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birdofwildness · 4 months ago

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☾Forbidden walk

Warnings::age gap,professor x student

☾Tom Riddle

Summary::there are rumors about you and your professor

Professor Tom Riddle had a way of making the abstract feel tangible, as if the very essence of magic itself pulsed through his veins, waiting to be unraveled and reshaped. Defense Against the Dark Arts wasn’t just words on a page in his classroom—it was alive, shifting like a living creature, demanding to be wrestled with, understood, and ultimately conquered. Every lesson felt like a battle, not just against unseen enemies but against ignorance itself, and under his sharp gaze, failure was never an option.

I had spent countless hours listening to him dissect difficult spells with surgical precision, breaking them down into their fundamental elements before reconstructing them in ways I had never imagined possible. He spoke of magic as if it were an extension of his will, something to be mastered completely, and his confidence was intoxicating. But more than that, I had spent countless hours just watching him. The way his mind worked fascinated me—sharp, relentless, always searching for deeper truths. He didn’t just teach; he commanded, his presence filling the room with an authority that was impossible to ignore.

There was a quiet intensity to him, something that made every word he spoke feel significant, as though he were revealing secrets the world wasn’t meant to hear. And perhaps, in a way, he was. He had a vision, a belief that magic was not just a tool but a force to be shaped by those strong enough to wield it. And I found myself drawn to that vision, unable to look away, unable to resist the pull of his mind, his power, and the undeniable certainty that he was destined for something greater than all of us.

A man who looked into the darkest parts of humanity and tried to make sense of them, as if dissecting the very nature of fear, power, and control. He didn’t just teach us to defend against the darkness—he studied it, understood it in a way that was almost unsettling. There was no hesitation in the way he spoke about curses, no fear when he described the mechanics of magic that most would shy away from. It was as if he had peered into the abyss and found it lacking, as if he had wrestled with shadows and emerged unscathed.

If he noticed my curiosity, he never acknowledged it outright. But I often wondered if he saw something familiar in me, a reflection of the same hunger for knowledge that burned behind his own eyes. I was drawn to him, to the way his mind worked, to the way he made even the most terrifying aspects of magic seem like puzzles waiting to be solved. And yet, he never indulged my fascination, never encouraged it with knowing glances or quiet words of approval. Instead, he remained distant, enigmatic, as if daring me to uncover the answers myself.

"Curiosity," he once told me, "is the foundation of intellect. But it’s also the first step toward obsession."

I should have taken that as a warning.

At the time, his words felt like an invitation rather than a caution. I had always been curious, always eager to understand things that others shied away from. And he—Professor Tom Riddle—was the embodiment of knowledge wrapped in an enigma. He never flinched from the things that made others uneasy, never looked away from the truth, no matter how unsettling it was.

After class, I often lingered. There was something about the quiet that settled over the empty classroom, something about the way he remained at his desk, always lost in thought, that made it impossible for me to simply leave. Sometimes, if the air was light, he would humor me with a chess match. He played with the same calculated precision that he applied to everything—every move deliberate, every trap set three turns ahead. I never won, but I never minded losing.

Other times, he would tell stories—not the kind found in textbooks, polished and stripped of their edges, but the kind pulled from the real world, raw and unsettling. Cases that still lingered in the recesses of his mind. Cases that involved Dark magic. He spoke of them not with fear, but with fascination, analyzing the choices that led a witch or wizard down that particular path, as though each one was a puzzle to be solved.

I listened, captivated, knowing that these were not just stories. They were glimpses into something deeper, something he understood in a way few others did. And though I never said it aloud, I often wondered if he saw himself in those stories—or if, perhaps, he was daring me to see myself in them too.

But today, there were no stories. Just a silence heavy with something unsaid. The usual rhythm of me lingering had shifted, the air between us thick with an unspoken tension. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over his desk, over the sharp angles of his face as he worked, quill scratching against parchment in measured strokes.

"You’re staring," he remarked without looking up from his papers. His tone was neutral, but there was an edge to it—curiosity, maybe, or mild irritation.

"You’re interesting to look at," I replied, unapologetic. I didn’t bother to soften the words, nor did I feel the need to look away.

That made him glance up, his expression unreadable. For a moment, there was nothing—just the steady weight of his gaze holding mine. Then, a flicker of something crossed his face. Amusement, perhaps. Or something darker. The corner of his mouth twitched, but whether it was the beginning of a smirk or something else entirely,I couldn’t tell.

"Flattery," he said finally, setting his quill aside, "is a poor mask for curiosity."

"And yet, you don’t seem to mind," i countered.

A pause. Then, just the ghost of a smile. "No," he admitted. "I don’t."

"There’s a rumor," he said, his fingers lingering on the parchment as if weighing his next words carefully.

My pulse kicked up, my body betraying me before I could even think to control it. "Alright?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral, though the sudden shift in the air between us was impossible to ignore.

"That we’re involved."

The words landed between us, deceptively simple, yet heavy with implication. They shouldn’t have affected me. They shouldn’t have made my breath hitch, shouldn’t have sent an uncomfortable heat crawling up my neck, shouldn’t have made me hyper-aware of the space between us—or the way his eyes flickered, just briefly, to catch my reaction. But they did.

I forced a scoff, shaking my head. "That’s ridiculous."

"Is it?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, studying me with that same unreadable expression he always wore when something truly interested him. There was no amusement in his voice, no mockery—just quiet curiosity, a challenge woven into the single syllable.

I swallowed, suddenly unsure of what, exactly, we were talking about. The rumor? Or something else entirely?

"Of course it is," I said, a touch too quickly.

For a moment, he said nothing, only watching me in that unnerving way of his, as if he were peeling back the layers of my words to search for something truer underneath. Then, after a long pause, he leaned back slightly in his chair, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

"Interesting," he murmured.

I wasn’t sure what, exactly, he found so interesting. But I had the distinct feeling that, whatever game he was playing, I had just taken my first move—whether I meant to or not.

His gaze was steady, calculating. I had always admired that about him—his ability to see past words, past intentions, to the truth of things, to read between the lines with chilling accuracy. But now, under that same scrutiny, I wasn’t sure I liked it. There was something different in his eyes, something sharper, as if the mask he wore had cracked just enough to reveal the cold logic beneath.

I shifted slightly, uncomfortable under his gaze, trying to steady my breath.

"What do you think about it?" I asked, tilting my head slightly, forcing myself to meet his eyes. I wasn’t sure if I was asking about the rumor, or something deeper, something I hadn’t fully confronted yet.

He exhaled sharply, the sound almost imperceptible, but it carried weight. Removing his glasses, he set them down on the desk, his fingers lingering for a moment on the frames before he met my gaze again, eyes now sharp and unfiltered. "I believe perception is dangerous. And I believe we’ve been careless."

The weight of his words settled between us, a heavy silence that seemed to stretch, suffocating the air. He was right. He always had a way of being right, even when I didn’t want him to be. I had never crossed a line, not overtly, but I had walked dangerously close to it. The way I sought him out, lingering after class, the way he never quite turned me away—never pushed me back or told me to leave. He could have, easily, but he hadn’t.

And now, standing at the edge of that line, I could feel the tension in the room, the pull between curiosity and something else. Something that made my pulse quicken every time he looked at me like that. Something that neither of us had ever acknowledged aloud, but both of us had known all along.

"You want me to stay away," I said, quieter now, the words leaving my mouth with more weight than I intended. The air between us felt thick, heavier than it had before, as if we had crossed some invisible threshold.

"I want you to be careful," he corrected softly, his voice gentle, but firm—a quiet command wrapped in concern.

The words did something to me, unraveling something carefully contained, something I had pushed to the back of my mind every time I lingered after class, every time I sought him out with a question, a glance, a hesitation. It was as if he had pulled the string that held it all together, and now, the tension inside me was fraying, unspooling in a way I couldn’t control.

I stepped closer, drawn by something unspoken between us, something that neither of us had dared address until now. And for once, he didn’t step back. His gaze held mine, steady but unreadable, and I wondered, just for a moment, if he, too, felt the same pull.

His fingers brushed against mine—light, fleeting, enough to make me wonder if it was intentional. A simple touch, one that could have been an accident, but the way his hand lingered just long enough made me question everything.

"We are no better than the rumors," I murmured, the words slipping out before I could stop them, the truth of it tasting bitter in my mouth.

"No," he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper, the admission heavier than I expected. "We aren’t. I don’t want us to be."

Neither of us moved away. Neither of us spoke, as if the space between us had become something sacred, something we both knew had been crossed and yet were unwilling to step back from.

As the silence stretched between us, the air thick with the weight of our unspoken words, something shifted. There was no more hiding, no more pretending that the space between us could remain so wide. My breath caught in my chest, my pulse thumping loudly in my ears as I found myself leaning closer, drawn to him in a way that felt inevitable, as if we had both been waiting for this moment, without knowing it.

He didn’t pull away. His eyes flickered to my lips, then back to my eyes, a silent question hanging in the air. And in that instant, I knew—knew that we had both crossed that line we had been dancing around for so long. The gap between us closed, and before I could second-guess myself, before I could analyze it to death, I reached out, closing the distance entirely.

His lips were warm and firm against mine, tentative at first, but there was no mistaking the hunger beneath it. A soft sigh escaped me as his hand found my wrist, pulling me closer, and in that moment, everything else disappeared. There was only him, only the feeling of his mouth moving against mine, slow and deliberate, as if testing the waters of something neither of us had fully embraced before.

I was lost in the sensation—the heat of it, the need that had been simmering under the surface for so long. His lips deepened the kiss, a flicker of urgency creeping into the way he held me, his fingers brushing my jaw. It was as though, in this one kiss, we were both acknowledging something we could no longer deny, something that neither of us had the words for but understood all too well.

When we finally pulled away, both of us breathless, I could see the truth in his eyes—he didn’t regret it. Neither did I.

#professor tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x oc #professorridle #harry potter #tom riddle drabble

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theotherdragomirgirl · 8 months ago

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ELIA OF DORNE and ANDROMACHE OF TROY

I have long wanted to write this meta of sorts, because if there is one mythological woman Elia Nymeros Martell has always reminded me of, it's Princess Andromache of Troy (or Andromache of Cilician Thebe).

In Greek mythology, Andromache was the wife of Trojan Prince Hector, daughter of King Eetion, and sister to Podes. She was born and raised in the city of Cilician Thebe, over which her father ruled.

Following the Trojan War, after Achilles has killed Hector and Troy is being captured and sacked by the Greeks, her son by Hector, named Astyanax (born Scamandrius) was murdered by being thrown off the city walls. His killer, Neoptolemus, son of the mythical warrior Achilles, then took Andromache as his concubine. By him, she was the mother of Molossus, Pielus, Pergamus and Amphialus.

The world of ancient Greek Mythology mostly does not sees rape of women conquered in war as rape at all, and yet, King Priam of Troy, father in law of Andromache, himself talks of the mass rape that will happen should Troy fall.

