#shrouded in shadows [suggestive]

[theinnerunderrain]

Flowers only bloom when the sun comes out [Yan! Prince x Fem! Maid-Reader]

Warnings: Yandere themes, child neglect, mentions of suggestive behaviors and lustful behaviors, manipulative thoughts, etc.

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Miserable.

Prince Cassian would choose "miserable" as the precise term to depict his fragile existence. Born a prince into a mighty kingdom, his father ruled with an iron fist and unwavering will. Yet, despite his royal lineage, his life felt devoid of meaning, a constant struggle in the shadows of his father's reign. Maybe his father held Cassian accountable, at least in part, for the death of his beloved queen. Perhaps that's why he was abandoned to decay in the queen's once-grand residence, where dust settled like a shroud, paint flaked from the walls, and sinister spiders claimed every corner.

However, the king, perhaps out of lingering kindness or a trace of pity, permitted servants to attend to the prince. Yet, few were inclined to care for a forsaken prince; servants came and went as the boy matured into a young man. Initially, some felt sympathy for him, but they soon departed upon realizing there was no benefit. Others, driven by greed, chipped away at the scant jewelry and valuables left in the building before absconding to sell them in the market. His existence drifted aimlessly, filled with endless hours staring out his window or sipping the bitter tea his younger sister, kind but unaware of his plight, managed to sneak to him.

It all seemed so pointless.

Then, one day, you appeared. A young maid, your smile radiant and your enthusiasm palpable as you embarked on this new job. He couldn't help but feel sorry for you, knowing that your optimism would soon be crushed once you discovered the reality of serving a prince like him, someone you might deem unworthy of your efforts. Every day, he observed you closely, noting your tireless efforts and how your face, though marked by exhaustion from tasks meant for many, retained a composed and bright demeanor.

He found himself admiring your diligent work ethic, transforming his once bitter teatime into a sweeter experience as you mastered the art of brewing it just right. The clothes he wore now carried a scent of softness, feeling gentle against his skin, a stark contrast to the past when they often felt itchy and smelled of sweat. The garden flourished with the flowers you tended to, and his bedroom felt fresh and inviting, as if it were truly lived in. Your presence became a source of comfort for him. He enjoyed your greetings each morning, your smiles making him feel truly alive, reminding him of his own humanity.

He felt a growing desire to be near you, craving the comfort of your presence. He longed to bask in the warmth of your soft smile, to feel the gentle touch of your hand as you helped him dress. He treasured the moments when you enveloped him in warmth on cold, restless nights haunted by memories of his mother. Your gentle fingers combing through his hair brought a soothing calmness to his troubled mind. He delighted in teasing you during work hours, reveling in the sight of your face blushing a deep scarlet as his hands playfully found their way to your waist, causing you to momentarily lose your grip on the dustpan before scolding him.

He likes you.

Well, he didn't just like you. He was consumed by you, obsessed with every thought of you, you, you.

He yearned to be enveloped in your essence, to drown in your intoxicating fragrance, to be devoured whole by you. He craved for your lips to consume his, for your touch to consume his skin, for every part of him to be consumed by you. He was acutely aware that his thoughts about you would be deemed sinful by the church, yet he couldn't help but question God's justice in abandoning him for a crime he didn't commit. Considering your background as a commoner's daughter, burdened with constant toil, he doubted you had any prior experience with men, leading him to wonder if he might be your first.

He hoped you preferred younger men, despite his slight age difference. He vowed to bring you pleasure so intense that it would bring tears to your eyes. With your face flushed in red with his hands tracing over the curve of your body, admiring the plumpness of your swollen breast. The way your supple body would quiver and twitch with every flick of his tongue against your adorable clit, with your soft thighs grappling around his head much like soft pillows.

Ah, perhaps he shouldn't be thinking of such lustful matters.

Anyway, he was acutely aware that as a powerless and forgotten prince, his presence posed a constant danger to himself and those close to him. His older siblings, viewing him as a potential threat to the throne, could easily target him. He contemplated two options: either showing up at the King's castle, pleading with his father to take him back, or fleeing with you to another country. The idea of living as a commoner didn't seem so daunting, considering his current life despite his royal title. Yet, a third, more manipulative thought crept into his mind—perhaps he could exploit his younger sister's naivety to regain entry to the main palace, using her pity as a means to an end.

He believed that in the end, whatever sacrifices were necessary to attain the power to keep you would be worthwhile.

[fanaticsnail]

Dreaming of You

Masterlist here

Word Count: 470+, 900+, 1,200+, 900+

Synopsis: They couldn't help it. You looked so heavenly in their dreams. The way they had you wrapped around their body as a marionette in their minds, dancing for them as they awoke to sticky blankets when they jolted upright. Their thoughts got the better of them, and they are wracked with guilt. Kid, Killer, Heat

Warnings: wet dreams, gn!reader (penetration-reader!receiving), swearing, masturbation, dub con (Using your image to masturbate to), suggestive content, feelings, all individual 'x reader', headcanons, NSFW, 18+, MDNI.

Notes: This is the Kid-Pirates version of the original Heart-Pirate fic. @jintaka-hane asked for it, @nerium-lil and I needed it. I love these guys. Please read the warnings. Art link.

Tag list: @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @indydonuts @i-am-vita @mfreedomstuff @carrotsunshine

“Please, don't stop. Don't stop!” You sobbed in desperation, the feeling of his thrusting causing tears to spill from your eyes in ecstacy. You writhed as he sheathed himself deep within your stomach, overcome by his brutal rapidity in using your body to chase his own high.

He tugged at your hair, pounding you from behind while he anchored his chin into your neck. Turning his head, he gnawed at your shoulder with a deep, purple bite, prompting you to cry out his name as he kept bullying that sweet spot deep within you. He tugged harder on your hair, looking into your face from behind and witnessing its contortion in pleasure.

“Please, please,” you whined his name, in a begging chant, “Please cum in me. Use my body for your pleasure. I n-need it.” His eyes rolled back, tightening his hold on your waist and digging his nails into your hair. He immediately barked out a string of curses, spilling his hot cum deep within you with a soft chant of your name.

The contractions of your body fluttering around his throbbing cock prompted him to cry your name and chase his high with more intentional snaps of his hips. His hot spurts splash up within you as he molded your body to the shape of his throbbing cock.

“Nnghm, you f-fucking feel that?” he growled, his brows furrowing as he pressed his hand on your stomach to feel the tip of his cock deep in you, “I’m cumming so fucking deep. I'm-... fuck, hnmh-... I'm cumming.” You mewled for him, throwing your head back on his shoulder and rocked yourself on him.

“Yes. F-Fuck, yes. Keep going,” The spectral, dream-like image of your body crying for him branded itself into his memories. He couldn’t get enough, his eyes glazing over as he witnessed you take his entire, heavy load deep within you.

The yelp of his name, the dopey smile on your lips, and body glistening in a soft dew of pleasure had him chasing your high and over stimulating his thick cock buried within you. He pummeled himself deeper, huffing and panting before feeling a sense of pride at feeling you clench around him as you cum for him.

“Ahh, f-f-fuck,” he barked, shooting the few final spurts of his release into you before the image dissipated and was shrouded in murky shadow.

His eyes snapped open, looking down to his stomach as he witnessed the damp patch of sticky cum deep into his pants. His cock twitched, grinding his knob against his underwear as it began to deflate.

Cringing, he opened the waistband of his pants and growled at the translucent release coating his cock, fluid pooling down his shaft and leaking down his balls. He groans at the sight before falling back and wallowing in self pity.

“Fuck-...”

Eustass Kid

“..-You.” Kid growled, pinching his brow with his right hand before rubbing his eyes and face with his palm, “Fuck you!” He kicked back his bedsheets, springing to his feet and growling all the while.

Aggressively peeling off his pajama pants, he used the coarse material to clean his cock of the remnants of his illusionary desires. He rolled them into a ball and threw them to the other side of the room, snarling at the fact his body betrayed him in such a way.

Grumbling, groaning and pouting, he kicked at the side of his bed and sifted through his clothes to find a fresh pair of pants. He was angry, mostly, at himself; the way his cock decided to take the lead in ushering him through dreams he knew would never be a reality. You were a part of his crew! His job was to lead you, and your role was to trust him enough to follow his orders.

Drawing back over encounters with you on his crew, real and tangible moments you shared together, his frown deepened at the thoughts. Your smile beaming at him, the way you stood in front of him to protect him from harm's way, the way you followed his orders with nothing uttered besides a simple: “Yes, Captain”, the way your back arched when you recoiled tangled ropes.

He halted at that thought, zeroing in on that moment. Your ass. Your perfect ass. His cock twitched in his pants, prompting his right hand to reach down and readjust the angle within the tight fabric.

A sneer found its way to his lips, pouting as he replayed the hazy dream he woke from moments prior. Listening to the way your tongue rolled over his name, the way you so easily sucked his cock deep within your body, the feel of his hand reaching around your stomach to feel the protrusion from within your abdomen externally - he began to grow angry.

You did this to him.

This was your fault.

He began to stomp towards the top deck, knowing that he rostered you on for the night shift in the crows nest to keep watch. Twitching his right hand, he began to buzz the sparks of magnetism to coil around your leather uniform at the metal ring in center of your chest.

Gazing over at the sea, you feel your eyes droop. Your body is overcome with exhaustion after keeping yourself awake through the cryptid hours, a yawn calling to you with a tightness in your chest. As you clamp your lips shut after a lengthy yawn, you feel the tightness in your chest grow, the center of your harness buzzing to life and shaking with static.

“What the-... Ahh!” you exclaim, feeling your body soar through the air and down the top mast towards the angry figure of your Captain. You shriek in shock, your back thumping against the stiff mast as the crackling energy pinned you against the wood.

Eustass Kid stomps his heavy boots over to you, your brows knit in both shock and fury at how he made your body dance within the air so easily with his devil-fruit ability.

“What the fuck is your problem, Captain-?” you attempt to ask, your voice being silenced by a feral, barking growl of your Captain.

“-You’re my problem!” Kid roared, looking down his nose at you and curling back his lips to bare his teeth at you, “Walking around wearing that leather outfit like you're some part of BDSM club!”

“The fuck?” you question him, truly confused as you downturn your lip, “You gave this to me, Sir. It's a part of our uniform? You make all of us wear one!” You bark back at him, sneering up at him.

“Fuck you,” Kid snarled, stepping closer to you and closing the gap between your bodies. You end up more confused, up-turning your lip as you feel your anger more tangible.

“Fuck me?” you snarl, shaking your head, “Fuck you, Sir,” you spat, darting your eyes down his chest to get a read on his posture and body language. “You can't just go around calling people to you when you feel like it! What the fuck is wrong with- Mmmfph!”

Hot lips crash atop yours, Kid's bruising kiss shocking your senses more than the initial spectral grab through the air. His teeth bit at your lips, his roaming right hand snaking around your waist and grasping at your ass in a rough fistful. You cry out in shock as he begins kneading it beneath his palm.

“Fuck-,” Kid muffled against your mouth, tilting his head and dragging his tongue over your lips, “-You.”

Offended, you fight back. You bit his bottom lip, aggressively flicking your tongue into his mouth and wriggling against the buzzed pin of your harness against the wood.

“Fuck you, Captain,” you snarl, gasping into his mouth, and wrapping your legs over his hips to find purchase against them. He drove his hips forward, grinding its clothed, thick cock against your pelvis; his knob already beginning to weep with precum from the moment you reciprocated his advances. You groaned against his lips, still partially in shock as to why your captain was kissing you like this.

Kid refused to allow his dreams to get the better of him, falling victim to its foggy, illusionary composition. Why should he make up some fictitious memory when the real thing was so much better?

Massacre Soldier Killer

Overcome with the sheer embarrassment of his intrusive thoughts, he closed his eyes and took a moment to collect himself.

“Keep going,” the mirage called to him, his hazy form using your body as a muse for pleasure, “Killer, I need you.” He snapped upright, stomping over to his laundry basket and peeled off his sticky pants and underwear. Aggressively thrusting the soiled garments in the hamper, he drew his hands up to his hair and scraped it back with his fingers.

