonios and Hekate Khthonia. I bind Pherenikos’ [girl] Galene to Hermes Khthonios and to Hekate Khthonia I bind [her]. And just as this lead is worthless and cold, so let that man and his property be worthless and cold, and those who are with him who have spoken and counseled concerning me. Let Thersilochos, Oinophilos, Philotios, and any other supporter of Pherenikos be bound before Hermes Khthonios and Hekate Khthonia. Also Pherenikos’ soul and mind and tongue and plans and the things that he is doing and the things that he is planning concerning me. May everything be contrary for him and for those counseling and acting with…

Another curse tablet, which invokes Hekate to punish thieves, includes a drawing of her and charakteres. This is how she's depicted:

From Curse Tablets and Binding Spells in the Ancient World by John G. Gager

It's supposed to be a woman with three heads and six raised arms, but to me it looks like Cthulhu, which is honestly appropriate.

There was a very fine line between love spells and curses in Ancient Greece. Some love spells in the PGM call upon the spirits of the dead and chthonic gods to torture a poor girl until she submits to the magician. Just as many defixiones attempt to forcefully bind a lover. But there's another, gentler kind of love spell described by Theocritus in Idylls, in which a witch named Simaetha invokes the Moon and Hekate and uses an iynx wheel to make a man love her.

If you want to know how to apply all of this in modern practice, I'm still working that one out. I've found the PGM very hard to adapt, because a lot of its requirements are dangerous or impractical. Many of its spells require gross ingredients worthy of the Scottish play, or plants that scholars can't identify, or procedures that I don't plan on attempting. And if you haven't noticed by now, most of them fly in the face of modern magical ethics. (Don't let anyone tell you that the gods will punish you for doing baneful magic, because that's clearly bullshit.) On the other hand, Crowley adapted his Bornless Ritual almost word-for-word from PGM V. 96—172. So far, the best resource I've found on modernizing Ancient Greek magic is The Hekataeon by Jack Grayle. Its material is clearly historically-inspired, but still doable, and spiritually relevant. I really recommend getting it if you have the means, especially if you have an interest in Hekate specifically. I'm happy to have it as a model for how to adapt ancient magic for myself in the future. To me, it strikes the perfect balance between historically-informed and witchy, which is right where I want to be.

If you can't access that one, here's some other books I recommend:

Drawing Down the Moon: Magic in the Ancient Greco-Roman World by Radcliffe G. Edmonds III: An introduction to Ancient Greek magic, both scholarly and accessible. It covers the definitions and contexts of magic, curses, love spells, divination, theurgy, philosophy, basically everything you need to know.

The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation by Hans Dieter Betz: The definitive English edition of the PGM. A must if you plan to study ancient magic in-depth, especially as a practitioner.

Curse Tablets and Binding Spells in the Ancient World by John G. Gager: An English edition of the texts of many curse tablets.

Magic, Witchcraft, and Ghosts in the Greek and Roman Worlds by Daniel Ogden: a sourcebook of ancient literature concerning magic.

The Golden Ass by Apuleius: A Roman novel about a man who is turned into a donkey by a witch. A very entertaining story, also our source for "Cupid and Psyche" and one of the best sources on the Mysteries of Isis that we have.

Ancient Magic: A Practitioners Guide to the Supernatural in Ancient Greece and Rome by Philip Matyszak: A simple and straightforward introduction to Ancient Greek magic, less scholarly but very easy to follow and directed at practitioners.

#occultism #occult #ancient greece #ancient magic #folk magic #pgm #greek magical papyri #curse tablets #helpol #hellenic polytheism #hellenic paganism #hellenism #magic #occult history #history #ancient greek history #book recommendations #hecate #hekate

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bimbroad · 4 months ago

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long-winded ramble about melvik and the arcane fandom

I really do believe the boom in the melvik ship has nothing to do with the show (obviously since they barely interacted) and more with black fans and fans of mel ( a black female character that they, by proxy, would have to be exposed to misogynoir when trying to engage with her content) separating themselves from the anti-black fandom into more niche places where outsiders are less likely to scrutinize. especially when you consider that the ship really started gaining more traction months after the show’s end (as opposed to right after or during, which is usually the case) and I think that correlates to the online harassment of mel (and meljay) fans ramping up. if someone is looking for non-art fan content of a character, most of it is revolved around shipping since solo, non-romantic fan fiction is unpopular and un-incentivized.