In Iliad, Andromache is portrayed as the perfect wife, weaving a cloak for her husband in the innermost chambers of the house and preparing a bath in anticipation of his return from battle. Just as Princess Elia is said to be "a good woman, kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit", enough so that even her melancholic prince, who even by accounts of those who admired him most, did not have it in himself to be happy, grew "very fond of her".

Just like Andromache represents the injustice done to the women of Troy, to women of war torn lands in general, Elia represents the injustice done to women in King's Landing during the sack of the city.

Andromache and Elia are both widows of Crown Princes when their cities are sacked, but that doesn't save them from gruesome fates. If anything, being married to the dead heir to the throne dooms them too. One to a lifetime of misery, the other to an unbelievably horrific death.

We first learn about Elia through Daenerys, as she imagines the fall of the Targaryen dynasty:

"Yet sometimes Dany would picture the way it had been, so often had her brother told her the stories. The sack of King’s Landing by the ones Viserys called the Usurper’s dogs, the lords Lannister and Stark. Princess Elia of Dorne pleading for mercy as Rhaegar’s heir was ripped from her breast and murdered before her eyes. The polished skulls of the last dragons staring down sightlessly from the walls of the throne room while the Kingslayer opened Father’s throat with a golden sword."

Daenerys' description of the sack, and what happened to Elia and the rest of the Targaryen royals during it, is very similar to what befell Andromache. Her son was ripped from her arms, and murdered before her eyes, while her father-in-law was murdered by the invading forces. Elia and Andromache's role as mother, a fundamental element of their position in marriage, is emphasized within the text of their respective tales.

Following the murders of their sons (and daughter also, in Elia's case) both women are subjected to aggravated rape. Andromache is made a sex slave, and Elia is raped to death.

Both women had their family entirely stripped from them by the violence of war, making them fulfill the fate of conquered women in ancient warfare.

Both are wives of admired, beloved crown princes seen as the hope and future of their dynasty. And later, widows.

Both loose everything due to their husbands dying in war at the hands of a great warrior. Robert of House Baratheon, in case of Elia. And Achilles, in case of Andromache.

The so-called (or so-perceived) "good guys" of the stories victimize Elia and Andromache, or outright benefit from their victimization.

In some versions, it is Odysseus who kills Andromache's infant son, and then takes her mother-in-law, Hecuba, as his war prize.

Robert Baratheon had a just cause to rise against the man literally named "the mad king", but he defiles the justness of his own cause by walking to his throne of swords over the brutalized dead bodies of Elia and her children (Princess Rhaenys, not even three years old, stabbed half a hundred times, infant Aegon bashed into a bloody pulp against the wall, Elia raped with her son's blood and brain on her rapist's hands, then cut in half by him), calling them "dragonspawn" with disgust. Not only refusing her family justice, but actually awarding the man who orchestrated the monstrous deeds with a crown for his daughter.

Then there is their treatment by other women:

Hermione, daughter of Menelaus, king of Sparta, and his wife, Helen of Troy, wife of Andromache's captor and rapist Neoptolemus, blamed Andromache for her inability to become pregnant, claiming that she was casting spells on her to keep her barren. To the point that she asked her father to kill Andromache and her son while Neoptolemus was away at Delphi.

The same way, in text, Cersei Lannister blames Elia for her unhappiness as wife of Robert. Basically declaring that if Rhaegar had only married her, not Elia, everything and everyone would be well and happy. That it must have been madness that drove King Aerys to marry his son to the Dornish Princess.

Outside of text, we have the fandom's treatment of, and attitude towards, Elia. People who prefer Rhaegar Targaryen with Lyanna Stark, treat Elia as if she was the interloper in the marriage, and not his lawfully wedded legal wife, in eyes of both the Old Gods and the new. I have seen people outright say "fuck Elia and her children". It is honestly... Bizarre.

Andromache was famous for her fidelity and virtue. And it is safe to say Elia was both of those things too. Since even her biggest detractors, Jon Connington and Cersei Lannister, two people who wanted her husband for themselves, could not find any fault in Elia in that regard. Jon could only complain that Elia was sickly and unworthy of Rhaegar, despite the fact that she gave him two children in two years, and Cersei could only complain about Elia's breast size.

And yet, for all their amazing qualities, both women still suffered unquestionably and immensely, all for someone else's "love story".

Paris made off with Helen, and Andromache payed the price with all that she held dear.

Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it. Including his innocent wife and children.

Andromache.

Elia.

Daughter

Princess

Sister

Wife

Mother

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overseer-picard · 6 months ago

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I like Picard so much because he's this very diplomatic direct neutral man with amazing self regulation and EVERYONE wants to fuck him

Oh boy, I’m a succulent maple tree and you just tapped into my syrup. So, apologies in advance for this.

////////

Listen, you ever see a Damascus steel blade? At first glance it looks like regular boring metal, but if you pay closer attention, there’s a subtle, intricate grain— the result of being heated, folded, hammered, and cooled over and over again. This process creates not only a beautifully unique pattern to look at, but a reinforced high-tensile strength blade.

This is Picard to me. At first glance he’s a tea drinking, desk sitting, stuffy intellectual. Yet as you get to know his character, you realize there’s an intense grit and nuanced strength ingrained beneath the polish.

His diplomacy skills do not stem from his intellectual and tactical prowess (though they play a big part), they are the result of a brash, fearless, hot-head who struggled for control over his own reckless nature. He had to painstakingly broker peace within himself, temper those inborn traits, or spiral into self-destruction.

He can lead the cold-blooded tyrants and the obnoxious chest-thumpers by the nose and call it diplomacy because he’s harnessed those very traits within himself. He can look a warmonger in the eye without flinching because on a fundamental level, he is as capable of destruction and pain as they are (Mirror Universe anyone?).

He is a peaceful man by choice, not nature. And that is what makes him indomitable.

The person who grapples with themselves to become something more than they are will always tower above those who stagnate comfortably in their own nature.

So yeah, anyone who takes the time to ponder why Mr. Dainty-Teacup-Flute-Toot is captain of the Federation flagship, they tend to discover they wouldn’t mind a taste of that beautifully intricate tempered steel.

#star trek the next generation #jean luc picard #picard #ask #thank you anon :)

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tanadrin · 7 months ago

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It turns out that "nationalism is a not-even-once drug" is antisemitic because it leads a person to not support the state of Israel (but really I appreciate your firm and clear position on nationalism).

There was *maybe* a time when nationalism was conditionally a useful liberatory ideology in the 19th century, when it was a force that helped carve democratic states out of reactionary empires; but even in that context it feels like it was mostly dumb luck, and the alternative scenario where multiethnic empires could have become multiethnic democracies strikes me as more desirable in many ways—not least because it might have helped avoid the process of national calcification and brutal ethnic cleansing and population transfers that occurred after both world wars.

But even the most ardent nationalist will admit not every people can have its own nation—just as German nationalism required suppressing Sorbian and Czech and Polish nationalism, or Russian nationalism required running roughshod over Ukrainian nationalism, or French over Breton, etc, etc—it is ultimately an ideology which requires some nations to be more valid than others, and minority nations to be subsumed, forcibly assimilated, or expelled. And even within the nation, the national elites, the “true” carriers of the national spirit, will necessarily be privileged over those who are considered “lesser” or more contingent members. Nationalism does not actually entail democracy—it’s an ideology that legitimates state power, regardless of who is running the state.

And it sucks! And making a carve out for special kinds of nationalism under the label “indigeneity” doesn’t seem like a great solution to me either. We can end and try to correct the historic wrongs done to oppressed people without recourse to an ideology that fundamentally validates oppression, you know? We sort of have to. And on the flip side it should surprise no one that linking territoriality and statehood to a national identity leads to projects of bloody conquest and oppression. That’s kind of what nationalism is for!

#am a wee bit hungover please excuse any inelegant phrasing here

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cs-fox · 6 months ago

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Sometimes you don’t even notice your habits until someone points them out to you. Simon knew he was a dab hand at reading people, but when you turned up at the 141’s barracks, he was put a little bit out.

One of the most fundamental pieces of information you could glean from observing a person was their relationship status - married, unmarried, engaged? You could tell this from the presence of a ring on the respective finger.

Figuring out if a person was married or not was one of Simon’s subconscious habits.

So, when you walked in, his eyes went straight to your fingers, expecting to see maybe a thin silver band, possibly a promise ring, appropriate for your young age.

A thin silver band he found - along with two thick black rings, another mirror-polished circlet inlaid with a small stone, a silvery hoop tracing around your thumb, and -

Oh, damn.

Simon’s face quickly morphed into confusion and exasperation.

Over the next few weeks, you caught him staring at your hands far too many times. With a furrowed brow and searching eyes - was he judging you?

It became the last straw when you heard him talking about your rings to your Captain in an irritated tone of voice.

You strode up to him and raised your brows haughtily. ‘Got a problem with something, Lieutenant?’

He jumped, whipping around to look down at you. ‘Uh - just wondering how many husbands you’ve had, to wear all of those rings, right…?’ he tried to play it off with an awkward joke, for this had been bugging him for too long, and now was his chance to fix it.

‘I’m not married.’ you said coolly.

‘Oh,’ Simon said, with an audible sigh of relief.

‘Huh?’

____________________________________________

from popular request, reader with too many rings for poor simon.

love yall ❤️

@aboutchriss @im-having-a-hard-tim3

#call of duty #cod #fanfiction #oneshot #fanfic #call of duty oneshot #simon riley #ghost #x reader #ghost x reader #writers on tumblr #writers #story #cod fanfiction #ghost call of duty

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rahuratna · 3 months ago

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Part 2

Synopsis: Hunting never quite prepared you for this; for falling in love. You're uncertain about the true nature of your relationship with Olivia, now that you've both expressed your passion in the most primal, fundamental way possible. She takes steps to rectify that.

[MH Wilds Olivia x Fem Hunter/Reader]

Content: Romance, angst, humour, falling in love, W/W, courtship, lovers' spat, smut (in previous and next chapter).

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

(Kudos to @that-basic-simp who's headcanon that Olivia was a wildcard in her youth has now become canon in my mind. It just makes sense!)

A hunter is accustomed to living rough, to take pleasure in the few luxuries they are afforded once their reputation has been established.

You've had your fair share of days under unforgiving sun, skin sand-blasted as you forged through parched desert landscapes, or tugged your boots from the powerful suction of a mire with each draining step.

Yes, you'd known hardship and toil, the way most hunters had.

So why was this so difficult to navigate?

Perched on your seikret as you patrolled the Scarlet Forest for tempered monsters, you were aware of her eyes scanning the trees around you, as well as the exact moments that they landed on you, tracing over your form in the saddle.

She didn't mean anything by it.

Olivia was merely performing her due diligence; remaining vigilant, taking stock of your current environs, maintaining a steady watch for her companions, including you.