As his fingers met with his hair, he was reminded of the image his mind made of the texture of yours. The thump of your hips meeting his, the ripples of your ass as it slapped back into him, the way your body felt wrapped around his cock: he was haunted by you. He growled, his hands shaking with rage at his mind defiling the image of you and forcing his body to cum.

“You deserve better than this,” Killer whispered aloud, shaking his mask-covered face and scowling at his cock, “The fuck is wrong with me?” He cleaned himself up with a few tissues from his bedside table before shrugging his pants over his hips and making his way to the bathroom.

He saw a light reflected in the basin and vanity of the small bathroom, watching as your hunched figure bent itself over the sink and washed your face. You had a soft wiggle in your movements, humming as you shook your hips and splashed water on your face.

Frozen in place, he had never been more thankful to be wearing a mask. He shamelessly raked his eyes over the curvature of your ass, watching as you arched your back to gaze at your reflection. Focussing on ridding the night off your features and waking yourself up, you didn't notice him standing behind you.

Transfixed by your gentle hum, he couldn't bring himself to scold his rapidly buzzing thoughts at what you looked beneath your pajamas. The prior dream and lustful visions had his cock twitch beneath his pants. You finally noticed his presence beside you, calling out your greeting to him and asking your question.

“Killer, can you fuck me, please? I need to know how your body tightens as you paint my insides with your sticky cum. I need it, please.”

Killer snapped his eyes up to your face, noticing you cock your head to the side with a puzzled expression. His body tightened, tensing his muscles as he gulped back a large, dry lump; his Adam's apple bobbing at the thought.

“Wanna run that by me again?” Killer asked, stuttering over the words. You smile warmly at him, briefly examining his body.

“I said: ‘Morning, Killer. Can you pass me that towel please? I kinda need it to dry my face’,” you giggle, gesturing to the towel beside him with your index finger. He hastily rustled the towel into his hands and thrust it out in front of him. You express your gratitude with a soft nod of your head, swiping at your face to dry it.

You take a moment to study him, noticing the tension in his chest and subtle shake in his hands. His body remained stationary, staring at you as you attempted to get a read on him.

“Did you want the basin?” you ask him, no response being met with your question. Killer deeply inhaled, exhaling with a soft sigh of deep mourning. “Kil? You okay? Rough night?” He snapped out of it, gazing at you through the holes in his mask and smiling softly.

“I feel like I should apologize to you,” Killer confessed, reaching out his hands to take your towel and hanging it on your allocated hook. “Look, I-...” he trailed off, shaking his head and clicking his tongue, “...I had a dream about you, and it didn't put you in a good position. I feel like I should apologize to you for it.”

“Oh? What do you mean? What position?” your brows knit together, looking at him with confusion, “Were we fighting or something? Hah! Did I win?” He took a moment to step forward, offering his hands up in defense.

His silence has you concerned, looking down at him before your eyes widened in shock. Killer was admitting he had a dream about fucking you.

“O-Oh…” you exclaimed in shock before your lips curled into a light smirk, “Ohh, that kind of dream…” Stepping forward, you gently jab at him with your index finger with a loud, teasing laugh. “And how was I, big guy?” you teased him, grinning a winning smile and biting your tongue playfully at him, “Did you finish? Did I finish?” He remained silent and crossed his arms over his chest, prompting you to squeal out a choked laugh.

“Oh shit, did you-...” your eyes snapped down to his pants before gazing back into the holes in the mask where his eyes would be, “...Did you actually finish? Like, in the dream, and outside of it?” your smile widened, a soft blush growing on your face as he remained silent and stoic.

“Oh, Killer!” you laughed, clapping your arms around his biceps and giving him a gentle hug with a light laugh, “It's fine. Honest! No judgment from me” you break from the embrace to glance up at him. “Sometimes our minds just run away with us. Enjoy the show. I’m flattered, truly.”

He couldn't help but be in awe of your response, watching as you turned back around and began fixing your hair in the reflection. You began humming your song again, attempting to ignore the rising flutters in your chest at the notion that somewhere, deep beneath the muscular exterior of Killer’s extremely built body, the first-mate had a soft spot for you.

“You forgive me, then?” Killer asked softly, unfolding his arms and hanging them by his side.

“There's really nothing to forgive, but if you think you need it, sure. I forgive you, big guy,” you suggested, getting frustrated at yourself as your hair decided to become uncooperative, “Can help me with my damn hair, and then tell me all about it? In graphic detail? I gotta know what you had me do in your dreams.” Laughing at your own response, your smile was wiped from your face as Killer grabbed a rough fistful of your hair.

He arched you back, feeling your body meet with his chest as he held your hair. His grip was tight enough to halt your motion, but loose enough to not harm you. You let out a soft squeak of shock, eyes widening as you stared at him in the reflection. His other arm snaked around your hips, holding you flush against him.

“Tell you?” he whispered into your ear, tugging your hair to have your head lull back against his shoulder, “Why do that when I can show you?” He nuzzled his head into your neck, freezing before flinching away to check in, “That is, if this is something that you want?”

You blink back your shock, gawking at the position he had you in. Your mind raced a thousand ways a second as you darted your eyes over his hold on you. You whisper quietly, eyes wide and innocent while your curiosity peaks.

“Yes, please.”

Heat

Heat growls at himself, thrusting his left hand into his tangled head of lengthy bed hair before slumping back down into the mattress. Scarred lips quirk down at the corners, his mouth pouting as he contemplates over what just happened.

His crewman, his confidante, his friend: you. He had conjured up an astral projection within his slumber of you writhing on his cock as he thrust deep, languid movements up into your body. The feeling of your spectral image wrapped around his thick shaft, the way you shook like a leaf around him the moment you came undone; it was all enough to spark a new round of inspiration to ignite within his cock.

He reached down into his pants, wrapping his underwear around his already half-hard cock and began grinding the slippery material down over his shaft. The shame he felt was eclipsed by the way your voice haunted him, the way you poured his name over your lips.

“Heat,” he heard you within his mind's eye, “Fuck me, Heat. I need you. Please fuck me.” He whimpered, drawing up the covers to his lips and biting down on the thick blanket. Scrunching his eyes shut, he began thrusting his hips up to meet with his pistoning cock in his palm.

He whispered your name, groaning as his tongue brushed with the duvet. He rolled within the bed, keeping the blankets within his clamped teeth as he began bucking into his hand. Although he took you from behind in his dream, he was picturing your face in his mind.

The way you'd hang your mouth to form a perfect “O” when you came, the way your thighs would quake as your body tingled with the first contraction of your orgasm, the way he would be able to see the deep bulge within your stomach considering the size difference between you. He huffed, panting your name as he heard what you'd say when you came undone.

“Heat, I-I’m gonna cum,” he screwed his eyes shut, tongue flicking out over the blanket as he continued to chase his high, “Please let me. I n-need to. Please let me cum on your cock.” He allowed his mind to get the best of him, picturing exactly how your toes would curl behind his back.

“Y-You like that?” he whispered your name, “You like the way my cock feels deep inside you?” His whisper and huffed pants of your name echoed in his private quarters, his solitude in this moment being his only comfort.

Giving himself permission to use your name while he pleasures himself, he came to terms with the way he felt about you. To him, you were perfect. You were the person for him: his favorite person. The person he wants to come to bed with after a long day to snuggle - to fuck into his mattress, and to ruin for any other partner due to how well he would seek to please you.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered your name, screwing his eyes shut tighter and feeling the soft prick of tears at the corners of his eyes, “You wanna cum? Wanna cum with me?” He doubled down his efforts, “You want my cum? I'll fucking fill you up.”

He groaned a final call of your name, rutting into his hand deep against the mattress and painting the inside of his underwear with thick spurts of scorching cum.

“I-I'm cumming,” he cried your name, whimpering and growling it like an animal in heat while staggering his thrusts into his hand, “Oh, I'm cumming for you.”

After riding his palm coming down from his high, he immediately felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame at the fact he used your image to chase his release into his hand. His blush deepens, his disgust growing as he feels the sticky pool seeping through his underwear and into his pajama pants.

Hastily springing to his feet, he kicked off the pants to avoid more of a spill and grimaced as he peeled off his underwear. Folding the material in half, he used it to clean the rest of his shaft before tossing them into a hamper beside his bed. He redrew up the pajama pants over his hips and walked over to his door, collecting his bathroom supplies as he prepared himself for a proper shower to wake himself up.

As he opened his door, he was met with a statuesque figure of a fist balled at his chest height and intending to knock. His eyes widened, looking down to see your widened eyes and deep flush coating your face in several shades darker than your original hue.

His own face immediately flushed with blood, his cheeks darkening to a deep purple color the moment he saw your face. Your fist shook lightly, your lips parted and your eyes slowly blinked.

You had just caught Heat masturbating, and he had whispered your name while he came. Without truly a clue as to what to do with this information, you gulped back a dry mouthful and stated your purpose.

“Captain sent me to get you to come on watch-shift with me in the next twenty,” you managed to choke out, avoiding eye contact with Heat as his shock drew further up his face, “I made us breakfast-.”

Heat immediately slammed his bedroom door in your face, turning on his heels and throwing his hand up to cover his eyes in shame. He yelled into his palm, stifling the sound as his embarrassment and shame washed over his body in a cold, icy wave.

This was going to be one very long, very awkward, and very tense shift.

[kentopedia]

ᡣ𐭩 𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈 . . . the french are glad to die for love

after a night performing, you meet with the duke, but he's not anything like you'd been expecting.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬. ft. sanji ! f!reader, moulin rouge au, alcohol, smoking, romance, prostitution, burlesque/cabaret dancers, humor, very very brief mention of suicidal ideation, suggestive content. 8.7k words.

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, i'm very nervous to post this so pls be kind to me ‪‪❤︎‬ if you aren't familiar with moulin rouge, the writing's a bit silly / eccentric at times, which is a little outside my comfort zone. so if you hate it... say nothing lol ><

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 .˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ 𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈 .˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊

Paris was the city of lovers, as they said. Romantic and doused in shades of red, painted with hearts for stars and a dazzling galaxy complete of past romances. 

Red, yes, was the color of Paris. But it came from not from dalliances, but from blood and tears, the scarlet hues mixed in shades of pain and misfortune. Nothing you had expected when you’d first stepped foot in the city with a half-developed mind, just off the boat from your own country. You’d had a suitcase filled with your finest clothes, which truly weren’t much, and a few necessities. But you’d been leaving from nothing, and you’d go on to have nothing, finding yourself in yet another desperate situation. 

In the wake of revolutions, Paris was supposed to be a place of rebirth, to start fresh and finally live out your dream as an actress. But things never turned out the way they were planned — such had been the case since the beginning of time. 

Instead of finding your way into the Palais Garnier, on the stage in beautiful velvet gowns, laced with glittering diamonds and rubies, you found yourself on the streets, singing for anyone who would listen. Then, you were acquired by a man who promised you a life of luxury and an opportunity to be a star. 

And who were you to refuse such an offer? 

Thus concluding the simple, albeit melancholy tale of how you found yourself at the Moulin Rouge, part-time singer, part-time dancer, and full-time actor. A cliché story of ambition and lost dreams, of aspirations that had never come to fruition.

Still, you had your moments of stepping into the role of the glittering ruby, the dazzling diamond. There were even times when you felt that, maybe, you were shaping up to be the prima donna you’d dreamed of becoming. That you had already taken that role on and made it your own, not in a golden opera house, but on a stage of darker colors, crafted for those that crept in the shadows, rather than the heavens. 

But what being an actor at the Moulin Rouge meant was forgetting what it was to be yourself. Each evening, you put on a mask of beauty that you didn’t feel to your core, shrouded in cheap jewels that had become meaningless in the face of giving up your real dream. No matter how many times you told yourself this was right, a stepping stone to the path of greatness, it still felt like a lie.

But the years carried on, and the pain subsided. You got used to the sharpened eyes of hungry men, of people that would never want you for any longer than an evening. They were charming, sure, and they paid a pretty penny for a night — if you were willing to give it to them. 

It was enough. It had to be. 

Things weren’t so bad, you supposed. You’d left your home like you’d always planned to, even while this shapeless existence was hardly any better.

Still, returning to your house of cards, of rags and dirtied floors, seemed like an even bigger failure. Perhaps not to your family, who would’ve deemed your life as a courtesan the greatest shame of them all. To you, though, the greatest shame would have been to admit that you were wrong. 

