#obsidian fleet

[gremlinn-has-internet-access]

Ghrrggghhhh. Fursona ref sheet finally done after months of procrastinating and suffering.

I recommend tapping the image so you can actually read the text 💀

The darker orange/blue spots are opt, as are the white sparkles in yellow and teal areas :)

I considered giving him gills at one point. I kept forgetting to draw them however, so the idea was scrapped.

They are cool

[gremlinn-brain-overflow]

every second youre not running im only getting closer

[shisasan]

[yeonban]

* Date Soma - Pirate AU.

The infamous Date Soma, Captain of the Uminyudo pirate ship, the capital ship of the Funayurei pirate fleet famed as one of the five largest pirate fleets and the worst one to come across, is most well-known for his tenacity, the imposing aura every survivor remembers him by and the rare swordsmanship only recognized in some northern parts of the land of the rising sun as part of the emishi that had been shunned from Japan by the imperial authorities' legacy. Never has there been a single enemy lucky enough to escape the Funayurei after choosing to stand against Soma regardless of whether they were pirate ships or royal fleets, and only those he has personally granted freedom to can rest easy at night without keeping an eye open.

In spite of his reputation as a ruthless pirate however, Soma takes great care of the pirates under his wing and often grants the innocent a choice rather than immediately sinking them to the bottom of the sea. This kinder side towards his own men, paired with his strategies, resilience and greatly amassed power, is the main reason why many continue to obey him, as well as why many prefer to steer clear from the places he's known to be at, much too afraid of accidentally directing his wrath towards them. In the same vein, Soma upholds his pirate code down to the letter, never once having violated it.

Most of Soma's time is spent on the Uminyudo, at times boarding other ships of the Funayurei as well depending on the circumstances, but it's not an incredibly rare sight to come across him at various taverns either. When setting foot on land, it's always with the intent to either acquire (better) alcohol or to sell rarities he's come across at sea for exorbitant prices, but unlike many pirates, the Uminyudo and the Funayurei never attack ports nor cities where civilians can be found. As such, the general public's opinion on the Uminyudo remains rather unclear - with some wishing for him to be caught and killed, and others offering to cover for him if need be.

The Uminyudo pirates and the Funayurei fleet

Named after the Umibozu yokai from Soma's birth region of Tohoku, the Uminyudo primary ship as well as its allied forces conform to the myths of japanese folklore that stem from Umibozu and its creation of Funayurei.

The Uminyudo pirates are rumored to only attack sailors when the sea is unusually calm, most often on nights with a clear moon, and as such "the calm before the storm" has become a collective fear of all those who set out to the sea without baring a pirate flag. The Uminyudo under Soma's leadership may choose to spare the sailors willing to hand over all of their ships' goods, but the naval ship they are a part of will always either be destroyed or made their own in his wake, allowing the sailors' escape to only ever be made on smaller or makeshift boats. That being said, there have been instances (though few in number) in which sailors have chosen to become pirates under Soma's leadership rather than risk their lives to reach the mainland on their own.

In comparison, the Uminyudo's treatment of other pirates depends on several factors - from the number of pirates onboard, to their infamy, and to the state of their ship/s. For similarly large pirate groups, there is generally little mercy to be shown, and the Uminyudo endeavors to sink every massive pirate ship until theirs is the last to remain, therefore also perceiving each pirate fleet as an enemy. When it comes to smaller pirate groups, though... the Funayurei pirate fleet has gained its name after sinking hundreds of pirate ships and granting them the privilege of making a choice: to either sink and die as proud pirates under their own flags, or to discard their former identities and join Soma's fleet. With the fleet being comprised solely of defeated pirate groups that chose to obey the Uminyudo, they are considered "ghosts of pirates who have died at sea, seeking to bring others down with them", hence receiving the japanese folklore name of Funayurei.

As opposed to the tactics used against sailors, the Uminyudo and Funayurei tend to use the weather to their advantage when faced against fellow pirates, creeping in on them during foggy, rainy or stormy conditions and taking them by surprise, typically already dealing cannon blows before the enemy can become aware of their presence. As such, many lesser ships have started sinking before they could even tell that there is an enemy nearby, and many have sank as a result of cannon fire paired with rough waves.

Though there have been cases of other pirates or naval fleets successfully sinking Funayurei ships, the worst of their losses have always resulted from accidentally encroaching on siren territory after being tossed wayward by the rough seas during storms. Unable to make contact with other ships from the fleet and being beckoned to sail even closer to the sirens after listening to their mesmerizing songs, many pirates from the Funayurei have found their final resting place deep within the waters, leaving only their empty ships behind as warning. The Uminyudo (and thus Soma) has never personally experienced the call of a siren nor has it ever seen any, but it has found plenty of its allied ships laying in the middle of nowhere with no soul left on board to tell him their tales. After years as a ship captain and then as a fleet commander, the first siren Soma has laid his eyes on, is Seiroku.

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter One. Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Thèos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: Sub/Dom, Toxic Behaviour, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Blackmail, Praise Kink, Begging, DubCon, CNC.

FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

You were a good girl, and an exemplary student. One who consistently demonstrated exceptional discipline and commitment. Your dedication to academics was unwavering, as you diligently followed the rules and guidelines, never straying from the prescribed path.

Your singular focus was on nurturing your intellectual curiosity, and you showed no interest in indulging in activities that might distract you from your educational pursuits. Your life was calm, quiet, and focused.

Until, one day everything fucking changed.

———

In the enchanted realm of Hogwarts, there resided a studious and exceptionally bright seventh-year Ravenclaw witch, known for her unwavering dedication to academics and her steadfast commitment to the noble pursuit of knowledge. This young sorceress, a paragon of virtue, refrained from the temptations that often lured her peers, steering clear of parties, alcohol, and the haze of smoke that veiled the Ravenclaw common room during clandestine gatherings.

Her life was meticulously ordered, her goals sharply defined. But the universe had a curious sense of humor, for it threw her into an unexpected affiliation with the most notorious bad boy in Slytherin:

Mattheo fucking Riddle.

He, the embodiment of rebellion, was a stark contrast to her pristine existence. Mattheo's reputation preceded him: a Slytherin troublemaker, one who was almost always found in the midst of chaos. His devil-may-care attitude was a challenge to authority, and there was not one singular individual that could tie him down.

Yet, fate had woven their paths together, forcing the astute young witch to confront the complexity of human nature, unraveling layers of his defiance while simultaneously testing the boundaries of her own steadfast resolve.

And that witch; that poor fucking witch--well, that was you.

———

"Please, Riddle...if you'd take a seat," you ran your tongue along the backside of your teeth, straightening your posture in your chair as you tried to contain your irritation. "...I must express my desire to commence our endeavors prior to the conclusion of the academic term."

"Eager, are we?" Mattheo sneered, sauntering toward the desk painfully fucking slow. "You know, Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither is mastery. I'll sit when I'm fuckin' ready to sit."

His voice was low, the sadistic drawl of his tone making your bones ignite with fury. Gods, he certainly fucking loved testing you.

"And I won't tell you again...call me Mattheo."

You inhaled a sharp breath, flattening out your blue uniform skirt against your thighs as you bit your tongue hard enough to make it bleed.

"Rome may not have been built in a day, but it certainly collapsed in one--now, I won't ask again, Riddle..." you looked up, meeting his dark obsidian eyes, fighting back a sadistic smirk of your own as he narrowed his gaze in challenge. "Take. A. Seat."

The words were clipped behind your teeth with an obvious urgency that shut Mattheo up for a few seconds, the gears turning inside his head as he contemplated how he could one up your little jab--a constant occurrence that seemed to happen every single fucking time you met with him.

At this point, your tutor sessions were an easy seventy percent bickering with the remaining thirty being a half-assed session of one-sided discussion where he mostly offers you fleeting blank stares while zoning you out. You hated that you'd agreed to this, but you knew you needed to get on (and remain on) Professor Dumbledores good side if you wanted a career here at the school after you graduated--and you were so fucking hungry for it you'd do almost anything to solidify your fate.

Even if it meant surrendering your sanity to the hands of Mattheo fucking Riddle.

You chose not to let him, of all individuals, tarnish your path. Your reputation, fragile as it may have been, resembled a tinderbox, and he was the combustible element, ready to erupt at any given moment. This resolve became your steadfast anchor, shaping the direction of your choices.

"You know," Mattheo said as he finally slumped down into the chair across from you, his tousled brown hair falling effortlessly over his forehead. "I was under the impression that the brilliant Ravenclaws such as yourself valued intellect over impulsive haste..." he tilted his head, his gaze scanning every movement of your body as you stared at him. "It was my understanding that impatience was more of a Gryffindor trait."

Your fingers trembled with palpable irritation, yet you understood the imperative need to suppress it. You couldn't afford to reveal just how deeply he affected you, realizing that acknowledging it would subject you to endless taunts and jibes, a fate you were determined to avoid at any cost. This restraint became your shield in moments such as these.

"You wish to discuss house values, Riddle?" You tilted your head, straightening out your posture once again. "Because I, in complete honesty, was under the impression that Slytherins were known for their resourcefulness...your reluctance to cooperate suggests a rather curious lack of ambition."

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, his expression growing icier. "Resourcefulness doesn't mean blindly following every stupid instruction thrown at you, and ambition means choosing the battles worth fighting, not wasting time on pathetic, trivial matters."

With a subtle smirk, he leaned back, hooking his arm on the back of his chair as he eyed your discomfort--seemingly undisturbed by your challenge--and you chewed on the inside of your cheek, somehow knowing he wasn't finished.

And of course, he wasn't. "If you really believe this seemingly-stubborn insistence on when or if I sit reflects a lack of ambition, you clearly misunderstand the depths of Slytherin cunning. We pick our battles wisely, and right now, this isn't one of them."

Your blood pressure surged, the crimson currents in your veins reaching their boiling point. Months of enduring relentless bickering and one-upmanship had pushed you to the edge--this man may be an utter degenerate but he certainly knows how to use his mouth when it matters. You could no longer bear the weight of this incessant game, and in a fleeting moment of frustration, you finally succumbed to the pressure.

You knew this was your breaking point.

"I'm just trying to fucking help you." You said, before you even realized you had. You hardly ever cussed, never out loud--that is. "If you don't want to be here, then get out. I promise you, you won't be hurting my feelings if you do."

He huffed, leaning forward and crossing his hands together on top of the desk as he wet his stupidly plush lips, a devilish grin swallowing his cheeks while he revelled in the fact he'd so clearly fucking won. Yet again.

"No," he said. "I don't think I will."

You clucked your tongue, irritated even further at his response, gaze narrowing ever-so-slightly before you rolled your eyes--brushing off his suffocating arrogance and pulling your textbook out of your bag, slamming it down on top of the desk between your bodies.

"The Grimoire of Arcane Relics?" Mattheo read the title out loud, voice laced with a confused, almost offended undertone. "We don't cover this until the middle of second term..."

You cocked an eyebrow. "And?"

"Seems a bit...hasty, to shove this down my throat so early on," his voice carried a sadistic drawl that nearly made you leap across the desk and choke him unconscious. This man knew how to fucking test you. "Would it not be far more beneficial to proceed in the order the books are taught?"

You drew in another swift breath, the fabric of your navy robes clinging to your form, trembling fingers smoothing out any wrinkles on your button-up blouse as you adjusted it.

"I was unaware..." you said, not bothering to look up. "...that the individual I'd be tutoring this term was in fact a professor, and not a seventh year student..." you glimpsed him now, offering him merely but a slight tilt of your head as you watched his jaw tense. "...I must have been ill-informed, do pardon my ignorance."

"A moment of self-awareness? What a fucking breakthrough for you, Raven...pity it took you so long." He was clasping his hands together on top of the desk with enough force to involuntarily crack his knuckles. "Maybe there's hope for you yet, though I wouldn't hold my fucking breath."

"Please don't," you said, teeth gritting. "We wouldn't want to deprive your already-oxygen-starved brain of any more, now would we? It needs all the help it can get."

Mattheo's gaze sharpened, his lips curving into a teasing smirk, highlighting the scars that adorned them. The effect he had on you was undeniable, a sensation you longed to dismiss more than anything. However, with every passing moment in his presence, resisting the pull of attraction became an increasingly futile endeavour--yes, he was suffocatingly arrogant, but Gods, he was fucking attractive.

And he knew it.

"Quite the fucking mouth on you, I'll admit..." he dropped his voice to a low whisper, so deep it practically rattled your bones as it vibrated through you. "Never met a Ravenclaw with such an attitude problem...maybe I could tutor you on how to fix that issue, once we're done here, of course."

Your stomach twisted, heat spreading through your veins like wildfire. Curse him and his painstakingly arrogant charm. Curse him to bloody hell.

"It'd be a cold day in hell before I take any sort of guidance from you, Riddle..." you whispered, your voice accidentally reverberating as a seductive pitch. "And even then, I'd probably still refrain."

"You don't know when to shut the fuck up, do you?..." his eyes darkened, an evil mischief crawling its way through his irises. "What would daddy Dumbledore think about the way you're speaking to me, huh?"

Your heart stalled. "I-"

Your words faltered as Mattheo stood up, moving leisurely like a predatory creature circling its prey, until he was right beside you. His eyes, sharp as daggers, bored into your skull, and he loomed over you, a sadistic smirk twisting his lips into a cruel curve. The sight sent a shiver down your spine, knotting your stomach with an unsettling mix of fear and desire.

He placed a singular hand on your desk, leaning down closer to your level. "Perhaps I pay him a little visit...perhaps I tell him that you've been missing lessons, that you've been extremely unprofessional...perhaps I somehow fail my next exam...perhaps-"

"Okay, okay!" You panicked, cutting him off. "You've made your point, Riddle...I'm sorry, okay?" The words were fucking painful as you forced them past your teeth, and you swallowed your ego, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Let's just get this over with, please?"

Mattheo huffed, gratified by how effortlessly his threats appeared to compel your submission. The gears turned in his head as he grasped the extent of the power he truly wielded over you. He fully understood that your entire post-graduate career almost certainly depended on his decisions, and he was eagerly anticipating taking action.

"I like the way you say please..." his voice was breathless, his dark eyes consumed by something you couldn't really identify as he slumped down in the chair directly next to you, his sight never once leaving yours. "Do it again."

Your body tensed, immobilized as he inched closer, his penetrating eyes scrutinizing your features with intense focus. It was no secret that Mattheo had been oblivious to your existence until he was placed under your guidance--despite being the most popular Slytherin student in the school, you, a practically invisible Ravenclaw, were easy to overlook. It had taken him over three weeks to even remember your name, a fact he never bothered to acknowledge, let alone use.

But within that time frame, within the time you'd been tutoring him; as much as he drove you mentally fucking insane, you couldn't deny that every time he'd show up for lessons with torn knuckles, cut lips and alcohol radiating from his breath--you couldn't help but to feel something in the pit of your stomach.

Whether that sensation was disgust, arousal, or sheer terror, you couldn't quite pinpoint. It was a feeling that whispered in your veins, urging you to surrender to the dominance he held over you. It screamed for you to let him have his way without resistance, because just as he commanded your obedience, he wielded the same control over the entire damn school. The prospect of defying him felt like a dangerous game you weren't willing to play.

"Riddle-"

He tilted his head, his face dangerously close to yours now, his eyes peering into your soul as he stared. As he wet his lips, his breath turning shallow, you felt a feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach, and one between your thighs as well.

"I said, do it again." His voice was a mere breath as it left his lips, his eyes studying you as though you were a page of a textbook. Not that he'd ever read one of those. "Go on, Raven...beg for me..."

Your breath hitched, and you involuntarily clutched the edges of the wooden chair between your fingers with an indescribable force. You didn't want to admit it--not to Mattheo, not to anyone really--but you were a virgin. You'd never even kissed a boy; your entire life was devoted to your studies...so this...this was extremely fucking new to you.

When you remained silent, Mattheo's eyes darkened even further, turning a shade of obsidian so intense they put even the stormiest midnight skies to shame.

"You want me to keep your perfect little reputation intact, hm?" He breathed, leaning closer. "You want me to help you stay on Dumbledores good side?"

Your throat was more arid than the desert, and you nodded, unable to blink--unable to peel your fucking eyes off of him.

"Then do as I say..." he murmured, a large battered hand finding purchase on your thigh, your entire body involuntarily flinching at the foreign contact. "I want to hear you, Raven."

You stared down at his hand resting lazily over the fabric of your blue uniform skirt--it's massive size swallowing up almost the entirety of your thigh, calloused palm catching on the pleats as it slid upwards, agonizingly slowly--and when he paused, stretching his fingers around the diameter of your thigh the best he could, fingers digging into your flesh as he squeezed; you gasped, involuntarily, and he huffed--bringing his lips dangerously close to your ear.

"One more chance..." he purred, and you could practically hear the smirk on his lips. "You won't like what'll happen-"

"Please!" You snapped, squeezing your thighs together out of pure desperation. "Please, Mattheo...please, let's just get this over with..."

"Mm." He hummed in satisfaction, slowly pulling his hand off of you. "That's fucking right..." he murmured, warm breath tickling your ear. "Nothing is sweeter than your submission, Raven."

You swallowed, not daring to look at him, nodding your head frantically in response as he pulled away, slumping back in the chair--not once peeling his eyes off of you, spreading his legs way-too-fucking wide as he made himself comfortable--he was silent, now, watching your chest rise and fall with each shallow breath, watching the way you squirmed in your chair at his sudden dominance--a dominance that had an effect on you that you couldn't even begin to describe.

And then, before you could even realize what was happening, Mattheo leaned back in, his fingers gripping your jaw and tilting your face towards his--and as you meet his dark, intoxicating eyes, your lungs stalled, entire body shrinking in your seat as he stared at you with such intensity that you felt like he could see right through you.

"From now on, I'm in charge here," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "Understand?"

You swallowed the lump of anxiety in your throat, and watched his darkened amber eyes as they glanced over your lips, lingering there for far too long, before returning back up to meet your gaze--something swimming in his irises that made your stomach twist.

When you were silent, he tilted his head, cocking an eyebrow. "Use your words, Raven..."

"Yes." You squeaked, voice barely audible. "I understand."

He hummed, a devilish smirk crawling across his lips, fingers digging into your jaw with added pressure as he pulled you closer, lips so close you'd touch with a deep enough breath.

"Understand, what?" He breathed, eyes dipping over your lips yet again. "Say my fucking name."

"Mattheo..." you couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could only obey his words as though he was controlling you like a puppet on strings. "I understand, Mattheo."

He huffed, smirking. "Good girl, Raven..." his voice was a mere breath as it left his lips, his full lashes fluttering as he blinked, meeting your eyes. "You learn so quickly...I should have done this months ago..."

When he pulled back, slowly releasing you, air slowly returned to your lungs; not enough to rid the dizziness from your brain but just enough to keep you conscious. Mattheo turned toward the desk now, as though nothing even happened, gesturing for you to start the lesson.

And somehow, you did.

—————-

Chapter two->

[spider-stark]

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN OLD FRIENDS

Gwayne Hightower x Septa!Reader

Summary - Devotion will never be enough to make the Gods forgive you for the sin of your existence. They will keep finding new ways to punish you.

Warnings - fem!reader, bastard!reader, septa!reader, mostly edited, heavy religious themes & guilt, angst, yearning, *slightly* ooc gwayne but mostly cause he's drunk and bitter lmao

Word Count - 1.3k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Dark obsidian walls glisten like the night sky as you enter the Starry Sept from the motherhouse. Towering statues stand sentinel around the round-altar, carved in the likeness of the Seven. Forever repenting for the sin of your existence, you often acknowledge them as you draw close—with a nod, a prayer, an offering. 

But not tonight. 

Even with his forehead pressed to the altar, you recognize Gwayne by his tawny hair, shimmering like bronze in the candlelight. His tunic is wrinkled, half-untucked from his trousers. The sharp scent of alcohol burns your nose, strong enough to smell it from across the Sept.

For a moment, a smile touches your lips. You think of lost nights spent by the Honeywine river. Skipping rocks on the water and drinking from a bottle of arbor gold, snagged from his uncle's cellar.

But nostalgia is all too fleeting, soon replaced by deep worry for an old friend. 

Cavernous and austere, the Sept echoes your every footfall. Consumed by a drunken haze, Gwayne remains oblivious to your presence, even as you sink to your knees beside him. 

It’s only when you speak that he looks up. 

“I’m reminded of a verse from The Warrior’s Edicts.” Armed with sword and helm, the God's stony eyes seem to peer down as you recite His wisdom: “Drink muddles the sensible mind. ‘Tis the duty of knights to remain sober-minded, to pave a path of rectitude so that all men might follow.” 

Gwayne’s voice is unusually hoarse, wavering slightly as he tells you, “You won’t find a sober knight in all of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“Perhaps that’s why there are so many indecent men,” you turn your head to him with a soft smile, “because none are willing to pave a better way.” 

Altar candles flicker, bathing his features in dim warmth. You note the faint stubble along his jaw, the dull shine of sapphire eyes. When was the last time you sat this close? It feels like a lifetime ago, now. 

He swallows, looks down at his lap. “How did you know I was here?” 

“Septon Halleck saw you come in,” you tell him. “Thought you looked in need of a friend.” 