You envied her, somewhat.

You weren't able to clear your mind so capably of your intimate encounter with her after the battle against the Ajarakan at Azuz City.

You were the one who found yourself watching after her while you were all at camp, watching the way she polished her weapon and shuddering as you remembered the way she'd handled you.

You were the one who caught a glimpse of her training, the bare lines of her powerful shoulders visible as she swung her hammer with practiced ease. And you couldn't help but remember how those same shoulders had felt beneath the grip of your nails, the way they'd rippled sinuously as she'd pressed you further down under the weight of her body.

You wondered what she made of all of this. You wondered why she could remain so calm, as if the current status quo was the most natural order she'd ever witnessed in nature.

Luxuries. Those that were ill-afforded to a hunter.

That's what you and Olivia had, wasn't it? A luxury of time, stolen sweetness and passion, a fleeting moment between two people who were drawn together by circumstance, nothing more.

Even as you had the thought, you recognised it for the lie it was.

Maybe it had been a culmination of physical passion on her part, but to you ...

No. It wouldn't do to dwell on that. Or the voice that whispered to you, oh so treacherously, that Olivia's steadfast and honorable personality wouldn't allow her to make such a decision without some kind of true feeling. That was not her nature, and you knew it.

On the one hand, you were crippled by the doubt of not knowing, and on the other, held back by your fear of seeming inexperienced, naive or just plain silly to be dwelling on such matters. Surely a hunter had more important things to focus on than matters of the heart (or loins)?

And yet, you sometimes found yourself questioning the unfairness of it all.

Having lived the life you had, how were you supposed to know what was right? How were you supposed to know how to navigate this new and infinitely more dangerous territory?

You could settle for the simple explanation for now; the fact that Olivia was content with things between you as they were, and would perhaps join you in your tent again, in some uncertain time in the future, that she would confine her heated words of tenderness (that you absolutely weren't pining for) to those secret hours before the dawn.

Yes, you supposed you could accept that as her current intention towards you.

If only you knew how very wrong you were.

The first hint you received that all was not playing out as you imagined was the co-ordinated patrols.

The recent upsurge of tempered and frenzied monsters across all habitats meant that the units on the ground were often stretched out, required to travel between different locales every few days in order to see to new issues that cropped up here and there.

You'd teamed up with a variety of other hunters by now, including the laid back but capable Rosso and the earnest Alessa. In recent times, though, it seemed that Olivia was almost always the squad leader assigned to your area.

If it happened a couple of times in a row, you wouldn't have given it another thought. Seven times, though? That was certainly pushing the boundaries of the probable when it came to coincidence.

After the ninth occasion when your SOS flare had seemingly summoned Olivia out of the aether, you decided to question her on it, as delicately as you could.

On the ride back to camp, you fell behind, allowing Alma and your trusty palico to take the lead. Scarlet water splashed against the soles of your boots as your rode beside Olivia in silence for a while, knees brushing companiably against hers. She seemed content to simply be at your side, but this was the best time to ask the question.

"Olivia, are you ... keeping track of my missions?"

She turned to you, the red-tinted water reflecting in faint bars across her cheeks.

"What makes you say that?"

You waved a hand between her and you.

"This is the ninth time you've answered my call. Normally, the others happen to be in the area too and - "

She raised an eyebrow.

"You'd like them to answer your call instead?"

"No! That isn't what I meant."

She regarded your flustered face with her trademark equanimity for a moment before her mouth twitched slightly and she looked away. Your eyes narrowed.

"Olivia."

"What?"

"The truth, please."

She sighed.

"If you must know, then yes. I have been keeping track of your missions, but not because I don't think you're capable."

You watched her, waiting for an explanation. The words that emerged from her next were a little stilted, as if she hadn't fully made sense of them herself.

"I always look out for my unit. Erik, Werner, and Athos, of course. You know that right?"

You nodded, a faint crease appearing between your brows. Olivia did make sure they were taken care of, going so far as to remind Werner when to eat when he was too caught up in his latest project.

"Well, the same applies to you. It may not be official orders, but I consider you to be one of our unit. And all that comes with it."

Her eyes met yours and you felt that small jolt of anticipation, that thread of golden, electric awareness that wove through your whole body every time she fixed her full attention on you like this.

"So, I'm family, then?" you asked, half teasing.

She stared back, perfectly serious.

"Yes. That's what I meant. It's not just about protection. I know you can hold your own, whoever answers the signal. I just want to be the one who responds because that's what I feel is best. That I'm the one fighting beside you."

You were silent for a minute, absorbing this. Olivia's posture had become rather stiff, and her glance raked along your face from the side, as if assessing your response to this.

You couldn't have that.

Alma had disappeared around the bend up ahead.

Leaning sideways in the saddle, you craned your neck and aimed a kiss at her cheek. Your mouth found hers instead, jostling you slightly back as she guided her seikret closer to yours.

Warm, slightly chapped, her lips were gentle, then firm, intoxicating as she always was. She released you, exhaling against your cheeks and you let out a small sound in response, tilting your head as she captured you again.

There was a shift in the light ahead, against your closed eyelids, and you drew away from her, an ache erupting in your chest that you knew no remedy for.

The brief moment of sunset-hued longing in her own gaze, the soft allure of her deepest buried self, caught and held you.

On the way back, you couldn't help the sporadic smile that would break out across your face.

Olivia could keep her composure. You were starting to decipher what lay beneath.

A ball of flame rockets over the top of the rock you're crouched behind, exploding against the cliffface. The enraged Tempered Guardian Rathalos was a foe to be reckoned with indeed, in turns burning the ground and leaving explosions of Wylk-powered energy in its wake.

Dashing out from behind cover, you witness a sight that temporarily stops your heart. Olivia, astride her seikret, charging head on at the raging creature. You could tell from the way she was standing slightly in the saddle, the line of her back and legs taut as a coiled spring, that she was attempting to mount it.

You shout to her, but your warning call is lost amidst the charging of the Rathalos' coming attack.

Whistling for your own seikret, you barely register the lurch of your body through the air as it swings you onto its back. Your eyes are completely focused on her and her damnable daredevil charge, hair flying behind her like a battle pennant as she speeds up.

Some part of your mind is telling you that this isn't out of the ordinary for her. That Olivia is constantly pushing the furthest boundaries of her abilities, always trying new attack combinations and strategies that risked life and limb, all in the name of being the best hunter she can be.

Didn't you do the same?

That didn't make it any less harrowing to watch the woman you -

No.

Focus on the beast. Focus on the swell of its fiery breath. Clear your mind, as she must be doing right now. Match the stride of your seikret with hers. Reign it slightly to the left, just as the blast exits the gaping jaws and then -

Olivia leaps, straight for the Rathalos' back. She isn't going to -

Then the reptilian gaze lands on you, and you fire off a round of Wyrmsbane from your slinger, right between the eyes. It flinches back, roaring with rage, and in this moment, Olivia lands successfully.

Her feet plant on the spiny plates of its back, hunting knife driving into the softer parts between as she lets out an answering yell. The beast attempts to buck her off, but you turn your mount sharply, firing off another round at its chest.

Olivia skirts forward to the head, shrugging off the flame that spills from the creature's mouth, and draws her hammer, landing a powerful concussive blow on the plate above the brow.

Staggering, the great, scarred body topples over, crashing onto its side. In an instant, you dismount, drawing your weapon. Olivia slides across the head, readying her own blow.

At her side, you watch the way she pivots on her heel, the powerful curve of her waist, the arc of the hammer as it comes down once, twice, three times, each strike timed with precision as you both land your attacks in tandem.

The Rathalos lies defeated, one wing extended out at your feet.

Olivia turns to you, and you see something wild, something ecstatic in her expression. Her breathing is heavy, the ends of her hair are scorched and the sleeve of the tunic she wears beneath her armour is torn, the flesh reddened with scratches.

She isn't her usual composed self as she strides across the ground towards you. You've barely sheathed your weapon before her hand grasps your hip like a steel vice and she tugs you against her, lips smashing against yours, artless, no aim other than to be closer to you.

Vaguely, you are aware of your palico asking if this is a human mating ritual.

You gasp into her mouth, your fingers scraping across her epaulettes, before you remember that stunt she pulled. You ball up a fist and bring it down with a light thump in the middle of her chest.

She separates from you, panting slightly, but doesn't release you from her grasp.

"What?"

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That jump! That was just plain reckless."

She suddenly registers that you are angry with her and her eyebrow cocks in a way that infuriates you even further. Still, she doesn't release you.

"What about it? I've been practicing that for a week now. Athos knows."

"And you decided to test it out on a Tempered Guardian Rathalos?"

You punctuated each word with a stabbing finger to the middle of her chest. It does nothing but strengthen her hold on you, your body pressed flush against hers. You see an answering fire in her glance.

"The more dangerous the better. At least I know it works when it counts."

"Did you hit yourself with your hammer during training?"

"Are you insulting the Captain of another unit?"

"Oh, you're pulling rank now, huh?"

"Well, it seems like you're forcing me to."

Your palico was now asking if fighting was also part of a mating ritual, at which Athos promptly places her paw over his snout.

You take a deep breath, attempting to calm yourself, which wasn't easy with her current proximity.

"Olivia, it was ... impressive, I admit, but - "

"So you can admit that much?"

"That doesn't mean it wasn't ill-considered!"

"You know what else is ill-considered?"

"What?"

She leans forward and captures your lips in a searing kiss again, and your resistance is sapping away by the minute. You arch under her touch, your fingers sliding up her waist.

There's something different here, something she wants you to experience first hand. She'd told you stories before, about her youth, and the way she'd taken on the most dangerous missions to prove herself.

Time and responsibility had tempered those desires, but it seemed that they sometimes simmered just under the surface, and you couldn't deny having seen it in her before.

Olivia had been a firebrand, true to form, and as she consumes you, tilting her head, pushing you back, tasting you thoroughly, a realisation strikes you.

She wanted you to see her, all of her, even the parts she kept concealed so well, the parts that nobody but you (and Athos) would witness in her now.

When her arms finally drop from around you, you place your forehead against hers, breathing her in. You offer her a half smile, nose brushing against hers.

Olivia glances sideways and Athos places her paws on her hips.

"No use asking for my approval, Livvie. Seems like mew've decided."

Your palico gawped in outrage.

"Approval? My meowster is the best of the best!"

"Eh? Anyone who gets Livvie as a pawtner is the luckiest."

"Mew want a catfight on your hands?"

"Nyah, I'd win."

Olivia clapped her hands together.

"All right, you two go on ahead and tell Alma that we're done here. We'll just carve and get cleaned up after."

Your palico shot you a look that was a little too knowing.

"Meowster, send up an SOS flare if it gets too much."

Your mouth fell open, aghast.

"You've got the wrong idea - "

Athos waved at you both.

"Happy carving."