anybody who’s been a fan of mel since s1 (or has scrolled more than 3 times in her tags on social media) knows that meljay, despite being one of the few actually canon ships on the show, was disparaged, minimized and scrutinized basically since its inception, with most of the onus being on Mel. as her most popular ship arguably until now, that meant if you were somebody that enjoyed mel (or meljay) you were basically getting flashbanged by vitriol to the point a lot of her content was a) people trashing her character or ship b) people fighting back against that undue backlash and coming in dead last c) actual content for the ship in question. This got significantly worse after the arcane writers took 3 percs each during the s2 writing period and validated fanon malice against her character within the show, further emboldening them. if you were a fan of mel or her most popular ship (and once again, canon relationship), you were signing up to be bombarded by bad takes (im being generous) every time you wanted to engage.

sometimes what happens in huge fandoms amongst marginalized fans, I’ve seen people exhausted of dealing with the vitriol branch off into an unlikely, unpopular ship and make that the new “safe space” and I definitely think that’s what happened here.

with that being said, there’s something very funny (/positive) about melvik now compared to its earliest iterations. a lot of early fan-content had a mean-spirited slant to their interactions that you can tell was adopted from the larger, jayvik fanon that they despised each other. there were also a fair amount of consolation prize polycule fan fiction that felt like the writers weren’t confident in mel and viktor’s relationship on its own and the only thing that glued the love triangle together was wanting to appease jayce which is…lol. now it has its own fanon (e.i. pre-canon bitter exes) and better recognizes the merit of these characters outside of a polyamorous relationship. I’ve also noticed that there seems to be an uptick in fan content (art and fan fiction) that centers mel, or just outright de-centers jayce even if there is polyamorous relationship which wasn’t as common before. i wonder how much that has to do with mel fans using the ship as an escape from the hatred in her other tags.

i think now, despite the parallels the writers either unintentionally created or failed to capitalize on, one of the biggest appeals to the ship (and fandom) is that it just embraces absurdism as a crack-ship that could’ve actually had some merit in the show if arcane wasn’t written like that™️. meljay is always diminished and those two character’s love for each other gets debated every day ending in y, but with melvik there’s no real need to prove itself. it’s a “why the hell not” ship and now that the arcane fandom at large is starting to catch onto the fact it exists, it’s very funny seeing people argue about how a relationship like that could never happen in canon, as if fandom has ever upheld the original content as something non-transformative and above individual interpretation LMAO….

anyway. all of this to say that im a #nooticer and i #nootice things

#mel medarda #melvik #meljay

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tossawary · 1 year ago

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I think one of the keys to non-canon and rarepair relationships for me in fanfiction is that you have to respect the relationships that are already there. Not like in a "you have to do the canon relationships and then break them up first" way, because you can definitely make it so that the canon relationship in question never happened OR was never romantic or sexual if you want. But in a basic characterization issue kind of way.

For example, when I wrote a Shang Qinghua / Yue Qingyuan fic, I was looking at the ways to make that work given the Qijiu and Moshang situations. And I ended up making it so that Qijiu either never had or never fully developed any romantic or sexual feelings in this AU, but they're still inseparable as friends / brothers / platonic soulmates of a kind. You CAN'T write a Yue Qingyuan who doesn't care about Shen Jiu. It's just not on the table in terms of characterization.

(I mean, you could, I suppose, but then it's a case of, "Who the fuck even is this guy anymore? You undid his whole backstory and now he's a completely different person." I do think you can write interesting AU stories focused on character development in which Yue Qingyuan learns to move on after post-canon or in which perhaps Shen Jiu's treatment of Luo Binghe becomes an actual breaking point for their relationship, but even if things somehow get REAL BAD between him and Shen Jiu, I don't really think Yue Qingyuan will ever be able to stop caring completely.)

Likewise, I made it so that Moshang never fell into the master-servant situationship, and ended up as cooperative enemies / distant allies of sorts. But Shang Qinghua still thinks Mobei-Jun is sexy. That's his ideal guy! Airplane Bro still being a little weird about his favorite character is not really negotiable to me, even if he's in love with someone else. He has eyes! He can still look at other men disrespectfully! He just doesn't act on his attraction.

Like, you can totally just sidestep any romantic / sexual feelings and make it so they never existed, in order to pursue your pairing of choice. But you cannot easily deny, in my opinion, the basic fact of a character caring on a basic level about someone important to them. I think it gives weird "you're only allowed to care about your romantic partner / no friends allowed" vibes to just completely cut off all other relationships. There's not a hard line between "love-triangle-fixing polyamory" and "completely isolated from even friendships because maintaining friendships with exes is cheating somehow monogamy" as options here.