Your fifth year of working at the Moulin Rouge set into motion the beginning of the end. There was nothing different about the evening that tipped the first domino… Not that you could recall, at least. 

As always, an array of stars glittered over Montmartre, a beautiful Parisian night, lit up with red. From the streets, the Moulin Rouge glowed like a beacon, combating even the loveliest parts of the French skyline, outlandishly bright, but mystical all the same. It wasn’t often that you saw the outside of the cabaret, not the way your patrons did. Sometimes, you wondered what it was like for them, to walk in for the first time and see the beautiful stars, dancing just for them on the candlelit stage. 

The very stage you were soon to find yourself on.

A necklace of rubies — undoubtably fake — hung heavy on your chest, weighing you down just like a cough in your lungs did. From beyond your four walls, you could hear the crowd that had formed in the intimate hall, already wet with anticipation of the dancers. And while some, perhaps, were doubtful, here for the first time, you knew they would leave with an itch to return, if only to see the star of the Moulin Rouge.

You.

Staring into the mirror, you listened to the heels of your friends click across the stage, getting into position for their first number. It was comforting, almost, how the simple sound was there for your every night, alerting you of just how much time you had before your final act. 

You smeared rouge across your cheeks, sporting a grim smile, and made sure the color was bright enough to combat the lights that would illuminate you. 

Then, you inhaled, and stood from your chair, to get dressed before your number began. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t get far, already crowded by the chest of your keeper, the flashy owner of the Moulin Rouge. Buggy. 

He was dressed as he always was — to the nines, and impeccably lively. Much livelier than you would ever be outside of the glittering nightclub. Sometimes, you wondered just how much of his persona was an act, and how much of it was every bit the extravagance he’d been born with.

“There’s my star,” Buggy said, dragging a finger across your cheek, eyes lit up by his pale makeup. “I’ve been looking for you.” Your name left his lips cheerfully, and you smiled, thinly plastering on enthusiasm. 

“Well,” you answered, batting your eyelashes heavily. “Here I am. Where I’ve been for the past five years, every night, at this very time.”

He threw an arm over your shoulder as he always did, like the two of you were old friends, and the air of professionalism you tried to keep between you was needless. “Yes, yes,” he responded, waving off the slight bit of sarcasm. “Listen. I have a manner of business to discuss.” 

Your smile quickly fell. You knew what that meant. “Buggy,” you said, unreeling yourself from his embrace, his hot palm dropping from your shoulders. “It’s hardly been a day since the last one. You promised me I wouldn’t have to take on any more.” 

Not that you’d believed him when he’d said that, but… There were only so many men you were willing to seduce, especially when the other dancers would have gladly accepted the work. You weren’t the only courtesan at the club, and just because you were the star, didn't mean you would put the others out of a job. 

“I did, I did, and I’ll keep that promise… After this last time.” Buggy’s words were on the edge of charisma, but they weren’t able to reach that delivery. Full of a dramatic flair, sure, but nothing further. His smile was thin, desperate, and though you wanted to ask his true intentions about this particular meeting, you wouldn’t. You already knew the answer.

You held his gaze sharply, eyes narrowing before you relented, a heavy sigh leaving your lungs. 

There had been talk about the finances, only recently, and just through the grapevine. Claims that the Moulin Rouge was going bankrupt, and there was only one person with enough beauty and charm to save it.

A heavy burden to bear, indeed.

And while you were hopeful, devastatingly so, that the claims weren’t true, you weren’t blind to the dwindling waitstaff, the decreasingly lavish decorations. One of your dancers had even left in the last week, a young girl who didn’t bring much to the table, but didn’t deserve to be tossed back onto the streets either. 

You’d be a fool not to notice that there was trouble… Trouble Buggy had convinced you not to worry about, but that concerned you all the same. 

With a frown, you bowed your gaze, then perked back up with a smile. As if holding a tiara high on your head, you straightened, erasing the depressing dimness from your eyes, hoping you shone as brightly as he wanted you to. “Alright,” you hummed, softening your voice, “What do I need to do?” 

Buggy grinned, face revealing perfect showmanship, and pinched your cheek. “There’s my star.” 

The man you were to seduce on the stage tonight was a duke. 

He wasn’t from Paris, wasn’t from France at all, but instead, from some intriguing land further East, hailing a vast amount of wealth and a large wallet that could easily bankroll the entire nightclub. Salaries, performances, food and so on. That alone told you all you needed to know. 

Just one night. That would be enough to convince him that you were a dazzling diamond, and you deserved a place on the stage. A different stage. It would be enough to get him to put his money on the table, entranced enough by the energy of the evening to invest in the Moulin Rouge. Enough to intrigue him, even if he was a difficult man to please. 

One night might not turn out be just one, you knew that. But you’d do anything, anything it took to achieve you dreams. Not just for yourself, not for Buggy… but for all of the others that you called your friends. You deserved an opportunity to be a real actress, and they deserved a place to live, a place to work. 

Besides, you were getting older, already closer to thirty than your early teenage years, and those of the underworld did not want an aged woman, so much as they sought the delicate features of a barely turned adult. It was a disgusting, filthy world you lived in, but it kept you alive, and sometimes, that was all you could ask for. 

“Remember,” Buggy’s words echoed in your ears, sharp and desperate to be heard, even over the drowning noises of the orchestra. “He’ll be in the back booth. There’s a group of men with him, they’ll all have drinks. Just catch his eye, sometime during the dance. But don’t worry too much about that, otherwise you’ll lose your focus.” 

What you got from that was: You should try extra hard to catch the eye of an impressive man, but you should not seem like you were trying at all. 

A somewhat daunting task, but it would be simple enough. There hadn't been a man yet at the Moulin Rouge who hadn’t stumbled over himself when you gave him your brilliant smile.

You breathed, a deep inhale that cleared out the anxiety lingering in your chest. Then, you blew it out, and the curtain rose, blinding you with overwhelming yellows and reds from the lights, ones that ignited the jewels on your neck, outlining your chest, drawing everyone’s attention to you.

It was hard to see anything at all, but you could feel all their eyes on you — a hundred or so pairs that scoured you like a piece of meat.

And when you got to the floor, close enough that you could feel the hot breaths of your favorite clients, they threw bills at you until you could no longer hold them in the tight lines of your bodice. 

You smiled at every individual like you’d never smile at anyone again, patted their cheeks until they passed out with red, swooning faces. Then you left them, still reeling from your touch, eyes glued to you with the focus of a tortured scholar.

Performing had always been a rush to you, left you lively and with an energy that you’d never found in anything else. But sometimes, performing like this, exploiting no one but yourself and your magnetic charm, left you empty at the end of the day. You left the stage cold, drained of every ounce of warmth that had been dragged into you from the spotlight. 

It was invigorating to be wanted, but it could never compete with the crushing loneliness that came with being used.

And that warmth you got from the stage, the rush of devotion and adrenaline that came with incessant adoration? Well, you’d never felt anything like that, never been able to replicate it either, until a set of eyes landed on you from a distant booth, where the Duke was said to be sitting. 

You felt the heat before you saw him, the candy-red color of desire bleeding into you. It dragged across your back, digging into your shoulder-blades like a needle, piercing, but only lightly. There was something soft around the harsh edges of want, and when you turned to meet that stark desire, you almost faltered in surprise. 

He wasn’t what you’d been expecting.

Just as Buggy had said, the corner-most booth held a man, surrounded by many others. The table was littered with glasses — both empty and full of alcohol, and a cloud of smoke hovered around them. All of the men leaned over the table, eyeing you with awe-struck eyes, as you sparingly gave them your sweetest smile. 

But it was the innermost man that you honed in on, one being jostled around by the wealthy others in his booth. Blonde, blue eyes alight with a conflicted sort of desire, wearing a suit tailored to fit him perfectly. 

The Duke. 

Allegedly. 

From what you’d been told, there were enough clues to convince you that this dazzled man was the one you were looking for. Surrounding him were older patrons, ones that were familiar with Buggy, and nearly all of the dancers. Rich men that would have gladly accompanied a foreign noble, shown him the beauty of Montmartre before the sun rose and they were back to respectable conversation. 

Yet, he seemed… 

Well, he didn’t seem very lordly. 

That, though, was not a question you wanted to linger on for too long. Your mind would spin into uncertainties, and you would fuck this up before you could fuck him. 

Instead, you sharpened your smile, lowered your eyes seductively, and continued your performance, painting more attention onto that side of the room. 

Which raised another red flag that you were all too happy to ignore. Far opposite of what Buggy had sad, the duke did not seem like a difficult man to please. Rather, all you could think was that he would be an easy catch, with the way his cigarette dangled from his lips, parted in awe. His irises might as well have shaped into hearts as he watched you, tracing your every movement without so much as blinking. 

You brightened. For some reason, his adoration gave you much greater satisfaction than you would have liked to admit. 

Riding on the elation that your prey, the source of your future, was in the palm of your hand, you wrapped up the rest of your performance perfectly, tying it up with a beautiful scarlet ribbon. Buggy was standing on the edge of the stage as you made your way down, bowing dramatically, knowing that you had succeeded in every goal he’d set for you. 

“Do you think I lured him in?” you asked softly, accepting the robe given to you by one of the stage-hands, a man just on the cusp of his twenties. 

Buggy smiled, his red-painted lips spreading across crooked teeth. “I don’t call you the diamond for nothing, do I, my dear?” he said, pinching your cheek. 

The rouge came off between his fingers, and your eyebrows crinkled, before releasing, as you remembered all the ways you could keep yourself from looking older. You swatted your friend-not-friend’s hand away before wrapping yourself tighter in the robe, feeling so much smaller and younger than you truly were. 

Despite all the men you’d taken to bed, all the nights you’d shared in throes of passion (their’s, of course, never your own), you still felt the scared, hardly-adult you’d been when you first set foot in Paris. 

Buggy noticed the change in your demeanor, as you tried to gear yourself up for an encounter with the Duke. The charming, blonde noble seemed kind enough, softer around the edges than many of the men you’d seduced over the years. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. 

Never, though, would it be something that you wanted to do.

“What’s the matter, my gem?” Buggy asked, not quite in a way that was kind, but enough to show concern. His eyes were gentler than the rest of his appearance, and you weren’t sure you were grateful for it.

You curled away from his hands, sniffing back the onslaught of doubt and self-loathing that always came upon you when you used your body in such a way. It was something that you’d been taught to feel disgusted by, even though it kept a roof over your head, and the heads of the people that you’d come to call your family. 

“It’s nothing,” you said, because it was the truth. It was nothing new. The same blur of feelings that had haunted you since the first day you’d sold yourself to another still lingered. You’d always thought it would get easier… but it hadn’t. It still ended with you wanting to tear your skin from your body, but never following through with a slide of poison down your throat. 

Because that was the easy way, wasn’t it? A quick way to end your torment, without knowing if you’d ever see the other side. And, perhaps you weren’t as brave as you wanted to believe, but you wanted to see if there was another side. If there was a brighter end, a brighter future, where you could shine on the stage of the Palais Garnier as a real actress, and not just in the glittering scarlet lights of the Moulin Rouge. 

Buggy eyed you skeptically, any kindness in his irises now gone as his lips turned into a thin line. “It better be nothing,” he said, guiding you across the stage, before reaching a doorway that would send you up into the Elephant Room.

Which was the most private area of the Moulin Rouge, one saved for the most illicit affairs. It was your room, and only those patrons that were willing to pay the highest price were allowed entry. 

“Remember, I’ll send him up to you, and all you have to do is give him a night he won’t forget, alright?” Buggy stood in front of you, gripping your shoulders in a warning. “Now, show me that dazzling smile, diamond.”

Reluctantly, but with all the passion you had gathered in your chest, you smiled, knowing that it was real enough to set something alight in his own. The reaction — just a small quirk of his lips in return — was enough to let you know he was satisfied with the show you’d put on.

“There she is. We’ll have a new investor soon enough.” 

You were certain of that. You had to be certain of that, or your livelihood would be down the drain, and a future of shimmering lights and diamond-encrusted gowns would be out of the question. 