When they are both out of sight you turn, heading straight for the Rathalos, pulling your knife from its sheathe. Olivia is close behind you, but she refrains from touching you, to your relief. You're not sure you can resist her.

After a moment of silent carving, your hands now slick with the wylk-infused secretions that pass for blood, she asks you a question.

"Are you still angry?"

"I'm not angry. I'm just ... seeing you ride right at that thing, getting ready to jump - "

"Not the first time I've done it."

She was reading your mind again. And she was right. This was the crux of the issue.

It shouldn't bother you. It really shouldn't. You remembered the feeling of deep admiration you'd had when she'd charged right at the Arkveld without even knowing the first thing about the monster.

So why would it be any different now? The world didn't change because of your feelings for her. If anything, it was you that had to adapt to the new order, to the fact that hunting would never stop being dangerous for either of you.

You paused in your repetitive action, still unable to face her.

"This isn't something that's on you. You have nothing to apologise for. It's me. I'm the one that needs to come to terms with ... some things."

So saying, you complete your task, heading to the nearby river to wash. She remains silent, but you feel her eyes watching your every move, the way she holds back the things she would say to you.

The wyverian ruins wash you both in their cold light.

Later, at camp, you try to distract yourself with boardgames with Alma. She's always been better at them than you, but you take comfort in the familiarity of defeat and her idle, warm chatter.

You can put aside thinking about more serious issues when the warmth of the brazier steals into your limb and leaves you languid, pleasantly fatigued after your bath.

Your palico is lounging at your side, head pushed into your ribs as you rub at his ears. It's as if they can all sense your inner turmoil, and are doing all they can to take your mind from it.

Someone approaches, stands just outside the ring of firelight. Alma glances up, and from the way her posture immediately straightens, you know it's Olivia.

"Ah, Olivia - "

Your palico surges to his feet, tugging on Alma's hand.

"Let's go see Gemma. I think she's made me the most purrfect breastplate."

"Oh ... of course!"

Straightening her glasses, Alma shoots you a confirmatory look and you nod, smiling slightly. Always the protective one, is Alma. She never fails to make you feel like you're in good hands.

Olivia finally steps into the warm ring of light, raising her hands to the blaze. She warms them in silence for a minute, and you wonder what she could possibly be here to say to you.

The heaviness of the day's events suddenly burdens you like a lead weight, and you feel it in the way your shoulders slump slightly.

Olivia settles onto the bench beside you, her shoulder pressing into yours.

"Forgive me for sounding forward, but shouldn't you be more pleased to see your lover?"

It's the first time she's referred to herself as such aloud, and you can't help the way your lips curve in response.

"Should I be?"

She exhales sharply and then her fingers are under your chin, turning your head gently to face her. There it is, that infinite tenderness and desire she bears only for you, the set of her mouth that makes it seem like she's almost in pain.

Her voice is low, charged with feeling, and it makes you shudder slightly.

"Please, look at me. I don't want ... this. Whatever this is. I don't want it between us."

You shake your head, patiently explaining to her yet again.

"Olivia, I said earlier that you have nothing to - "

"I do." Her grasp on your chin tightens ever so slightly. "I do have to apologise. For making you think you have to deal with this alone. I just ... I'm afraid I'm not very good at these things."

"But there's nothing you - "

"Yes, there is. I can comfort you. I can hold you. I can listen to your concerns and not behave like an idiotic youth who's just received their hunting license. I can be here when you need me the most. I can make compromises too, because if that isn't what all these years leading my own unit has taught me, then I'm a failure indeed."

Her harsh assessment of her own actions makes you reach up, wrapping your hand around her own. You bring it to your lips, speaking against her skin.

"We're both learning, Olivia. And we've got to adapt. But I suppose a little help from my own partner at times would definitely be something. And maybe ... practice those stunts a little more before trying them out in the field, yes?"

"Only if you're the one practicing with me."

"Suppose I'll have to stock up on healing potions, then."

"Am I that dangerous?"

Your laughter this time was genuine, and some of the tension she bore in her frame dissipated.

"You're the most dangerous woman I know."

Even now that you knew she was dealing with these feelings in her own way, the natural course of her actions always surprised you a little.

Your next hint that she was far more serious about your relationship than you had initially expected were the numerous small gifts that inevitably headed your way.

As Captain of her unit, and veteran hunter, Olivia had made numerous connections over her career than enabled trade deals. Shipments of goods under careful supervision would make their way to various base camps, courtesy of the deals she brokered, each containing valuable supplies and equipment for the hunters.

Sometimes, there was something rather specific for you among these shipments. And it was obvious, to anyone who cared to scrutinize, that as practical as all of these gifts were, they were tailor-made to suit you.

There was the new sheathe for your hunting knife, made of a beautiful dark leather that you'd once expressed appreciation for. There was a talisman of protection, woven together with feathers from a bird you'd once mentioned that was native to your home region and village.

There was a delivery of your favourite honey sweets to the Avis Tent (by the time you'd arrived, your palico had looked at you with a guilty expression and stuffed cheeks, Alma hiding a wrapper discreetly in her pocket, while Nata looked on at their antics and giggled).

There was one particular morning when you'd emerged from your tent at the Ruins of Wyveria, a short while after the Rathalos debacle, and a glorious, fresh and familiar scent had assailed your senses. Glancing around in confusion, you'd spotted a nosegay of flowers from the Plains tied across the entrance of your tent.

Your eyes widened as you took in the vivid purple hue of the flowers, remembering one particular evening when ...

A step sounded outside the sheltering canvas, and Olivia appeared around the corner, eyes flicking between you and the hanging flowers.

It was still very early, and only a few people were stirring around camp. She was out of her armour for a change, in a soft, fleece coat, belted at the waist against the cold of the ruins.

You gestured to the flowers.

"Is this ... "

The corner of her mouth quirked upward.

"Yes. Figured you could use some fresh scent after fighting that tempered Congalala yesterday."

You wrinkled your nose.

"Well, you chose right. I love the scent of these."

She was close now, her eyes drinking you in, in that manner that made your knees feel like they'd been stung by a paralytic wasp.

"I know. Do you remember that day?"

"I do."

Your voice had sunk lower, a barely audible whisper as you recalled that evening, when you'd captured a Quematrice on the Plains for Erik's study. Olivia had accompanied you, as she'd felt it her duty to oversee the mission that would benefit her unit.

You hadn't been particularly close to her, back then. She'd always drawn your attention, but she was still a colleague, a rather intimidating one too. Olivia's competence and command was unquestionable, and although she was cordial and always polite, there was an air about her that didn't exactly invite friendship.

That evening on the Plains had changed your perspective of her, for good.

The Quematrice has burned a swathe through some dry grass, and for fear of the blaze catching over the wider area, you and your trusty palico had commissioned some wingdrakes to carry large buckets of water to pour over the area from above.

By the time the exercise was over, you'd been sore of body, exhausted, covered in soot, breath raspy from inhaled smoke. Olivia rode beside you back to camp, amusement colouring her expression as you'd slumped over in the saddle and grimaced at the smell of burnt vegetation that had seemed to ingrain itself in your nostrils.

She'd spied something off the trail and made a sudden detour, returning with a small cluster of purple flowers in her hand, picking away their stems and tying them around the bunch to hold them together. She'd taken off her gauntlets to work with the delicate blooms.

"Here, these should help with the smell."

Taken aback by her act of kindness, you'd accepted the flowers and held them up to your nose, inhaling deeply and sighing. The scent was fresh, a little less sweet than you'd expected, carrying almost citrusy undertones that banished the smell of burning.

"Well now. I think this might just be my new favourite blossom."

She'd nodded, offering a small smile.

"They're similar to the Styraca flowers back in Dundorma. During festival time, they'd deck the houses with them to clear out the vapours of the last season."

Clearing her throat, she'd looked off into the distance, pausing before reciting to you.

"The crown of warmer tides awaits, their jewels scattered among the fields. Weave them into your hair, my queen, and your heart shall surely yield."

You'd almost dropped the flowers in surprise, leaning towards her, intrigued.

"I didn't put you down for a poet, Olivia!"

She'd snorted and glanced away, and you realised that she was actually slightly embarrassed.

"Oh, I'm no poet. Just have an appreciation for other's verse, I suppose. That's one that's pretty popular around festival time."

While her attention was turned away from you, you hurriedly fixed the flowers beneath your helmet so that they looked like they were sprouting over your ear. You spread your arms regally as she turned back, noting the slight widening of her eyes.

"How's this for a crown?"

" ... um. Suits you."

"Think I'll win anyone's heart this way?"

"Maybe the Quematrice."

"Olivia! What kind of person do you take me for?"

Your combined laughter echoed across the Plains, and it marked the first time in your association with her that you could relax and enjoy each other's company without the constraints of duty and mission parameters.

You remembered it now, standing before your tent in the chill morning with her, as a defining moment. That had been when you'd seen past Olivia the Ace Hunter, past the trappings of her professionalism to the sensitive heart beneath, the woman who loved to read poetry in a sunny field, the sweat of training still on her skin, the wind tousling the wheat-hued strands of her hair.

Reaching up, you plucked a bloom from the small bunch, tucking it lightly behind her ear. In the softer light of the lantern, with the pale fleece of her coat wrapping her snugly and her eyes gleaming with sage-green fire, you'd never seen a more beautiful sight.

Tilting your head, you traced the line of her chin, watching as she leaned unconsciously into your touch.

"What do you think now?" Your tone was soft, teasing. "Has your heart yielded yet?"

Her hand came up, circling your wrist, the callouses on her palms catching slightly on your skin. When she'd held you, back then in the tent after the Ajarakan fight, when she'd caressed you and bit and licked and gripped, she'd never shown any sign of hesitation, as if claiming what was rightfully hers.

So why was it this simple touch, this grip on your arm, that felt so shaky, so uncertain, like a child that grasps on too tight when you're in a crowded space, as if you'd leave them behind to face the unknown world alone?

She turned your hand over, placing her lips softly against the skin on the underside of your wrist, then again, on the centre of your palm. Something about the gesture blew the air right out of your lungs, as if she'd knelt before you and presented you her throat.

She never did answer your question.

She didn't need to.

Taglist: @rubberroomwithrats @ohgoodnesswhatdo @comradesepsis @pinkiedash101 @zephyrwolf5

@mystique-agent @moonskins @damnesis

@zellkabellk @queen-titania @moonmoonmon

@len1028 @jo-crow @ammirabilis

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stxrbxrn · 11 months ago

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the feast of forbidden fruit …

pairing: hannibal x f!reader tw: implied cannibalism, dubious consent, uhealthy/obsessive relationship dynamics, sexual content ( not full out smut but hints towards it ) word count: 1.8k (ish)

you step into the dimly lit gallery, your heels echoing on the polished marble floor. the air is heavy with the scent of aged wood and oil paint, a fitting atmosphere for the exhibition of renaissance masterpieces. but it's not the art that draws your gaze tonight. it's him.

dr. hannibal lecter stands before a botticelli, his profile sharp and regal in the soft lighting. he turns, as if sensing your presence, and his maroon eyes lock onto yours. a shiver runs down your spine - from fear or excitement, you're not quite sure.