#tossawary svsss #hey share the weight #tossawary fandom

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cece693 · 4 months ago

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TOP PRIORITY IS SO GOOD!!!! I LOVE THE HANNIGRAM X READER TENSION ITS GIVING ME THE WILL (pun intended) TO LIVE LIKE OH MY!

the tension between sworn guard and a love interest, especially if that id someone they’re guarding?!?! plus hannibal’s possessive manipulative nature my babies

This is perhaps one of my best works (if I say so myself.) Just something about a love triangle where everyone can obviously make it work but they're too stubborn to do so warms my heart. So, of course, I had to do pt. 2. Hope you enjoy it!

Top Priority Pt. 2

tags: blood, takes place during the end of season 2 with obvious changes, Hannibal being emotional but hiding it well, reader is at a crossroads, hurt will, Abigail doesn't exist in my story

The seasons shift in a blur of grey mornings and subdued evenings at Dr. Lecter’s table. You are there, quietly situated at his side, every movement reflecting the careful polish of Hannibal’s instruction. Whether it’s clearing plates, setting the finest cutlery, or simply standing watch, you serve your purpose without complaint. And all the while, Will Graham remains an unspoken question mark between you and Hannibal—a slow burn that neither you nor Will fully understands.

Will has long suspected that something binds you to Hannibal. In the beginning, it was a mere flicker of curiosity: your nearly imperceptible deference, the way you would catch Hannibal’s eye before answering a simple question—as though waiting for silent permission. Initially, Will thought you were just a personal assistant or perhaps a housemate paying low rent. But your intense loyalty was unmistakable, far beyond an ordinary tenant or friend.

He mentioned it in passing to Jack Crawford, who dismissed it as inconsequential—Hannibal Lecter was known for his eccentricities. Later, Will confided in Alana Bloom: “There’s something about the way he obeys Hannibal. It’s not normal.” Alana had only frowned, unsure what to make of Will’s worry.

What gnawed at Will most was your reluctance to engage him whenever Hannibal wasn’t around. You seemed guarded, offering half-smiles and polite dismissals, as if every conversation with Will could threaten the structure of your indebted existence. Will recognized the signs of someone living in quiet distress, despite your outward veneer of calm. The more he tried to get close to you, the more you sidestepped him with disarming courtesy.

Yet Will was not one to let go once his curiosity had sunk its hooks. He returned to Hannibal’s office again and again, partly for his own 'non-therapy conversations', but also to unravel the mystery that was you. Each time he visited, he gleaned tidbits—how you’d appeared in Hannibal’s life from some dire circumstance, though the exact details were never shared. You spoke rarely of your personal history, and Hannibal, skilled at deflection, would guide Will back to safer topics—his own nightmares, his empathy disorder, his struggles at the FBI.

Over time, Will found himself spending more evenings at Hannibal’s house. One quiet night, as the fireplace cast dancing shadows on the walls, Hannibal spoke softly about trust and betrayal. You were in the next room, tidying away the remains of dinner. Will, gazing into the flickering flames, found himself confiding, “I’m worried about him. (Y/N), he’s not free, is he?”

Hannibal’s dark eyes met Will’s, the reflection of the fire dancing across his irises. “He is where he needs to be,” was the only answer given. The statement rang both protective and possessive, warning Will against further prying. Still, it only fueled Will’s desire to help you.

In an unexpected twist, Will’s growing suspicions tethered him more tightly to Hannibal. He couldn’t deny the magnetic allure that emanated from the doctor—nor the deep sense of validation he found when Hannibal listened to his every fear and doubt with rapt attention. Nights that began as investigative queries ended with Will perched in an armchair, discussing everything from theology to classical music, while Hannibal watched him with that singular intensity.

You would sometimes catch these moments from a distance: Hannibal and Will leaning in toward each other, breath catching in hushed conversation. A flicker of jealousy, of heartbreak, would course through you. Yet you could also see that Will was searching for answers. For you. That realization gave you a bittersweet sense of comfort. But above all, your loyalty to Hannibal held you in place.

The deeper Will waded into Hannibal’s world, the more entangled he became. His original motive, to protect you and uncover the truth, mingled with the enthrallment of Hannibal’s attention. And through all of it, you remained the silent axis around which they spun.

That final night arrives in a swirl of tension. Jack Crawford has set a plan in motion to confront Hannibal—a plan that Will, feeling the crushing weight of his moral duty, has reluctantly agreed to. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Will prays that none of this leads to violence. He wants Hannibal behind bars, not bleeding on the floor. And most of all, he wants you freed from the quiet tyranny of Hannibal’s influence.

You sense from the moment dinner starts that everything is about to change. Alana Bloom arrives first, tension coiling in her posture. Will follows soon after, accompanied by a grim determination in his eyes. The meal passes in stiff conversation. You hover in the background, clearing plates, pouring wine, noticing how Will’s gaze trails after you with unspoken concern. Your every movement is a performance of composure, but inside, your heart gallops in fear.