In the years since swearing your vows to the Faith, the aging Septon was your only blessing. Between services, he spins tales about his life before coming to Oldtown—of a youth spent north of the Neck, about a pale castle surrounded by frigid waters. 

You tell Halleck stories about your life, too. He pretends not to notice that Gwayne Hightower is at the center of them all. 

Softly, you tease, “Though if he had known you were drunk, he might’ve sooner tossed you onto the streets.” 

Gwayne scoffs. Starts fiddling with his fingers, picking at them. “If the Septon’s life was half as grueling,” he grumbles, “then he would understand my need for a drink.” 

“And what’s so grueling about the life of a trueborn son?” 

It’s not meant as a slight, though a certain bitterness seeps through. 

Raised in the shadow of trueborn siblings, you know well of the luxuries they’re afforded. Watched as your sisters were swathed in silk and coddled with gold, freely given all which you were made to claw for. 

You recall a quote on envy that Halleck recited during your novice years, when your blood still ran thick with resentment: He who sits at the head of the table will still covet crumbs off a beggar’s plate.

But what if you’re the beggar? If the Gods gave you nothing but crumbs. Would envy still be a sin? Or a sign of injustice. 

Gwayne shakes his head. Mutters under his breath, “You’ve never understood.” 

“Understood what?” 

“What it’s like to be shackled by your father’s name,” he answers, frustrated. 

His thoughtlessness is a fist around your heart, squeezed tight. 

If he was sober, he would apologize. If he was sober, he wouldn’t be here at all. 

You suck in a calming breath, interlacing your fingers and resting your elbows upon the altar. Heat from the flames caresses your forearms as you utter a wordless prayer to the Warrior, asking Him to keep your voice from wavering. 

“You’re right. I don’t understand.” Images flash in your mind. The hazy face of a father who didn’t want you. You clear your throat, say, “But I know it is to be nameless, and I can’t imagine the shackles of a noble-name hurt any worse.” 

“Better to be nameless and free,” he says, “than noble and in chains.” 

You fight the urge to laugh, instead citing a relevant phrase from The Book of Reflections. “Those bound in chains oft discover they were forged by thine own hands.” Gwayne’s head tips back, groaning. Your lips briefly twitch. “It’s not your fate to be nameless,” you tell him. “But, even if it were, the shackles are of your own making—you would bear them all the same.” 

Drunkenness exaggerates his expression. Pulls his brows together, tugs his wine-stained bottom lip into a deep frown. “If I had known you were just going to quote scripture at me,” his words slur slightly, “then I wouldn’t have come.” 

You don’t let yourself wonder at the implication there. That maybe he had come to see you. 

“Why come to a Sept if not to receive wisdom from the Gods?” You ask. 

Gwayne’s stare shifts upwards, settles on the scales of justice clutch in the Father’s stone fist. Sapphire eyes begin to blaze like searing flames. “For forgiveness,” he answers slowly, without inflection. 

Hesitant, you ask, “So that’s why you’re here tonight? To ask the Gods for their forgiveness?” 

His head shakes. His fingers never still, never stop tearing at his cuticles. 

He holds the Father’s stare and, with a voice like death, says, “I’m here so they can beg for mine.” 

The pressure in your chest grows tighter, his words resonating with a part of yourself long since buried by the Faith. The angry, bitter part of you—the nameless, the beggar, the bastard. 

Instinct tightens your fingers, still interlocked. You look to those stone Gods. Feel an old weight settle on your shoulders as they look back. 

Strained, you ask, “For what reason?” 

Gwayne doesn’t answer. Asks his own question, instead. “Why did you join the Faith?” 

You think of the Honeywine. Of the last time you sat this close. 

Of a boy born with such honor, cherished by his Gods. 

Of a girl born with such shame, scorned by them. 

You think of the Faith. Of the passage that led you away from his side. 

A Bastard's life is a testament to the reach of sin. 

Tainted and tarnished, all they touch will come to rot. 

Tears sting the back of your throat. Unsure of a better answer, you tell him, “Because we all bear our own shackles.” 

As if comparing wounds, Gwayne offers up his own answer, too. “There was a feast tonight,” he tells you. “My father announced that I am to be wed.” 

There’s such hollow silence. Obsidian walls wrap around you. Starlight burns your skin. 

“To who?” 

Something tells you that you won’t like his answer. A soundless voice, a whisper on a phantom wind. 

Quietly, voice wavering, he tells you, “One of Lord Mullendore’s daughters.” 

A stone drops in your stomach. 

“Lord Mullendore…” Your mind begins to reel. Images flash. A hazy face. Silk and gold and clawing clawing clawing. “One of his daughters…” 

All at once, the air is sucked from the room. As if oxygen is yet another thing denied to you in the name of repentance. As if all your devotion still isn’t enough to purge the rot from your existence. 

Both soft and resentful, he murmurs, “She has your eyes…” 

You keep your fingers interlocked. Gwayne picks his bloody. The Gods watch. 

The path of devotion is fraught with pain. But fear not! Trials endured in Faith shall always be rewarded with Light. The Seven are just. The Seven are wise. The Seven are merciful.

a/n - Honestly, I just wanted to explore the internal conflict that might come from a bastard going the Faith of the Seven considering that, while they're welcome to become Septons/Septas, they're still viewed as being sinful and treacherous by nature. Additionally, the idea of a bastard being so in love with a pious, honorable man that she turns to his religion just feeds something inside of me?? like, her turning to scripture to communicate with him?? him beginning to resent the gods that 'cherish' him?? neither of them ever getting what they want??

anyways--all thoughts/opinions/feedback are welcome and very very appreciated!

[tojipie]

Sleepy dry humping with toji 🥹

content: (heavy smut, fem reader, dry humping, masturbation, slight vouyerism (??)

got nasty with some of these adjectives lawd

a dull pressure against your side coaxes you out of your sleep so slowly that you can’t tell if you’re still dreaming.

toji ruts into your hip from where he lays, the incessant press of his hard cock warming your body through the fabric of his boxers.

it’s just before sunrise, the first rays of light barely bleeding through your curtains and into your shared bedroom.

the air you share is heavy, warm. blanketing you as you drift in and out of awareness.

the sleeping man snakes an arm around you, panting softly into your neck while his manhood grinds into the cotton embrace of your pajama bottoms. soft, needy pants cut through the silence of the early morning.

he’s hard as a rock and dribbling pre onto the front of his bottoms like a touch starved puppy. you groggily open your eyes to take in the state of him, noticing the way his brows furrow together at his efforts.

“fuck.. mmh..” the sound he makes is barely a whisper.

large hands search for purchase on your body, one anchoring to your opposite thigh and the other snaking around to cradle the back of your head.

the kiss you press to his forehead is soft, loving.

“toji,” you whisper, shaking him softly by his shoulder. “wake up baby.”

the rocking gradually fades as he wakes up, his grip on your body loosening. green eyes flutter open, engulfed by obsidian pupils.

“ah fuck..” he whispers, the feeling of his painfully hard length dawning on him.

“shit.. sorry,” he mumbles, letting go of you to rub his eyes tiredly. the twitch in his boxers doesn’t go unnoticed by either of you, evident in the way the once sleeping man immediately reaches to squeeze himself through the garment.

“feeling a certain type of way?” you snicker at the noise of frustration he makes.

“need to get rid of this,” he groans, kicking the comforter clean off the mattress.

toji pulls you close by your waist, intertwining your legs. you run your hand through his mop of raven hair, watching him slip under the waistline of his boxers.

he wants you to watch him.

the sound of his manhood slapping against his stomach is nothing short of sinful, reverberating throughout your quiet bedroom.

calloused hands wrap around his shaft with vigor, breaking the viscous threads of pre that connect his cock to his abdomen.

you shift closer, mouthing at his neck while he works at himself. you’d never seen him need it to this extent, still appalled at the way he started searching for release without so much as a “good morning.”

a hand nestles itself into your hair, holding you impossibly closer to his neck. every suck, bite, and lick only spurs him on further, dribbles of pre glazing his knuckles.

“fuck.. fuckfuckfuck,” he whispers, strokes growing sloppier by the second. you pull away just in time to watch him paint his stomach in ropes of milky cum, groaning from a place deep within his chest.

toji lays still for while, accepting the fleeting kisses and bites you offer to him while he recovers.

“don’t know where the fuck that came from.” he mumbles, still out of breath from the endeavor.

“need a bath?” you ask, still pressing kisses to the top of his nose.

“only if you carry me.” he groans, rolling over with a much too dramatic sigh.

[kingofthe-egirls]

SAY IT: LUFFY x Y/N

(cw: sex, luffy asking you to say dirty things, breeding kink, spoilers post wano)

(a/n: i am giggling like a maniac)

words: 1.9k

****

Luffy loves hearing the sound of his name.

It’s usually in distress or anger, that someone calls his name after he’s done something wrong. But when you say his name, all whispered and broken, his hips pounding into yours as he does something right for a change, over and over again…it’s addicting.

No sarcasm, no hits over the head.

Just your arms around his shoulders as he makes you squeal his name in pleasure.

“Again,” he pants, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, “Say my name again.”

“Luffy!” You yelp out, after a particularly sharp thrust. He’s got your legs draped over his arms. He growls, something deep and low in his throat, before slowing down. He hits it slow and deep, staring down at you with his jaw jut forward.

“Again.”

Luffy has gray eyes—black in the dark—and his pupils are blown. He has sharp clavicles and broad shoulders, scars on his forearms and bruises on his knuckles. His hands are strong and wide.

He sinks his fingers into the flesh of your thighs, holding your legs open as he sits on his knees. You reach up to run your fingers through his dark, sweaty hair. You push it far back enough to reveal his sharp widow’s peak. Luffy is an art piece.

“Say it, slut.”

He’s staring down at you, slowing his pace to a stop. You whine, missing his movements, the massaging of his cock inside you, and you kick. He wraps a thick hand around your knee, forcing your legs open wider.

“Say it.”

His eyes are burning with a fierce passion, the gray sparking obsidian in the blue dark of his cabin.

Your voice is stuck in your throat, suddenly so aware of his strength. He’s Mugiwara no Luffy. He’s the captain of the Straw Hat pirates. He has a fleet and a three billion berry bounty.

He beat Kaido.

He’s liberated countless lives.

He’s eaten the human-human fruit, mythic type, Nika.

He’s a god.

And he’s asking you to say his name.

Luffy swallows, suddenly dropping to his elbows on either side of your head. He buries his face in your neck and shudders out a heavy breath.

“Please, baby,” he moans, “Please say m’name, sounds so good when you scream my name, your voice is so pretty baby, please say it~” He whispers in your ear, his breath tickling your skin as his hips start to shallowly thrust into yours.

You wind your fingers in his hair, lips at his ear, as you whisper what he wants to hear. “Luffy,” the first breath of his name is barely audible, “Luffy, Luffy, Luffyyyy~,” you drawl out his name as he groans. His hips speed up.

“That’s it baby, lemme hear ya,” his arms circle your shoulders and upper back, holding you to him in missionary. He rocks against you. “Don’t stop,” he whines into your neck, “Please keep goin’, wanna hear my name when I cum, please baby?” His words are dirty, slurred out and drunken. Luffy’s always like this: demanding one minute and pleading the next. He’s everything to you.

“Luffy, yes captain, Luffy fuck yes—!” Your whispers turn to cries, turn to prayers, turn to whines.

“Luffy Luffy Luuffyyyy~!”

“That’s it, babygirl, just like that,” he croons as his thrusts turn hard and fast. “Take it f’me baby, take it~”

So you do.

You cum around Luffy’s cock with a wail, a shudder, a release. He giggles as he sits up to feel the wetness on his abdomen. He examines the squirt on his palm with a raunchy smile.

“So good f’me, squirtin’ like that,” he mumbles, grinning at your blush.

He crawls back over you, softly laying his weight down on top of you. He presses soft little kisses to your cheeks and forehead. “Hm?” He whispers, making sure you’re okay, “Like that, hm, baby? S’good, isn’t it?” Luffy’s voice is low and cloying. You whine, nodding as you wind your arms around his shoulders. He’s always so sweet to you in bed.

Luffy snickers a little, speeding up.

The feel of his cock is heaven.

“What if—ah—what if I wanna fill ya up?” He hides his face in your neck, licking a stripe up to your jaw. He smooches beneath it, behind your ear, along your chin. His voice rasps low as he dirty talks you into oblivion. “Wanna pump ya full of my cum, wanna see it pourin’ outta ya…” He speeds up a little, “Wanna fuck a baby into ya,” he presses his forehead to yours, his hips snapping in place. He’s got you on your back, legs splayed over his arms as he crushes you into the bed. “Ganna fuck ya full of my kids, hm, sweetheart? Wan’ captain’s kids?”

His words burn holes into your sanity: fully sending you over the edge of desire. You cum around his cock with shudders and a gasp that makes Luffy giggle to hear it.

He slows.

“Say it, baby~” He whispers in your ear, his body pressing hot and heavy against yours. You’ve melted into the bed. His hips are now lazily thrusting against yours in a slow, arrhythmic pace. “Say it or I won’t speed up,” he giggles, pulling back to stare at your face. “Say how bad ya wan’ it,” he murmurs, tracing your face with careful fingers. He’s staring down at you in awe, hips all but stopped as he waits for your answer.

You squirm, the covers all sweaty and tangled beneath you. Luffy’s breeding kink only comes out when he’s really riled up. His sweet face is flushed, all amber gold with strawberries. He’s smiling, even as he starts to pull out.

“Want it!” You squeak, not wanting to lose even an inch of his cock inside you. He slows, pushing back in with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Want what, baby?”

You pout.

“No fair…,” you mumble, squirming around. He giggles, sitting up on his knees so he can hold your hips in place. “S’embarrassing…,” you whine. He arches an eyebrow.

“Embarrassed to say how bad ya need captain’s cum? Dontcha need it, though?” He asks curiously, tilting his head. As if he actually didn’t know the answer.

You scoff.

“Fine, I need it,” you whisper, lips pouting as you turn your head to the side. Luffy grips your cheeks in one hand, suddenly rough as he forces you to look at him. His eyes are a sharp black as he stares down at you with a cold curiosity.

“Not good enough,” he states. He sits up, and pulls out halfway. His abs shudder with heavy breaths. He pins you to the bed with his gaze. “Say how bad ya need it. I know you’re a slut f’me,” he pulls out a little more, and you whine for the lack of him. He grins. “See?”

Fuck.

You don’t know why you hesitate, something about the intensity Luffy gets when he’s like this…it’s electric.

Luffy pulls out all the way.

“Guess ya don’t want it,” he says with a shrug. He reaches for his hat on the foot of the bed, placing it on his spiky black hair. Just as he’s about to stand, you kick a leg out to stop him. You sit up, grabbing for his arm. Your fingers squeeze around his rock hard bicep. Fuck.

“Need it.”

Luffy looks at you the way he looks at food. Ravenous. He’s over you in an instant. He doesn’t need to ask you again; you’re babbling for him.

“Need you so bad, Luffy! Need your cum inside me,” he’s positioned himself over you, sitting on his knees again, “Wanna feel it, wanna feel—,” you hiccup, stumbling over such dirty words, “Wanna feel you pump me full—of your cum,” you whisper, as Luffy lines himself up with your entrance. He tsks, shaking his head.

“Louder.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, “Luffy! Want it so bad!” Your voice is cracked, almost foreign with how lustful it sounds to your own ears. “Want—want your kids, Luffy, wanna feel you fuck a baby into me!”

Luffy smiles, and finally, finally pushes all the way back in.

“That’s a good princess,” he says, low. His hands sear into your hips, as he pulls you flush against him. He’s big.

He smirks. “Now, was that so bad?”

You huff, still hot from the filthy words he’s made you say.

Luffy starts fucking you slowly, eyes locked on the place where you connect. He drags his cock in and out, savoring every moment. He licks his lips. Head tilted back, he moans.

“Say my name, princess~”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer to you. He hooks one leg over his shoulder, lowering down to kiss you. You whisper a broken Luuffyyy into his lips.

“That’s good,” he pants, speeding up. His thrusts are smooth, languid. “Say my name til I tell ya ta stop. Don’t wanna ask anymore.” His voice is low, growled against your lips. You swallow his words like honey. You start speaking, and don’t stop.

“Captain Luffy, please Luffy please don’t stop fucking me, I need it so bad baby I need captain’s cock!” You heave in a ragged breath, pleasure clouding your senses until there is nothing else but him.

And that’s how he likes it.

Luffy overwhelms you, speeding up as he smothers you with his weight. It’s all you can do to hold on.

“Want your cum Luffy want it so bad,” you start rocking your hips upward to meet his thrusts. It’s still slow and sensual, as Luffy enjoys every minute of it. His eyes are closed in bliss.

“Luffy, captain, you’re so sexy baby you’re so good at sex, Luffy, don’t ever wanna stop Luffy Luffy Luffy!,” your voice starts rasping, gone pitchy with pleasure. You start saying his name over and over, all Luffy, Luffy, Luffyyy~

Luffy is starting to get close to his edge, you can tell by the way his eyes squeeze shut and his hands tighten on your waist. He pulls out for a second, flipping you over onto all fours before you can protest.

He shoves his way back into your pussy, hard and fast as a jackhammer.

“Fuck, sweets,” he pushes your head down into the mattress, finishing inside you with a rough thrust and a strangled groan.

He pumps you full, all white hot and gooey. Your pussy twitches as pulls out, as he watches it spill down your thighs. He swipes a finger through it, before bringing it up to your lips. “Suck,” he commands, so you do. His spunk tastes awful, but it’s his so you love it, no matter the taste.

Finally, Luffy sighs.

He flops backward on the mattress, while you stay bent over on all fours. You’re blissed out, happy as a satisfied cat. You see Luffy drag a hand down his face, before you poke his thigh with your foot. “Captain?”

He lets out a loud groan.

Luffy sits up on his elbows, all flushed and sweaty. “Say I did a good job?” he commands, suddenly shy as he asks for reassurance.

You sit up, crawling over to him even as his spunk still drips out of you.

You bring his hand to your face, his palm on your cheek, before you kiss it. “You’re the best.”

He smiles, and thunks his head back into the mattress. “So are you.”

You smile, and lean down to cuddle your captain. He’s soft and sweaty, all warm from exertion. Your bodies melt together, made perfectly for each other, as you both fall into a deep, pleasurable sleep.

[im-poe-dameron]

NO LIGHT

a/n: wake up babes a new sith dropped and he's ridiculously hot. <- i wrote that when the episode dropped. and it's taken me a bit to finish. really i got this done out of pure spite, because what the fuck do you mean we're not going to see him again. expect tons more for this man from me and feel free to scream in the inbox cause if there's one thing that will remain, i am down bad for a sith. and all i could say while writing was: i can make him worse. this is the prequel fic to darkness within.

summary: jedi were the light, the path to good in a galaxy draped in darkness. he never called himself a title you'd grown accustomed to. a life that you'd been thrust into as a child. when doubts arise and beliefs shift, you find yourself entrapped in what you were taught to fight against.

word count: 8k

pairing: qimir (darth teeth) x jedi!f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS THIS AIN'T FOR YOU, corruption arc, enemies to lovers, but let's be honest it's more hate fucking, violence, he shows mercy, an unhinged villain obsessed with his lover, biting sort of, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), bad ending if you view it that way.

"The dark side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be unnatural."

There was no name for them spoken aloud in the temples. No title for them to wield with pride as the Jedi did theirs. An armor they strapped to their chests before they carried the weight of the word knight. History was not a lesson to be taught, nor overlooked. Yet The Great War still remained fleeting in classes of the past. As if they willed each generation to forget.

You could feel your mouth form around the letters. The quick biting word that solidified in your heart, breaking open your armor the longer you thought about it. It sounded familiar. Each letter a hiss, as poison dripped between your lips. And you wracked your brain trying to remember where you'd heard it before, why the title came with flashes of memories long forgotten and feelings locked away.

Sith.

The darkness that lingered beneath what light the Jedi spread. A plague waiting to be brought forth and wrought upon the galaxy. Yet in the cracks of that obsidian void, you caught sight of a power that still remained. One not even the Jedi could detect within their midst, and yet you somehow latched on to what you found. The glimpse of his abilities far greater than anything you could ever achieve.

Images of his smile as you fought him alongside the people who trained you; those who didn't come home. How he held his lightsaber with the assurance of a man who'd done this before. Who trained in the same halls you did—who followed a path of light before sinking down to the depths of nothingness. He nearly killed you, held your life in his hands, yet his eyes flashed the second you began to fight back.

To show what you'd been hiding beneath the wall they taught you to built. The blockade which kept each emotion, each fear, trapped in your own mind.

You lashed at him with a fervor that scared you. With an anger that nearly consumed you.

And he smiled.

Questions ran rampant in your mind, yet no matter how hard you searched. No matter how far back you looked in the Temple records, there were no answers. The Sith seemed to have vanished from sight and wiped from existence. As if they never existed in the first place. You thought that something might arise, a piece of the past someone forgot to bury, but each time you looked the quicker you realized that this was done on purpose.

The Jedi cleansed the galaxy of evil—yet in doing so created the path for them to return without notice.