On the walk up the stairs, you spoke soft words in your head, hummed the same tune you did for every show. It reminded you of who you were — at least, who you were to them. The ones who would have sold an arm and leg for a chance to win your heart, even though, after all the years that passed, you didn’t think you had one to give anymore. 

The stage was all the love you had to offer. Perhaps, the only type of love you believed in, anymore. 

You made your way up the spiraling staircase to the Elephant Room, and opened the door with a sigh, letting your weight rest against the doorknob. For a moment, you deflated in the threshold like a woman in a Shakespearian tragedy, exhaling the tension that had wrought in your shoulders. 

Until you felt eyes slide across to you, unexpectedly, and you found you weren’t alone in the Elephant Room. 

Without pretense, the Duke was waiting for you, his eyes dancing along the interior, taking a moment to gaze at every corner of the room. There was interest in his irises, as he searched for other secrets of your life through your belongings

Then, the door slammed shut behind you, and the spell was broken. The Duke turned to face you, eyes widening with alarm, as your back went straight as a wire.

He wasn’t supposed to be there already.

A second slipped by, and you gawked at each other, your own mouth dry with the confusion and surprise of his ill-timed appearance. Surely Buggy hadn’t sent him to the Elephant Room already? You’d only just parted.

Well, you supposed it didn’t matter now anyway.  La vie continue.

Smoothly, you recovered, raising your shoulders to release an air of confidence, and smiled brightly. You twisted your hair across your collarbone, hoping it would highlight the smooth planes of your chest, where the ruby necklace had already been removed. “Ah, my apologies, monsieur. I wasn’t aware you were waiting for me.”

The Duke blinked as you strutted past him, taking the two quick steps to your vanity. Just enough to brush against him, feel the desire rolling off of him in waves. 

Pointedly, he tried hard not to let his eyes drift lower, tracing just along your hips before snapping back up to to the back of your head. “How would you have known?” His words came out thick, as if something was lodged deep in his chest. “I haven’t even introduced myself.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” you said over your shoulder, lowering your voice huskily. “I’ve heard so much about you. I trust your visit to the Moulin Rouge has been pleasant?” 

He met your gaze through the mirror, seemingly enraptured, and cleared his throat as he calculated a response. “Très agréable, mademoiselle.” 

You smiled, humming through an affirmative, before continuing. “Wonderful. I’ll be ready in just one moment.” Imperceptibly, you sprayed perfume, hoping it would mask the sweat that had gathered from your performance. Then, you made your way over to a cart, sifting through expensive bottles of alcohol. “Drink?” you said, speaking softly to yourself. “I have champagne or…” You shook each of the bottles, realizing they were all empty. Not a drop left. “Well. I have champagne.” 

“I’m alright, madame. Merci.”

You began to pour your own glass, which you would certainly be needing, when it dawned upon you that his accent was rather Parisian, and absolutely not as foreign as Buggy would have had you believe. Your champagne slipped, nearly spilling over the edges of the cup, before you turned to eye the blonde with what you hoped with a sultry grin. 

“Ah. Your French is very beautiful,” you said, smiling over the edge of your glass as you sipped at it, wondering if your eyes were as alluring as you believed. “You’re a quick learner.”

He stared at you, lines creasing his features as his lips parted, obvious skepticism weaved within his posture. Then, without another word, he ignited the cigarette he had slipped between his lips, the end glowing before he inhaled. A long drag was taken from it, settling in his lungs. “Je suis désolé, mademoiselle. I’m not sure how to answer that,” he said, exhale releasing a cloud of smoke into the air. 

You laughed, a high-pitched giggle that turned you back to face him, his free hand stuffed in his pocket like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “Usually people answer compliments with another thank you, but it’s no matter.” You forced another small sound up out of you, suddenly unsure exactly what to do next. 

He was… not what you’d been expecting, and the usual turn of events wasn’t progressing as it should have been. The Duke was supposed to be an intimidating man, one who knew what he wanted and would take it without question. That's what you'd heard, anyway. You were starting to wonder if what Buggy had told you were nothing but rumors. 

Waving the comment off, you made your way back to the vanity, checking that your scarlet lipstick had not smeared. His lingering gaze still traced against every curve of your body, and you stuck your hips out further, leaning towards the mirror with a small grin. “I apologize I didn’t have time to change. I wasn’t expecting you here so soon.”

The Duke nodded, only slowly processing your words before tapping on the cigarette. “Oh, there’s… no need.” Then, he shook his head, blinking, as if cringing internally. “Unless you’re uncomfortable. In that case, I’ll um… turn around.” 

You laughed, hiccuping as the quick gulps of champagne came bubbling up inside of you. “Well, it’s no matter, really. I’m sure they’ll come off soon enough.” The comment was meant to be a simple segue into the rather normal routine of your work, low and seductive. 

Instead, his eyes went wide, cheeks flushed as he looked, quite pointedly, anywhere but you. “No,” his voice rang at a higher pitch as you stalked towards him, your glass of champagne drained and discarded. “No, I’d really rather you keep them on, actually.”

You blinked, a bit puzzled by that. But it wasn’t the strangest request you’d ever gotten, and you were determined to please him, just as Buggy had requested. “Alright. Whatever you want, amour.” 

Like a cat, you crept up to the Duke, splaying your hands across his chest. A small sound left his throat, cheeks turning a darker shade as he took a step back, grasping for words. Your hand fisted his tie, satisfied by his reaction as you followed his stumbling lead back towards the bed. 

“How would you prefer to start?” you whispered, as his knees hit the edge of the heart-shaped mattress, legs buckling until he was flat on his back, gawking up at you from the bed. “I admit you are a hard one to read. Just say the word, I can be whatever you want.”

You scrambled on top of his thighs, dress hiked up to reveal the smoothness of your own legs, which quickly caught his attention.

“I-I’m not sure that we’re on the same page here,” he said, swallowing, though watching every one of your movements with rapt attention. 

You plucked the cigarette from his lips, and took a long drag, smiling down at him. 

The smoke filled your lungs, calming your nerves marginally. They were cheap cigarettes — not those usually desired by the nobility, but who were you to judge for odd preferences? He’d found his way here to you, after all. 

“No?” you answered softly, taking one more long inhale of the cigarette before you leaned forward, placing it into the ashtray, still burning. There was a long streak of red from your lipstick, staining the thin cylinder of white. “Then what is it that you’re here for?”  

He exhaled, fingers reaching up along your thighs, the touch so featherlight that you almost weren’t sure it was even there. For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten the question entirely, jaw slackened as he stared at you above him, before he swallowed, and sat up on his forearms. 

The movement brought your faces even closer together, his nose just centimeters from brushing your own. It was then you realized just how blue his eyes were, the color illuminated by the dim candlelight, deep hues of turquoise and navy swirling together to create a stormy sea. His thick, blonde eyelashes fluttered closed as he blinked at you, and the movement alone brought you out of your stupor, his voice raspy upon each syllable.  

“I’m here for the play…?” 

You drew back, needing a moment to breathe as you squinted your eyes to study him. It was rare for you to get a client like him, wealthy, but so uncertain, a charm about him that you couldn’t quite pin. They were never as handsome either, most far older than you, willing to throw cash at a younger, beautiful woman. 

Questions raised at the back of your mind, desperate to be asked, but you ignored them, beaming as you angled your head. “Ah. Of course. The play.” Your voice was saccharine, octaves higher than your usual volume. “What is my role, then?” you asked, tugging off his tie as you leaned into him, your lips just barely brushing his own. His breath was hot against your mouth, a hint of cheap alcohol still lingering on his breath. “I’m far too used to being the seductress, but I can be the damsel in distress, if you’d prefer that.” 

“Your role…” It was said more to himself than anything, not stopping you as your fingers began to unbutton his starched white shirt. You tilted your head forward, noses brushing together as you rested your forehead against his. 

The air grew warm between you, and for a moment, a beautiful, fleeting second, you lost yourself. Your grip on his top grew slack, fingertips caressing the warm expanse of his chest. He breathed into your mouth, and your eyes fell shut, letting him connect his lips to your own, the moment exploding in a rush of beautiful, ruby fireworks. 

And you were keen, then, to let him do whatever he would have wanted, his touch so featherlight and gentle, you wondered if you could have fallen in love with him. How quickly your heart, coated in steel and another layer of iron, betrayed you, dropping from your own chest right into the palms of the man that you needed as a savior.

But the moment did not last so long, and your vulnerability evaporated as quickly as the layer of dew beyond la Seine. As if coming back to himself, he choked, pulled away from your lips and pushed you back by the shoulders, staring at you with wide eyes and warm, tinted cheeks. 

You paused, watching as he rushed to his feet like he couldn’t get up fast enough. How easily the mood had soured, even as he muttered one apology after another, unable to meet your gaze. 

The Duke’s hands were shaky as he held the cigarette to his mouth, eyes fixated on the ceiling. He had plucked the same one back up from the ashtray, the streak of your bold, crimson lipstick imprinted on the end of it.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, hoping the worry wasn’t obvious in your words. If there was a problem, you were desperate to fix it. You couldn’t afford to ruin this, not when so many things were at stake.

He hesitated, another cloud of smoke leaving his mouth as he waved his hand around, ash falling from the cigarette. “I’m sorry — I’m sorry. I can’t focus when you’re,” he swallowed, cheeks burning, despite the hardness very obvious in his pants, “looking at me like that.” 

“Focus?” you said in gentle confusion, eyebrows pinched tighter, as the beginnings of a dreadful realization dawned upon on you. 

Feeling discarded on the bed, you sat and watched as he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, straightening like it was an important doctrine, before clearing his throat, and reciting a beautifully composed poem. 

The words were horrifically romantic, each line strung into another as if they had been pieced together by his very own heartstrings. And though you had not processed a single word, it had still struck a cord down deep in your weathered heart, and you continued to stare, sick with your own shame. 

It was beautiful — hauntingly so — a poem of love that could rival even the greatest of French writers. But, all you could think about was the pounding in the back of your mind, the panic steadily rising up within you.  

“You’re here for a play. An actual play,” you said stupidly, gaping back at him, your entire body going rigid with embarrassment. “You’re serious.” No longer was your tone beautifully high-pitched, innocent despite your sensuality. It had lowered in horror, your eyes going wide as you realized that all of this was a terrible, terrible misunderstanding.

Which seemed a lackluster reaction to whatever he was looking for, and he frowned, tilted his head back before heavily inhaling another puff of smoke. “Well, I suppose I would prefer that sort of reaction to hearing that my writing is awful. The play wasn’t my idea, just for the record.” 

“Writer?” you screeched, scrambling to your feet. “You’re not a Duke? Not the Duke?” 

His eyebrows lifted, searching your face for any hint of a joke, and when he found none, he laughed, face splitting beautifully with a smile. He gestured to himself like he was amazed you would even think so, his suit hardly of the latest fashions, the cufflinks a dulling silver. 

Which, in hindsight, was truly a marvelous mistake. 

“No, I am not a duke.” His forehead wrinkled, and he, finally, stamped the cigarette out on the ashtray, subtly putting the stub back into his pocket. “Is that why you thought I couldn’t speak French? Je viens de Paris. I thought that was obvious.” Once more, he laughed, smiling in a manner that was far too out of place for the situation. Then, just as dramatically, his face fell, eyes going wide with concern. “Hold on. Did you not know that I would be here?” 

“No!” you exclaimed, putting your finger to his chest as you shot forward, glaring with the heat of a thousand suns. Your features morphed into something horrible, though you doubted it was as intimidating as you hoped. “No, I have been waiting on a Duke, not some amateur, impoverished writer from this dreadful city I regret ever stepping foot in. And if you tell me that you’re another one of Luffy’s tragic bohemian protégés—”

He smiled sheepishly, tilting his head before you could even finish your sentence. “Well. First of all, I wouldn’t say I��m an amateur.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, a sound leaving your throat in dismay as another voice — the exact voice you were hoping not to hear — called out from the window. 

“Sanji!” Luffy said, a headful of black hair falling over the side, grinning at both of you. “How’s it going? Have you convinced her yet?” 

“No!” you shouted, already rushing towards the window, shooing Luffy away. Over and over you repeated the word, Luffy merely swinging back and forth from whatever rope he’d tied himself to, more amused than anything “Get out of here, Luffy! I should’ve known it was you that put him up to this.” 