"good evening," he says, his accented voice smooth as silk. "i was hoping you'd come."

you approach, drawn into his orbit like a moth to flame. "i wouldn't miss it, dr. lecter. your taste in art is... exquisite."

his lips curve into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "as is yours, my dear. both in art and... company."

the double meaning hangs in the air between you. you've been dancing this dangerous waltz for months now, circling each other in a game of cat and mouse. but which of you is the predator, and which the prey?

"would you care to join me for a closer look?" he asks, gesturing to the painting.

you nod, allowing him to guide you with a gentle hand on the small of your back. his touch burns through the thin fabric of your dress.

as you stand before the botticelli, he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. "do you see how the artist has captured the vulnerability of the human form? the delicate interplay of light and shadow on bare flesh?"

your breath catches in your throat. "yes," you whisper. "it's beautiful."

"indeed," he murmurs. "beauty and suffering, inexorably intertwined. one cannot truly appreciate the former without experiencing the latter."

you turn to face him, your faces mere inches apart. "and which are you offering tonight, dr. lecter? beauty or suffering?"

his eyes gleam in the low light. "why not both?"

the world seems to fade away, leaving only you and hannibal in this moment of exquisite tension. you know you should run, should flee from the darkness you see swirling in the depths of his gaze. but you're captivated, ensnared by the enigma of the man before you.

"come," he says, offering his arm. "let us continue our tour. there is so much more i wish to show you."

you take his arm, your fate sealed with that simple gesture. as he leads you deeper into the gallery, you can't help but wonder if you're walking willingly into the lion's den.

the rest of the evening passes in a blur of wine, witty conversation, and lingering glances. hannibal is the perfect gentleman, charming and erudite. but beneath the polished veneer, you sense something wild and dangerous lurking just beneath the surface.

as the night draws to a close, he escorts you to your car. "i've greatly enjoyed your company this evening," he says, his hand still resting on the small of your back.

"as have i," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

he leans in, his lips brushing against your cheek. "until next time, my dear," he murmurs. "sweet dreams."

you drive home in a daze, your mind reeling from the evening's events. as you prepare for bed, you can't shake the feeling that something has fundamentally shifted. you've crossed a threshold, and there's no going back.

that night, your dreams are a kaleidoscope of images - flashes of steel, splashes of crimson, and always, always, those burning maroon eyes watching you.

* * *

days pass, but you can't get dr. lecter out of your mind. his presence lingers like a phantom limb, an ache you can't quite shake. you find yourself obsessively replaying every moment of your encounters, analyzing each word, each gesture.

when your phone rings and his name appears on the screen, your heart leaps into your throat.

"hello, my dear," his voice purrs through the speaker. "i was wondering if you might join me for dinner tomorrow evening. i'm preparing a rather special menu, and i can think of no one i'd rather share it with."

you know you should refuse. every instinct screams at you to make an excuse, to put distance between yourself and this man who both thrills and terrifies you. but the words that come out of your mouth betray you:

"i'd be delighted, dr. lecter."

you can almost hear his smile through the phone. "excellent. shall we say 8 o'clock? and please, call me hannibal."

the next evening finds you standing before his door, your heart pounding a staccato rhythm against your ribs. you smooth down your dress, take a deep breath, and knock.

the door swings open, and there he stands, resplendent in a three-piece suit. "good evening," he says, his eyes roaming appreciatively over your form. "you look ravishing."

he ushers you inside, taking your coat with the grace of a perfect host. the air is rich with the aroma of simmering herbs and spices, making your mouth water despite your nerves.

"i hope you're hungry," hannibal says, leading you into the dining room. the table is set with exquisite china and gleaming silverware, a single red rose in a crystal vase serving as the centerpiece.

"starving," you reply, and something in his eyes flashes at your choice of words.

he pulls out your chair, ever the gentleman, before disappearing into the kitchen. you take the moment alone to steady your nerves, reminding yourself that this is just dinner. nothing more.

but as hannibal returns, bearing plates of food that look more like works of art than mere sustenance, you know you're only lying to yourself. this is so much more than just dinner.

"our first course," he announces, setting a plate before you. "carpaccio of veal heart, with a black truffle emulsion."

you raise an eyebrow at the choice of meat, but the presentation is stunning. hannibal watches intently as you take your first bite. the flavors explode on your tongue - rich, complex, unlike anything you've ever tasted before.

"it's incredible," you breathe.

his smile is one of genuine pleasure. "i'm so glad you enjoy it. i always take great care in selecting the... ingredients for my special guests."

the meal progresses through several more exquisite courses, each one a symphony of flavors and textures. hannibal is the perfect host, keeping the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. but there's an undercurrent of tension, a predatory gleam in his eye that both excites and unnerves you.

as he clears away the dessert plates, you find yourself feeling slightly lightheaded. whether from the rich food, the wine, or simply hannibal's intoxicating presence, you're not sure.

"shall we retire to the study for a digestif?" he suggests, offering his hand to help you up.

you take it, relishing the warmth of his skin against yours. "lead the way."

his study is a temple to refined taste - walls lined with leather-bound books, artwork that probably costs more than your yearly salary, and a crackling fire that casts dancing shadows across the room.

hannibal pours two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. "armagnac," he explains, handing you one. "a 1965 vintage. i've been saving it for a special occasion."

you accept the glass, your fingers brushing against his. "and what occasion might that be?"

he takes a step closer, invading your personal space. "tonight," he pauses, eyes transfixed on your face, "the night you become mine."

your breath catches in your throat. this is the moment you've both been building towards, the culmination of months of tension and unspoken desire. you should be afraid - you know, deep down, that there's something not quite right about hannibal lecter. but all you feel is a burning need.

"what makes you think i want to be yours?" you challenge, even as your body betrays you, leaning into him.

his free hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. "you've been mine since the moment our eyes first met."

he closes the distance between you, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. it's nothing like you imagined - it's better. his mouth is hot, demanding, tasting of armagnac and something darker, something uniquely hannibal.

you melt into him, your glass slipping from your fingers and shattering on the hardwood floor. neither of you pays it any mind. your hands fist in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as his own hands roam your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

when you finally break apart, gasping for air, his eyes are wild with hunger. "tell me you want this," he growls, his accent thicker with desire. "tell me you want me."

"i want you," you breathe, beyond the point of no return. "god help me, i need you."

it's a desperate, violent thing, all clashing teeth and battling tongues. you pour all your fear, all your desire, all your conflicted emotions into that kiss. and hannibal matches you passion for passion, his hands gripping you so tightly you know you'll have bruises tomorrow.

when you break apart, you're both panting. "what happens now?" you ask, your voice hoarse.

hannibal's smile is a thing of terrible beauty. "now, my dear, we feast."

he lead you back to the wooded table, lifting you effortlessly to sit upon it. the material cold against your bare thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat of hannibal's body as he steps between your legs.

"are you afraid?" he asks, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

you consider lying, but you know he'd see right through it. "yes," you admit before considering the thought further.

"good," he says, leaning in to nip at your earlobe. "fear heightens the senses. makes everything more... intense."

his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher. you shiver, but not entirely from fear. despite everything - or perhaps because of it - you want him more than you've ever wanted anyone in your life.

"hannibal," you gasp as his lips trail down your neck, "i need-"

"shh," he soothes, his breath hot against your skin. "i know exactly what you need. trust me."

and lord have mercy on you, you do. you trust him as he slowly undresses you, as he worships your body with his hands and mouth. you trust him as he takes you there on the table. your cries of pleasure echoing off the stone walls.

afterward, as you lie tangled together, your body humming with satisfied desire. you lose yourself in his embrace once more, you know that you've crossed a line from which there's no return. you've willingly stepped into the darkness, hand in hand with the monster who now owns your heart and soul.

and god help you, you wouldn't have it any other way.

#hannibal #nbc hannibal #hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x you #hannibal lecter x y/n #hannibal x you

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steddieunderdogfics · 2 months ago

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This week’s writer spotlight feature is: @teddywesworl! teddywesworl has 17 fics posted to AO3 in the Stranger Things fandom and all of them are in the Steddie tag!

@dame-zoom-a-lot recommends the following works by teddywesworl:

Dissonance Theory

A Gem Beyond Counting

Schiava

In the Kitchen or the Tulips

Anemone

"Her fic, Anemone, got me into Omegaverse because it was so good and so weird and just perfect. She's introduced me to so many cool tropes, and she always manages to put her own spin on it. And her dialogues are so funny that I accidentally quote them from time to time." -- @dame-zoom-a-lot

Below the cut, @teddywesworl answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

I think Steddie’s appeal to me is rooted in class tension and social power. Within the insular confines of a small town in Indiana in the 80s, these two guys couldn’t be much more different—Steve’s parents have a giant house and buy him a BMW, while Eddie lives in the trailer park with his uncle and tells stories about a father who taught him to steal cars. Steve peaked as the top jock in high school, while Eddie, held back from graduating twice, delivers abrasive monologues from atop cafeteria tables and runs the much-maligned D&D club. But then you peel back those surface layers, and they’re both fundamentally good dudes who will lay everything down for the people they care about. It’s really fun to both read and write about the ways the tension inherent to their circumstances might resolve.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

Honestly, it sort of changes over time? But I’m a softie at heart, so it has to have a happy ending.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Anything to do with power exchange. :)

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

Sleight of Hand by Smithereen (@flieslikeamoron on tumblr)

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

I have most of an outline of an incubus!Eddie fic sitting in my google docs. No idea if I’ll ever write it!

What is your writing process like?

First, I get possessed by an idea. Then I obsessively rotate the idea in my mind for 12-48 hours, picking apart what’s compelling about it and concocting like… key moments and images and concepts that give the concept its legs. Then I build an outline around those key pieces. Then prose.

Do you have any writing quirks?

Probably.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

When I’ve finished writing. I did Deathsleep sort of on a schedule, but I chafe against anything that makes fandom feel too polished or like a job.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Deathsleep. Please read Deathsleep. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written, and it’s not a close call, and if I get my original fantasy fiction published one day, everyone who’s read Deathsleep will immediately be able to tell what it was a rehearsal for.

How did you get the idea for Anemone?

So I resisted writing omegaverse for a long time because I didn’t think I had anything to add to the genre and furthermore didn’t have anything fun to say about the Gender of it all. But then @jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s, @r-o-s-e-f-i-r-e, and @stevehairingtit kept saying interesting things about omegaverse both in fic and in conversation, and I realized that I did have something to contribute: a background in developmental biology. So Anemone actually started as a way to discuss how certain omegaverse conventions (in particular, bitching) might work if they were real. And then I stirred in a healthy portion of my love of extremely weird and fucked up power dynamics.