Since returning, you found yourself unable to sleep. When the possibility finally arose and you gave into the pleas of your body, his face returned with a vengeance. The smile that refused to leave you. The intrigue that crossed his eyes as he finally found your weak spot—the one thing that broke you. He fought you to survive at first, but as it continued, you suddenly felt like he was testing you. Attempting to figure out what made you tick, what would eventually make you fall.

You ignored whoever lingered in the hallways of the temple, their greetings falling on deaf ears, as you rushed to the training rooms. Night was cresting on the horizon of Coruscant and where you expected to be alone, you were surprised to find people still awake.

Apparently the attack left some Knights on edge. Including you.

"Maker," you gasped, pressing a hand to your stomach—a rush of nausea rolling through your body like a wave.

Whoever he was—whatever he was—he stuck to your mind like a fungi. Growing and feeding off your thoughts; finding joy in the depths of your head. You longed to claw him out, rip him to pieces until that calm serenity of peace finally returned. Until you felt like yourself again.

The room was thankfully empty, save for a few moved seats here and there. You gathered what control you had left on your emotions, practically collapsing onto the floor, each breath a gasp for the familiar Coruscant air. From what you were taught, meditating would help to ease your mind. Or at least assist in making sense of what you encountered, what knowledge you managed to accrue.

"I am one with the Force," you muttered. The words slipped off your tongue with ease, the memory of being a youngling in this very temple returning with a flash. It remained an old saying Masters told their Padawans when they first begin training. A reminder that while you may be powerful, while you may wield it to your own rhythm, you were surrounded and made from it. "And the Force is with me."

Your breathing slowed, eyes falling shut, and you allowed the room to fall away. You sought what lingered in between the liminal space of your mind and the world around you. Teal flickered on the edge of your vision as the darkness began to take shape—morph into something familiar. Cold licked down your spine, causing the hair to stand on the back of your neck, and suddenly you weren't sitting in the Jedi Temple anymore.

Ancient symbols surrounded you, carving that were set into stones older than you. Sucking in a sharp breath, you scrambled to your feet, your hand reaching for your hip—for the lightsaber that wasn't there. Night was all you could see through the cracked open ceiling; the ruins of what you guessed to be an ancient temple. One before the time of the Jedi you knew on Coruscant.

"Tragic isn't it."

You whirled around, eyes wide as the darkness you believed to be empty, began to bleed away. A figure cloaked in black stepped forward. Only this time...he wore no helmet, no mask to hide his signature and the thoughts that surged through your mind. He gave you the freedom to find what he was, to see beyond the boundaries set by the Jedi.

"W-Who are you?" you asked, your voice echoing off the stone walls and reverberating loudly in your own mind.

He smiled, the very look shoving every emotion you fought to keep at bay to the forefront of your thoughts. "I think you already know the answer to that question."

You gulped in another breath. "Sith."

"So they haven't wiped away that memory entirely." He breathed a soft laugh to himself, taking a few steps forward. "I'm surprised by that."

"Surprised..." Your eyebrows pulled together, body going tense with each step he took. "Did they have that information before?"

His smile only grew, the haze in his brown eyes flashing a burnt yellow for the briefest of moments. "Once." His hand reached out, as if to grasp yours, but this was merely in your head. A projection of his energy and yours. Perhaps that's why you relaxed, why you didn't flinch when his Force signature began to twine with yours. Perhaps that's why you let your guard down. "When I was a Jedi."

"You were a Jedi?" you exclaimed, reeling back. "That's not-"

"Possible?"

The echo of his steps rang through the air, stifling the air from your lungs. He walked like a predator. Yet held the stance of someone who couldn't care less about what you wanted, what you might do to him. He gave you his back with ease and didn't blink twice when your hand twitched to the nonexistent weapon at your side. You began to wonder if he brought you here without it on purpose—if he knew that deep down...you wouldn't hesitate to kill him if given the chance.

"Don't you find it remarkable?" His question threw you off guard as you turned to keep up with his slow prowl.

"Where are we?"

He ignored you. "The Jedi spent so long fighting the Sith. They nearly lost. And yet...no trace of that history remains."

"There's no point to this-"

Stopping a few feet away, he assessed you with a tilt of his head, eyes scrutinizing your very being. "There's always a point. Because despite their grand powers and promises, they are doomed to repeat history."

"Lies," you spit, eyes burning a hole through him.

"The Jedi will fall," he began, coming closer until his face was mere inches from your own. You attempted to step back, to remove yourself from the warmth that bled off his body in waves. But you were stuck—forced to keep still as he finished. "It's in their nature to believe they won't. But they will. One day." His hand reached up, palm cupping your cheek and for a moment...you felt the gentle caress of his touch. "Do you really want to be a part of that?"

"Let me go."

He sighed, eyes falling to your lips without shame. "I can't do that."

"You brought me here. All to tell lies." You sucked in a shuddering breath. "You can let me go-"

"I didn't bring you here," he replied, his lips curling into another grin. "I don't know how...but you found me."

"Found you where?"

His faint touch vanished as he stepped back with a sigh dripping in disappointment. As if you'd confirmed his worst fears. "Ashas Ree."

The planet's name sounded familiar—somewhere on the outer rim. And for a mere moment, you accepted his words as truth. That he didn't call you to this place, but you in fact found yourself here. Yet all it did was open a door you couldn't close. It would give way to the chaos in your mind, to the feelings that begged to run rampant in your heart. That alone would tear you to pieces and you'd have no way to put yourself back.

He leaned in once more, lips a hairsbreadth from your own, and smiled gleefully when you gasped. Your eyes wide and body falling back. Only for him to catch you—his arm a vice around your waist as his hand went to your face, keeping you still.

His touch should have terrified you—sent trills of fear through your body—and yet...you found a piece of something softer underneath his mask of danger. Though he may have turned to the dark side, the part of him that remained a Jedi still existed in the depths of his heart.

With reluctance, you came to the understanding that he wouldn't cause you any harm.

That isn't what he wanted from you.

"I'll see you soon...Jedi."

With a gasp, you collapsed, your head slamming against the temple floor as your eyes flew open. Pain bled into your skull, vision black spotted and hazy, yet you still scrambled to your feet. Your robes caught on your legs, twisting around your body. The beat of your heart echoed loudly in your ears—his face, his voice, still prominent in your mind.

He was a scar on your heart, a reminder that no matter how much you fought against his will, you would never win.

So you ran.

The temple cleared out during the night as you sprinted through the halls, your breath quick and stunted with each slam of your boots against the sleek floor. You weren't sure how long you'd spent with him. How much time passed as you did your best to ignore his advances—to gauge what exactly had to be done. Given that you now knew where he was.

Ashas Ree. A planet taught, yet never visited.

It didn't occur to you to ask why. What was there that made the Jedi wish to ignore it's existence altogether. What had they left behind?

Slowing to a halt, you found yourself stuck between two paths. Each hallway dimly lit and bathed in shadows. You held a choice within your hands. One that could change the trajectory of the Jedi if you were able to succeed. You could forget this instance happened, continue on with being a Knight, and leave this man to someone else.

Or you could find him.

The possibility of putting an end to this problem tasted sweet on your tongue. Yet you couldn't deny the true reason for going.

Curiosity would one day be be the end of you. A saying your master told you repeatedly as you put him through every type of worry he could endure—your need to know more outweighing the logic of whether you should.

The strength he exhibited on Khofar nearly brought you to your knees, his power a force to be reckoned with. Yet there you stood, considering the option of taking him on by yourself. It would conclude with your death—you understood this. Somehow that still wasn't enough to stop you from taking the left path towards the hangar. That alone couldn't deter you from a path already carved by the Force.

A sleek muted gray ship was housed in the corner. You couldn't recall who it belonged to, nor did you find it in yourself to care. Whatever this vision procured—the emotions that began to bleed into your heart with a heady and restless need—there was no fighting against it. The steps taken would lead to an unknown future; a consequence that not even you could see through the Force.

What began would eventually end.

Yet how it would play out remained shrouded in darkness.

Flicking familiar switches and pressing buttons through muscle memory, you felt yourself begin to slide back to your mind. The hum of the ship jumping into hyperspace gave you a moment of silence to converge over your thoughts. To focus on your own Force signature that spread around you with ease.

The teal felt familiar enough to sink down into its depths with a sigh. You shut your eyes, hands falling to your lap, as you allowed yourself to step forward into the darkness. Until you felt it begin to creep up your body—chills spreading down your spine and curling around your stomach.

You expected to be faced with a wall of fear; horrors unlike those you'd seen before. Surprise filled your chest as an image began to take shape—a memory that didn't belong to you.

He sat on the floor of the Jedi Temple. His eyes closed, hands resting on his knees, and hair tied up into a bun that nearly fell free. The black robes he wore with pride were gone, traded for a familiar set of light beige Jedi robes, a perfect match for the ones you wore now.

"You're not focused."

The voice...you'd heard her before. The sharp tone of concise words teaching younglings to train until they reached a level of perfection you only dreamed of obtaining.

Soft brown robes flowed around him as she stalked in a circle. Yet no matter how far you pried, how much you attempted to clear the image, her face refused to form. As if he was merely letting you see a hint of his past. Of the man that once existed in the same place you did. Warmth pooled in your body at that thought; he wanted you to understand him, to see that perhaps you weren't as different as you believed.

"You must feel the Force. Not simply think about it."

He sighed, shifting his body—hair falling free around his face. "I am thinking Master."

"If that were true then I wouldn't be able to see in your mind. Try again."

You stepped closer, lowering yourself to sit across from him—your eyes focused on the furrow of his brows, the way his body tensed. Agitation spread along his form, growing by the second, until you saw it begin to take shape in his mind. Peace didn't come easy. Not when he felt the conflict that plagued his heart, the beliefs he once held true and firm now a distant memory.

Without realizing it, you leaned forward, and pressed your hands atop his. Hoping that in some way, he might feel the soft light of your energy—the warmth of a Jedi's presence willing to help him.

"What do you see?" she asked.

He let out a breath, expression softening. "A...Jedi."

"Good. Who?"

"I...don't know."

"Try harder."

Frustration began to cloud his thoughts, his hands clenching into fists on his legs, and just as you reached for him again, you felt it. The sharp tug of fear against your heart. As if he'd stabbed you with his blade. His eyes flew open, a ragged breath tearing from his throat. You backed away, hands falling to your lap as you awaited the memory to keep going—to see what came next.

Only for him to meet your gaze and see you.

Pain sliced through your head, invading your body as his eyes narrowed perceptively. And you cried out, hands clutching your face, nails scraping against your skin. Maybe if you dug hard enough you'd be able to get him out of your head. You would remove any part of him that weeded through your thoughts, past every wall you'd placed to protect what secrets you held. He picked at your wounds and for a moment you wondered if he held a knife in his hand.

"S-Stop," you forced out past gritted teeth and clenched fists.

"You're not supposed to be here."

Sucking in a sharp breath, you shut your eyes to the image of him, to the vision that must have projected from his own mind. He didn't want you to bear witness to his past. A version of him that once believed in the light, that once hoped he could help the galaxy.

"No," you muttered, shoving him from your mind. But to no avail did it work. He was insistent, angry at knowing you could breach him so easily.

"The power you hold. It will destroy you."

"You don't..." Your nails sliced through the skin of your palm, blood welling to the surface within seconds as you fought against his hold. "You don't know anything."

Though you couldn't see him...you felt his smile. The pleasure he gained simply from finding the weakest point in your mind and running with it. Your power, your strength. For so long you'd feared what you might become, what your abilities could manifest into. Yet they remained a mere figment of your worst nightmares, a reality that may never come to pass.

Meeting him changed that.

He knew it the second he saw you.

"You're scared you won't be able to control it. The darkness you don't show the others."

"Lies," you hissed, beating against the walls he created as he wreaked havoc within your own mind.

"Tell me...does your former Master know you're on your way to me?"

Your heart leapt to your throat, fear numbing every ability you once possessed to fight back. To keep him at bay. No matter how much you wanted to argue, to claim he was wrong, you could feel the truth ring in the back of your mind.

No one knew you were speaking to him. No one knew you'd left.

No one would know why you may never come back.

His laughter echoed through you, burning a hole in your chest large enough for the darkness to seep through.

"Thrilling isn't it? Playing against their rules."

Perhaps if you dug far enough, you could rip the tendrils of him from your mind. Pieces that threatened to ruin you. The darkness promised freedom, yet you could see the repercussions of your actions played out before you like a story already written. Accepting the bittersweet taste of something so tenuous would leave you broken by the end of it. You'd be a shell of the Jedi you grew to become.

A person unwilling to fight back.

"You want me weak." The ship rumbled as you began to claw your way out of his mind and back into yours; the show of your strength echoing through the Force. "You want me to say yes because you know that if I fight back...you won't win."

Whatever retort he had died on the tip of his tongue when your ship left hyperspace—ripping you back to the waking world. You fell back on your elbows with a gasp, eyes zeroing in on the planet directly in front of you. One that you'd seen before. Perhaps it was in a dream, a memory not of your own, but the landscape looked familiar.

Signs of life were sparse—scattered further from where he resided—and part of you felt grateful. If this concluded in a battle you didn't want to be the cause of an innocent's death. The Jedi could never know you came here. The consequences alone would lead you to be cast out of the Order with nowhere else to go.

The ground shook as you landed; the hiss of the door echoed out into the empty clearing. You expected to see wildlife within the thicket of trees that surrounded you. All that showed itself was the glow of the moon above. Illuminating the path carved into the grass by people that came before. You could see the structure ahead—it's grand entrance towered over you, becoming one with the stars that hung above.

Jedi once walked these grounds. Their energy practically hummed in your veins the closer you came to stepping foot on the stone floors. Carvings of old symbols still remained—placed there by a Republic that no longer existed.

An era of Jedi you'd only heard stories of.

The history of the Olde Republic wasn't unknown to the Jedi that existed today. You understood their practices, the ways they viewed the Force. Part of them were lost to the war when they began to form the Order that still remained.

This place should be taught, visited, to keep the remaining legacy of what came before alive. This was the history you wanted to know—a past you could almost picture in your mind.

Stepping into the temple, you felt the energy before you saw it. A constricting echo of nothing that slammed against your chest with a brutality you'd witnessed once before. Gasping, you nearly fell to your knees as the obsidian nature of his Force signature began to seep into the ground. Fighting against it felt futile as it clambered over your body—sinking into your skin. Into the very fiber of your being.

"It's quite beautiful." His voice resonated in the small circular temple.

You sucked in a sharp breath, hands slamming to the cold stone floor—your knees collapsing beneath you. "What the fuck is this place?"

Controlled steps echoed behind you, his black robes brushing the ground as he stopped mere feet away. "The past your Jedi have chosen to hide."

"This is-" Your chest tightened, air sucked from your lungs at the feeling of his power laying above you—crushing you to the ground. "No Jedi temple."

He crouched, head tilted and eyes bleeding with a curiosity he held in the forest. "You continue to defend them, even when you know they haven't told you everything."

Attempting to reach for your lightsaber felt as if you were traveling through sand. It swallowed you whole. Ate at your insides and begged for more. You couldn't see past his power, past the darkness that formed over your body. He could have killed you like this; helpless and weak to his own weapon.

Why he never did is what filled your mind; the same mind screaming for a reprieve from what lay beneath the stone. What called out to you in screeching tones.

"Long before you and I walked this galaxy, this temple was created to hide the powers of what they considered dark and unnatural." He left you to lay on the floor, your back against a symbol you recognized. "They built this above a Sith temple to wipe their existence from history."

"The Sith followed the darkside of the Force," you spit between gritted teeth and tensed muscles. Your body was on fire and yet no one had lit the flame. "They wanted to destroy the galaxy."

Though you couldn't see it, you knew his lips curved into a grin. "Why do you have so much faith in an Order that would do the same to you if they knew where you were?"

Anger fueled your actions, gave you the strength to fight against whatever bonds he created against your body. With a piercing scream, your lightsaber hit the palm of your hand, igniting as you scrambled to your feet. He stood with his back to you—entirely aware yet uncaring of how you struggled against his hold. How the darkness began to seep its way to your heart.

You'd never felt this before.

The anger.

The hatred.

The Jedi taught you to quell that part of yourself before it had a chance to rise up. For so long you allowed their teachings to define you. To put a barrier between peace and bitter anguish. And you held that wall up with pride—with the knowledge that you could center yourself at a moments notice.

Yet he managed to tear it all down within one day.

"Good," he replied, his voice a soft rasp that penetrated the wave of emotions which sought to consume you. "Feel it. The anger."

"I am a Knight of the Jedi Order-" Raising your blade, you felt the hum of it sear against the side of your face. "And I am here to enact my duty."

The familiar echo of his blade coming to life—red illuminating the walls before him—sent a thrill of fear down your spine. One he could no doubt feel through the Force. You weren't scared to die. This had been ingrained in your mind since the day the Jedi found you. No, you felt at ease knowing this fight could only end one way.

You were scared of what might become of you if you slipped beneath the might of his powers.

"You have the strength of the old ways." He turned, brown eyes gleaming crimson as he advanced. "But your duty will be your end."

You felt the wall shatter within your mind—pieces crashing to the ground—as you leapt at him. Blades crashed together, lighting up the night with sparks of teal and red. And you felt how much he held back in the forest. He didn't want to kill you then; the way you called to his intrigue kept him from slicing his lightsaber down your spine.

Tonight you could see the difference. The strength he held back within his body.

A swipe of his blade nearly knocked yours from your hand, but the foot you landed to his leg kept you upright. He barely stumbled, regaining his stance with an agility you'd only seen in the Jedi Temples. You lunged again, aiming for his shoulder only to be knocked out of the way. He shoved you back with the Force—grinning at the sight of you enraged.

"You were a Jedi." A crack echoed in the night air as you landed a hit to his saber. "And you betrayed them."

"Betrayal." He spun, circling you as if you were marked prey. "I was cast aside as you will be. I did not betray the Jedi. I chose differently and they didn't accept that."

"You chose the path to darkness." Something sparked down your spine—foreign in its nature. Yet no matter how much you tried to pinpoint its origin, you came up blank.

"Desire," he replied, lips twitching when your eyes went wide. "The emotion you're fighting."

"Stay out of my head."

He took a step towards you—the hum of his lightsaber electrifying the air. "You're confused why you're feeling that way. You shouldn't be."

"Stop-"

"I can answer your questions." The palm of his hand reached for you—offering his touch. Promising peace in spite of the anger you felt. "If you'd like."

Fear seized in your chest and you stumbled back; your saber raised as your last line of defense. "Desire is the path to the darkside."

"And yet you feel it." The closer he stood, the more you felt his pull. A whispered promise tinged with the lust of more; the want for knowledge overshadowed by the truth of his beliefs. "You should feel all they make you push down. I can see that's what you want. Let me show you how."

Temptation ate away at your heart, claiming you in ways you'd never felt before. Yet the dread of what you'd been taught began to strike. Rearing in your mind with a vengeance that overtook what he offered. You flinched, eyes narrowed and hands gripped tightly onto your lightsaber as he took another step.

"No!" Your hand flew out, a push of strength bursting free. He slid back, his hand slamming to the ground to keep himself from falling.

That's when you saw it. His patience snapped, anger breaching the otherwise calm exterior he attempted to give you. This was the Sith that lay beneath his seduction. The man you caught glimpses of in your mind. He surged forward, saber striking down against yours hard enough to rattle your bones. Each hit felt as if you were battling something stronger—older.

You could feel the weariness in your body as you blocked and parried as often as you could. Spinning on your heel, you fell to one knee as he struck down a blow that resonated against the stone. Cracking it along the grooves of the center.

There was no mercy in how he battled. No offering of penance. He was your executioner come to life—the promise of death quick to fall from his tongue as he placed you in a corner.

He dragged you forward with a pull of the Force, crimson clashing with teal as you blocked his strike. And pride swelled in your chest at the sight of the frustration that crossed his face. This was not a fight as quick to the death as Khofar was. You would battle until your final breath and he seemed to realize that the longer you went.

"You die here today," you spit, struggling against his weight.

Pain sliced through your side, burning its way through your body as his lips pulled at the corners. Eyes alight in a way you'd never seen. He was amused by your fight—your willingness to die for the Jedi's beliefs. Yet you did the one thing everyone fell for on Khofar.

You underestimated him.

Yanking the small red blade from your side, he watched your face fall. Fear lacing your heart with a poison that held no antidote. This would be where you would have your last moment. The place he'd leave you to rot. But unlike what came before, he caught you in his hold, lowering you gently to the ground—his hand reaching to cup your face.

"You're afraid," he murmured, thumb tracing the top of your cheek. "You don't want to die."

Whether he could see it painted across your face or find it in your thoughts, the truth remained the same. You didn't want your story to end here. You couldn't fathom a death so small compared to what you'd been raised to believe. Jedi's were warriors. They were the protectors of the light; the keeper of peace.

Yet there you were, withering in the darkness and begging for hope.

"Let me in." His hand slid down to your gaping wound—pressing it gently even as you cried out in pain. "I can help you."

"You'll kill me." Even when you spoke, you understood the gravity of your situation.

He offered you salvation—safety within his hands—and yet you were willing to die. Teachings of your past suddenly felt minuscule as you stared death in the face. This would not be peaceful; you could feel the ravages of your injury begin to seep through your body. And he watched while you grappled with a choice that may very well set the path of your future.

Let me see your darkness. Let me help you control it.