For years, Luffy had been trying to recruit you, hoping you'd be an actress in one of his performances, and that the Moulin Rouge would be the place that funded it.

With his endless confidence, Luffy was certain that one day, he would create the best production in the history of Paris. But you were certainly skeptical of his ideas ever taking off, Buggy even more-so, and he refused to put even a single franc towards funding any of Luffy's productions.

Despite the rejection, you continued to get pestered, Luffy somehow convinced that he could help you become an established actress quicker than your current occupation could.

Luffy laughed, still with the audacity to ask if you liked Sanji’s writing, and you pushed his head back out the window, muttering profanities to yourself. 

“Who’s with you? Usopp? Zoro? I’m going to kill all three of you!” 

You yelled that last bit louder, just to be sure the two men you knew were up on the roof could hear you as well. And, just as expected, a muttered string of words escaped Zoro, and a much louder, panicked sound came from Usopp. 

They peeked their heads into the window with Luffy. 

“I tried to stop him,” Usopp said, wailing as Zoro hushed him, his dark eyes clouded with regret. “I knew it was a horrible plan, I’m so sorry.” 

Your lips drew into a thin line, unconvinced, despite all the theatrics. “I want you all out! Get back up there before—” 

Footsteps started up the stairs, and your eyes went wide, panicked as the voices of Buggy and the Duke, the real duke, started up the stairs. 

“Leave!” you hissed, shoving Luffy and Usopp back out the window, before turning to face Sanji, who was rather uselessly standing in the middle of the floor. Groaning, you gripped him by the arm, pulling him across the room as you scanned for a good hiding spot. “Hide. I need you to hide. He can’t see you.”  

“What’s going on?” Sanji asked. “Luffy told me—”

You released a sharp laugh, rolling your eyes. “Oh, I’m certain Luffy told you a lot of things,” you huffed, letting your hand slip down into his own as you dragged him into a corner of the room. “Unfortunately, Luffy’s plans are sometimes too grand, and he needs someone to bring him down to Earth. Which you, clearly, did not do and now—”

Your name was called out from behind the door, and you cursed, pushing Sanji into the corner of the room, near the vanity. “Stay there. Just… hide under something!” 

“Where?” 

But the door was already opening, and you scrambled into a chair, running your fingers across your hair to make sure you seemed somewhat presentable. You brought your legs up under you, lowering your gaze to bat your eyelashes as the Duke and Buggy entered the room, both staring at you with intrigue. 

“Here she is,” Buggy said, gesturing towards you with a curious look in his eye, a dark smile forming on his painted face. There was a warning there, one that you were not foolish enough to ignore. “My beautiful diamond. Hopefully just as lovely as she was up on the stage tonight.” 

The Duke’s regard for you was hardly passionate, though you could see a sliver of desire under all the layers of intimidation. He was a tall man, dark hair falling to his shoulders in thick strands. A long scar ran across his cheekbones, over the bridge of his nose, and he looked down at you, studying every piece of you like you were nothing more than a decoration to admire. 

You waited for him to say something, but it was clear he was waiting for the same, and you stood, perhaps too rapidly, and made your way over to him. 

“Monsieur, what a pleasure it is to meet you,” you smiled, if only to ease the anxiety strung through your body. Dipping your head, you looked back up at him with siren eyes, “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to visit.”

The Duke paused for another moment, studying you before taking your hand, and kissing it softly. It was a soothing gesture, despite the intensity of his eyes. Tension seeped gradually from your shoulders. 

“The pleasure is mine, my dear,” he said, his voice deep, raspy. “And there’s no need for such pleasantries when we’ll be acquainted soon enough.” His thumb ran across your cheek, before his hand fell back to his side. “I’d prefer Crocodile.”

Buggy, just feet behind the Duke, began to back away, exhaling in relief. “Well, I will leave you to it, then. And—”

That was all he could get out, as the scene shattered. 

Before Buggy could make his escape, a sound came from the window, a yelp, then an echoing shout, as Luffy, Usopp and Zoro fell down from the window, swinging into the room from the dangling rope. They landed in a somersaulting heap, just inches from where Sanji had been hiding, and your jaw slackened, before your entire body stiffened once more. 

Not a word rang through the room as you stared at the three of them, Crocodile sliding his gaze over to you for an explanation. The silence was tangible, heavy with uncertainty. 

A nervous laugh left Buggy, but it was quickly cut off as Usopp pulled both Zoro and Luffy up by their coats, and exclaimed, “Are you ready for rehearsal?” 

“Rehearsal…” you muttered, and at the same time, Crocodile posed the words as a question, his eyes narrowed, unamused.

“I wasn’t aware that there were other things going on this evening,” he said.

“Ah,” you continued, keeping yourself composed as you moved to stand in front of him. “Non, there’s nothing going on we just…” Internally you cursed, over and over, glancing at Buggy, who was near to shouting at Luffy, the two of them locked in a stand-off. There would be no help from any of them it seemed, as they waited for your reaction.

You placed a gentle hand on the shoulder of Crocodile, softening your expression into one of expectation. “Well, I know this isn’t what you had in mind, monsieur, but we thought now would be a good time to introduce you to our new production… Right, Buggy? While we’re all here together, of course. A once in a while opportunity.” 

You smiled, eyes narrowing exaggeratedly at Buggy, before the obvious question became clear to him. 

“Oh,” he nodded slowly, before bursting into the same smile he always used for your shows. “Right. Of course. Our new show—”

“Which, we have written specifically for you, Sir, if you would be so keen on investing.” You took Crocodile’s arm gently, leading him past the chair where Sanji was hiding, hopeful he would reacquaint himself with the rest of the troupe. And, as if reading your mind, Sanji scrambled to his feet, standing alongside Zoro and Usopp like he’d been there all along.

You exhaled softly, continuing to the Duke, “It was going to be a surprise, but we supposed it would be best for you to see it now, before we started any production. You are so wise with your investments, we didn’t want to be presumptuous.” 

Crocodile gave you an odd look, and for a moment, you weren’t sure he believed you. Then, you flashed him a hopeful smile, naive under all the great bravado, and he relented, amused by your earnestness. 

“Well, I am not usually interested in investing in such small ordeals, but…” He waved a hand, before running the other down the breadth of your spine, a touch that was near possessive. “If it stars our lovely diamond, it is sure to be a hit, no?” 

You relaxed, making a show of leaning into his advances. 

“Of course,” Buggy proclaimed, far too intense for your liking, as he tried to ease the Duke back out of the Elephant Room. “Would you like to get started on paperwork? How about we work out the details, and we’ll find another evening for you and—”

Crocodile raised a hand, the room swiftly silenced. “I need to know the story first, before we handle business. Not even the most beautiful of stars can carry a dying universe, I’m afraid.” He turned to you, his eyes so intense it was hard to muster up the courage to speak.

“Story?” You blinked, your smile falling. “Yes. Right. The story. Well, that’s an excellent question, and you would be certain to ask that, of course…” You looked to Buggy, then Usopp, who seemed all too happy to blend in with the shadows. Then to Zoro, who stood stiffly, and shrugged. Finally, your eyes landed on Luffy, who was grinning wildly and pushing Sanji forward, far too excited that this was all taking place.

“Here’s our writer,” Luffy proclaimed, patting Sanji on the back before taking a step away and crossing his arms. “Go on and tell them.” 

Which was a way to say the play hasn’t been written yet, and we’re making this all up as we go, in less obvious words. 

You wanted to melt into the floor, curl away from the hot palm that still rested on the small of your back, as you stared at Sanji helplessly, begging him to come up with an answer. 

And while the time seem to pass far too slowly for your liking, he didn’t even fumble for words as he nodded to you, dragging his eyes across the audience that was watching him expectantly. 

“It’s about love,” he said smoothly, confidence seemingly regained now that you weren’t the only person in the room. “It’s about love overcoming all obstacles.”

His eyes met yours once again, so deeply blue and beautiful. Against your better judgment, your heart surged out of your chest. 

“Yes! And it’s set in Switzerland!” Luffy exclaimed, laughing with delight. 

“No, no,” Sanji snapped, before recovering his story, mind working rapidly as he thought up a tale that would be imaginative enough to spark the interest of the Duke. “It’s set on the seas!” Then he lowered his overexcited voice, the words softening with adoration. “And there’s a courtesan. The most beautiful courtesan in the world.” 

Sanji's gaze fixed on you, and you blinked away, hating that awful feeling that bloomed in your heart. Still, a small smile tugged at your lips, one that you hid from everyone else. 

“But,” he said, tearing his attention away from you. “Her city’s been invaded by an evil pirate Warlord. Now, in order to save her kingdom, she has to seduce the evil Warlord. But, on the night of her seduction, she mistakes a penniless… A penniless…” He looked around helplessly, licking his lips. “A penniless cook, and she falls in love with him. He wasn’t trying to trick her, but he was dressed as a prince because… well… he was trying to infiltrate the Warlord’s headquarters.” 

“And I will play the captain of the crew that the cook works on!” Usopp interjected, taking a step in front of Sanji, his arms raised high with excitement, far too proud of himself. 

You coughed down a laugh as Crocodile regarded him with an impatient look. “Alright... What happens next?”

Sanji spared a quick scowl to Usopp, before regaining the attention of everyone in the room, weaving each word with precision. “Well, the cook and the courtesan, they are to hide their love from the evil Warlord—”

“With the help of their actual Captain, who has magical powers where he’s made out of rubber!” Luffy, this time, decided to add his own artistic storytelling, which silenced the entire room from skepticism.

Sanji blinked, hesitant. “Yes, well, that part’s still in the works,” he promised Crocodile, waving his hand dismissively. “There’ll be a crew, with a swordsman and a navigator… and of course the Warlord will have his own set of pirates working for him. It’s a grand production, the embodiment of the Bohemian ideals…” 

Sanji continued the story, crafting a plot of truth, beauty, freedom and love. But you were focused only on him, the passion with which he spun the tale, softening at the tragic romance that would take place between the courtesan and the cook. Every so often, your eyes would meet, and you would smile, if only slightly, with encouragement, enough to keep up his unwavering confidence until the end. 

"The finale hasn't been written yet,” he admitted, wrapping up his summary of the unfinished play, as the rest of you huddled around Crocodile for a reaction, his face dreadfully unreadable. “But—”

“We would love to get you involved artistically,” Buggy interrupted, excited by the prospects of the thrilling production and an investor. “If you have any suggestions.” 

A tense ten seconds passed, as Crocodile regarded each one of you, thoughtful. “The story could use some work,” he mused. “But, generally I like it.” 

An eruption of cheers burst out from each of you, and you smiled, giggling as you leaned into the Duke, hopeful that your gratitude was evident. Across the room, Sanji relaxed, lighting up another cigarette, and Buggy gestured forward, talking at such a rapid speed you were certain his words were slurring together. 

“Come, come with me,” he said, ushering Crocodile out of the room. “We’ll talk business.” 

Crocodile followed, but spared one last moment for you, as you followed the two men to the door, guiding him out. 

“I apologize that our evening together was different than anticipated,” you said, as genuinely as you could, tracing a hand down his chest. “Perhaps another night would be best for us to talk.” 

“Perhaps.” He hummed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his smile widening crookedly. “I still need to get acquainted with our star. Fame will suit you, my dear.” 

You smiled, a surge of pride overcoming you, one so strong that you couldn’t even wallow in the discomfort of his touch. “I look forward to it.” 

The two of you parted, the moment evaporating as Crocodile followed Buggy out the door. And, when it finally slammed shut behind the two of them, you exhaled, all of the anxiety leaving your body in a flush. 

The four other men went silent as you whirled on them, expressions dour as they waited for you to be the first to speak. Sanji’s jaw was tight as he looked away from the door, back to you, regarding you with an unreadable expression.

But, you were still reeling on your success, too excited to care about the anger you’d felt earlier. You broke into a cheerful grin, rushing to throw your arms around the young ring-leader. “Luffy,” you said, close to weeping. Things weren’t over yet, but there was a parting in the clouds, a sun shining through, as the hope of a future, a better one, became real. “Thank you. For the first time, one of your ridiculous plans actually worked. I’m very grateful.” 

He smiled like it was nothing, and your laughter became infectious, bubbling out of you in an effort to keep down your tears. You turned to the other two, both watching you curiously. 