When writing In the Kitchen or the Tulips, what was something you didn’t expect?

The intergenerational storytelling. I had no idea all the parental figures were going to be as important to everything as they ended up being. It’s sort of obvious in retrospect, but it came out of nowhere during development.

What inspired In the Kitchen or the Tulips?

My love/hate relationship with soulmate AUs. What a weird and complicated fanfic trope, right? As soon as you start thinking about them too hard, they start saying some very strange things about, say, free will. I wanted to sink my teeth into that idea. I wanted to look right at it. I wanted to ask what makes a soulmate bond work or not work, and I did NOT want the formation of the bond to be the climax of the story.

What was your favorite part to write from Schiava?

I basically have no memory of writing the entire Vino series. I was possessed, five minutes passed, and then three fics existed. I really like the bit where Vecna tries to take Eddie back and Steve figures out how to prevent it, though. :)

How do/did you feel writing A Gem Beyond Counting?

Gem is the most self-indulgent fic I’ve ever written, just because it was born from doing one of those fanfic trope tier list memes and then making an outline out of my whole S tier row. It was a blast.

What was the most difficult part of writing Dissonance Theory?

DT took forever to finish. I got stuck on the train station in chapter 4, just couldn’t quite figure out how I wanted to resolve Eddie’s human relationships. I got through it, though, because I really wanted to get to the knife stuff.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

Deathsleep acumen sequence.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

I’ve got my head down writing a fantasy novel at the moment, around 30k in the draft as of this writing. If anybody’s into stories about monsters, monster hunters, imperial collapse, and dragonslaying as a metaphor for cultural genocide, I post occasional updates about it on my tumblr and I will be super obnoxious if/when it gets published!

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Thank you to whomstsoever thought of me for the spotlight! Love you, steddies.

Thank you to our author, @teddywesworl, and our nominator, @dame-zoom-a-lot! See more of teddywesworl's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

#writer's wednesday #writer's spotlight #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steve x eddie #steddie fic recs #steddieunderdogfics

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falciesystemessays · 7 months ago

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so mark brown, host of the game analysis youtube channel Game Maker's Toolkit, has released his first game, Mind Over Magnet, just about a month ago. in his recent postmortem video of the thing, he says that the common sentiment from reviewers is that it's a solid 8/10. a very polished but very uninspired puzzle platformer, with good design fundamentals but without The Sauce that makes it something special.

and like, even as a genuine fan of game maker's toolkit, who uses its videos on game design as comfort media, it's hard not to be a cynic about it. hard not to say "this is the kind of game that the gmtk approach produces." a game that's good, but not great. a game that entertains for an afternoon, but doesn't change your life. a work of craftsmanship, but not of art.

but i know this isn't fair. most video games are, in fact, like that. not every puzzle platformer can be an INSIDE or Braid. 90% of everything is crap, and mind over magnet is, for all its flaws, a video game that actually released and was pretty alright. that's more than a lot of us can say. and maybe those reviewers aren't seeing the best of the game, i haven't played it yet so i couldn't say if they're really onto something. mark's devlogs are still super inspiring and insightful, and i still like gmtk a lot.

but i think... this is the only way this story could have ended. three years spent developing a game that is simply pretty good. one that probably would have flopped if it wasn't mark fucking brown posting it. not because the game is necessarily bad, but because there's simply nothing special to it that really gives it the pull. that's just how it goes sometimes, you put your mind, body, and soul into developing a game, and it doesn't set the world on fire. most games don't.

when he said at the end "i don't know if i would ever want to do this again, but if mind over magnet is the only game i put into the world, i'm happy with that," that was the realest shit in that entire series. game design full-time isn't for everyone. i don't even really know if it's for me, i definitely couldn't work in The Industry full-time. being a gamedev is a really compelling thing for a lot of people who've loved games their whole life and want to be part of that. but it's not easy, it never is, and it's not for everyone. even the people who obsess over game design. that's not to say you shouldn't try if you really want to, but that the process of making the games you love will probably be a lot more involved than you could ever dream of. if you want hard proof of that, uh, Check Out Developing.

#angie talks

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all-inmoderation · 6 months ago

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not enough ppl know about this fic

take me to the answers (i'm the one who's listening) by annnubis

if your favorite character in JJK is either Yuuji or Geto, you have got to read this fic. This story understands those two characters like no other.

It's a canon-divergence, time-travel fix-it AU, in which Yuji, post-shibuya, is thrown back to gojo and geto's schooldays (post hidden inventory arc).

the prose in this fic is so polished and the characters are all given a level of maturity that i found so refreshinggggg. all the other characters are also just as fleshed out, from satoru, shoko, to even Yaga. Yuji's reactions pertaining to Gojo are especially touching. And the way he sees Geto is so characteristically kind.

some excerpts from the fic to entice you guys to read it:

They surround the crater and naturally Satoru gets closer to it than any of them, though he's right behind him. Suguru knows Satoru noticed it, too—something terribly human-shaped, with a soft filthy face and hunched shoulders and scuffed red sneakers.

The first thing Sukuna ever gave me, he thinks in the direction of his teacher sealed terrifyingly away in the dark, was all this blood on his hands.

Sensei or not. It's Satoru Gojo. It seems every version of him contains the fundamentals that set Yuuji just a little bit at ease.

Toji Fushiguro is dead. Suguru lies awake in his bed, reminding himself of this supposedly comforting fact that instead leaves him feeling hollow and restless, laying flat underneath a thin bed sheet staring up at his ceiling fan.

Sorcerers die all the time.

He is not one of the strongest. Not anymore.

Sukuna Ryomen’s vessel is compelling. The unscarred parts of his face look soft as down, but the scars put a warm feeling in Suguru's stomach.

Also, one of my favorite aspects of the fic is how it describes Yuuji's scent/energy. I know the accepted fanon is that Yuuji smells like peaches, but I've always found the idea of that scent to be a bit too sugarysweet and childish(?) to fit Yuuji.

But this: Rosewater steam, faint and warm and welcoming, and pooling blood and something herbaceous.

now this is what I'm fucking talking abouttttt. That's how you fucking describe a scent, man! The idea of Yuuji's aura being ~rosewater steam~ is just so much more alluring and tantalizing than peaches, imo. ahhhhhh I'm in loveeee.

#i cannot emphasize enough how good this fic is #if youve ever wanted a fic that actually explores how yuji felt post-shibuya. that addresses the *devastation* he went through. this is it #it is a CHARACTER STUDY fic in the truest sense of the word #if you love the goyuu dynamic (platonic in this) you should read it- yuji loves gojo! his sensei protected him and he misses him so much!#and now gojos in front of him again but its not the Same #you dont even have to ship geita to read this. i truly think this fic is so good itll just make you appreciate all chars & rships regardles #like i was not expecting how endeared I would be by yaga and shoko in this. like genuinely i was so soft for them #even the satosugu dynamic is important in this #and how those twos friendship was irreparably changed post-spv arc </3 #getos grief is staggering to witness. yujis grief is crushing to read about. these kids are going thru so much #but their last scene together is so beautiful and gives you hope that maybe they can heal together <3 #yuji itadori #geto suguru #suguru geto #itadori yuuji #gojo satoru #yaga masamichi #shoko ieiri #jjk meta #jjk fics #jjk #fic recs #geita #geto x yuuji #getoita #getoyuuji #geto x yuji

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libby-for-life · 4 months ago

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Hope you like this. Beta Adam x Omega Lucifer. Please excuse the grammar mistakes, I was literally in writing mode and didn't stop for hours. I think I got everything but you never know.

Adam had always sensed from the very beginning that he was fundamentally different from his sister Lilith. She, the Alpha, exuded a fierce confidence, fully aware of her desires and unyielding in her pursuit of them. In her world, the word "no" simply did not exist; if something was out of reach, she didn’t hesitate to devise a clever strategy to obtain it, all while skillfully navigating the intricate web of rules set by the Elders of their village.

In stark contrast, Adam embodied the qualities of a Beta, shaped by expectation and conformity. While he possessed a few assertive ideas, they were often overshadowed by the ingrained belief that he was meant to follow. His upbringing had instilled in him the notion that obedience was his true nature, a lesson that had been hammered into him since childhood. As a result, he often found himself acquiescing to the wishes of others, suppressing his own thoughts and desires for the sake of maintaining harmony. This internal struggle left him caught between the longing for independence and the pressure to conform, deeply aware that he could never unleash the same tenacity that characterized Lilith's determined spirit.

Lilith was considered the ideal child by the villagers, a paragon of virtue draped in an aura of charm and sophistication. With her long, cascading blonde hair that shimmered like spun gold in the sunlight, she stood taller than most children her age, giving her a commanding presence. Her vivid purple eyes, striking against the simplicity of village life, glimmered with an unsettling intensity, and her smile, though radiant, was as cold as ice, sending shivers down the spine of anyone who met her gaze.

To the untrained eye, she appeared to embody the spirit of community, tirelessly volunteering and promoting the village’s interests. However, Adam, who had witnessed her true nature, understood that beneath that polished exterior lay a manipulative and sometimes sadistic core. Lilith wielded her charm like a weapon, using it to bend others to her will, often at Adam's expense. He should know better than anyone—he had become her frequent target, enduring her unpredictable whims and hidden malice, while the rest of the village remained blissfully unaware of the darkness lurking behind her enchanting facade.

The first time he remembered that she was different from any other child of five was when she tied Adam to her bedpost and stuck needles inside his fingernails. No matter how much the other five-year-old yelled and screamed in pain through his gag, she simply went on with her task. When she was done and Adam was left sobbing with bloody fingers, begging for an explanation, she simply replied, "I wanted to see what happened." Lilith smiled coldly. "I liked the results."

In the village, Betas were an everyday sight, their presence a reminder of the complex social structure that governed life there. Adam, with his unremarkable features, often felt overshadowed; his plainness did him no favors in a world where appearances mattered. The only striking element about him was his hauntingly unique gold eyes. Once vibrant and brilliant, those eyes now held a dull, copper hue, reflecting a sense of lost vitality and unfulfilled potential.

Above the Betas stood the Alphas, a group entrusted with the responsibility of protecting and leading the village. While most of them carried a rough and often crude demeanor, they weren't inherently harmful. However, lurking among them were a few Alphas whose sadistic tendencies were whispered about in hushed tones. They wielded their influence with a subtlety that made them all the more dangerous—their cruelty veiled by charm, never allowing their reputation to be sullied by their true nature. Lilith was among these Alphas. Adam trod carefully around them, aware that the distinction between protector and predator could sometimes blur in unsettling ways. There were a few Omegas, but they were considered nothing more than wives to knock up an impregnate with Alphas.