His voice soothed the calamity in your veins. His touch a caress against your open robes—his skin hot against yours.

The look on his face—the clarity in his gaze—may be why you finally relented. Why you nodded slowly, fear traveling through every inch of your already broken body. He watched you with a desire that you'd only read about in stories. A feeling you'd pushed away at every waking moment. One that haunted you like the ghosts of this temple.

"Please," you breathed, hand clutching his robes.

Shifting you higher, he bent his head—his palm covering your wound—and pressed his lips to yours. Electricity streaked down your spine the moment you felt his kiss. His mouth was firm, yet soft in their nature when he gripped you closer. You gasped into it, hand cupping his face as he breached your mind slowly—gently enough to make you look past the act.

Until you felt it.

The warmth that bloomed beneath your skin when your body began to stitch itself together. He pushed the Force of his life through your veins—seeping it slowly into your heart. His thoughts melded with yours, memories of a past you never lived filtered through your mind. But he remained firm and solid in the way he kissed you. His tongue slipping past your parted lips to taste you, to take what he never got to on Khofar.

"I can give you more," he mumbled against your cheek, lips sliding along the curve of your jaw. "All that you want."

You would later blame his life Force, or the thoughts you were privy to. But the word yes slipped off your tongue with ease. A quickness that nearly left you startled.

This was forbidden. Every moment spent here would damn you to an eternity of punishment. Yet his touch felt delicious against your body as he pulled up your robes—spreading them open on the floor of the temple. You should have pushed him away. Dragged your lightsaber towards you and sunk it into his chest. And part of you wanted to.

Part of you ached to kill him.

Though no matter how hard you tried...you couldn't discern whether that stemmed from the throbbing heat between your legs. Or the violent echo in your heart.

His eyes caught your bleary gaze—pupils blown out and dark as he regarded you with a searing look you felt to your bones. "How do you want this?"

"I..." A burning heat spilled beneath the skin of your cheeks, spreading down to your chest. "I don't know," you whispered.

He smiled and you couldn't help but notice how he bared his teeth. Hunger etched on every line of his face. He liked that you were lost; that this was going to be the first and only time someone would touch you this way.

He suddenly felt the urge to claim you, call you his in every way that could exist within this galaxy.

Chalking it up to the ache in his body, he waited for your head to clear. "I can show you. Teach you."

A nod of your head set him off, he pulled at your pants until they pooled with the remainder of your robes. You lay bare beneath the moon—hands reaching to touch him—and felt that nothing this pleasurable should be wrong.

How could the Jedi claim a feeling like this as dark? How could having your needs be met be so horrendous to their beliefs?

With a gasp, you rose up on your elbows to watch him hoist your legs over the wide breadth of his shoulders. His fingers dug into the meat of your thighs—eyes fixed on the way you practically dripped onto the stone floor. You were given a second to breath before the oxygen was pulled from your lungs and his mouth sealed over your cunt.

"Maker!" Your body fell to the ground in a heap—head dazed as he laved his tongue between your slick folds with a need never shown before.

He groaned at your taste, the tang of you spread along his taste buds, and felt his body throb at the sight of you. So open, so willing to let him devour you whichever way he wanted.

The burning need from earlier began to build in your body, tightening along each muscle and pulling at your stomach. Your hand dug into his hair, fingers curling against his scalp as he sucked at your clit. And you had no choice but to moan—to let your sounds echo in the air and fall back down. If someone were to pass by they'd see you—hear you.

They'd bear witness to how you sank deeper into the darkness with a dazed smile on your lips.

A finger pushed at your entrance, curling into you slowly in search of something hidden within. You were wet—dripping down his hand—and he merely smiled into you. His tongue lapped against you as he sunk into you down to the knuckle. Dragging along your walls until your legs jolted—a cry ripping from your chest at the feeling of him brushing something devastating.

"There." Your head fell back, hips canting up into his face. "Yes. Fuck right there."

The wet echo of his fingers pounding into you drove you mad. He dragged you the brink with a merciless hand and you followed him with a gasped cry of bliss. Something broke within you—spreading through your body rapidly—as your legs shook and toes curled.

He groaned drunkenly into your cunt, eyes half lidded and cheeks stained the color of his lightsaber. You cried out when he sucked at your clit—curling his fingers mercilessly as lust clouded his vision. The unknown feeling you'd fought for so long began to eat at your body. Building along your spine, spreading through your stomach. Until you held no choice but to relent to its power.

"W-What's happening?" you whined, fingers tugging at his hair.

You weren't sure if you wanted to rip him away or keep him close.

The response you got was a heady moan muffled into your slicked thighs. Slick poured out of you, drenching the floor below. Your hips began to shift of their own volition—grinding against his mouth as you struggled for breath. For a semblance of peace against the war of pleasure that ripped you apart.

He sucked hard and the tension in your body snapped.

"F-Fuck!" you sobbed, thighs shaking and body bending off the floor.

Heat blinded you as white flashed behind your shut eyelids—a vibration unlike any you'd felt before now surging up and out of you. The stone floor cracked to the center; your strength sending a wave through the Force strong enough to break anything nearby.

He curled his arms around your legs, clamping down to keep steady. Even as the power rushed through him—tempted to shove him off and across the room. His tongue was a continued to lap at your entrance, drinking down every drop of that you fed into his open and waiting mouth. A broken moan ripped from your chest—body weary and sore—and yet you let him keep going.

Even as he licked until pain spliced up your stomach. A sharp discomfort you relished in.

"Tell me," he panted, climbing his way up your body—his lips trailing a wet line of kisses up your sternum. "Did the Jedi ever tell you about that?"

You grinned, hazy and languid in your newfound bliss. "I want more."

He smiled. "I can give you more."

Whatever convictions existed before you came here died in the back of your mind when his hips settled between yours. The heavy outline of his now hard cock was a firm press against your dripping cunt. It made you whimper. Made you needy. He watched you with glee in his eyes as you reached beneath his robes to feel him—the press your skin against his.

"Do you want it?" he asked softly, thrusting forward and tearing a moan from your throat.

"Yes," you gasped. "Please. I want it."

Moving your hands to rest above your head, he shifted his robes the best he could—the fabric soft against the inside of your thighs. You watched in rapture as he pulled his cock free; the sight of the red and leaking tip only serving to make your mouth water. The need from before now burning quicker. Brighter.

"Stay still," he murmured against your lips, stealing a kiss when you nodded.

Entirely at his will.

You felt him slide through your slick, coating himself with a raspy moan, before he pressed at your entrance. The head of his throbbing cock breaching you slowly. Stretching you with the slight flicker of pain. Only for him to push forward with a gritted moan. His forehead falling to yours as you gasped for air—for anything that might keep you latched to the surface of the planet.

"So perfect," he managed to bite out, his hips finally atop yours.

Your mouth fell open at how full you felt. How he pressed against your walls and carved a place for himself inside your body. Whatever path you might have taken before tonight vanished before your very eyes. This was always meant to be your future.

He is what you were led to.

"Okay?" His eyes met your blurry gaze—tears dripping down into your hair. "Speak to me love."

A ragged breath echoed in the temple. "'M good."

His lips curled up. "I'm going to move now."

"Will it hurt?" you asked, hesitancy lingering in your voice.

The grin bloomed into a smile as he shifted his hips back, thrusting into you slowly and striking against your walls. Pushing the spot he found before. Only this time the brief tendrils of pleasure burned through you like a roaring flame.

"Oh-"

"You like that don't you?" You nodded frantically, hands still obediently above your head. "Such a pretty thing. So willing."

"Yes," you whined, legs curling around his hips with each thrust.

The reverence from before slowly faded each time he plunged into your cunt. His groans muffled into the skin of your shoulder. He fucked you with a passion that would linger. A feeling you'd search for in the middle of the night—begging for the release you once had. His teeth scraped against your skin, fingers digging sharply into your hips, and you jolted when he shifted the angle.

Pounding down into you and pulling free sounds you'd never made before.

"All mine to have," he breathed against your cheek, lips catching yours in a messy kiss of teeth and tongue. "They would dare to throw away someone to perfect."

"Maker I'm gonna-" Your head fell back, eyes screwed shut as the tension began to build again.

"Yes," he gasped, cupping your ass to help your stunted movements. "Cum for me. Give me everything."

The pleasure eviscerated you. Slammed into your body with a vengeance and ripped every doubt you had about him from the very root up. He moaned against your chest as you came with a scream. Your thighs clamping around his and body curling up in search of his heat. A hand latched onto your back, holding you close, as you drenched his cock until it smeared on the inside of your thighs.

You couldn't find your way out of this maze. The darkness shrouded you in a layer of warmth—seeping into your body with ease. Yet that isn't what horrified you. That isn't what made the hair stand up on the back of your neck as he chased his own release.

What scared you was that you liked it.

You longed for it.

He came with a hoarse shout, spurting into you and filling you with warmth that you felt spread throughout your body. It consumed you. Welcomed you with a heady kiss and the promise of more. And you drank it down like the finest glass of wine.

The lingering echo of your Force signature still flickered in the background. You refrained from reaching for it. Content to remain in this river of peace that sank you down to the bottom.

His lips found yours, tongue sliding hotly into your open mouth. You returned his kiss with a fervor you didn't know you held. A wanting that now knew what the full extent of desire felt like. A need that would crave more.

"I-I liked it," you whispered against his lips. His cum slowly dripped out and around his softening cock. You yearned for him to show you again. "All of it."

"Good," he murmured. "There's so much more to show you."

"When?"

"Soon," he said, gathering you in his arms with a kiss to your forehead. "I promise my love. You'll know all of it."

You awoke to the echo of birdsong. The bright ray of sunlight blared down through the ceiling, turning the once cold stone beneath your skin hot. It burned you as you shifted, arm searching for the warmth of another that lay beside you.

Sometime in the night he began to tell you the history of what he knew. The people that once walked these temple floors. The Sith whose memory still echoed beyond time and space. This was their legacy. A path that you would soon take as your own. Yet the doubt of what it would cost still lingered at the edges of your mind; the reality you would soon have to face.

He would be hunted.

Sought out by the Jedi who would want revenge for what happened on Khofar. By joining him, you would be setting yourself up for a fate worse than death.

When your touch came up empty, your eyes fluttered open. Expecting him to be mediating somewhere nearby, you sat up still naked from hours before. A sore ache bloomed between your thighs, spreading down your legs. Each bite he placed on your skin remained tender to the touch, and you smiled at the memory they would incite.

"Hello?" you called, hoping to draw him back. To hopefully entice him for more.

Silence was all you were met with as you stood on shaky legs. Gathering your robe, you draped it around yourself—your lightsaber already clutched in your hand. You searched for his presence in the Force; picked through the life on this planet in the hopes of finding the one you recognized.

Only to be left with an empty voice.

An expanse of nothing.

Pain sliced through your heart, shattering a piece you didn't know existed. You watched it fall to the floor—breaking you open without mercy. Without forgiveness. What hope you had that he might find you again diminished as you gathered the rest of your robes and headed back to your ship still in the clearing. The truth of what occurred, now a solid belief in your mind.

Last night you offered yourself up to the darkside of the Force and this was your consequence.

To be left alone, waiting for your lovers return that would never come.

[dearmariposa]

One Night Stand | pt 1

Buzzed. oh, you're absolutely buzzed. The resonating throb of the bass pulses within, dazzling lights paint kaleidoscopic patterns across your vision. The scent of alcohol and sweat fills the air, as the hem of your dress flirts with rebellion, rising with every fleeting opportunity. The night, undeniably, is in its youthful embrace.

As the echoes of your heels gently resonate through the crowd, you realize you've lost your friends. Perhaps one is entwined in a gratifying exchange, savoring the taste of passion, while the other might be surrendering to the merciless shots of tequila, expelling every drop consumed over the past three hours. Despite your own senses dancing on the edge of a cliff right now, you're still eager to find both of them and finally leave this place. Now that you reek of cologne, sweat, cigarettes, and every possible pungent scent to ever exist for mankind.

Stumbling, you make your way towards the bathroom. Retrieving your cell phone, revealing the ungodly hour – 1:48 a.m. "Fuck, talk about starting the new year right huh?" A muttered exclamation escapes your lips. With your phone pressed against your ear in a desperate attempt to call for your friends, the void of unanswered calls becomes the soundtrack to your fleeting optimism. After several calls, you abandon the idea of going home and walking out of the bathroom, squeezing yourself through the line as faint alarming noises are heard from the men's bathroom. Low grunts followed by whispered moans.

Seated at the bar, your feet aching, downing another shot of God knows what, given by the bartender, you made your way back to the dance floor. You find yourself dancing to the rhythmic pulse of the music in an attempt to let loose and forget all the stress and depravity rotting inside you for the past year. Besides, when else would you have the chance to unleash yourself, it's a rare occasion.

In the hallowed whispers of nightlife, there's truth concealed from youthful ears and its intoxicating rendezvous. Another truth kept concealed is the magic of alcohol and how much it can alter a person. Your dress strap delicately slips, blush blossoms on your cheeks, the warmth of intoxication coursing through your veins. An unfamiliar silhouette converges, pressing against yours, setting aflame a burning sensation between your thighs.

Moments stretched into an embedded memory until a low breath brushed against the curve of your neck. Instant shivers shot down your spine, a rising blaze of sensation. His face and form remained veiled in the shadows, yet you found yourself immersed in the depths of his essence, a scent that enveloped you, clouding your consciousness. Perhaps it was the music or your pounding headache, but you loved it, the intoxicating chemistry between you and this handsome stranger, you wanted more. No. You yearn for more.

His hands traveled every inch of your figure, from one place to another until they reached the bottom of your stomach. At that moment, a silent alarm echoed within – a code red pulsating in your thoughts. Amidst the haze of your fading senses, you discern that this will only lead to 2 roads. One is the possibility of this man being remarkable in bed. Two, a dismay of regret, a potential aftermath of chlamydia. Where strands of regret may intertwine with your hair in the week to unfold; and he’s horrendous in bed.

Yet, what recourse does a woman, starved for affection, possess in such situations? Certainly not the ability to make sound decisions. Thus, with vanishing sanity, you moved, turning your gaze only to encounter the man with a mischievous grin plastered on his face. His features blurred in the throbbing lights, whether a trick of the strobes or your own lack of sobriety remains uncertain. All that is certain is his towering figure, eyes sharp like obsidian or perhaps the hues of oakwood, lips naturally tinted in rosy plumpness, a nose bridge sculpted to envy, and hair as luscious as the depths of his eyes. A vision so enticing unfolds before you. Your heart quickens its pace as he, suddenly speaks. “Didn’t realize you were sober enough to drool over me like that, princess.”

In mere moments of his voice, you transitioned from drunk to tipsy. Awareness heightened, yet self-evasively distant. His presence lingered in your thoughts, the idea of him inches deep inside you occupying your mind, especially when your bodies entangled, the trail of his cologne weaving a seductive spell. “It would be a shame to waste a face like yours, sir,” you uttered, your arms wrapping his neck, causing his grasp to rest on your waist. Familiar butterflies fluttered with each passing heartbeat. As lips hovered in proximity, you sensed his breath, his hold on your waist intensifying, tension escalating between the two of you. This isn’t supposed to be a game of self-restraint, where the person who kisses the other would lose. But now that it has come to this, it is rather thrilling.

“My place is around here.” You offer a devil’s invitation to this enigmatic stranger who has been undressing you with his eyes for the entire night. You’ve lured him. You’re impatient. You’re ready to turn the city into a backdrop, to a night of forbidden passion and let the moonlight reveal secrets that were meant to stay hidden. Secrets like the image of how you’d like this man to ruin you. Now, all he needs to do is bring the images to life.

[slut4slytherinss]

These feelings

SEND REQUESTS!!

Summary: in which reader and Mattheo despise each other, until the moonflowers bloom.

1,767 words

Warnings: no mention of the Slytherin friend group, Tom is Mattheo’s dad in this, surprisingly I’ve managed to write no cursing so.. ooc Mattheo! Rushed and not proofread, a total cliffhanger.

2nd person pov

Gryffindor reader

Female reader

The air in the Potions classroom crackled with more than just the fumes of Bubotuber pus. Mattheo Riddle, the epitome of Slytherin arrogance, smirked across the cauldron at you, a Gryffindor simmering with righteous indignation. His obsidian eyes, a chilling reflection of his infamous father, held a challenge you couldn't resist.

"Looks like your concoction resembles swamp muck more than Veritaserum, Gryffindor," Mattheo drawled, his voice a silken threat.

You bristled, your retort sharp. "At least I haven't resorted to cheating, Riddle." You knew it was untrue, at least in this class, but the way he effortlessly manipulated his potion, his every movement oozing practiced superiority, grated on your nerves.

Professor Snape, his usual scowl deepening, swept between your cauldrons, his black robes billowing like a storm cloud. "Silence! Riddle, five points from Slytherin for your disruptive commentary. Y/n, another five from Gryffindor for accusations. Now, focus on your potions!"

The rest of the double Potions lesson crawled by, punctuated by stolen glances and silent barbs exchanged between you and Mattheo. You couldn't deny a strange pull towards him, a morbid fascination that warred with your Gryffindor loyalty. He was everything you loathed – a dark echo of the war that had ravaged the wizarding world – yet you couldn't tear your eyes away from his sharp features and the way his lips curled into a sardonic smile.

-

Days turned into weeks, the animosity between you a constant undercurrent. You'd clash in Defense Against the Dark Arts, your jinxes meeting his hexes in a flurry of sparks. In Herbology, you'd find his carefully tended Venomous Tentacula mysteriously wilting, a silent message that only you understood.

One blustery April evening, you were returning from the library, a stack of Transfiguration books threatening to topple over, when you bumped into someone. Books scattered across the wet cobblestones, a frustrated groan escaping your lips.

"Need a hand, Gryffindor?"

Looking up, you met Mattheo's gaze. The smirk was absent, replaced by a hint of amusement. You considered letting him wallow in your misfortune, but a flicker of something… kindness? in his eyes softened your resolve.

"Actually, yes," you admitted grudgingly.

Together, you gathered the books, a comfortable silence settling between you as you brushed dirt off the parchment. As you handed him a particularly heavy tome, your fingers brushed. A jolt of electricity shot through you, making you gasp.

Mattheo's eyes widened for a fleeting moment before he masked his surprise. "Seems you're not immune to all Slytherin charms, Gryffindor," he said, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

Heat flooded your cheeks. You snatched the book back, stammering, "It's nothing. Just… static." You turned to leave, desperate to escape the unexpected turn of events.

"Wait," Mattheo called out, his voice softer than you expected. He hesitated, then added, "The greenhouses are open tonight. The moonflowers are supposed to be blooming."

You stared at him, unsure of his motives. Was this another one of his games? Yet, the allure of the moonflowers, a rare and beautiful sight, was too strong to resist.

"Fine," you finally conceded, surprising yourself.

-

The walk to the greenhouses was filled with a tense silence. You stole glances at Mattheo, his profile sharp under the moonlight. He seemed different tonight, a vulnerability lurking beneath his usual arrogance.

Reaching the greenhouse dedicated to magical flora, you were greeted by the ethereal glow of moonflowers. Their petals, the color of moonlight itself, shimmered with an otherworldly beauty.

"They're… amazing," you whispered, mesmerized.

Mattheo stood beside you, uncharacteristically quiet. "They say they grant wishes," he said, his voice barely above a murmur.

You scoffed. "Wishes? Like childish fairy tales?"

He didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the moonflowers. You felt a sudden urge to know him better, to understand the darkness that clung to him like a shadow.

"Tell me about your father," you blurted out, the words catching in your throat.

Mattheo's head snapped towards you, his eyes hardening. "Don't," he growled, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Regret washed over you. You knew it was a forbidden topic, a raw nerve he wouldn't appreciate being prodded.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, turning away.

A tense silence stretched between you and Mattheo, broken only by the soft hum of nocturnal insects. The ethereal glow of the moonflowers seemed to mock the awkwardness, their delicate beauty a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within you.

"It's not that simple," Mattheo finally said, his voice low and strained. "He's powerful, yes, but there's more to him than just darkness. There's a reason some still follow him, a reason I can't entirely… disavow."

His words hung heavy in the air. You understood his hesitation. Voldemort, his father, was a symbol of pure evil, a name whispered in fear. Yet, a part of you couldn't help but feel a flicker of sympathy for Mattheo, burdened by the weight of such a legacy.

"Do you… fear him?" you asked softly, surprised by your own boldness.

Mattheo turned to you, his obsidian eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions you couldn't decipher. "Fear is a luxury I can't afford," he said finally. "But there's a constant… wariness. A knowledge that even the smallest misstep could have dire consequences."

You felt a pang of empathy for him. Despite his aloofness and occasional cruelty, Mattheo was just a boy, grappling with the burden of a monstrous father.

"You're not him, Mattheo," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "You have a choice."

He flinched at your touch, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Then, slowly, he lowered his gaze to where your hand rested on his arm. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a silent question hanging between you.

The heat radiating from his arm beneath your touch was unexpected, a stark contrast to the coolness of the night air. His fingers twitched, a silent battle raging within him between acknowledging the connection and maintaining his usual stoic facade.

"I know," Mattheo said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "And that's exactly what scares me." He turned away, his back ramrod straight, but you could see the vulnerability flickering in his tightly held posture.