“Usopp, thank you for that wonderful recovery. I’m not sure what we would have done if you’d not planned an emergency rehearsal.” 

He grinned wide, puffing his chest out. “Ah, well, I knew someone had to act fast.” 

Lastly, you turned to the green-haired man, and his name sooner died on your lips, when you realized he had contributed very little. “Zoro. You were useless actually.” 

Sanji snorted, and though Zoro’s face twitched, he didn’t bother saying anything to the writer. “You looked like you had it handled.” He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Well. I suppose we did.” You rolled your eyes, your mood suddenly deflating. The high of panic and elation had worn on you, leaving you with an ache in the back of your head, your hands still jittery. “Anyway, I’ve just about had all the fun I can handle for one night—”

“Uh-huh,” Zoro scoffed, a jab at your rather unconventional occupation.

You ignored him, pushing them all towards the door. “—I am very grateful for your help in getting our new investor, but we’ve got a busy week ahead, and I would like some rest. So, leave.” 

They all held their hands up in surrender, and while Sanji hadn’t been a part of the group you’d been addressing, he slowly followed when Luffy called out to him. There was talk of throwing a party across the street, at the dingy apartment complex that all the Bohemians lived in, despite it being late already.

The four of them made to leave, waving enthusiastically as they rushed down the stairs, far too worked up to be quiet. Sanji lagged behind them, giving you a kind smile before making his exit, a soft bonne nuit, escaping his lips.

“Sanji…” You called out, just before he closed the door behind him, his hand resting on the frame. Sanji turned, glancing over his shoulder, bright eyes pinning you right where you stood. “I’m sorry. So very sorry for the misunderstanding.” You waved your hand, drawing your fingers across your face to rest on your cheeks, already warm with shame. “I feel horrible.”

He paused, before a a grin split his face, irises burning with soft intensity. “Don’t,” he said, exhaling a laugh. “I enjoyed it, actually.” 

thank u so much for reading and for all the endless support!! i appreciate you all so very much ♡(˃͈ દ ˂͈ ༶ )

tagging those who rb'd / commented <3 pls let me know if you'd like to be added !

@cerberels / @keeper-of-my-heart / @chuuminn / @eussstasss / @mncxbe / @tetzoro / @msheds0519 / @awealuc / @akuma-coffee / @stunie / @chositooo / @piichuu

[pinksturniolo]

the star room

a one shot from the switch universe

summary: it's a typical saturday night at cherry bomb with your partners, matt and chris. except this time, it's your turn to make them cry and beg.

content warnings: smut, threesome (sort of?) (no male on male/incest) dom!reader x sub!matt and chris, bdsm, blindfolding, slapping, masturbation, face sitting, teasing, edging

a/n: if you haven’t read switch i suggest reading that first bc it explains a lot lol but this story is centered around bdsm and if that is something you’re not comfortable with, pls don’t read <3 love u guys

the red room ✔︎

the star room ✔︎ (now viewing)

the candy room ◷...

the flower room ◷...

In the dimly lit confines of your mind, fantasies had been a whispered promise—a secret garden you’ve longed to tread with authoritative steps. The last few times you had been with Chris and Matt, you had seen those hushed desires bloom into audacious intent. They took their turns controlling you sexually in almost every room of this club, leaving you with tear-stained cheeks and purplish-blue marks on various areas of your body.

There was no denying how much you thoroughly enjoyed it. But recently, your desires have taken on a whole different need. You wanted nothing more than to be the one delivering the pain, the power. And your wishes were again granted as you embraced the call of dominance that thrummed through your veins. With Matt and Chris, willing subjects to your budding command, you had decided it was time to unfurl the petals of power within the sanctum of the star room.

As you cross the threshold into those opulent and pink shiny walls of the room, your silhouette floats like a siren’s song. Each stride was measured, deliberate—the click of heels like a metronome to the racing pulses of the men who awaited you. Clad in nothing but shadows and the sheerest of lingerie, the curves of your body were lovingly caressed by the ambient light that danced through the room.

The air was thick with expectation, a heady mix of musk and desire that wrapped around the three of you like a silken shroud. Your eyes, dark pools of commanding allure, swept over Matt and Chris, drinking in their rapt attention. You could feel the weight of their gazes upon you, an almost tangible caress that beckoned you forward.

"Good evening." You purred, voice laced with the honeyed venom of control.

Confidence rolled off you in waves, a potent aura that filled the room with the electric buzz of anticipation. As you stood before them, the embodiment of sensuality and power, it was clear that the stars themselves had conspired to give birth to this moment—the night they would orbit your whim, lost in the gravity of your will.

Your gaze settles on the plush bed, its covers smooth and inviting, a perfect canvas for the night's artistry, with silk sheets matching the pink hue of the walls. Your heart thrums with exhilaration. With a swivel of your hips, you pointed to the bed, voice dripping with authority.

"Sit," You command, your tone leaving no room for disobedience. "Backs against the headboard."

Matt and Chris moved as if in a trance, their bodies responding to your command with an eagerness that betrayed their simmering excitement. They positioned themselves obediently, the muscles in their backs straining against the fabric of their shirts as they anticipated your next move. The gold brass of the headboard stood tall and firm behind them, a symbol of their own impending submission.

Their chests rose and fell, breaths becoming shallow as you approached, your fingers dancing along the collection of silk blindfolds resting on the nearby dresser. You selected two with care, the fabric gliding between your fingers like liquid shadows.

"Close your eyes," you whispered, your words a caress against their skin.

With deliberate slowness, you approached Matt first, standing close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from your body. His nostrils flared slightly, drawing in your scent—a mix of jasmine and the underlying trace of your arousal. You lifted the blindfold and placed it gently over his eager eyes, tying it securely at the back of his head. Matt's world went dark, his other senses immediately sharpening, attuned to your every shift and rustle.

Chris watched with bated breath, a coil of anticipation winding tight in his stomach. His turn came swiftly, and as the soft fabric enveloped his vision, a shiver of vulnerability coursed through him. Rendered sightless, both men were now acutely aware of the subtlest sounds: the whisper of fabric against skin, the quiet inhale of breath, the faintest brush of fingertips along their arms.

They sat in darkness, the absence of sight amplifying every sensation that followed. Their hearts hammered in tandem, echoing the rhythm of their unspoken desires. In this realm of shadowed sensation, you gained control.

The star room had transformed under your dominion into a theater of sensual exploration—an arena where you would test the limits of pleasure and obedience.

Silence settled over like a delicate shroud, as you let them adjust to their sight taken away. And then your voice cut through the quiet, establishing your command with an undeniable edge.

"Remember boys," you began, circling the bed, "silence is golden, and your hands are to be kept to yourself. If you disobey, I’ll restrain you against the headboard. And I’ll be the only one getting off tonight."

Your words hung heavy in the air, a sweet threat that made Matt's pulse quicken and Chris stiffen with a mix of fear and longing. They knew better than to challenge you; your authority was absolute in this dance of dark desires.

You savored the power you held, allowing it to seep into the sinews of your confidence. You approached Matt first, your form barely concealed by the sheer lingerie that hugged your body like a second skin. Your fingers danced lightly over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles. You felt him shudder beneath your touch, a sculpture coming to life under your caress.

You allowed your hand to drift lower, your fingertips brushing the bulge that betrayed Matt's arousal. Through the fabric of his pants, you teased him, applying just enough pressure to elicit a low moan that he quickly swallowed, remembering your decree of silence. The sound only spurred you on, your movements growing bolder as you rest your leg on him lightly and ground your knee against him, feeling his erection straining for release.

A moment of weakness had Matt's hand twitching, the urge to touch you overwhelming. He’s still adjusting to your dominance over him and he can’t control his emotions when he starts to become a little annoyed at the fact you’ve already started to torture him so painfully.

He’s shamelessly hard as you continue to rub him through his pants and he’s desperate for more friction as he grips your hips and pulls you against him harder. But no sooner had his fingers grazed your waist than you pulled back, a sharp crack resounding through the room as your palm met his cheek. His breath hitched, not from pain, but from the surge of desire that followed your reprimand.

"Bad boy," you chided, your tone laced with admonishment, allure and anger. The slap, far from deterring him, ignited something within Matt—a flame fanned by each word you spoke, each touch you granted or withheld. He wanted more, to feel the sting of your control and the softness of your dominance mingling into an intoxicating contradiction.

“If you do that again, you’ll regret it.” You whisper in his ear. “Hands to yourself.”

He simply nods, breathless as you shove him back against the headboard. You sit fully on his lap now, your arousal soaking onto his pants. Despite his disobedience, your own growing need is hard to ignore. You can’t help but moan out as you grind against him harshly.

“I’m so… fucking… wet..”

Every syllable is pronounced clearly and with such desperation that Matt whines, but continues to keep his self-control in check.

He swallows hard and takes in a shaky breath, his heart racing as he feels exactly how wet you are when you take his hand softly and run it down your chest, his fingers grazing over your cleavage that spills out of your bra, trailing down over your stomach and lowering to the hem of your panties where you allow him to slip his fingertips inside the soaked fabric, and caress your incredibly slick folds.

“Fuuuuck..” He groans, his cock straining against his jeans when he feels you. Now he’s becoming all too desperate and practically panting as you continue to allow him to slide his fingers through your pussy for a few more seconds before grabbing his wrist and yanking his hand out of your underwear.

He grits his jaw with frustration and holds back words of defiance.

A quiet but insistent whine is heard next to you.

Chris moves impatiently in his spot on the bed, his sense of heightened hearing picking up on the sound of how wet you are as Matt touched you. The sound is all too enticing, and he huffs in annoyance at the fact that he’s not the direct cause of your arousal and that’s he’s not the one you have your current attention on.

Chris is also a switch as you’ve come to know in the past few times you’ve been with him. But unlike matt, he really enjoys being submissive to you more. He would let you do anything to him, as long as it was causing you pleasure.

"I really don't appreciate your impatience, Chris," You scolded lightly, your voice carrying a hint of playfulness. "Only good boys who are patient and listen get what they want. Right, Matt?" You grip Matt’s jaw in your hand harshly and tilt his head towards you. He nods eagerly, his teeth grazing against his bottom lip. "Hm?" You pressed further, wanting to hear him say it. "Yes ma'am," he replied obediently.

You hold his face in your hands, your thumbs running over the stubble of his beard. His lips part as your fingertips brushes over them, and you softly insert them into his mouth, pressing them against his wet tongue. You’re throbbing from the feeling and moaning aloud again. “Good boy.” Matt’s hips shift ever so slightly underneath you from the praise and you smirk.

Chris, though sightless, could sense the charged atmosphere, the ebb and flow of power and submission between you and Matt. He ached to be part of it, to be the canvas upon which you painted your pleasure. And as your laughter, light and teasing, filled the room, he knew his turn would come—when you decided he had waited long enough.

You turned your attention to Chris, the air practically humming with anticipation. With a smile that promised both pleasure and torment, you climbed off Matt and approached him. Chris's breath hitched, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he waited for your touch, for the sensation he had been denied while feeling and hearing you and Matt’s exchange.

"Good boys get rewards," you murmured. You traced a single finger down Chris's chest, over the taut muscles that quivered beneath your touch. "Do you want to be rewarded, Chris?"

"Y-Yes," he whispered, remembering your command for silence. He swallowed hard, desperate to maintain control, to prove himself worthy of your favor.

"Then you will follow my instructions without hesitation." Your words were a velvet caress, wrapping around him, binding him more securely than any rope could.

You guided his hands from where they rested obediently at his sides, bringing them up to the curves of your waist. The heat of your skin seeped into his palms, and despite the blindfold obscuring his vision, he saw you in his mind's eye—resplendent, commanding, an empress of sensuality.

"Feel me," you commanded, and he did, his fingers exploring the softness of your flesh, the lace that clung to your form. He wanted to pull you closer, to bury himself in the warmth of your body, but he held back, knowing that any transgression would cost him this exquisite privilege.

As you reveled in the power you wielded, a thrill coursed through you. The control was intoxicating, the sight of these two men—so strong, so willing to submit—fueling a fire within you. You felt their desire like a palpable force, their need to be touched and taken by your hand alone.