The confrontation begins quietly. Alana, her voice trembling, tries to reason with Hannibal. The next moments are chaos—raised voices, the thunder of footsteps, shattered glass. You catch sight of Jack Crawford in the hallway, blood on his side from a savage altercation with Hannibal. Alana is forced out, panic in her eyes, as she crumbles to the outside. Then, in the hush that follows, Hannibal and Will face each other in the kitchen.

Rain lashes the windows, a howling wind rattling them in their frames. You stand near the threshold, heart pounding as you watch Hannibal circle Will like a predator. There’s blood marring Hannibal’s shirt—a crimson bloom that, in a more rational moment, you’d find jarring on his otherwise impeccable attire.

Will’s chest heaves with exertion, his gun trembling in his hand. But he lowers it, resignation mingling with heartbreak. “You knew,” Will says shakily. “You knew I was working with Jack.”

Hannibal’s eyes slide from Will to you, then back again. You see heartbreak there—genuine heartbreak—but it’s masked by a cold fury. “I was curious to see what you would do,” Hannibal murmurs, stepping closer to Will. “Would you choose me? Would you choose him?” He flicks an almost sorrowful glance at you, but it’s gone in an instant. “You wanted the truth, Will, and here it is.”

Will stares, chest heaving. “I didn’t want—” His voice falters; words fail him.

In a gesture that feels achingly intimate, Hannibal cradles Will’s face in one hand. His touch is gentle, almost reverent. You see Will’s expression soften with anguished confusion at this contact. “It’s painful, isn’t it?” Hannibal whispers. “Knowing that I loved you in my way, and yet you would see me caged. You would have taken everything away from me—you and (Y/N) included."

Hannibal presses his forehead to Will’s in a mockery of tenderness. Will stands transfixed, breath hitching. Then, with a swift, expert movement, Hannibal drives a knife into Will’s abdomen. A strangled gasp erupts from Will’s throat. The gun clatters to the floor. His knees buckle under him, and blood seeps across his shirt.

You can hardly breathe. Your eyes burn with tears as you watch the knife enter Will’s body. Time seems to slow—the bright red of Will’s blood blooming on the tiles, the reflection of heartbreak and fury in Hannibal’s face. Your mind screams for you to intervene, to catch Will before he collapses. Yet your feet remain rooted to the floor, bound by the debt you owe Hannibal. The vow you cannot break. Your hands shake so violently that you clench them into fists at your sides, fingernails biting into your palms.

Hannibal gently lowers Will to the ground, his free hand brushing through Will’s hair with a broken tenderness. A single tear slips down Hannibal’s cheek—so rare, so alien—and you know that behind his cold exterior, he does mourn this loss. Not simply Will’s life, but Will’s loyalty and the profound connection they shared.

“He would have torn us apart,” Hannibal says, voice barely above a whisper. “He would have destroyed everything.” The words feel like a justification, flung into the silence. You don’t know if he’s speaking to you or to himself.

Will tries to speak, blood bubbling at his lips. His hand twitches toward you—an agonizing, final plea. You feel your heart split inside your chest, your tears finally spilling free. Yet you stand beside Hannibal like a soldier, swallowing the urge to cry out, to beg for Will’s forgiveness.

At last, Hannibal rises, leaving Will trembling on the blood-streaked floor. The doctor’s tear is lost in the dim light, blurred by the relentless downpour outside. He casts one last, lingering look upon Will—a silent goodbye to what might have been—and then turns to you. “Come,” he orders softly, as thunder shakes the sky. His voice bears the weight of finality, commanding your obedience as he always has.

Rain hammers the roof. Glass crunches underfoot from a shattered vase that must have fallen in the commotion. Each step away from Will Graham feels like a condemnation. By the time you reach the door, your tears burn hot trails down your cheeks. Your breath catches in gasps you struggle to contain.

Outside, the storm tears through the night. Hannibal’s hand settles on your shoulder in a gesture that is equal parts reassurance and possession. You have never felt its weight so keenly before. You choke on regret, the memory of Will’s outstretched hand etched into your mind.

The car engine revs to life as you and Hannibal slip into the dark interior. Wiper blades thrash across the windshield, scattering sheets of rain. As the car pulls away, you gaze through the rear window, seeing only the faint glow of lights in the distant house, aware of the man you left behind—his blood on the tiles, his final plea lost beneath the storm. Within the vehicle’s hush, Hannibal’s calm reigns once more. He stares straight ahead, expression solemn, the remnants of heartbreak tucked behind his eyes. You, however, cannot hide your grief.

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