"What scares you?" you asked softly, stepping closer. He remained silent, his jaw clenched, until you reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. His head snapped back, his gaze meeting yours, a storm of emotions brewing within.

"That this," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "this feeling… it weakens me." He gestured vaguely around the greenhouse, the unspoken implication clear - the vulnerability you represented put him at risk.

"Weakens you how?" you pressed, your voice a gentle challenge. "Makes you a target? Or makes you… feel something you haven't allowed yourself to feel before?"

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a grudging respect. He sighed, a tremor of vulnerability in the breath that escaped his lips. "Both," he admitted, his voice raw. "The truth is… I haven't allowed myself to feel anything for anyone other than myself in a long time."

His words hung in the air, a heavy confession. You understood. Growing up in the shadow of Voldemort, fear and suspicion were likely the only emotions he knew. The vulnerability he felt towards you was a foreign territory, something he didn't know how to navigate, something that scared him.

"Maybe that's not a bad thing," you said softly, your heart pounding in your chest. "Maybe feeling something, even fear, is better than feeling nothing at all."

He stared at you for a long moment, searching your eyes. In that moment, the air vibrated with unspoken emotions – a mixture of fear, curiosity, and a spark of something else entirely.

"Maybe," he finally conceded, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The tension started to dissipate, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

Suddenly, the harsh clanging of the castle curfew bell echoed through the night. Both of you jumped, startled by the sound.

"We should get back," Mattheo said, his voice regaining its usual composure. He offered you his hand, the gesture unexpectedly formal.

You hesitated for a beat, surprised by the formality of his outstretched hand. It was a stark contrast to the raw vulnerability he'd just revealed. Was he retreating back behind his Slytherin mask, the emotional connection a fleeting aberration?

Taking a deep breath, you slipped your hand into his. The warmth from his touch sent a jolt through you, a silent confirmation that the moment hadn't been entirely imagined.

"We should," you agreed, your voice barely a whisper.

-

The walk back to the castle was filled with a comfortable silence, a stark contrast to the charged tension that usually surrounded your interactions. You stole glances at Mattheo, his profile etched sharp against the moonlight. He seemed different tonight, a vulnerability lurking beneath his usual arrogance, a flicker of hope battling the ever-present wariness in his eyes.

As you approached the castle grounds, the imposing silhouette of the building a stark reminder of the rules and boundaries that separated Gryffindors and Slytherins, Mattheo stopped abruptly.

"Wait," he said, his voice low.

You turned to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray curl behind your ear. His touch lingered for a moment, sending shivers down your spine.

"This…" he began, his voice husky, "this can't happen again, can it?"

His question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. The danger of their connection, the weight of his family legacy, the very real possibility of getting hurt – all of it swirled in the space between you.

"I don't know," you admitted honestly. "But maybe…" you trailed off, searching his eyes. "Maybe it doesn't have to be like this. Maybe there's another way."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a slow, hesitant smile. "Another way?" he echoed, a hint of hope creeping into his voice.

You stepped even closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe we can find a way to be… more. Not enemies, not exactly friends, but something in between. Something real."

He stared at you for a long moment, the moonlight glinting off the unshed tears in his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached out and cupped your cheek with his hand.

"Maybe," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Maybe we can try."

The bell tolled once more, a harsh reminder of the world outside their bubble. With a final lingering look, Mattheo squeezed your hand gently before turning and disappearing into the shadows of the castle.

-

A/n: would you guys hate me if I ended it like that?

[gremlinn-has-internet-access]

:)

(Click the drawing for better quality, I use a large canvas.)

I drew this based off of an outfit prompt, but I added a skirt for good measure (+ aesthetic) and I also tested out some extra colors for Obsidian's yellow + blue spots to add more of a dynamic look, but the extra colors are opt, as is the glitter.

I really love how this drawing turned out !! :)

[mxnsterbabe]

Male Drider/Female Reader SFW Wordcount: 3,430 Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist

You're invited to a masquerade ball, hosted by the mysterious Lord Iskinder. A mysterious drider catches your eye, and it turns out that these two may have more in common than you think.

You stood at the edge of the ballroom hosted by the mysterious Lord Iskinder, the grandeur of the space unfolding before you like a scene from a storybook. Opulent chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their light cascading over the guests and illuminating the room with a warm, golden glow. The walls, adorned with golden tapestries and gilded mirrors, echoed the laughter and music that filled the air.

Around you, the guests danced, the epitome of elegance and grace, their masks glinting in the light from the tall windows. Feathers, jewels, and intricate patterns disguised familiar faces, adding an air of mystery and intrigue to the evening.

Your own mask, a delicate creation of lace and pearls, felt like a second skin, its design both concealing and revealing. It was a perfect blend of mystery and allure, designed to intrigue yet allow you to blend seamlessly into the crowd.

Iskinder lingered in your mind as you navigated through the throngs of dancing couples and clusters of chatting nobles. The ball was a rare occasion where the norms of society could be bent, where one could indulge in the freedom of anonymity.

Amidst the swirl of gowns and the soft rustle of silk, your attention was caught by a figure unlike any other. The mystery man was a drider of remarkable presence, standing on the fringes of the dance floor. His upper body was that of a man, his skin a rich, dusky hue that complemented his flowing black hair; but from the waist down, he was a creature of legend, his eight, elegant legs belonging to that of a pinktoe tarantula.

His mask, a masterful creation of silver and obsidian, framed piercing eyes that seemed to see through the frivolous facade of the ball.

The sight of him, so regal and otherworldly, sent a shiver of excitement down your spine. The ballroom, with its gilded opulence and the sea of masked faces, suddenly seemed to fade into the background. The air around you thickened with anticipation, the moment poised on the edge of something transformative.

The concept of a drider, those beings of legend and whispers, had always seemed like a fanciful tale to you, stories meant to entertain and intrigue. Yet, there he stood, living proof of their existence.

His presence in the heart of high society was as breathtaking as it was unprecedented, drawing curious glances and hushed tones from the surrounding guests. Despite their stares, none dared voice their wonder or disdain aloud; the drider's demeanor, poised and unyielding, commanded respect and held a challenge in its stead, as if daring anyone to question his right to be among them.

As your gaze met his from across the room, the world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis. His eyes, bright as molten gold, burned with an intensity that pierced through the sea of masks and whispered conversations. In that brief exchange, something sparked to life, fleeting yet undeniable.

A flush of warmth crept up your cheeks, and you found yourself looking away, overwhelmed by the sudden depth of emotion that single glance had evoked. Your heart fluttered like a caged bird. It was an unfamiliar sensation, this desire to know more.

When you dared to glance back, hoping for another glimpse of the drider who had so captivated your thoughts, you found only the swirling mass of guests. He had vanished, blending into the crowd with a grace and speed you hadn’t expected.

Seeking respite from the press of the crowd, you drifted towards the refreshments table, the drider man still rattling about in your mind. The clink of glass and the murmur of conversation was a welcome distraction.

As you reached for a glass, the animated voices of two women nearby caught your attention, their topic of discussion sending a shiver of curiosity down your spine.

"... and they say Lord Iskinder, the host of tonight's ball, hasn't been seen by anyone this evening. It's all so mysterious," one woman whispered, her voice pitched with curiosity. "In fact, few have ever seen him at all. Those who have are sworn to such secrecy that no one knows what he truly looks like."

The other woman leaned in closer, her interest piqued. "A reclusive lord hosting a grand masquerade? It's the perfect setting for him to wander amongst us unnoticed. The anonymity of the masks, the mingling of guests... it's all by design, surely."

Your curiosity, already kindled by the encounter with the strange drider, flared into a blaze. With a polite interjection, you joined their conversation. "Excuse me, did I hear you correctly? Lord Iskinder has orchestrated this evening's affair yet remains unseen? How peculiar for a host."

The first woman nodded, her eyes alight with the thrill of gossip. "Indeed, it's the talk of the evening. A lord who is more shadow than substance, his presence felt but not seen. This masquerade could very well be his way of hiding in plain sight, observing his guests from behind the veil of anonymity."

The second woman added with a conspiratorial smile, "Some even speculate that the masquerade is a test of sorts, a way for Lord Iskinder to seek out those with a keen eye or perhaps a kindred spirit, without the constraints of societal expectations."

The idea that the elusive lord might be among the guests, shrouded by the anonymity of his own masquerade, sent a thrill through you. The possibility that the ball was not just a social event but a personal quest for the host, a search for connection amidst the pageantry, gave the night an air of unpredictability.

It was all so romantic, wasn’t it?

With a glass of champagne in hand, you retreated to a quieter corner of the ballroom, the golden liquid sparkling under the chandelier's light as you gently swirled the glass. The conversation with the two women lingered in your mind. The idea that Lord Iskinder might have been mingling among his guests incognito, perhaps even observing you at this very moment, lent an exhilarating edge to the night.

Your mind wandered back to the drider, whose presence had so captivated you earlier. If the women's musings held any truth, and Lord Iskinder was indeed among his guests incognito, then the appearance of such a rare and remarkable creature at the ball was no mere coincidence. Perhaps the drider was one of the lord's exclusive guests, a confidant or even a friend, invited to the ball for reasons known only to them.

With each sip of champagne, the possibilities seemed to expand, the boundaries of the ordinary stretching to encompass the magical and the unknown.

Your contemplation was abruptly shattered by a voice, soft like silk and honey. The unexpectedness of it sent a flutter through your heart, a sensation akin to the gentle touch of a butterfly's wing against your skin.

Lifting your gaze, you found yourself once again locked in the captivating stare of the drider from before. His molten gold eyes, gleaming with an inner warmth beneath the intricate mask, held yours in a gaze that was somehow both soft and so intense, it made your toes curl. The mask, an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, could not conceal the expressiveness of his eyes, nor the gentle curve of his lips that hinted at a smile.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked, his voice weaving through the din of the ballroom to reach you, clear and resonant.

The invitation, unexpected yet undeniably thrilling, sparked a mixture of excitement and apprehension within you. The thought of dancing with someone so fundamentally different, whose very form defied the conventions of the dances you knew, had your heart quickening in intrigue.

"I would be delighted," you replied, the words slipping out almost of their own accord, driven by the allure of the unknown. "Though, I must admit, I'm not entirely sure how to dance with... someone as unique as yourself."

His chuckle, a rich sound that seemed to resonate from deep within, was both reassuring and infectious. "Fear not," he assured you, a playful glint in his eyes. "When one possesses eight legs, one learns to make quite a few adjustments. I shall lead, and all you need to do is follow."

With swift grace, he offered you his hand, his movements as fluid and assured as they were gentle. As you placed your hand in his, the contrast between his strength and the careful tenderness of his touch was striking.

Together, you moved towards the dance floor, the thrum of anticipation building with each step. The crowd seemed to part for us, their curiosity mingled with an unspoken respect for the majesty of his presence.

As you reached the center of the dance floor, the music swelled, a lilting melody that seemed to wrap around you, inviting you to lose yourself in the rhythm. With a grace that took your breath away, he began to move, leading you into the dance with an ease that made your earlier apprehensions seem distant memories.

The world around you faded, the grandeur of the ballroom, the whispering guests, even the constraints of your own body seemed to dissolve in the magic of the moment. Iskinder's movements were a marvel, lithe legs strangely delicate. He was beautiful.

As the dance reached its crescendo, he executed a twirl, his movements orchestrating yours with such skill that you found yourself spinning, the room whirling around you in a blur of lights and colours. In that moment, suspended in the dance, you felt a joyous abandon that had your heart in your throat.

As the momentum of the twirl gently subsided, you found yourself momentarily unsteady, the world still spinning slightly around you. In an instant, one of the drider’ss slender spider legs moved to steady you against his chest. The unexpectedness of the gesture, the feel of his leg against you, might have startled you under different circumstances, but in that moment, it was nothing short of a saving grace.

"I do apologise," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble that resonated through the close space between you. "I sometimes forget how... unconventional my form can be."

You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips, your heart still racing from the dance and the near fall. "No, I should be thanking you. Without your quick reflexes, I'd have been the evening's spectacle, tumbling across the dance floor."

The thought alone was enough to bring a flush of embarrassment to your cheeks, the imagined titters and whispers of the assembled guests a mortifying prospect. Yet, his next gesture swept away any lingering discomfort.

With a tenderness that took you by surprise, he reached up to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The contact, brief though it was, sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

"You are quite a spectacle, though for entirely different reasons," he said, his voice low, imbued with a sincerity that made you lift your gaze to meet his. In the gold of his eyes, you saw a warmth, an admiration that held you captive, and for a fleeting moment, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you.

The air between you charged. There was a pull as undeniable as it was unexpected. You found yourself leaning in, drawn by a force you couldn't quite name, the distance between you diminishing with each passing second. The possibility of a kiss, the mingling of breath and the meeting of lips, hovered in the space between you, tantalizing and terrifying in equal measure.

As the reality of the moment, of the public setting and the eyes that might very well be upon you, crashed back in, you took a step back, breaking the spell. The loss of proximity felt like a cold draft, a reminder of the boundaries that society, and your own caution, imposed.

Sensing the shift, Iskinder's expression softened, a note of concern creeping into his voice. "Perhaps you need some fresh air," he suggested, his gaze searching yours for signs of distress.

You shook your head, the rapid beat of your heart beginning to steady once more. "No, truly, I'm fine," you insisted, though the lingering warmth of his touch and the nearness of what might have been left you feeling anything but settled.

Seeing the hesitation in your eyes, he proposed once more, his voice gentle yet insistent. "Perhaps a moment of fresh air would do you good," he suggested, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made it difficult to look away. "And, should you wish for company, I could join you outside in a few moments. It might afford us the opportunity to converse away from the crowd."

The idea of retreating to the relative solitude of the gardens, especially in the company of such an intriguing figure, sparked a flicker of excitement within you. Yet, the impropriety of the suggestion, the departure from the strictures of decorum that such a meeting would entail, gave you pause.

Sensing your reluctance, he added, "At events such as these, draped in masks and shadows, propriety often takes a back seat to intrigue. We are all here to escape the mundane, if only for a night."

His words, spoken with a confidence that bordered on persuasion, tipped the scales. The allure of stolen moments under the cover of night, away from the prying eyes and whispered judgments of the ballroom, proved too tempting to resist.

Resolved to take a chance on the unexpected, you agreed to meet him outside. Yet, before you could part ways, a sudden thought struck you. "I realise I don't even know your name," you said, a blush colouring your cheeks at the oversight.

With a smile that was both enigmatic and disarmingly genuine, he replied, "My name is Lord Iskinder." The revelation, delivered with a flash of sharp, predatory teeth that glinted in the ballroom's light, sent a jolt of surprise through you.

Lord Iskinder. The enigmatic host of the ball, the subject of whispered speculation and rumour, stood before you, not just a figure of myth but a living, breathing presence.

As the significance of the revelation settled over you, Iskinder offered a nod of acknowledgment, as if he understood the weight of what he had just disclosed. Then, turning delicately, he turned and vanished into the crowd.

As you stepped out into the crisp embrace of the evening air a minute later, the gardens unfolded before you like a scene from a dream. The lawns were bordered by beds of fragrant flowers, their sweet scent mingling with the earthy aroma of the night. Lanterns hung from the boughs of ancient trees, casting a soft, dappled light that danced on the pathways, guiding your steps and painting the scene with an ethereal glow.

Ahead, a gazebo, draped in climbing ivy and delicate blooms, stood as a focal point within the garden's design. It was there, under its latticed roof, that you noticed two orcish women, their forms silhouetted by the lanterns' gentle luminescence. They were locked in an embrace, sharing a kiss as the shorter woman titled her head back.

The sight, tender and unabashed, stirred a curious longing within you, a whisper of wonder about the sensation of Iskinder's kiss, the press of his lips.

Lost in thought, you scarcely noticed the approach of a presence until it was nearly upon you. The air seemed to shift, charged with an anticipation that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Turning, you found yourself once again in the company of Iskinder, his smile ravishing.

Under the moonlight, he appeared transformed. The soft silver light lent an ethereal quality to his features, highlighting the angularity of his face and the deep pools of his molten gold eyes. His hair, a cascading waterfall of black, shimmered with a lustrous sheen. The spider half of his form, though shadowed, moved with a silent grace that was utterly mesmerising.

His voice, when he spoke, was a soft murmur that seemed to caress the night air, a contrast to the visual ferocity of his form. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," he said, his words tinged with warmth.

The sight of him, so formidable yet so gentle, made you squirm. The flash of sharp teeth as he spoke, far from deterring you, only served to heighten the allure. Gods, you wanted to kiss him.

As if attuned to your thoughts, Iskinder leaned in, his proximity erasing the remnants of the evening's chill. The scent of roses, a natural, earthy fragrance that seemed to emanate from his very being, mingled with notes of champagne. His hair brushed against your skin, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine.

The air between you was charged with anticipation, every breath you took laced with the promise of what might come. His eyes, glowing softly in the moonlit garden, held yours with an intensity that seemed to pierce through to your very soul. You found yourself caught in the gravity of the moment, the world around you narrowing to the space where you and Iskinder stood, teetering on the brink of a kiss.

Yet, just as the distance between you dwindled to nothing, as you braced for the contact you both sought and feared, Iskinder pulled back. The sudden absence of his warmth left you momentarily adrift, a silent plea on your lips. He didn't move far; instead, his hand found yours, his grip firm and reassuring as he led you deeper into the garden.

The path wound through the garden, each step taking you further from the ballroom's echoes and closer to a solitude you hadn't realized you craved. When you arrived at a secluded flower garden, embraced by latticed walls that seemed to hold the night at bay, Iskinder stopped. Here, surrounded by the gentle fragrance of blooms and the soft rustle of leaves, he turned to face you once more.

This time, there was no hesitation. Iskinder pulled you into his embrace, his arms encircling you with a strength that was both protective and inviting.

Then, he kissed you.

The kiss was everything and nothing like you'd imagined. His lips were softer than you'd expected, their touch igniting a fire that raced through your veins, leaving you breathless and wanting. The taste of him, masculine and sharp, was tempered by the sweetness of champagne on his tongue.

As Iskinder deepened the kiss, the world around you seemed to dissolve, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on yours, the gentle yet insistent press of his lips, and the intermingling of your breaths. The sharpness of his teeth grazed your lip in a fleeting caress, a thrill of danger that made you sigh almost wistfully.

Finally, necessity compelled you to break the kiss, the need for air pulling you back to the present. You were left breathless, your cheeks flushed with a rosy hue - you knew by how hot you felt, burning up.

Iskinder, ever attentive, placed a lingering kiss at the corner of your lips. His arm remained securely around your waist, sharp nails just grazing your hips.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, the words a tender echo in the secluded garden. The sincerity in his voice made your heart swell.

In a moment of boldness, fueled by the magic of the night and the undeniable bond you felt, you replied, "So are you, Lord Iskinder. Beautiful."

For a moment, Iskinder seemed taken aback, a bashful light touching his eyes. "People rarely call me beautiful," he admitted, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "Yet, coming from you, I believe it."

You reached up to flutter a hand across his cheek, where the cool mask met his skin.

As the night air began to cool, Iskinder pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Shall we go back? I find myself eager to dance with you again, under the watchful eyes of my guests."

The prospect of rejoining the throng of guests, of stepping back into the public eye where the magic of your secluded encounter might fade, filled you with a quiet disappointment.

“Can’t we just stay out here forever?”

Sensing your reluctance, Iskinder offered a compromise, his voice low and inviting. "If you would grant me the honor of your company tomorrow evening, you could return to my home. There, away from prying eyes, we could spend the night… just the two of us."

The invitation sparked a flame of anticipation within you. The promise of more time with Iskinder was an offer too compelling to refuse.

With a grin, you nodded - and stood on your toes to pull him in for one last, lingering kiss.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY: PUMPKIN SOUP

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions

Read after the cut

---

For two days you persist in your begging for a hospital stay, seizing feebly at the improbable chance of liberty through that once feared institution.

You’ve read of women escaping their keepers through a word in the ear of some sympathetic doctor or neighbouring patient, fantasising at length that you might mimic such simple ingenuity.

The obsidian eyes of cameras in their probing fleets, your blood family surging forth to embrace you, weeping in regret at their heartless desertion— in want of it you indulge in an even greater exaggeration of illness to the extremes of near losing your voice to the performance.

Yet for all that you moan and cough and writhe in the clutches of muscle cramps and drenching fever Hannibal rejects your pleas with minimal reply.

He works shifts at the office around your care, bathing you and changing sodden bedsheets twice daily by duteous hand.

You’re fed medicine and light stews when you’re too frail to take the spoon yourself, and scarcely hungry enough to swallow, have throbbing joints chafed between his palms at your slightest complaint of suffering.

All your favourite music and filmography is set up on a timer so that you need not leave the bed at the end of each recording; like a slovenly youth you loll, watching Hammer Horror pictures back-to-back, and think your captor’s house far more lush than even those lurid sets.

When you waver between frigid and overheated your jailer adapts the room to either need, exchanging one thickness of blanket for another, training a fan upon you until you cannot help but squirm luxuriously in the breeze.

It’s on the third day, held through an attack of coughing in Hannibal’s arms, that you disintegrate and softly weep with the shame of your gratitude towards him.