"Please," Chris's voice broke through the silence, hoarse with desperation. "I need you."

"Patience," you whispered, though your own body trembled with the effort it took to deny them. The power you held was a double-edged sword, cutting into your resolve just as keenly as it tested theirs.

Chris's hands moved with hesitant reverence, as though he was afraid you would vanish if he pressed too hard, if he dared to grasp rather than caress. But oh, how he wanted to—to claim, to possess, to worship at the altar of your pleasure.

"Good boy," you praised, and he shuddered beneath your touch, the simple words a benediction that promised salvation in the form of your approval.

The room filled with the sounds of ragged breathing and whispered entreaties, a heady mix that lingered on the edge of fulfillment.

Your own desire mounted, spiraling higher with every second you remained in command. You fed off their eagerness, their unspoken pleas for release, knowing that when you finally allowed them their climax, it would be all the sweeter for the wait.

"Keep begging," you instructed, your tone laced with dark promise. "It only makes me want you more."

"Y/N. You know how bad I need you." he breathed, his voice a velvet caress that sent shivers down your spine, "I want more… please."

With a deft movement, you shifted, straddling his face, the scant fabric of your lingerie a tantalizing barrier. The blindfold rendered him sightless, amplifying every touch, every sound. He inhaled deeply, the scent of your arousal a heady perfume that promised ecstasy.

"Please," he repeated into the darkness, his voice muffled against the softness of your thighs.

"Shut up," you chastised gently, yet firmly. "Only your tongue can speak now." You commanded, spurring him into action.

His lips found the delicate lace, tracing the outline of your heat through the thin barrier. With deliberate slowness, you rocked your hips, guiding him in the dance of pleasure. When his tongue finally brushed against you, you allowed yourself a soft moan, a reward for his obedience. Each flick and swirl drew a symphony of sensation from deep within you, notes of pleasure that spiraled upward, seeking release.

Matt, bound by your earlier command to keep his hands to himself, could only listen to the intoxicating sounds, the wetness of Chris's efforts, and your soft cries of delight. His own need throbbed, insistent, but he knew better than to seek relief without permission. His blue eyes, hidden beneath the blindfold, ached to witness the scene unfolding before him.

"So good, baby…" you gasped, your control fraying at the edges as Chris’s ministrations grew more persistent.

But the moment was yours to prolong, and with a reluctant sigh, you lifted yourself from Chris’s eager mouth. Ignoring his groan of protest, you trailed your fingers down your own body, teasing yourself through the dampened lace.

"Patience," you reminded them both, though the word was a balm to no one. You removed your lingerie with a fluid motion, baring yourself to their obscured view. You lay your head on Chris’s lap and drape the lower half of your body over Matt’s. Your fingers replaced where Chris’s lips had been, circling and dipping with precision that spoke of intimate knowledge of your own body.

They both groan in frustration. You knew this particular form of teasing was absolute torture.

As you pleasured herself, your breathing became labored, your movements more urgent. The sound of your slick fingers moving rhythmically filled the room, a visceral reminder of the denied gratification that hung heavy in the air.

"Are you both thinking of how I feel?" you asked, your voice strained with desire. "Can you imagine the warmth, the wetness?"

"God, yes," Chris whispered, his restraint near breaking. You can hear Matt silently cursing to himself under his breath.

"Imagine it's you inside me," you continued, your tone laced with seduction and cruelty in equal measure. "But not yet. You haven't earned it."

The denial was torture, exquisite and calculated, pushing them all to the precipice of sanity. You arched into your touch, your climax building like a storm on the horizon—powerful, inevitable, and utterly consuming.

Your body trembled on the crest of your own release, but you withheld your satisfaction for a final act of domination. With a breathless command, you reached out and removed the blindfold from Matt’s eager eyes, granting him the first glimpse of you in all your glory: curves glistening with the sheen of desire, hair tousled in wild abandon.

"Look at me," you ordered, and Matt’s eyes snapped from his hypnotized gaze on your wet core to your flushed face like iron filings to a magnet. His eyes were pools of hunger and adoration, reflecting your image as though you were a goddess descended. You positioned herself above him, straddling his hips with an authority that sent shivers down his spine.

"You want to be inside me, Matt?" You asked.

"Yes baby, please." he breathed, the ache in his voice mirroring the throbbing need between his legs.

"Then be a good boy and let me use you." With that, you sank onto him in one fluid motion, enveloping him in your warmth. Matt gasped, his hands flexing at his sides, aching to touch you but remembering your edict of obedience.

Chris sat beside him, still blindfolded, every sound amplified in the darkness behind his eyelids—the slick slide of skin against skin, your needy moans and rhythmic breathing.

You rode Matt with calculated movements, each roll of your hips a stroke of artistry designed to draw out his pleasure—and his torment. You watched his face contort with the struggle to remain silent, to obey, to please you. When his hands twitched, reaching up only to fall back helplessly, you smiled with cruel satisfaction.

"Keep your hands to yourself," you reminded him sweetly, even as you leaned down to brush your lips against his ear. "Or you'll lose even this."

Matt nodded, biting back a groan as you increased your pace. You moaned loudly, burying your face into his neck as your hands gripped his shoulders, the feeling of him inside you so satisfying.

“Fuck, Matt, you feel so fucking good. I can feel you deep inside me...” You babbled, your own pleasure taking over.

He could feel himself spiraling, the pressure building to a pinnacle he could no longer resist. With a choked cry, he pleaded for permission.

"Come for me," You whispered, and it was both command and allowance. Matt’s world shattered, pleasure seizing him in an iron grasp as he climaxed, his essence spilling into you in waves of surrender.

As his tremors subsided, you dismounted, catching your breath. You then turned your attention to Chris, who had been a silent (but weakening) sentinel throughout your conquest. Carefully, you reached out and removed his blindfold as well, allowing him to see you—flushed, triumphant… finally now his.

"Your turn." You spoke, your voice softened now with an intimate tenderness.

Chris’s blue eyes locked with yours, and there was a momentary flicker of something deeper, more profound than simple lust. You joined him on his side of the large pink bed, your bodies aligning with a familiarity born of many shared secrets.

Your coupling was a stark contrast to the earlier display of control. Where the experience had been a spectacle of your dominance before, now it was about connection. As you moved together, the outside world faded; there was only the feeling of him filling you completely as he pinned you down, in missionary, the sound of your combined sighs, the taste of your kisses.

The rhythm was unhurried, each movement a deliberate exploration. Chris’s hands roamed over your body with reverence, as he thrust into you, pausing only to feel the bulge in your stomach from how deep he was. Matt watched you and only you, lost in the pleasure that Chris was now giving you.

"Come here," you beckoned gently, your voice a whisper that seemed to caress the air itself.

Matt moved closer, his movements tentative, as if he was still under the spell of the blindfold, unsure of your tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the dominance you had wielded earlier.

His hands that you had once demanded to stay away from you, now roamed freely through your hair, stroking with a care that spoke of an intimacy far beyond the physical realm they had just traversed. He brushed away the damp tendrils stuck to your forehead, the gesture full of reverence and quiet adoration. It was a small act, yet it only spurred your building climax as Chris dug his fingers into the flesh of your hips, rocking against you, feeling your walls tighten around him.

It wasn’t long before you were moaning Chris’s name aloud as he made you orgasm, his fingers that had caused marks on your hips now circling your clit. He followed closely after, his mouth ajar as he came inside you and then pulled out a few moments later after catching his breath, watching his seed spill out of you and down your inner thigh.

"Thank you," you murmured to both of them, your voice almost inaudible. It wasn't clear whether you thanked them for their obedience or for their willingness to explore the shadowy corners of their passions together. Maybe it was for both—or for something more profound that words could scarcely capture.

taglist! <3

@sturniolopepsi @tillies33ssss @whicked-hazlatwhore @riasturns @christhopersturniolo @junnniiieee07 @sturnsjtop @seahorsie11 @inveigledvex @mattslolita @certifiednatelover @glassesmattsbae @eryismum @sturncakez @wh0resstuff @ribread03 @sturniololoco @75sturn @mattscoquette @jnkvivi @h3arts4harry @chrizznmetswife @bambi-slxt @streamermattsgf @mattspolitank

[jaythes1mp]

3939 words, 22942 characters, 232 sentences, 136 paragraphs, 15.7 pages.

Please don’t ask me what this is. I just started writing and didn’t fucking stop.

I’m a Hufflepuff. You may ask why I wrote a Ravenclaw reader then… Well, Simple. I’ve gone feral over Batfam fics with bird terms of endearments and wanted to write about a weak lil nerd who gets called bird.

TW — Dark. Theo’s mean, dick Theo. Yandere-ish. Non consensual touch, but not really bordering anything sexual, just implying that it would happen. & others. I’m not good at the trigger warnings.

GHOSTS

Theodore Nott x Male Reader

As you make your way down the long, deserted corridors of Hogwarts, the shadows stretch and creep in the soft moonlight. The air is thick with tension and anticipation, as if tales and secrets are whispered through the very stones themselves. Suddenly, you accidentally bump into a fellow student.

His voice, a deep, velvety whisper, breaks the silence.

“Are you afraid of ghosts?” Nott, a quiet and solitary figure, had spoken, startling you. He’d taken notice of your aversion to the shortcut many other students so carelessly wonder. Choosing to walk along the longest path lead away from any of the roaming undead creatures.

You find yourself caught off guard as you realize it's none other than Theodore Nott, known for his eerie silence and his dangerous connections. A Death Eater, a member of the dark lord's inner circle, and a man associated with fearsome tales of torture and blood supremacy. Your gaze travels up, taking in his imposing presence.

You run your fingers through your soft hair anxiously, the moonlight illuminating your face, making you look almost otherworldly. You lean back a little, taking in the sight of the notorious Nott. Having grown up hearing about the Nott family's dark legacy, the very presence of the boy in front of you is frightening.

Licking your chapped lips nervously, you struggle to find the words to answer Nott's question.

"…I am.” you finally admit, you know better than to lie to someone whose family is of such high status.

Theodore tilted his head, studying you from behind a mask of unreadable expressions. His eyes gleam in the moonlight, betraying no particular thoughts or feelings.

"Perché i fantasmi? Why?" Theo asked simply, crossing his arms. The Italian words slipping past his lips naturally. He leaned against the stone wall, seemingly at ease. His body was slender, but still stronger than his gaunt appearance suggested.

"What's so frightful about..." he paused, giving a little gesture that encompassed the vast castle around you, "Ghosts?"

You were not sure how to respond.

He continued to study you intently, taking in every detail, as if you were a puzzle to decipher. You could feel his eyes tracing your features, your body language, trying to discern your emotions.

His silence was unnerving.

You swallowed hard, your Adam’s apple bobbing as you become acutely aware of how dry your throat is. Licking your chapped lips for a second before speaking. “...Ghosts are the lingering spirits of the departed. They’re a reminder that death is... inescapable. That the line between life and death is fragile.”

You pause, his gaze unwavering, making you feel slightly uneasy.

“Ghosts are shrouded in mystery. The unanswered questions surrounding their existence make them frightening. Their presence serves as a reminder that there may be more to this world than we can comprehend, and that the boundaries between life and death are thinner and more complex than we realise.” You looked up, meeting his watercolour eyes. He looks almost amused.

A hint of a smile played on Theodore's lips. He was faintly amused by your answer. It was so eloquent and philosophical. Typical of a Ravenclaw to put such emphasis on the mystery and uncertainty surrounding ghosts.

"You speak as if you've studied the subject," he observed, tilting his head slightly. His eyes glinted in the dim light, his expression inscrutable.

You nibble at your bottom lip, your coloured eyes boring into the other boys. “... it’s hard not to.”

Theodore pushed himself off the wall, moving towards you. He was slender, yet there was a certain elegance in his movements. He moved with the grace of a predator, silent and fluid.

He stepped closer to you, his tall stature looming over you. His eyes had darkened, as if contemplating something. He studied your features once more, his gaze flickering over your face, your neck, almost like he inspecting your every blemish, every little detail.

You swallowed again, feeling strangely out of breath. His proximity was overwhelming, his silence making every moment feel like an eternity. It wasn’t until he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper, that you realised he had moved closer still.

“You’re shaking,” he stated, his eyes never leaving your face. You hadn’t noticed, but in the cold air of the corridor, your body was trembling.