Adam glanced at his sister as she delicately stirred her tea, the fragrant steam rising between them. They weren't wealthy by any means; their family’s modest home was filled with simple furniture and hand-me-downs. However, in their quaint village, they enjoyed a relatively comfortable life, especially with a maid, Marie, who diligently managed the daily chores. Adam sat at the polished wooden table, flanked by their mother, a strict woman with silver-streaked hair, and their father, who wore reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose, both engrossed in the village newspaper.

Lilith spoke with reserved enthusiasm about the neighboring village's proposal to expand towards theirs, her voice rising with excitement. "I think it would be a great opportunity, Father. Just imagine how much better off both of our villages would be if we combined!" Her purple eyes sparkled with a visionary gleam, clearly contemplating the benefits of such an alliance—not just for their families, but for the entire community. Adam couldn't help but notice the calculating glint in her eyes, hinting at her desire for influence and prosperity for her self. As he quietly sipped his tea, he pondered the implications of her words, aware that change was often accompanied by unforeseen challenges.

“While that might be good in some cases,” Adam's father said, his voice laced with contempt, “you do know what they do with Omegas, don’t you?” His words hung in the air like a foul stench, evoking a frown from Lilith, who shifted uncomfortably in her chair, clearly upset by their father's tone.

"I know, Father," she replied, her voice steady but edged with frustration. “They treat them like they can actually lead when they should be at home, barefoot and pregnant.” At her words, Adam felt a wave of discomfort wash over him, his insides twisting in response to the outdated and harsh sentiments.

His mother, a Beta like Adam, nodded in agreement, her expression a mixture of disdain and disgust. “Yes, and that… that Samael Morningson is the most outspoken of them all. Did you know that he's on the board of directors? Not at the very top, thank goodness, but he has significant influence and a platform to spread his nasty ideas.” She spat the last words out as if they were poison, her distaste palpable.

Adam continued to sip his tea, feeling awful for not voicing his actual opinion. 'It's not like they would listen.' Adam thought. And he knew Lilith would find some way to punish him for ever speaking out of turn. He was a Beta. He wasn't meant to have ideas above the Alphas. He was meant to sit by them and agree with whatever opinion they make like a good Beta.

As he reached for some more toast, Lilith clicked her tongue and gave him a fake but convincing smile. "Oh, Adam. Do you think need more food? Didn't you just have toast?" Both of their parents whipped their heads around and stared at Adam who sat frozen. "Put that down. You know you're on a diet." His mother said sternly. He reluctantly put the toast down, his stomach feeling empty as his mother continued talking. "In fact, Marie. Fetch me the measuring tape."

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking—" Adam tried to reason but when his mother was with him she was on a warpath, obsessed with finding him a family to marry into that would want him. Their village was on the bigger side but it wasn't big enough that Adam thought the people here would care about whether he had another piece of toast or not. His mother didn't care. "Stand up." Adam was forced to stand in front of Lilith and their father as she wrapped the measuring tape around his waist.

He knew this was just a way for them to make him so embarrassed that he'll eat less. It worked every time.

"I knew it. You've gained five pounds." His mother said with a glare. "I suppose you'll just have to skip meals again. You've already had a big breakfast. That will be all for today." Lilith simply smiled into her cup as she watched Adam shake.

"Yes, ma'am." She nodded and made him leave the table. He quickly went to his room as he tried not to throw anything in his wake. Marie would end up having to pick it up and it wasn't fair to her when she had so much to do already.

He did scream into his pillow. He immediately calmed down, forcing himself to stand up. He made sure he looked presentable before he made his way out of the house. Going for a walk should appease his mother.

Walking around the village was nice and calming for Adam as he tried to get this morning's whole fiasco out of his head. He should have been paying attention more during breakfast. He knew what his family was like.

As he strolled down the narrow, winding path lined with small buildings casting long shadows, Adam caught sight of a small crowd gathered around an opulent carriage that gleamed under the morning sun. The carriage, adorned with intricate gold filigree and drawn by sleek, powerful horses, exuded wealth and prestige. Adam felt an instinctive curiosity tug at him as the door to the carriage swung open, revealing a figure stepping down with remarkable poise.

The man was of shorter stature but carried himself with an air of confidence that drew immediate attention. Dressed in a tailored suit of deep red that accentuated his well-proportioned frame, he cut a striking figure. His styled blonde hair caught the light, creating a halo effect, and his sparkling blue eyes seemed to glint mischievously as they scanned the crowd. A dazzling smile spread across his lips, and Adam couldn’t help but understand why onlookers were captivated, whispering among themselves and pointing subtly in his direction.

Yet it was the fragrance that truly captured Adam's attention. As the man neared, Adam detected a subtle, alluring scent that held a hint of fresh apples and warm cinnamon —an unmistakable scent of an Omega. What made this moment even more striking was the boldness of the Omega not wearing any scent blocker, a choice that implied confidence and strength in equal measure. Adam was thoroughly impressed; it took a certain courage to present oneself so openly in a space that often valued discretion and submissiveness from Omegas.

When their eyes met, Adam couldn't help but blush slightly. Especially when the short man winked at him. Adam quickly turned and walked away. As much as the man may have interested him for a few moments, that's all it was. Momentary interest. Besides, Adam would only get in trouble by hanging around someone like that.

He should have known that it would never be that easy.

As he stepped through the front door of his home, a familiar tension filled the air, and he was immediately seized by his sister, her grip fierce as she growled, "Come." Adam gulped, the knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. He recognized all too well that resisting her would only lead to far worse consequences down the road. Sighing under his breath, he allowed himself to be dragged into the living room, the scent of books mingling with the faint smell of polished wood.

Lilith shoved him into a chair, her eyes glinting with a mix of authority and cruelty. "Important people are coming for dinner," she declared, her voice low and serious. "You will tell Mother you are sick and stay in your room." With a swift yank, she pulled at his hair, a gesture that made it painfully clear she meant every word. Adam nodded slowly, fighting back the urge to let tears slip. He wouldn’t give Lilith the satisfaction. Besides, he reminded himself, he had endured worse—this was mere child's play in comparison to the fights they had fought in the past.

Once he was let go, he immediately went to his room as requested. When Marie came up, he faked being sick enough to convince her to tell his parents that he wouldn't be down. Plus, it would appease his mother to know he wouldn't be having dinner either. The hours ticked by as he tried to ignore the hunger of lunch passing. By the time dinner rolled around, Adam was on his bed, breathing in and out as he tried to stop the hunger pains.

He heard the carriage before he saw it and it was a momentary reprieve from the hunger he was feeling. He couldn't help but arch an eyebrow at the familiar carriage. Wait...was that man from earlier? Was he eating in Adam's home? He couldn't help but sigh as the man was escorted inside. He felt a bit bad for the Omega. Stuck eating dinner with his family was going to be...torture for him. Especially when Lilith would be constantly trying to assert her dominance over him.

'Worry about yourself.' Adam reminded himself. 'You don't even know the man.'

XxX

Samael Morningson already loathed being in this backwater village, and he had only just stepped foot onto its dusty streets. The faint scent of livestock and stagnant water clung to the air, but it was the overpowering aroma of the local Alphas that truly turned his stomach. Within mere moments of arrival, each one was strutting about, puffing out their chests, and trying to assert dominance as if this territory were theirs to claim. As if they had any right to challenge him since he was an Omega.

If he weren't keen on playing the diplomatic game to achieve his goals, he would have let loose a growl that would reverberate through the village before tearing their throats out. It would have silenced their posturing for good. Such disrespect toward an outsider, especially one of his stature, would never be tolerated in Samael's village. The Elders back home were ambitious, fueled by dreams of expansion and influence, and they had set their sights on this village as a necessary stepping stone. Despite his distaste for the place and its pompous residents, he knew he had to endure if he wanted to secure the alliances his village needed to thrive.

So, Samael stood amidst the thrumming energy of the gathering crowd, allowing himself to be the center of attention. He felt the Alpha's overpowering scent envelop him, a combination of earthiness and raw power, yet all he wanted was to escape the suffocating atmosphere. As he scanned the crowd, his gaze landed on a figure standing somewhat apart.

There, amid the dull hues of the village, he saw a man with striking gold-hued eyes that seemed to shimmer under the sunlight. Though the distance rendered the man’s features somewhat indistinct, Samael could tell he was tall, perhaps a few inches above average, with a skinny physique that spoke of missed meals rather than naturally given. His face lacked the sharp angles or flamboyant beauty of others in the village; instead, it possessed an understated plain charm, a gentle sincerity that drew Samael’s interest.

The man had a thick mane of dark brown hair that caught the light, framing his face in soft waves. His skin was bronzed, suggestive of long hours spent toiling under the sun or exploring the great outdoors—perhaps both. Yet, as inviting as his appearance was, it was those mesmerizing eyes that captivated Samael the most. They sparkled with an enchanting luminosity, reminiscent of polished gold, and seemed to reflect a world of untold stories and hidden depths.

Unable to resist the impulsive desire that surged within him, Samael playfully winked at the stranger. To his delight, he saw the man’s eyes widen in surprise, a fleeting expression of curiosity morphing into bashfulness as he quickly turned on his heel and walked away, a hint of a blush coloring his cheeks. 'What an adorable reaction', thought Samael, feeling a warm flutter in his chest as he savored the moment.

Well, he did have a dinner to catch at the Kadmus Household. "Excuse me, but do you by chance know where the Kadmus's live?" Samael couldn't help but enjoy how many people clambered to help him. They easily gave him the directions and Samael was on his way.

When he entered the home of the Kadmus's, he immediately wrinkled his nose at the stench of Alphas. There were two of them, one being female. As soon as he was introduced, she sized him up before smiling, apparently liking what she was seeing. Samael immediately hated her, seeing right through Lilith and her flowery words. The other female, most likely her mother, had no scent at all, typical of any Beta.

Samael was led into the elegantly appointed living room, where the rich aroma of steeped tea filled the air, mingling with the slight hint of something sweet baking in the kitchen. Mr. Kadmus reclined in a plush armchair, his thin lips curling into a smile that felt more like a smirk, the kind that seemed to seep with false hospitality. "Well, it’s very nice of you to grace us with your presence," he began, his tone dripping with insincerity.

Samael offered a curt nod in response while scanning the room, taking in the cheap decor they had tried to pass as wealthy. "You're very ambitious, I've heard." The words hung in the air, weighted with condescension.

Ambitious? Yes, Samael had that drive, but he sensed the underlying judgment behind his tone. It was clear that he viewed Samael’s presence here as an affront, as if expecting him to seek refuge in the traditional roles prescribed for Omegas—homebound, nurturing, and dutifully pregnant, like the other civilized Omegas in their village. But Samael was not from here, and the very thought fueled a quiet defiance within him. He was determined to carve out his own identity, far from their narrow expectations.