He lifts your chin up in his palm, his eyes moist with empathy.

“Dear one,” he says. “What is it? Are you in pain?”

“I just don’t understand,” you say, rubbing a tear from the stinging corner of your eye. “How can you be what you are and still be so kind to me?”

Hannibal smiles, all fatherly goodwill, unruffled by the gauche enquiry.

“I am many men, and one. You knew this from the moment you sat before me in my office, kicking your foot in dislike of what you saw there. With you I’ve always been open with that aspect of myself. Some among us in society define themselves primarily by the sport they favour; I, however, embrace my multitudes, as should you, Little One.”

He strides across to your window, letting in a rope of umber light like the hair of a tower-bound princess.

“Yeah,” you say. “I get that. We’re different people with everybody. That’s how we survive: by being who they want so that they’ll like us. But what I mean is— this is real. Not just a costume, or a trick. You’re good to me because you’re choosing to be. But why do you want to do all this for me when I’m not like you?”

"I have faith that you'll come around,” says Hannibal, easily. “You don't wholly detest this life as you did in the beginning. Even what you consider the most unsavoury aspects of it will soon appeal to you, if only for the briefest moment."

You scent the inference behind his words and shake your head.

"I don't want to eat Uncle Lee. Even if I was like you, Daddy, I really don’t think I could.”

Hannibal’s visage, previously neutral, lightens with the solemn interest you recognise from therapy.

“Why is that?" he asks. “What would prevent you if you shared my tastes?”

“It’d feel... dirty."

You tense up, anticipating an airy dismissal, and are surprised when Hannibal appears to digest the answer quite as seriously as any debate.

“You equate the concept of eating flesh with sex,” he says. “A fellatio of sorts.”

Recouping from a startled coughing fit, you rasp, “I mean, not always, or that’d be super weird, but in this case— maybe? But even if I saw it as just degrading him the way he did to me, eating him would make me sick. Leland’s basically diseased."

Hannibal’s brows arch.

"If he were then I wouldn't suggest such a feast."

With a weak groan you shift to face the wall.

"You know what I mean. I just don't want to eat someone so disgusting. I mean, I don't want to eat anyone."

“Or anything, for that matter,” Hannibal comments; the quickness of his answer puts you in mind of Will.

“This isn't about that.”

"Yet it isn't entirely divorced from your illness, either."

You don’t reply, wishing he’d cut you free of the conversation and leave you to the consoling darkness of your chosen music to softly decay. He will never convince you to be what he is; you’ll only ever pretend until you’re loose of this house, or under the earth. You were not built to eat.

“What if someone else were to consume Leland Frost?" asks Hannibal suddenly.

Rolling onto your back again you find that he is the one now turned away, allowing you an enigmatic angle of cheek, the dash of his jawline, a noble in stasis.

“You'd do that for me?" you ask. “You’d eat Leland Frost?”

“Without question. It would be a token of my love."

A bashfulness comes over you, your heart stuttering in blighted rejoice that you, of all women, he would not have die in a doll.

Alana he would kill, you feel, though only through some necessity to silence or remove some object in her; Hannibal enjoys her too much to otherwise let her go, as possessive of his human toys as of the treasure box of life he has built about him.

You, the daughter-pet of the man that is his lover in all but the physical, are too vital to discard. This you have over Alana, the iron guard that is to be the favoured concubine of kings.

"I know I'm not the one you love,” you mutter, keen to pretend you hadn't heard Hannibal's wistful ruminations on the matter. “Will is.”

Hannibal sits down at your bedside, making the chair rather more elegant for his arrangement within it. You cannot help but glance at his crossed legs, feeling by memory the weight resting between them.

“I'm capable of ardour for more than one being simultaneously,” says Hannibal. “Would I have invited you into my home if I were not?"

Your mouth opens, then seals again without comment.

Once, you would have stridently declared you’d rather be detested by a cannibal than held in any regard, but being that such a claim is no longer honest you can only look at the ceiling and will yourself away from that coward’s longing to be loved.

"Do you still think that you’re unworthy?” asks Hannibal, with a certain sadness. “I selected you above others because upon reading your files and the many unhappy confessions made in private sectors of your online existence I saw your resilient heart, your keen perception of unspoken truths, and a compassion for those you hold close, few though they were, at that time.

“I saw, too, a proximity to darkness that bore a forbidden allure to you, that which you resisted through an oppressed certainty that you should.

“Your passion for it, your torment in the stranglehold of conformity— you were enamoured with your own illness and its extremes: the minimum you could consume, the lengths of time you could abstain from sustenance. The symptoms, even the most repugnant of them delighted you in the provision of security they brought to an unstable universe. That craving for discipline and your adherence to it I admired.”

Hannibal pauses, watching you take in his confession with a continuing want of acceptance.

“Ultimately you recoil from my habits as you do from all eating,” he says. “In you, the consumption of human flesh is made equal to that of all animals.”

With a jolt you stare at him, wondering if he is aware that you've come to so similar a realisation about him.

"I’ll never be a cannibal,” you say. “You get that, right? I don’t want to disappoint you, Daddy, but I would never eat a human being. Not by choice."

Your captor leans into your cheek, his breath stirring a tremble of horrid pleasure down your neck almost to your breast like the venom of an asp.

"Precisely,” he murmurs. “You’ll submit in the knowledge that you must."

The quilt shifts as his arm slides beneath it with a gentle cunning. You fasten your fevered thighs against him, aware that you have not bathed since the previous night and are ripe from your bedbound decay.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “I’m sick and dirty.”

“Then when I’m finished I’ll wash you and change the sheets,” says Hannibal, looking warmly down at you under lowered lids. “You’re taut from lack of release. I will unwind you from that knot; this, too, is care for you.”

His fingers form the simulacrum of a key, your entrance the lock he means to open for his amusement. You release a shivering gasp as he pushes into you, putrescent with the guilt that this deathmonger finds no resistance in the soaking welcome of you.

He touches you where the moonlight of forbidden nerve song waxes into silver life, and he does not release you until the phantasmagoric wilds of it reform at some mad height.

Twice he walks you there on well-trained fingertips, his face in the cave of your shoulder and neck, kissing the raised presence of a vein.

You feel his temptation to bite the flesh from that junction, and there is something erotic in his restraint, the tension in him as his breath smokes your throat. His teeth raise grooves there, flirting with the meat beneath your skin, his warm tongue taking the measure of your flavour.

You catch at him, push at him, feeble and defenceless. How kindly he absorbs this little violence, pressing your fists to his pursed mouth to soften them with his forgiveness.

He will not punish you for this, allows you this instinct to resist the hunter’s dominance. That he does not fuck you with his phallus is another proof of his strength; that form of sex he might have when you’re well, and a more even match against him.

His fingers in you curl like the neck of the swan over Leda, and you hear your tears fall upon the quilt, an errant rainfall.

“So beautiful,” says Hannibal, as you croak in hopeless admission of pleasure. “It’s a pity you’re unwell. Your voice is a joy to listen to at times like this.”

You think he’d like your death screams as much, the keen blackness of his eyes glistening with the satiation of the knife. He would study you, tanned head aside, considering how he might depict your agonies in graphite to commemorate their aesthetic peak.

What painting would serve as the base of this image? The Death of Marat? Saturn Eating His Son? You’re not educated enough to anticipate where so cruelly intellectual a mind would take root for inspiration. Hannibal has never conducted a human experiment quite like the one in which you are subject, this from the subtleties of his behaviour you feel, the satisfaction he takes from a new evil.

Killing and eating those that stain his world with imperfection is no sexual act to Hannibal as it is for others of his monstrous guild, but it may become sensual in recollection of what you once were to him. Should he slaughter you he’d stroke himself afterwards into religious ecstasies, a eulogy to all the hours emptied within you.

Even as he plays the scales of your bleak rapture in the present you are sure he pictures it, the murder that has not been. His hand, in thought, around your heart, letting it beat against his wrist like the lapping tongue of a wolfess dying in the snow.

You are beautiful to him in two realms: the real and parallel, the living and the dead. He would channel his love through your body, display you like the tortured beauty of some vanquished clan, whatever wound he’d killed you by presented like a brooch, some bright red gem.

After your death, what would become of you then?

Young people of the same morbid leanings you’d once indulged in would admire the images of the crime scene as they might some rare exhibition, unaware that the man that had posed you with such elaborate direction had fucked you with that same drive.

Yet perhaps they would learn of it, your organs examined for such sadistic tampering, and would pity you for your miserable life.

If only you were not so afraid to die: you must be his breathing art for all your days, and that may well be worse.

Your expression must glaze with this dark musing, for Hannibal takes back his arm from the quilt and slips noiselessly into the bathroom to wash his hands of your sour delight.

Later, when you’re washed under crisp plum and ebony sheets he comes to you once more with a glass of water and a pill in his hand.

“What’s that?” you ask, straightening against the mountainous stack of pillows. “I already had ibuprofen.”

“It’s a sleeping aid,” says Hannibal. “You were coughing through the night. This will assure you rest undisturbed.”

Miserably you contemplate the calories in the little capsule before you take it, hoping it will at least grant a dreamless sleep.

In this you are disappointed; your mind walks a road of memory, revisiting a September afternoon you’d watched Leland Frost work on your father’s car, his muscled body rolling under his shirt like an orca beneath a wave.

In the dream he whistles at a passing woman, a dimple creasing his grin.

“Ah, I need a girl like you, me.”

His blond head snaps up to look at you as you shrink back towards the house.

“No, no, cher. Stay. There somebody been asking about me?”

You scuff a white sneaker against the sidewalk, dirtying the sole.

“No, Uncle Lee.”

Leland wipes his hands on stained blue jeans and rises into a crouch, his smile like the coil of an eel in rivers deep.

“Aw, come on,” he says, cajoling. “I seen her runnin’ after you the other day. That lil, lil girl that live at the end of the street.”

“She’s just in my class, that’s all,” you insist. “She’s just a friend.”

Leland spits a brown liquid under the car and laughs.

“You got no friends but me. That girl, Hannah. She don’t like you. Still she come after you. I wanna know what she wanted.”

You look at your shoes, counting the eyelets. Leland’s eyes brand your bowed temple with their questioning.

“She asked about you,” you mumble. “And I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s good,” says Lee. “But you better tell me what she asked.”

“If I knew you were a bad man. And I said I don’t know what she’s talking about, just like you said.”

Leland winks, a conspiratorial gesture.

“That’s my girl.”

You’ve had worse dreams, yet you spring from this one as though from the top stair of hell, wishing with a sickened wrench of innards that Hannibal was in the room to calm you from its frightful squall.

Angered by your own wallowing terror, you get out of bed and force yourself to stand in front of the mirror in penance. You examine your body from all perspectives, fancying you see it narrowed by your lack of appetite while simultaneously convinced that it hasn’t changed at all.

Were that you were unwell always: you’d waste to the littleness of a Frozen Charlotte, a frail perfect thing, not the child darling lumped from clay in a killer’s hands. Neither Will nor Hannibal quite understand your fervent tenacity to achieve the quality of air, nor will either help you to achieve it.

There are limits to their madness, immune as they are to any folie à deux but their own. You are a soldier of one in your aim, ground down to lose faith in the war.

In a malaise you attempt a slow lap of the room, made pathetic by your coughing and quivering progress from one end of it to the next.

Hannibal’s car sends a lasso of auburn leaves up from the wet road as he rides in under your window; hampered by time, you return to the mirror to body check again, pulling up your nightdress in the hope your stomach has by the devil’s miracle become concave, your ribs closed in like praying hands.

Disappointed, you get back into bed and arrange yourself in a believable pose of just waking for Hannibal to find.

“How did you sleep, Little One?” he asks, setting a bowl of pumpkin soup down on a tray before you.

“Not too well,” you admit. “I had a dream about Uncle Lee again. Well, a memory, I guess.”

“You’ve remembered something new,” says Hannibal. “What have you retrieved from the galleries of time?”

It relieves you that he's so attune to your need to confess, seated at your bedside with such swiftness it is as if he never left.

“There really were other girls,” you say. “I know that for sure, now. There was this one girl, Hannah— I guess she wanted my help, and I told her to go away and that I didn’t know anything. I was scared, but still. It was wrong of me to do that to her when she needed a friend.”

“You were a child,” says Hannibal, soberly. “I’ll remind you as many times as is required of me. Leland may have hurt you had you struck out against him.”

You bow your head in rejection of his comfort.

“There were other girls that asked me for help when I got older, and I never said a word. I don’t deserve forgiveness for that, and honestly, I don’t want it, either. That wouldn’t help anybody. I just wish... well, it’s stupid, but I wish I could turn back time and do it all again.”

“The past cannot be reversed, as tempted as one might be to take it upon oneself to calculate some process of correcting one’s mistakes. You are not alone in that desire, however. I, too, have considered how it might be done. Alas, it is an impossible fantasy. There’s no benefit to ruminating on such things.”

You consider Hannibal in a kind of awe. What could such a being regret if not the act of murder?

A telephone knells in the gut of the house.

“Drink your soup,” says Hannibal, getting to his feet. “I hope to see at least half of it absent on my return.”

Resisting the compulsion to roll your eyes at him you say, with a falsely placid air, “Okay, Daddy. Sure thing.”

You make reluctant scrapes with your spoon about the bowl, swilling each mouthful about your teeth ten times before you swallow.

In five minutes Hannibal comes back to you with the telephone in his hand. There is animation to his face you’ve noticed absent since his companion left to sink himself into the case again.

“It’s Will,” says Hannibal, the expected answer. “He wants to talk to you.”

“He does?” you say, wrinkling your nose. “Wow. He’s a changed man.”

You take the receiver, waiting until Hannibal leaves to return your soup tray to the kitchen before you speak into it.

“Hi, Daddy,” you say.

It’s loathsome how eagerly the words spill from your lips, a breathless young girl’s gladness to hear from the object of a summer pash.

“Hey,” says Will. “How are you feeling? Hannibal told me you were laid up.”

“Yep. Chest infection. Listen to me.”

You cough to demonstrate, and Will laughs gently.

“That’s rough. Has Dr Lecter been taking good care of you?”

“Yeah. Sure. Just like he always does. When are you coming home? It’s Halloween in two days. It’ll be weird without you. It’s my favourite holiday.”

Will chuckles again.

“I’ll bet it is. I’ll try to get away. Jack’s got me pretty tied up, but I’ll do my best.”

You imagine Will in the mystery of his house, his free hand tousling the miscellaneous heads of many dogs. That home would smell of hair, and old books, of Will, the hermit fisherman; its scent is in your throat as if you were there, upon his lap again.

Certainly you seem able to do nothing else, your form enraptured with what once merely hurt.

“Have you missed me, Will?” you ask, coyly, and just as coyly he answers.

“Some of you.”

“Hey!” you protest, wriggling under your quilt.

The night Will had covered your mouth as he fucked his irritation up into you is like a sunrise of the womb, a burning, desirous giant. It is horrible what these men do, but like the snarling ache of starving you must love it against all that you know to be true and good.

“Just kidding,” says Will, a grin in his voice. “I do miss you. But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Something serious.”

The solemn shift in Will’s voice nips the smirk from your lips at once.

“What is it?” you ask. “What do you mean?”

“I got an MRI the other day. Figured it was time to get to the bottom of those seizures I’ve been having. Alana hooked me up; I guess somebody owed her a favour. Turns out I have encephalitis. I’ve been in the hospital for a couple of days. Probably going to be on medication for a while now.”

The hand gripping the receiver seems to run with fire over blood.

“Oh, God,” you say, breathless with nerves. “Is everything okay? Are you?”

“Okay isn’t the word I’d use,” says Will grimly. “You knew about this already, One. I want to know how.”

Panic drills you through with such adrenaline that you feel as though you’re above the bed rather than within it. If you expose the truth you’ll be punished severely, perhaps even lethally should it drive the two men apart.

You’d made a mistake in taunting Will over their friendship; you should have left well alone, endured their union in unstirring quiet as you’d done under Leland Frost.

“Um,” you mumble. “I know a lot of stuff before it happens. I just feel like it’s true, or guess, like you said. Or I dream about it.”

“This wasn’t out of any dream. The details were too specific. You said something about the food. Somebody told you what was going on, and what was triggering my encephalitis, because they were purposefully making it worse.”

Will pauses, and when he speaks again his tone is clipped, all controlled rage.

“It was Hannibal, and you covered for him. Not very well, but you did.”

“I didn’t know he was doing it on purpose!” you squeak. “He seemed worried about you, Will, I thought—”

“Don’t say anything else. Just listen to me.”

You chew at a loose whisker of skin on your lip, the same you’ve gnawed to the blood beneath a thousand times in conflict.

“I’m going to come home in a couple of days,” says Will. “I’m going to talk to Hannibal and you’re going to stay out of it, just like I asked you to. This is between me and him. Not you. Please don’t disrespect me by getting in the way.”

“He’ll be so mad at me,” you croak. “Oh, God. Please don’t say anything to him, Will. Just leave it. What if I’ve ruined everything?”

There is a protracted silence into which you both breathe like the winds at the end of the world.

“If anything’s ruined just know that it isn’t you that’s to blame,” says Will, at last. “Goodbye, Little One. I’ll see you soon.”

The line goes dead, leaving the phone a chill corpse in your hand.

[rainforestakiie]

Vacation Away Part 01

hello. this is for @inubaki! who made me some amazing fanart for my fics! i'm so greatful! thank you so much!

'Adam and Lucifer get the same idea to take a break on earth. Adam in heaven and Lucifer in hell, both take on human form and embark to earth only to stumble in to one another. Whether or not Lucifer catches onto who Adam’s first is up to you while Adam remains clueless or in denial. They spend the weekend together and basically just begin falling in love without labels or restraint. But they are on a time limit.'

there is a second part of this. i changed it a little but i hope you like it inubaki. i love your other ideas too! so i might write them as well!

ah, hope you enjoy it at least!

Vacation Away (Adam/Lucifer goes on vacation on Earth) = Part 01. Part 02.

A month after the harrowing clash between the Exterminations and the Princess of Hell, Adam was still engulfed in torment. His head throbbed with a relentless heaviness, a dizzying fog clouding his thoughts. His body remained seared with pain, each ache a cruel reminder of his suffering. His spirit, once resilient, now lay in shambles, a shadow of the man he once was. The agony was a haunting echo of his earliest wounds, inflicted by Lilith’s poisonous actions, Eve’s heartbreak, and the ultimate devastation wrought by his archangel’s betrayal.

It was as if Adam had never healed at all. A suffocating, obsidian cloud of despair and depression seemed to cling to him, smothering any breath of relief. He gasped for air, his chest constricted by the relentless grip of sorrow. Only in those fleeting moments of waking from slumber did he feel a whisper of peace, a fleeting escape from the nightmares that plagued his restless nights.

After the brutal beating, whether he deserved it or not was irrelevant to him now. Adam found himself teetering on the brink of death once more. It was a cruel pattern, a relentless cycle of near-death encounters whenever one of the three crossed his path. Fate had a twisted sense of humour, always dealing Adam the losing hand, leaving him battered and scarred after every encounter. Despite the supposed necessity of meetings between Heaven and Hell, Adam had fought fervently to be excluded, but Sera and Michael had insisted on his involvement as the first man. His gut feeling had been right; their meetings were rife with snide remarks and veiled insults from the King and Queen of Hell. Even in silence, Adam felt like nothing more than their designated punching bag.

His ego was shattered, bruised by the beating inflicted by the very one who had once hurt him the most. Adam was merely following orders, never wishing to become an instrument of death against the Sinners. Yet, Heaven's demands were unyielding, and Sera’s insistence on his involvement only deepened his misery. Adam, who never sought this path, found himself trapped in a relentless cycle of pain and sorrow.

Adam could never see things from the Princess of Hell's perspective. To him, she was naive, far too sheltered to truly grasp the gravity of the souls she sought to redeem. Adam had never wanted to be involved in the first place. He preferred to feign ignorance, to pretend he was unaware of humanity's darkest deeds. There was a clear reason why a human soul descended to Hell instead of ascending to Heaven. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't for minor transgressions or even serious crimes where remorse was shown. Heaven's gates were not as stringent as many believed. Not a single Sinner in Hell was innocent; every soul there had committed grievous acts against humanity, acts of harm and murder, devoid of remorse or repentance.

The Princess of Hell, in Adam’s eyes, was utterly foolish. She was delusional to think that smiles, trust, and rainbows could redeem those who had no regret for the heinous crimes that damned them to Hell in the first place. Without genuine remorse, the gates of Heaven would remain forever closed to them.

Perhaps Adam had embraced his role as Leader of Extermination too fervently, but the Princess was blind to the dangers she courted. She stirred emotions, rattled cages, and pushed boundaries without understanding the consequences. The Angels were duty-bound to protect the righteous, and if the Princess had her way, victims would be forced to confront their worst perpetrators in Heaven—a perverse and cruel outcome.

What she was doing was fundamentally wrong. And the so-called snake, the King of Hell, wouldn’t even enlighten her about the true nature of Hell and its Sinners. To Adam, it was insanity. Perhaps he had been too rash, too rough, and perhaps he deserved the reprimand he received. But for heaven's sake, the Princess needed to be put in her place, too. Her actions threatened to harm more human souls.

Adam groaned, running a hand over his face. His skin prickled with anger, his golden feathers bristled. He had nearly died in Hell. After the cowardly King granted him 'mercy,' a one-eyed Sinner had stabbed him. This incident only reinforced his point. Lute had dragged him back to Heaven, to Sera and Emily, just in time. He was alive, still an Angel, but now...sicker, he guessed.

Sliding off the side of the bed, Adam’s head pulsed with a relentless, excruciating pain, and his golden wings fluttered and shuddered at his sides. The only visible remnant of his near-death experience was the star-shaped scar on his chest. The rest of his ailments were more insidious, affecting his health in ways he couldn’t fully comprehend.

The persistent knocking on his door made his dizziness worse. He wobbled towards it, dragging his wings across the floor. "Go away," he murmured.

Silence followed, and Adam foolishly thought the person had left. He had been locked in his room since his narrow escape from death. But then, a small, timid voice broke through the door.

"Adam?" Emily whimpered. "You’ve been inside for so long… please…"

Adam could never be cruel to Emily. She was one of the sweetest angels, yet she shared the Princess of Hell’s naivety about the truth of Sinners and Hell. He couldn’t bring himself to shatter her innocence; the light in her eyes would dim if she knew the full extent of the darkness. Sera had wanted to cruelly enlighten her, but Adam had begged the older Seraphim not to.

Sighing deeply, Adam opened the door, and the small Seraphim jumped in surprise. Her eyes brightened upon seeing him, but concern quickly spread across her face, her shoulders tensing with worry.

"Oh, Adam! How are you feeling?" she asked, taking hold of his hands. "You look dreadful! Have you been eating? Sleeping? Do you need anything? I can get some medicine for you."

Adam managed a small smile. Emily was probably the only one who showed him genuine care. "I’m fine, really, Emily. I just want to be left alone."

"But I haven’t seen you in so long…" Emily's wings drooped. "I wanted to check on you."

"I know you did, and I appreciate it." Adam ruffled her soft purple and white hair. "I think I need a break. A vacation or something. I need to get away from everything. My head… it’s not in a great place. It hasn’t been for a long time."

Emily sniffled. "A break? You want to get away from everyone? Even me?"

"No, no," Adam hurried to reassure her. "Not you, Emily. I just need time away from Heaven, Hell, Sera, and everything else. I’m sure there will be another meeting soon, and I know I’ll be forced to attend again…"

He desperately needed to withdraw from Extermination Day and everything related to Hell. He would figure it out eventually. "I have too much noise in my head. Too much going on, and I need time."

"Oh," Emily mumbled softly, her head slowly nodding.

She seemed deep in thought, and Adam almost worried. Emily always had strange ideas. He could see the gears turning in her little head and fought the urge not to shut the door.

"You should go to Earth!" she suddenly exclaimed brightly. "You should go down to Earth! That’s the best place to go! Nobody would think to look for you there!"

Adam paused, considering. Earth? That might be a good idea. On Earth, nobody knew who he was. In Heaven, he was always drowning in attention. It was suffocating. He couldn’t even go outside without being mobbed by Winners. It was too much. He wasn’t used to being followed around like that, having people cling to him. He would never get used to it.

Nobody knew him on Earth. The humans there wouldn’t even blink twice if they saw him.

"I mean, we can give you a disguise if you’d like?" Emily offered, her pretty wings fluttering. She smiled so brightly, so sweetly, that Adam found himself agreeing without fully thinking it through.

"But Sera would never allow it," he deflated, excitement sparking momentarily. "She would rather cut off her wings than let me go to Earth for a break. As a Seraphim, I need her permission to leave Heaven's gates..."

"I’m a Seraphim too!" Emily huffed, puffing her chest out as her angelic eye glowed. "I can give you permission, and I will deal with Sera later!"

"I don’t want to cause problems for you. Sera’s pretty… strict. We both know she’ll never be happy with this, and I don’t want you to bear the brunt of her anger." Adam frowned, recalling how terrifying Sera was when angry. He had always avoided being on the receiving end of it and couldn’t forgive himself if Emily had to endure it.

But Emily continued to glow, unfazed by the thought of Sera’s wrath. "Don’t worry about Sera. Leave her to me. I can handle her."

"But—"

Emily gave him such a pointed look that Adam was reminded that despite her small and fragile appearance, she was ten times more powerful than he was. Emily was an ancient being, maybe even triple his age.

"If you’re sure…" Adam weakly conceded.

Emily huffed, straightening her form and planting her hands on her hips. "I’ll get all the paperwork done without Sera noticing! We’ll aim for you to leave next week!"

Adam found himself smiling. This was why he adored Emily so much.

"Thank you, Emily."

She beamed in return.

A couple of days later, Emily sat at the end of Adam’s bed, surrounded by a bundle of papers. Her pretty eyes shimmered with enthusiasm as she sifted through the parchments, a sweet smile on her face.

“Or, we have these!” she sang, holding up a parchment with a long list of names. “I put together all the newest upcoming music festivals! Maybe you could attend one of these? It might be fun!”

Adam smiled crookedly, his eyes scanning the words. Emily was so considerate, so thoughtful. She had compiled numerous ideas and suggestions for his vacation, detailing places he could go and things he could try. Of course, as long as he brought her something back. She was innocent and sweet, reminding him of his own daughters.

“I really appreciate the thought, but I’m going on a break to get away from noise, not to be around more,” he said. In truth, he’d love to attend a music festival or even a concert. But his daily headaches and constant fatigue demanded a calm, still place with as few people as possible. “I need silence, I think…”

Something like Eden, a small voice whispered, but Adam ignored it.

“So, Hawaii’s out of the question then.” Emily pouted. “I heard the flowers are very pretty.”

“And the drinks are amazing,” Adam joked, his grin widening as Emily giggled.

Yet, his headache at the thought. He would love to go to Hawaii; it would be amazing. The alcohol could help ease his anxiety, and the flowers were beautiful. Adam would love to wear one of those flower leis. But Hawaii was a tourist magnet, teeming with people. While they wouldn’t recognize him, Adam wanted solitude, not the heart of a crowd. So, Hawaii was out of the question.

Flowers...like the blossoms from Eden. The sweet scent and warm summer breeze.

“Adam?” Emily tilted her head curiously.

Adam lowered his head and meekly shrugged his shoulders. “I wish I could just go to Eden for a vacation. I really miss it…”

“I’m so sorry, Adam.” Emily’s smile turned sad and gentle as she reached forward to squeeze his hands. “I’m so sorry you lost so much. If only I had been born earlier, I could have helped you. I could have fought for you back then.”

Adam sighed. “You’re so sweet, but I know I can never go back to it. But I just miss it so much. Eden is my home, and I fear I will never feel that way about another place. Heaven is nice and all, but it’s not Eden.”

Emily’s eyes shimmered with understanding, and she squeezed his hands tighter. “Maybe one day, Adam. Maybe one day you’ll find a place that feels like home again.”

"While I can't bring back Eden, I can do something else," Emily said softly. She raised her hands delicately, summoning a scroll of soft pink and purple parchment. With gentle fingers, Emily unravelled it. "I wasn't sure if you would want to. I was worried it might even offend you, but... I put together a list of towns and cities that are similar to Eden. With flowers and so on..."

Adam's eyes widened in surprise, his golden wings shimmering and twitching. "Y-You did?"

"Yes." Emily smiled sweetly, her eyes lowering to the list. "I have put together ten of the most beautiful and peaceful places you could go. Keukenhof Gardens was the first place I thought of. Called the 'Garden of Europe,' Lisse is home to Keukenhof, one of the world's largest flower gardens. It features millions of tulips and other flowers."

"Then I found out about Medellín, Colombia, known as the 'City of Eternal Spring.' Medellín hosts the annual Flower Festival (Feria de las Flores) in August, showcasing elaborate floral displays and parades featuring intricate flower arrangements." Emily explained, reading what she had noted down on the parchment with a soft hum. "Hitachi, Japan. Hitachi Seaside Park: Famous for its seasonal flower displays, this park in Hitachinaka features millions of flowers, including nemophila, tulips, and kochia, creating breathtaking landscapes that change with the seasons.

"Giverny, France. Monet's Garden: The village of Giverny is known for Claude Monet's gardens, which inspired many of his famous paintings. The gardens are meticulously maintained and feature a stunning array of flowers, including water lilies.

"Spello, Italy. Infiorate di Spello: This small town in Umbria is famous for its annual flower festival, where intricate carpets of flowers are created in the streets for the Feast of Corpus Christi.

"Brussels, Belgium. Flower Carpet: Every two years, the Grand Place in Brussels is transformed into a vibrant flower carpet made up of hundreds of thousands of begonias. The event attracts visitors from all over the world.

"Dubai, United Arab Emirates. Dubai Miracle Garden: This expansive garden is home to millions of flowers arranged in stunning designs and structures. It holds the title for the world's largest natural flower garden.

"Furano, Japan. Lavender Fields: Known for its picturesque lavender fields, Furano attracts visitors during the summer months when the fields are in full bloom, creating a sea of purple flowers.

"Madeira, Portugal. Funchal: The capital city of Madeira, Funchal, hosts the annual Flower Festival in spring, featuring parades, flower carpets, and vibrant floral displays throughout the city.

"Victoria, Canada. Butchart Gardens: Located on Vancouver Island, Butchart Gardens is famous for its beautifully landscaped gardens, featuring a diverse range of flowers and plants in various themed gardens."

Adam's heart warmed as he listened. The detailed descriptions brought each place to life in his mind. "Emily, this is incredible," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I never imagined... thank you."

Emily beamed. "I just want you to be happy, Adam. I hope one of these places can bring you some peace."

And so it was that Adam found himself standing before the enchanting Keukenhof Gardens. The allure of the "Garden of Europe" captivated him, invoking vivid memories of the Garden of Eden. The thought filled him with a renewed sense of purpose, his wings lifting gracefully instead of dragging wearily behind him.

The air on Earth surprised him with its sweetness. Despite the passage of time and the pollution that had thickened the atmosphere since Eden, Keukenhof Gardens offered a refreshing breath of purity. It wasn't quite like Eden, but it was perhaps the closest he could find.

Adam's golden eyes gleamed as they swept across the quaint city of Lisse. It was serene, just as he preferred. The surroundings beckoned with promise: the inviting Keukenhof Forest to the west, the historic Ter Specko to the north, and even a charming Black Tulip Museum nearby. Here, amidst such beauty, he felt he could finally clear his mind and heart.

Emily, bless her soul, had deftly managed to slip the paperwork approving Adam's stay on Earth past Sera. He wasn't sure what was transpiring in Heaven, but Emily had insisted he leave before Sera discovered their plan. She had even strategically omitted his Earthly location from the documents, ensuring Sera couldn't retrieve him. As the Seraphim responsible for his permission to stay, Emily alone knew his whereabouts and could visit without his consent. Sometimes, Heaven's rules worked in his favour when cleverly navigated.

Yet, Adam worried for her. He hoped Sera wouldn't be too harsh. Emily was simply doing what she believed was right, and Adam was profoundly grateful for her courage. It was the first time Heaven had done something for him, and he couldn't thank her enough.

Though Emily had wished to grant him a month or two, she had only managed a week. But that was plenty. Ample time away from the celestial struggles, the turmoil of Heaven and Hell, the conflicts of winners and sinners, and the shadows of his past heartbreak. Here, in one of the most beautiful places on Earth, Adam hoped to escape and forget.

He could pretend. He could deceive himself if he closed his eyes tightly enough, imagining he wasn't the first man but just a regular human, living a simple, serene life on Earth. For one single week, Adam will pretend he was just a normal human visiting the town of Lisse. 

His hair, now more red than brown, framed his face in soft waves. His once brilliant golden eyes had mellowed to a gentle shade of amber. The angelic tan that once graced his skin had faded to a paler hue, making his freckles stand out more prominently. Adam had grown slimmer since his days as an angel, though he still bore a slight curve in his stomach. He had lost nearly sixty percent of his former self after the Sinner had almost claimed his life. 

Even before Emily altered his appearance, his illness had rendered him nearly unrecognisable. Adam was perpetually tired, moving slower than before, with a small limp—a souvenir not from the one-eyed Sinner, but from the King of Hell’s brutal assault. The damage to his nervous system was irreparable. 

Sera and Emily had laboured tirelessly over his chest wound, trying to keep him from bleeding out. By the time they realised the extent of the nerve damage, it was too late. He had to live with the limp in his left foot and the near numbness of his right hand. But he supposed it was fine.

Adam gazed down at the white-lined paper in the book before him. His amber eyes were vacant as his mind struggled to find words.

“Are you alright, hun?” the little old lady behind the counter asked gently.

He blinked, snapping out of his reverie, and straightened up. His right hand refused to curl around the pen properly. Biting his bottom lip, he switched to his left hand. “Yes, sorry,” he replied.

The little old lady could see that Adam wasn't truly okay, but she kindly chose not to press the issue. She settled back in her oversized cardigan, her fat ginger cat napping on the counter beside her. Adam awkwardly scribbled a random name in the sign-in book, double-checking it to memorise his 'new name' before stepping back. In truth, there was no real need for a fake name or a disguise; walking around without his wings or halo would suffice. But Adam wanted to be someone else, just for the week.

“Alright then, sweetheart,” the little old lady sang as she rose with her walking stick. “Your room is just this way.”

Adam managed a small smile as he moved to follow her, pausing to pet the ginger cat. Maybe, just maybe, this week wouldn't be so bad after all.

“So, Graham, are you here to see our tulips?” the little old lady asked with a sweet hum.

Her voice brought a warmth to Adam's heart, reminding him of his granddaughter, the second human to enter Heaven. She had chosen to remain in her elderly form, a sweet little thing who would nap randomly, often requiring Adam to carry her. He hadn’t seen her since...

“Yes,” he swallowed. “I love... nature. I’ve always enjoyed flowers, trees, grass...”

“Nothing wrong with that. You seem like such a sweet young lad,” she said, leading him down the corridor of her flower-themed inn. “Such a sensitive soul you are. The youth of today aren’t interested in nature, too obsessed with electronics, like their phones. You remind me of the other young man upstairs, he signed in this morning.”

Adam sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, well... I’ve always loved nature. So I... enjoy going to see it. My plan is to go see the tulips, the flowers this week. Maybe even go to the museum.”

“Are you here just for the week?” the old lady questioned, pulling out an old ring of keys. She shuffled to an oak door adorned with a carved flower. “I own a florist shop. We specialise in all the beautiful flowers Keukenhof has to offer. My daughter used to help me run it, but my little grandson’s sick, so she hasn’t been able to work. If you’re interested, I could use a hand. Only for the mornings, so you will be free by 11:00AM.”

How sweet.

“I’d love to help,” Adam immediately said. He hadn’t worked with flowers in years and missed everything about them, everything about Eden. “I don’t need to be paid or anything. I’ll volunteer.”

“Such a nice young lad,” the little old lady hummed, unlocking the door to his room. “I don’t want to be a bother. You’ve already paid for your room, and I’ll make you hot meals on the house.”

Adam beamed. It sounded wonderful to work with flowers again, even if just for a week.

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” the woman chimed. “You have no idea how much you have helped me. I wish all youngsters were like you these days.”

If only she knew Adam was thousands of years older than her. 

The florist was beautiful, and Adam's breath was taken away the moment he stepped inside. The flowers were gorgeous, each one a unique blend of shades, shapes, and sizes. Adam hadn't seen so many lovely flowers in such a long time. It was amazing to see.

He was given a sage-green apron, sandy brown gloves, and his first task: creating a bouquet. The little old lady was very friendly, patient, and sweet, teaching him how to arrange the flowers just so.

Adam was tasked with making the bouquets for orders, nothing else. It was so fun to do, and Adam never realized how enjoyable it could be. The flowers smelled lovely, and he would often stop to take in their fragrance. The florist wasn’t very big—the front had rows of flowers and plants, with a counter beyond them, and a small workshop in a room on the other side of the counter.

“Wonderful work, Graham,” the little lady cooed, taking his newest freshly made bouquet and moving it to a vase. She lightly ran her wrinkled fingers across the petals. “You really seem to have a talent with flowers. Perhaps you’ve worked in a florist before?”

Adam flushed sheepishly. “Not really. I’ve never worked in a florist before.”

“Really?” the old lady gasped, appearing surprised. “But you knew so much without me even needing to tell you. How strange.”

Shrugging helplessly, Adam smiled warmly down at the flowers around him. If the florist was this beautiful, he couldn’t wait to see how lovely the rest of Keukenhof would look.

“Mrs. Dorothy?” a familiar yet unfamiliar voice suddenly called.

The little old lady hummed, turning towards the voice. She wiped her hands on her apron and began to wobble towards a figure stepping into the doorway of the florist.

“Ah, Samuel,” Dorothy said kindly. “You’re here. Wonderful.”

Adam squinted his eyes, awkwardly wiping his gloved hands together and turning to look at this new person. Samuel, he reminded himself. A strange sensation twisted in the pit of his stomach as the figure stepped fully into the workshop, meeting Dorothy as she wobbled towards him. The old lady was speaking to him, but Adam wasn’t listening; his ears only picked up buzzing. He blinked awkwardly, glancing at the young man with a weirdness seeping over him.

Samuel appeared somewhat familiar, but Adam didn’t know why. He had never seen him before.

“Ah, Graham, this is Samuel. My other customer. He’s staying the week also at my inn,” Dorothy explained, gesturing to the man. “He’s agreed to volunteer at my florist too.”

She tilted her head to Samuel. “Samuel, this is Graham. You’ll be working together in the mornings.”

Samuel nodded with an oddly familiar smile. His blue eyes shimmered as he gazed at Adam and stepped up to him, his delicate pale hand reaching out. “It’s lovely to meet you, Graham. I hope we can get along.”

Adam stared at the hand. His stomach began to hurt, and he had no idea why. Samuel was short, reaching his shoulder. His face was cherry-shaped, with rosy cheeks and large sea-blue eyes. His hair was a strawberry blonde that curled around his face in a fashion Adam was sure he had seen before but couldn’t quite place.

When Samuel cocked his head innocently, his golden eyebrow raising, Adam mentally kicked himself. He quickly wrapped his hand around Samuel’s, a spark of electricity running through their skin at the contact. Adam almost yanked his hand back but swallowed it down. It looked as if Samuel hadn’t noticed the spark and continued to grin innocently at him.

Wait. Was it innocent? Adam felt a strong chill run up his spine. He recognized that sort of smile. It wasn’t so innocent…

“Nice to meet you too,” Adam mumbled quietly. “Um….Samuel.”

Why did the name sound so wrong to him? 

“I’m sure we’ll be spending a lot of time together.”

~#~

Lucifer was engulfed in a profound and suffocating despair, far deeper than he had ever experienced. His emotions were a chaotic, tangled mess, with an ever-increasing weight of sorrow pressing down on him each day. Even with Charlie by his side, their rekindling relationship offered no respite from the relentless grip of his depression. The once comforting presence of his rubber ducks, which used to bring a sliver of solace, now failed to pierce through his gloom.

Something was fundamentally broken within him, something he couldn't comprehend. Ever since his catastrophic fall from Eden, Lucifer had not been the same. Lilith's departure had been anticipated, yet even that couldn't account for the depth of his current despair. He was hollow, a shell of his former self. 

Though he had a room in the new 'Hazbin Hotel,' he scarcely used it. Charlie thought he had moved in with her and her friends, but Lucifer couldn't truly reside there. Each time he retired to the apple-shaped room at the hotel's corner, he would open a portal and retreat to his mansion. He couldn't explain why he kept returning to this dark, desolate building, but he did. It was as if he were expecting someone or something, and each time he found it cold and empty, his heart ached with unbearable pain.

Initially, he thought he was yearning for Lilith, clinging to the hope that she had returned, only to be devastated by her continued absence. But he soon realised that his turmoil was not about Lilith. It was something else, something he couldn't identify. Sitting in the centre of his cold, empty, and lonely chamber, Lucifer perched awkwardly on his four-poster bed, surrounded by mountains of rubber ducks. He clutched one in particular, rolling it between his claws with a lopsided frown, his red and gold eyes narrowing in scrutiny.

This little rubber duck had red curls attached to the back. He remembered crafting it years ago when he was still hopeful, still a dreamer. It was the Eve rubber duck. He placed it gently on the royal purple quilt, next to the Lilith duck, his frown deepening. His own duck was on Eve's other side, a grim reminder of something that happened centuries ago. 

His eyes drifted toward another duck placed farther away from the trio, and his chest tightened in agony. It had been so long since he had brought out his Eden rubber duck set. Lilith had never seen them. He had locked them away, for his eyes only, the guilt gnawing at him relentlessly.

With delicate claws, Lucifer picked up the duck that mirrored his own loneliness and sadness. He cradled it in his darkened hand as if fearing it might dissolve. The soft brown tufts of hair gave the duck an endearing look. He remembered remaking it countless times, never satisfied, which fueled his incessant quest for perfection in his rubber ducks. If he couldn't make Adam perfect, none of the others would be either.

This rubber duck always appeared crestfallen, perpetually sad and heartbroken, a reflection of Lucifer's own regret and foolish actions. Each time he remade the Adam duck, it always ended up with defects, odd bumps near the eyes that made it look on the verge of tears. Stroking the top of its head, Lucifer longed to comfort it, to stop its eternal weeping, but the duck remained frozen in its state of sorrow. He blinked away his own tears, trying to hold back the overwhelming tide of his own sadness.