"I've been told that many times," Samael replied, his tone clipped and dismissive. The warm light from the flickering hearth cast shadows on the walls, and he could feel the weight of Mrs. Kadmus's scrutinizing gaze. "Mmm... I bet you get lots of interesting prospects for marriage," she remarked, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Samael arched an eyebrow, the implications settling uncomfortably in his mind.

He supposed there might be some truth to her statement, especially with the way she glanced toward her daughter, Lilith—the radiant Alpha of their household. And then it hit Lucifer. Of course. They were supposedly gathered to discuss the potential alliance between their villages, yet here they were, veering into the treacherous waters of romantic entanglements. Samael felt a flash of indignation rise in him; how dare they think to thrust their horrible daughter into a conversation about marriage?

"Let's stick to the topic," he said firmly, his voice like steel. He noted how the other two visibly withered at his tone, their confident postures collapsing into unease. All except for Lilith, who met his glare head-on, her dark eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and anger. Good. They should feel chastised for their audacity. "This is what we were going to do—" he continued, his thoughts racing to regain control of the meeting as he gestured towards the parchment spread on the table, outlining their plans for collaboration.

Getting them all to agree on something was like pulling teeth out. They kept trying to change the Elders and Samael's plans. If they had their way, they would have Samael and his gender at the bottom of the food chain with Alphas running things. He would not let that happen. After an hour, they said they would need to discuss it with the rest of their village and Samael sighed inwardly. "Will excuse me a moment? I must relieve myself." Samael was pointed toward the bathroom by the maid and the Omega quickly finished his business.

When he left the bathroom, he almost ran into the man he had seen earlier. The one with gold eyes. Well, wasn't this a welcoming surprise? The man's eyes widened a bit, blushing slightly as he almost ran over Samael. "Oh! I'm sorry! I was just—"

"My, I didn't think I'd see you again, my dear." Samael couldn't help but purr. Other than the concerning lack of weight the man had, he was undeniably pretty despite knowing full well how plain he would be by society's standards. "I didn't think you lived here. What's your name?"

"Adam...Kadmus."

Samael committed that to memory. "Adam...I love that name. My name is Samael Morningson." Adam nodded before glancing down the hall. "Uh, look. I should get back to my room Mr.—"

"Samael...you can call me Samael."

Adam blushed a bit harder. "Samael...I need to go." The smaller man watched as he left and didn't turn around once as he closed the door. Samael couldn't help but commit the man to memory. There was something so...charming about him. He needed to know more. It wasn't often he met such shy boys in the face of an Omega. He was used to even Betas trying to lord over him despite their lack of scent. But this one was clearly different. "Adam..." He could practically taste the name on his lips like a forbidden sin.

XxX

Life seemed to unfold with an unusual rhythm for Adam, yet beneath the surface, the presence of Samael loomed larger than ever. The Omega had a knack for appearing in the most unexpected places, catching Adam off guard. Some mornings, as the sun painted the kitchen in warm hues, Adam would find Samael seated at the breakfast table, chatting formally with his family as if he had always been there. Other times, during his afternoon walks, Adam would glance over his shoulder and see Samael jogging up beside him, his bright smile inviting conversation.

There were moments when Samael stumbled upon Adam in quiet corners of the village—like the time he found him sitting on a park bench, seemingly lost in thought, yet ready with a playful grin upon his eyes when they made eye contact. At first, Adam couldn't shake the feeling of unease; after all, he couldn't comprehend why this intriguing Omega, with all his charisma and allure, would be so interested in a Beta like him. It was confusing, almost unnerving.

Samael also had a peculiar fondness for feeding him. Every time they met, he seemed to carry an assortment of gourmet snacks and delectable little desserts, carefully chosen for Adam’s taste. If Adam hesitated or turned down the offerings, Samael's expression would shift dramatically. The pout that formed on his lips was utterly irresistible, leaving Adam fighting back a blush as he reluctantly accepted the treats.

But as days turned into weeks, what was once a source of bewilderment transformed into a comforting routine. Adam started to anticipate Samael's surprise visits, feeling a flutter of excitement at the prospect of their unexpected encounters. Samael's presence, with all its quirks and insistence on sharing food, began to weave a thread of anticipation and warmth into the fabric of Adam’s life, making each moment spent together feel a little more special.

But, Adam also knew just how much his sister wanted Samael. Lilith was not subtle in her wants to mate with the Omega but he's been ignoring her advances with practiced ease. One time, she winked at him and Samael asked her if she had anything in her eye since she kept doing that. If Adam didn't know for a fact Lilith would hurt him for laughing, he would have done so. As it was, he simply kept it to himself.

One day, as the two villages were preparing to merge, Samael asked Adam, "Would you like to see my village before we become one?" Adam had never left his village before, he had never had a reason to, and even if he did, he knew his family would never let him as to not bring any embarrassment to the family. Adam was lucky he got away with being around Samael as much as he did.

"I'm not sure if I'd be allowed to...my family doesn't like me to wander." Adam didn't notice the dark look Samael got when the taller boy's family was mentioned. "Oh, I'm sure if I watch over you they'd agree." Samael winked at Adam making the man blush. The thought of being protected...he shook the thought away. "Look, if you can convince my parents then sure. I'll go with you." Adam said, confident that Samael would fail.

Samael took as it a challenge and later that night, he was helped into the smaller man's carriage in a daze, holding an overnight bag. Samael looked smug too and Adam couldn't help but look away in shock. "I...how?" He demanded as the carriage closed. "How did you do it?" Samael simply smirked as he took out what looked like homemade chocolate. "I have my ways. Now, do you want some chocolate?" Knowing better than to say no, Adam nodded and held out his hand.

"Oh, this chocolate is a little messy. Come closer." Adam arched an eyebrow but scooted closer as the carriage began its journey to the neighboring village. Samael took the chocolate and gently pressed it to Adam's lips, his eyes hooded. Adam's eyes widened and his cheeks blushed a dark red. Hesitating only a moment, he ate the chocolate out of Samael's fingers.

"Hmm...I'm glad you seem to be doing better." Samael said, looking him over. Better? Was there something wrong before? He continued to feed him chocolate until Adam whimpered, "I can feed myself!" Samael only laughed, enjoying Adam's embarrassment.

The ride was short and soon they stopped at a big but simple home. A man from inside quickly came to open the door for them before coming to take care of the horses. Samael eagerly showed him his home, the man even had a private library that Adam could have stayed for hours in.

"Oh, you must be exhausted!" Samael said after they had explored his home. "Why don't I show you to your room?" Adam was led to a massive guest room where Samael said, "Do you need anything before I leave?" Adam looked at Samael and noticed just how...flushed he looked. Perhaps he was hot?

"I'm good. Why don't you go to bed? You look a little flushed..." Adam said as he closed the door. If Adam had known what was going on with Samael, then he might have been more prepared later that night. Be as it may, he quickly changed into his night clothes and slid into bed.

It was so comfortable that Adam couldn't help but smile. When was the last time he slept in a bed this comfortable? When was the last time his mattress had been replaced? Adam slowly fell into a wonderfully good sleep. So much so, that he didn't notice the smell of apples and cinnamon grow stronger.

Samael was having a rough night. His heat had come early and so his Omega howled for relief. 'Mate! He's here!' His Omega begged, wanting Adam. Samael wanted that man, knowing he could fill his desire to dominate. Despite being an Omega, Samael had always had the desire to dominate someone in his heat, his brother was the opposite being an Alpha who wanted to be bred, and the perfect potential mate was right here in his house.

He couldn't stop it, even if he wanted to. He stumbled out of bed and clawed his way into the room Adam was in. There he was, plump and ready for the taking. All the feeding for the past month had finally done Adam some good. He looked healthy with all the weight on him. Samael slid his way into the bed, skin drenched in sweat and slick as he gazed at Adam.

He carefully touched him and began licking his neck, sucking at the skin with pleasure. Adam stirred but didn't wake, even as he bit along the neck. The Beta did wake up when he bit him hard.

"What? Samael?" He didn't seem frightened, only confused. His cheeks were flushed as Samael gave him a heated look. "Mine." He growled in a way that would rival any Alpha. Adam gasped as his shirt was ripped through and his nipples tugged on harshly. "Oh!" He moaned so prettily and it only made Samael harder, slick dripping out of him. An unfortunate side effect of being an Omega but he couldn't stop it.

Adam was soon covered in bites and kisses as Samael ripped through his pants as well. Oh, how he loved Adam's body. How all the feeding and midnight snacks finally made him plump and healthy. He hated how Adam's family starved him so Samael took it upon himself to fix it. They wouldn't be bothering Adam again. Not after tonight.

Samael was quick to claim him as he entered him, biting his neck.

XxX

The Kadmus Household woke to their house burning, the smoke drying their eyes.

XxX

Adam moaned, meeting his thrusts eagerly, his mind clouded with pleasure.

XxX

They tried to open any window or door only to find it barred from the outside. They were stuck.

XxX

"Beg for it. Tell me you want it." Samael growled as he slowed down. Adam couldn't help but whimper at that but complied, his neck dripping with blood from the bite given to him.

"Please, I need you. Help me." He whispered.

XxX

"HELP!" Mrs. Kadmus screamed as she felt the flames lick her ankles. The fire had already consumed the first floor and was rapidly climbing the second one. Mr. Kadmus had already collapsed due to the lack of oxygen and the rest of them had to abandon him on the first floor where he was more than likely already dead.

"What are we going to do?!" Mrs. Kadmus yelled at her daughter, not noticing the gleam in her eyes.

XxX

Adam moaned as he was slammed into, his body convulsing in pleasure as Samael gave him what he asked for. Adam bit his pillow as he felt Samael's seed coat his insides and fill him up. He was turned over and he was met with Samael grinning down at him. "Ever taste an Omega?"

XxX

The sound of screaming and glass shattering could be heard as Lilith used her mother to shield herself as they jumped out the second-story window. For some reason, that wasn't as barred as it should have been because Lilith was successful at breaking through as she landed on her mother. She ignored the sound of sharp rocks piercing Mrs. Kadmus's body, killing her slowly as one stabbed her throat.

Lilith stood up, covered in burns but alive. She didn't notice a man softly approaching her, a knife glinting in the moonlight.

XxX

Samael road Adam's face, drooling as he allowed the man below him to do something he had never let anyone do. Adam eagerly ate him out, loving the honey slick that left him and it coated Adam's face.

"Such a good boy!" Samael cried.

XxX

Lilith choked as the knife was plunged in her throat, silently falling to the ground as the mysterious man kicked her. "Sorry, darling. But you weren't supposed to make it out of the house." He noticed how the village was beginning to wake, most likely due to the screaming of Mrs. Kadmus when she had fallen out the window. It was time to leave. He had done his job.

XxX

Adam had passed out, exhausted but satisfied with everything he had experienced. Samael smiled as he gently kissed his Mate's cheek before glancing out the window. If he squinted, he could just make out an orange glow coming from the village over.

Yes, Adam’s family wouldn't be bothering him or anyone else again.

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