Adam hadn't attended any meetings since that fateful battle months ago. In truth, Lucifer had expected the arrogant, self-absorbed first man to bounce back quickly. He wasn’t overly concerned when Lute had hauled Adam's beaten and bloodied body back up through the portal to Heaven. For a fleeting moment, Lucifer had wondered if he’d gone too far in his fervour to protect his daughter. His love for Charlie was boundless, and he would have obliterated anyone who dared make her cry. But Adam had already been defeated. Lucifer had done more than just defend Charlie; he had humiliated Adam, ensuring all of Hell knew just how much of a cuck the first man was.

Lucifer hadn't given it a second thought. He convinced himself that Adam needed a dose of humility and that at the next meeting between Heaven and Hell, the first man would be there, his usual brash and infuriating self. Lucifer was certain of it. He was beyond certain that when he and Charlie entered the grand hall for the meeting, Adam would be sitting in that golden chair next to Sera.

He had wagered his entire being, his magic, his rubber ducks, even Hell itself on it.

So it was soul-crushing to enter the hall and find not Adam and Sera, but Sera and a small Seraphim clearly meant as Lucifer’s replacement—and fucking Michael. The discomfort and aggression in the room were tense. 

Even the little Seraphim, whom Charlie had befriended and called 'Emily,' wasn't smiling. Charlie had said Emily was always cheerful, always beaming, but now Emily looked blank, upset, disappointed. Charlie tried to talk to her, but Emily ignored her, which clearly hurt his precious daughter.

Lucifer hadn't asked about Adam then. He let the strangeness wash over him, expecting Adam to be at the next meeting...and the next...and the next, until ten meetings had passed with no sign of the first man. Lucifer had stopped listening to the discussions, stopped caring about Charlie's arguments.

"Where's Adam?" he finally asked, and the three Angels before him darkened instantly.

"You will be dealing with me from now on," Michael spat, his aggression blinding Lucifer momentarily.

Michael and Lucifer had clashed since before the fall, never agreeing on anything. But this time was different. Michael's rage was unprecedented, even more intense than when Lucifer had defied God's plan and corrupted humanity. Lucifer was bewildered.

Charlie was shocked and confused, but neither of them received any answers.

That soul-crushing ache from centuries ago, when Adam had first caught him with Lilith, returned with tenfold intensity. It nearly made Lucifer's legs buckle beneath him. How badly had he hurt Adam? He hadn't intended to harm him so grievously. He just wanted to scare him, to send a message so Heaven would think twice before threatening his daughter again.

Emily glared, and Charlie bristled in shock when she asked if Adam was alive.

Lucifer's head spun as he sat on his bed, hugging the rubber duck to his chest with a sigh. Maybe Adam deserved some of the things he did that day on the crumbling grounds of the hotel, but he certainly didn't deserve all of it. Lucifer had gone too far. He had beaten Adam beyond recognition, beyond what he had intended and purposely humiliated him in front of all the Sinners…so nobody would ever take him seriously again…

Lucifer wanted to see Adam. No, he needed to see Adam. The most recent meeting had come just this morning, and Lucifer had decided to miss it—a decision he now realized was foolish. His absence had been the root of many problems, but he couldn’t bear the thought of going to the meeting room again and finding Adam still absent. The pain was becoming unbearable.

Groaning, Lucifer flopped back onto his bed. He held the Adam rubber duck above him, his other hand clutching his own rubber duck. Together, he held them aloft, his gaze softening with sadness. It hadn’t always been this way. Their relationship, their friendship, hadn’t always been bitter and hostile. Once, it had been sweet, gentle, and loving. Once, he and Adam had been closer than anyone could imagine. Adam had been Lucifer's entire world, and Lucifer knew he had been Adam’s world too.

But feelings, emotions, had gotten in the way. Lucifer had believed he’d fallen in love, but Adam’s betrayed expression had haunted him since. Once, when Lucifer was still hopeful, still a dreamer who believed in God's plan and ideals, he had thought that despite everything, Adam would come around and they would be close friends again.

But that never happened. Lucifer would never forget the excruciating agony of realizing that Adam hated him. Adam hated him...

“Dad?” came a sudden voice, making Lucifer jump with a startled yelp.

His rubber ducks danced in the air as he sprang up, desperately trying to catch them. The Adam rubber duck bounced onto the purple, black, and red carpet. Lucifer’s eyes fixed on it, that familiar ache tightening in his chest. Why did it always feel like Adam was running away from him?

“Dad?” Charlie stepped in, her eyes glancing around at his collection of rubber duck toys.

Lucifer awkwardly grinned, trying to hide the fact that he’d been on the verge of tears. “Charlie! What brings you here? Is everything alright with the hotel?”

Charlie’s gaze returned to her father, a strained smile crossing her lips. “Well, the meeting was this morning, and you missed it—”

She paused as she stepped forward, and Lucifer’s eyes zoomed in on her foot as she raised it above his precious Adam rubber duck. His breath caught in his throat as Charlie was about to step on it.

“Oh.” Charlie looked down, lifting her foot to see the duck. She immediately picked it up, her gaze softening. While she didn’t fully understand what her father was going through, she knew there was something he hadn’t told her. “This looks like Adam.”

“Does it?!” Lucifer squealed, too forced. He released a series of sheepish, forced laughs that made Charlie flinch. “It—it must be defective! Give it here and I’ll throw it away!”

Charlie glanced at his clawed hand and then back at the Adam duck. It definitely did not appear defective. Instead, she could tell a lot of time and effort had gone into its creation. It had ten times more detail than any other duck she had seen. With a soft hum, her delicate fingers folded around it, holding it gently. Clearly, it was an important item to her father.

“Dad,” she spoke softly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “You miss Adam.”

Lucifer’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing. “W-what? No, I don’t! He—he got what he deserved. I don’t care if—if—if he’s hurt…”

Charlie tilted her head in disagreement. “I’ve noticed it too. It’s strange that Adam isn’t in the meetings anymore. Emily…”

With a soft sigh, Lucifer dropped the fake happy persona he’d been putting on. His face immediately fell, and he swung himself over, sitting next to Charlie. “I think I really hurt him.”

“You were only protecting me,” Charlie said quietly, her eyes gazing down at the rubber duck in her hand. “He...was trying to kill me.”

“He wasn’t,” Lucifer said quickly, making Charlie blink in surprise. “I mean, I don’t know if he genuinely hated you, but he wasn’t trying to kill you. He was trying to scare you. Adam—Heaven in general weren’t allowed to attempt to kill you. It was the contract between me and Heaven, so I wouldn’t get involved in the Exterminations.”

Charlie’s face scrunched up in sadness and pain.

“I was only trying to scare him. I wanted to punish him for even trying to hurt you, for even threatening you. But the truth is, Charlie, I know better,” Lucifer groaned, running a claw down his face.

“What...what do you mean?” Charlie asked in a quiet, shaky voice.

Lucifer didn’t speak at first. He hunched his shoulders, arching his back. He rested his elbow on his thigh and tapped his clawed fingers to his chin. Lucifer carefully plucked the Adam rubber duck from Charlie’s hand and gazed down at it. “I was one of the top beings of Heaven. I was a Seraphim. The eldest of them all. I know how Heaven works. I know how it ticks.”

“Dad…” Charlie whispered, a bone-chilling coldness creeping into her heart. “Dad...are you…?”

“I doubt Adam acted alone. I mean, I haven’t seen him outside of the meetings in years, but I can't imagine the Adam I knew from Eden descending into Hell to slaughter thousands of Sinners,” Lucifer murmured, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the mountain of ducks before him. “Whether he agreed with your plan or not, the Adam I remember, who adored animals and wept when a lion attacked a deer, would never willingly lead an army to kill thousands.”

Charlie's hands clenched together, her knuckles turning white. “Dad, are you suggesting…?”

“I’m not suggesting, Charlie,” Lucifer said harshly. “I’m saying he was ordered to. You don’t defy Heaven. I am living proof of what happens when you do. It might not excuse his actions, but it is something to consider.”

Charlie covered her mouth, her face contorting in anguish. She made a choked sound, barely holding back tears. “I never thought about it that way…”

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Lucifer admitted, a rare vulnerability in his voice. He closed his claws around a duck, holding it close to his chest. “I’m so...stressed.”

Charlie looked at Lucifer, her sympathy pouring out like a flood. “That’s why I came to see you. I figured you weren’t using your room back at the hotel.”

“Oh, right, I’m sorry,” Lucifer flinched. “I just…”

“You don’t need to explain. I already know,” she smiled weakly, placing a comforting hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. “I was thinking, maybe you should go on vacation?”

“Vacation?” Lucifer repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Me? The nonexistent King of Hell? I’ve only just begun to take my role seriously. Can you imagine what they will say if I just up and leave now? After that battle? I will never hear the end of it.”

With a broken, exhausted groan, Lucifer buried his face in his hands, pressing his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. Who knew taking the role of King of Hell seriously would be so draining?

"I just need five minutes. That's all. I'll be better in five minutes," he said.

Charlie wasn't sure if Lucifer was speaking to her or himself. It was clearly a lie. She rubbed his shoulder, worry etching her face. It was the first time she truly saw her father for who he really was—a sad, broken man. She had been too young to understand, to see the depths of his depression.

"Dad, this isn't healthy," she spoke softly. "None of this is healthy for you. You're...you're practically killing yourself."

Lucifer's head snapped up, his eyes wild. "What are you talking about? I'm fine! I'm okay, you don't need to worry!"

"Dad..." Charlie deadpanned, gesturing to the piles of ducks around them. "You're not fine. You need time, and no, I don't mean time here. Locking yourself away in a dark, damp, and cold mansion isn't going to help you. If you don’t feel comfortable being at the hotel with me, then let me send you on vacation away from the Pride Ring. Away from Hell."

In that moment, she looked every bit the Princess of Hell, and someday, the Queen. Lucifer's chest swelled with pride, but only for a fleeting second before everything crumbled again.

"Charlie, I can't really go anywhere," he said weakly. "It's kind of you to offer, but I can't leave Hell. I'm bound to Hell."

Charlie grinned widely, a reflection of him. "I thought about that. I think you should go to Earth."

"Earth?" Lucifer repeated, eyebrows raised. "Once again, I can't leave Hell. I am bound to Hell."

"You can if you're summoned," Charlie sang, pride evident in her voice. "If someone summoned you and you entered into a contract. Say, a week-long contract of relaxing?"

That was true. By the law of Heaven, Earth, and Hell, the only way the devil himself could leave Hell was by contractual summoning. He used to be summoned frequently in the earlier years. But as humans grew more corrupt, they stopped believing in Lucifer and ceased summoning him. In many ways, it had been a blessing in disguise. After being trapped in Hell for so long, being summoned to Earth and seeing the blue skies had been wonderful. But it hurt doubly when he returned to Hell.

Lucifer could foresee that aching pain returning if he agreed to Charlie's plan. He saw the flaws in it. It was almost laughable, really. But at the same time, Lucifer's heart fluttered in a way it hadn't in centuries. He wanted out. He needed time away from Hell, from his depressed room filled with ducks. He needed to clear his mind, clear his head, and come back with a fresh perspective.

"And who would be foolish enough to summon the King of Hell?" Lucifer asked, eyeing his beloved daughter. "Because last time I checked, humans aren’t exactly summoning demons anymore."

They no longer needed to. Humans had become so corrupt that they didn’t need Hell or demons to commit terrible and awful crimes against humanity. They did it themselves now, which honestly proved everything Heaven feared. There was so much Charlie didn’t know—the true reason Heaven would never let Sinners through the golden gates.

"Alastor knows somebody," Charlie began before pouting when Lucifer’s face soured. "Dad, please. He isn’t that bad!"

"Of course he is," he grumbled sullenly. "He knows somebody who would summon the King of Hell himself! Unbelievable!"

"He’s trying to help!" Charlie insisted. "It’s an old family friend. She’s old, on the verge of death herself, but she owes Alastor a favor still."

Lucifer scoffed. "You mean she summoned Alastor, and now he owns her soul. What did he offer her? Freedom from their deal if she does this little favor for him? Out of the goodness of his heart?"

Fucking bullshit. His hair stood on end, and his skin prickled when Charlie simply continued to stare. Clearly, he had hit the nail on the head.

"Charlie!" Lucifer exclaimed, his body twitching, the burn on his back forming with his wings beginning to burst out. If Alastor had tricked his little girl! "How did you get this favor? What did you offer?"

Charlie held her hands up. "Calm down. It’ll only be for a week. There are no strings attached. I didn’t make a deal with Alastor or anything. He just overheard Vaggie and me and said he could offer his assistance."

"For free?" Lucifer growled, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

The Princess of Hell groaned deeply. "Dad, please. This is a great opportunity for you! You said so yourself, you’re drowning in here! You need time away from Hell, from this mansion, and everything else! From Heaven and its rules! It’s only a week!"

"Anything can happen in a week," Lucifer shot back. "It’s too dangerous. I don’t trust him."

Charlie released a deep, exhausted sigh. She stood up and crossed her arms, looking away sheepishly before glancing back. "Well...you don’t really have a choice, Dad."

"What?" Lucifer blinked slowly, his eyebrows creasing. "What do you mean I don’t have a choice?"

Charlie breathed in deeply, a twitchy smile spreading across her lips. "I mean...it’s already been arranged. You’re going to be summoned at dawn."

"Charlie!"

[heavenlytouches]

You comented on my Na'vi post long ago saying about writing something A vatar themed. Can you do Tsu tey female reader? Thanksss xx

Hello sweetie! Whoopsie, I kinda forgot TwT but no worries, I'm sure I can whip up something about our grumpy blue dude! Thank you so so much for reminding me babes!

El <3

Tsu'tey- the heart of Pandora

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝

FEM  reader

<3 (SFW)

TW- none

NA'VI! x SCIENTIST!reader

(all Na'vi language I used will be listed and translated) :)

grumpy boy <3

Tsu'tey

(I love Na'vi collages sm)

You adjusted your exo-pack, peering through it into the iridescent landscape of Pandora. Bioluminescent plants stretch towards the colorful sky as shadows flicker at the edge of your peripheral vision. You love this world- the vibrant flora, the majestic fauna, and most of all- the thrill of exploration.

As a scientist, every element holds secrets waiting to be discovered, but there's one thing you find particulary intriguing- a certain Na'vi warrior named Tsu'tey.

He's unmatched in both strength and ferocity, a protector of his people. You've seen him from a safe distance of your lab- his towering frame outlined against the glowing trees, his presence both commanding and intimidating.

To you, he often seems grumpy and cold, glancing at your kind with an air of disdain as if you're more an annoying insect than a person. Still, there's something about his rugged demeanor that tugs at your heart- something that hints at uncharted depths beneath that icy exterior.

Your days are typically filled with research, colleting samples of flora for analysis and documenting your findings.

However, you find that every time Tsu'tey wanders into your workspace- hands on his navy hips, brow furrowed- you can't help but feel your pulse quicken.

Perhaps he's the most beautiful Omaticayan, the most beautiful sight on Pandora. Maybe, just maybe you wished he could see you differently too.

One late afternoon under the obsidian sky, you take a deep breath. Your exo-pack making wonders, letting you breathe while also giving you the ability to look around yourself. Tsu'tey was sitting near you under the tree, his hands moving restlessly- sharpening his arrows one by one.

"Tsu'tey"

You call, your voice slightly wavering. He turns to you, his brow arching in curiosity. His yellow eyes were staring at you, his blue ears flat against his skull.

"Would you mind helping me gather some flowers over by floating rocks?"

Tsu'tey got up and placed his arrow on the ground. He looked at you curiously, his blue tail whiping behind his back. You tried not to stare at the tall alien as he moved closer, many decorations around his neck swinging as he walked.

"I need them for my research on bioluminescence."

You explained, looking at his form- silently peering at you. His body was huge, tall and blue, streaked with navy marks and glowing white freckles. He had some scars from past battles.

His expression remains one of stoic indifference, but after an agonizing pause, he nods briskly. It's not the warmth you hoped for but it's the start.

"Get up, tawtute." (sky person)

He says, not even looking at you. You sprang to your feet, following the tall alien who was already vanishing near the purple bushes.

Together, you navigate the treacherous paths as he leads the way, his strength evident in the way he swings past various obstacles.

"You tawtutes... always demanding, always exploring." (sky people)

He muttered to himself. You were walking beside the tall Na'vi, trying to keep up with his steps.

As you crouch to collect specimens, Tsu'tey watches, keenly aware, as if guarding your safety. The flowers you gather in your hands, and for a fleeting moment, it almost feels like you share something more-a silent connection. That's until he notices which flowers you picked. He gently smacks your hands before you bring the flowers to your nose.

"Kä neto! Poison. Don't touch everything." (get away)

Tsu'tey's hand pulls yours as he continues walking. You could feel your legs treble, he was pulling you by your hand. His big blue palm covered yours completely. Your delusions eating you up, why did he sound protective? This was a start of something new.

Days turn into weeks, and the simple outings become the highlight of your research. Tsu'tey shows up more often than other of his kind, grumbling under his breath- though you suspect it's his awkward attempt to mask the fact that he's beginning to enjoy these little excursions.

He fetches you tools you need and helps to transport your findings. At first, he does so begrudgingly, but you notice a shift in how he examines you while you're lost in your work, a flicker of curiosity dancing in his golden eyes.

One evening, after a long day of sampling you ask-

"Tsu'tey, have you ever gone scavenging under the green flame trees?"

His eyes flicker to yours, looking puzzled and something else. You could see something in his gaze, maybe awkwardness or sadness..?

"Dr. Grace said the luminescent organisms are breathtaking at night."

He grunts, sounding slightly annoyed but intrigued.

"I do not need permission to explore, but I do find that interesting."

Tsu'tey sounded different, something soft creeped in his voice as he bent down to your level, your faces an inch away.

"But if you wish to see them, I will take you."

The tall alien replied, and a small, smug smile curls on his lips. You stood up, looking at Tsu'tey and nodding. His sharp teeth gleaming on moonlight.

The night soon wraps Pandora in it's starry embrace, and the verdant glow of the trees beckons. Tsu'tey leads the way, his imposing figure gliding through the shadows as you scramble to keep up. The world transforms under the luminescent twinkling of the flora, each step revealing a dazzling interplay of folors that seem to pulse with life.

"I know this place well."

He says, leading you to a small clearing flooded with silvery light.

"It is where my people come to connect with spirits of Eywa." (Na'vi goddes)

He gestures dramatically to the surroundings, almost challenging you to admire it.

"It's beautiful.. Grace was right"

You breathe, feeling the essence of the world wash over you. But you can't help but steal glances at him. In these moments, the walls he built around himself begin to crack.

Your soft admiring tone triggers something in him, and he shifts, the glint of vulnerability shining through the layers of bravado.

"Beauty can easily be forgotten, especially by those who do not understand."

There's a weight in his words, laden with an unspoken history.

Before you can respond, a rustle disturbs the tranquility and a glowing creature skims past- the kind you've long wanted to catalog. Excitedly, you chase after it, heart racing. Tsu'tey watches, amusement replacing annoyance as he leans against a tree, arms crossed.

"Why do you chase it skxawng?" (moron-fem)

He calls out but you don't have time to formulate an answer. The creature flits beyond your reach, deeper into the woods, it's light flickering like a whisper luring you forward.

"Tsu'tey??!"

You call, your voice echoing in the stillness. The thrill morphs into worry, and shadows loom larger.

Then, like a guardian spirit, Tsu'tey appears out of the shadows, his expression serious. Without hesitation, he takes your hand and the contact sends another jolt through you. He guides you back, grip firm and gentle.

"I told you NOT to wander too far."

He murmurs as you regain the clearing.

"The woods can be deceivng."

"I'm.."

You stutter, still in awe of the strength surging between you.

"I'm sorry, I got carried away."

His eyes soften, revealing glimpse of feeling long buried.

"You are brave, but bravery without caution can lead to danger."

He offers, his tone gruff yet edged with an underlying warmth.

As you both sit among the glowing flora, something shifts in the air around you. Silence drapes over the night, but it feels different- not uncomfortable, but laden with anticipation. There is a flicker of understanding, a known glance that spirals between you, and in that moment, you recognize that maybe, just maybe this grumpy warrior is beginning to see you not only as a scientist but as someone worth knowing.

The night deepens, and with every shared moment- every stolen glance where your gazes connect- you realise a transformative journey has begun, one that could unravel more than friendship beneath the luminous skies of Pandora.

"Will you join me for more scavenging yawntutsyìp?" (dear one)

He finally asks, a hint of smirk betraying his gruff demeanor.

A smile spreads across your face, hope blossoming within.

"Every adventure is better with you, Tsu'tey."

As you sit side by side, an unspoken promise hangs in the air- this was only the beginning of something profound in the heart of Pandora, where the colors glowed not only in the landscape but also in the growing connection between you two.

PHEW! This was a long one! Also I hope y'all liked this one :D

Don’t forget, requests are always open and I can write for any character you’d like!

I love you guys so much

( @marlenalmar tagged you as I promised, enjoy reading ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ )

El <3

(all images were made by: El via canva & paint)