You felt the heat rise on your cheeks, realising how vulnerable you looked in front of him. You averted your eyes, trying to gather your composure.

He was so close, you could feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent- a blend of leather, parchment and spices- filling the air around you. “Are you scared?” he questioned, his voice low and quiet. “Of me?”

You dared to glance up at him, your eyes widening as you met his gaze. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he found your fear amusing. Yet, there was something else in his expression- something you couldn't quite place. He tilted his head, studying you intently.

“You seem… interesting.” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. His eyes raked over you once more, as if he was trying to see beneath the surface, to get a glimpse of your thoughts, your fears, your secrets.

You could feel his gaze burning into you, making you feel small and exposed. You found yourself unable to look away, your heart racing in your chest. You knew he was dangerous, a Death Eater, someone not to be trusted.

But there was something about him that drew you in, a magnetic pull that you couldn’t resist. His fluffy hair fell in soft waves over his forehead, and his eyes seemed to have captured the moonlight, making them appear almost liquid silver rather than watercolour green.

He stepped closer still, your bodies nearly touching. You could feel the warmth of his skin just inches from yours.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your exposed skin, so softly it was barley a touch. You felt as if you couldn’t move, like being transfixed by a serpent. Nott’s cold fingers gently brushed a strand of hair off your face.

“Such soft skin…” he murmured, his eyes flickering over your features. He seemed almost mesmerised by you. He slowly moved his fingers over your jaw, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “And you bite your lip so often. It’s… distracting.”

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You’re so… fragile…” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “Like a perfect porcelain doll.”

His fingers continued their journey, tracing along your neck, causing you to suck in a sharp breath. He paused for a moment, his hand still resting on your skin. Thumb tracing over the Adam’s apple in your throat.

Theodore let out a soft, humorless chuckle as he observed you, his normally reserved demeanor replaced by a mixture of amusement and condescension.

"Look at you..." he began, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "Trying to be all tough, trying to put on a show of bravery. But I can see right through you.”

He hummed, studying your shaking form with a critical eye. Then, his lips twisted into a sly smirk.

"You're just a scared piccolo uccello."

“... Trembling at the slightest touch,” he continued, his thumb slowly tracing up and down your neck. “Your heart’s racing. You’re practically quivering.”

His lips were hovering maddeningly close to your ear now, the whispered words sending a small shiver through you. He leaned in a bit closer, his hand sliding down your neck, towards your collar.

"Do you know what they do to pretty little birds like you in the wild?” He inquired.

His voice was almost a whisper, low and menacing, his fingers lightly tracing the buttons of your shirt. “They catch them, break their wings, and keep them in little cages. Trapped, completely at their mercy.”

He moved his hand further down, stopping just above your hip, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your shirt.

“Would you like that? To be my little pet?” he mused, his breath warm against your skin.

You tried to speak, but your mouth felt dry and your mind was in disarray. Your head was spinning, and your heart was racing so fast you feared it might explode.

His fingers curled around the waistband of your trousers, pulling you closer with a sudden jerk. You stumbled involuntarily, landing against his chest.

“You’d look stunning in a collar,” He murmured, his lips gently brushing against the shell of your ear. You felt his other hand grip your hip, as if to hold you in place. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the hard press of his muscles.

The moment he grabbed your waistband and pulled you close, your mind became a maelstrom of confusion and panic. Your heart raced to an almost concerning pace, and your dry mouth made it impossible to form coherent words. Stumbling against his chest, you felt the heat of his breath against your ear as he murmured his suggestion.

The mere mention of a restriction around your neck, metaphorical or not, sent a shiver down your spine, and the firm grip on your hip left you feeling trapped. You were suddenly all too aware of the proximity of his body, the contour of his muscles pressing against your own.

“I...”

He chuckled quietly at your inability to form a coherent response, enjoying your evident distress. He didn’t give you time to regain your bearings, though. His fingers continued to explore, tracing the hem of your shirt, sliding underneath the loose fabric to gently brush against the skin of your hips.

“Don’t be shy.” he whispered, his voice taking on a patronizing tone. “Use your words, pretty boy.” He was mocking you.

Theo’s touch was both gentle and possessive, his fingers teasing the edges of your shirt, slowly slipping beneath the fabric to touch skin. Trailing over your hard stomach. The subtle mockery in his tone was like a knife to your pride, the taunt causing a mix of embarrassment and frustration to bubble up in your chest.

Clenching your jaw, you forced yourself to speak, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

"Don't call me that."

He paused for a moment, his eyes flickering with what looked like a hint of amusement. He seemed to be enjoying your growing irritation. His touch grew firmer, his hand wrapping around your hip, pulling you even closer.

Your protest seemed to amuse him even further. He chuckled again, his voice dripping with condescension.

“Why not?” he drawled, his breath hot on your ear. “Such a pretty little bird, fluttering its feathers when I’ve only just begun to touch it.”

He slowly tilted your chin up with his other hand, forcing you to look into his eyes, his gaze intense and unwavering.

“It’s a compliment,” he continued, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “To call you pretty. It’s what you are- Pretty. Delicate. Fragile.”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, tracing the shape of it before he spoke again.

“Do you not like being called pretty, my pretty raven?”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. Pretty. The word was simultaneously flattering and demeaning, highlighting the vulnerability you were trying so hard to hide. His thumb gently caressing your lip only served to emphasize it.

His touch was infuriatingly gentle, as if he was both mocking you and enjoying your discomfort. You took a deep breath, trying to maintain a sense of dignity, but his words, combined with his actions, were making it increasingly difficult.

“I’m not... fragile,” you mumbled, your voice sounding weaker than you would’ve liked.

His eyes darkened, amused by your weak protest. He took a step closer, his body now pressing against yours, pinning you against the wall. The smirk on his face grew, his voice lowering to a dangerously quiet level.

“Are you sure about that?” he murmured, his hand releasing your chin to slide down your chest, his fingers tracing your collarbone.

“You’re shaking. Heart’s racing. All from a little touch.”

The proximity of his body to yours, the feeling of being trapped between him and the wall, was overwhelming. His hand on your collarbone, tracing the shape as he spoke, only served to highlight your own physical reactions, your involuntary tremors and the fast pace of your heartbeat.

Feeling both humiliated and panicked, you tried to take a step back, but your back was already against the wall. There was nowhere to escape.

He didn’t give you the chance to escape, though. He took a step forward, effectively closing the already minimal space between you. His body was pressed against yours, his height and strength making you feel even more vulnerable.

His nose gently brushed against the side of your neck, as if he were breathing you in. His grip on your hip tightened.

“You’re so on edge, love...” he murmured. “Like a little bird, about to take flight. But there’s nowhere to go, is there?”

Feeling overwhelmed and increasingly frustrated by Nott's condescending tone and possessive touch, you finally manage to find your voice. Your words are sharp, your tone a mixture of indignance and determination.

Gritting your teeth, you practically hiss at him, your voice low and tight with barely suppressed anger.

"Let go."

His smirk widened as you finally gathered the courage to speak up. He leaned in closer, his body pressing more firmly against yours, effectively trapping you.

“Let go? But I’m not done playing with you yet, il mio uccellino.” he cooed, his thumb idly tracing the line of your happy trail. My little bird.

The condescension in his tone was almost patronizing, as if he was amused by your attempt to stand up to him.

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost touching your ear, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“You’re trying so hard to put up a brave face. But I can feel you trembling against me. I can practically hear your heart racing.”

He nipped the sensitive skin of your ear, his grip on your hip becoming almost painfully tight.

“Such bravado... It’s almost endearing, Raven.”

He lets out a soft hum, his dark eyes raking over your form, drinking in every detail. He takes a moment, then grins, a sly, mocking expression that irritates you even more.

He then speaks, his voice low and taunting.

"Come with me to my dorm, little raven. Wouldn’t want any wayward ghosts to snatch you away now, would we?”

Theodore’s soft hum seemed almost mocking, his gaze raking over your form with a sort of arrogant, detached interest. As if he was a cat toying with a small, frightened mouse.

The mention of ghosts and his dorm made you stiffen. You instinctively wanted to protest, but his amused tone and condescending smirk made you hesisitate. You loathed the idea of being lead somewhere private with him, a Death Eater, a dangerous person, yet the fear of being caught alone in the darkened halls was stronger.

He seemed to notice your hesitation, and chuckled softly to himself. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he observed your expression.

"Oh, don't look so afraid, darling," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. "I promise I won't bite. Not tonight, at least."

His hand slid from your hip to your lower back, a subtle, commanding pressure urging you to step forward.

You found yourself moving forward without much thought, the subtle pressure of his hand on your lower back guiding you towards the dungeons. The corridors were dimly lit, the shadows cast by the flickering torches making everything look eerie and ominous.

Nott walked beside you, his pace seemingly leisurely, his hands in his pockets as if this were all entirely casual. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, watching your every move, taking note of every reaction. You were supposed to be smart, little raven.

The journey was quiet and tense. Every sound echoed too loudly through the dark halls, making everything feel even more foreboding. Nott said nothing, his eyes occasionally flicking from your face to the surroundings, keeping a look out for any passing professors or patrolling Prefects.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you reach the entrance into the dungeons. Nott placed his hand on the cold stone wall, and the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room slid silently open.

You came to a halt, your gaze fixated on the open door before you. As you stood there, a sense of unease suddenly hit you like a punch to the gut. What were you doing? Why had you followed so blindly? The realization struck you, a sizzling sensation of revelation coursing through your veins.

Wait, did you actually... want this? A mix of embarrassment and confusion swirled within you, the thought both unexpected and, disturbingly, not entirely undesired.

Nott seemed to notice your hesitation, his sharp gaze watching your expression carefully. He raised an eyebrow as he observed your internal struggle, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Having second thoughts, my little bird?" he teased, his voice a low, velvety murmur. He took a step towards you, closing the space between you. The scent of his cologne enveloped you - musk, expensive fabric, and pine.

"Too late to back out now."

He reached out, gently grasping your chin and tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were now a dark, smoldering black, filled with a mixture of curiosity and arrogance.

"You're mine now, il mio uccellino." he murmured, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "And I don’t let go of what's mine."

His fingers trailed over your jawline, leaving a trail of tingles in their wake.

The Slytherin stepped closer, the heat from his body radiating through the thin fabric of your clothes, his presence almost suffocating. He leaned in, the whisper of his breath against your ear sending a shiver down your spine.

"Come on. Don't be shy. I don't bite." he crooned, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "Well, not tonight, anyway. Unless you beg."

There was a predatory edge to his voice, a barely contained impatience hidden beneath his smooth tone. He wanted to get you into the dormitories and away from the corridors as soon as possible.

His hand slid down to your lower back, the pressure firmer now. "Let's keep moving, shall we?" he drawled, urging you forward.

He didn't give you an opportunity to argue or resist. He firmly guided you through the open entrance of the dorm, his grip on your lower back guiding you past the threshold into the dimly lit common room.

It was quiet down here, the only sounds coming from the soft bubbling of the water in the tank by the back wall, and the low chatter of other students lounging in the common area. A couple of fourth years glanced at you with mild curiosity, but quickly looked away when they spotted your escort.

Theo paid them no mind, his focus entirely on you. He gently propelled you towards the winding stone staircase, leading you up to the seventh year dormitories.

The silence between you was thick, the only sound being the soft pad of your footsteps on the cold stone. He was so close behind you that you could feel him against your back.

The climb up the stairs seemed to last an eternity, the silence only broken by your footsteps and the occasional creaking of the old stone walls. All too soon, you reached the top of the stairs and came to a halt.

Theodore stepped around you, brushing past you closely to reach the large oaken door leading into the seventh year boys' dormitories. He leaned against it with one hand, the other gesturing for you to enter.

Your breath hitches. ‘Should I run?’

You stood in front of the imposing door, your heart racing in your chest. A part of you wanted to turn and run, to escape the predicament you've unwittingly entered.

But something held you back. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was foolish curiosity. Or it might’ve been that strange, twisted part of you that secretly wanted this.

Nott watched you quietly, his gaze calculating as he observed your internal struggle. He seemed to see right through your indecision, his smirk growing more confident, more condescending.

"Are you going to just stand there, staring at the door, or are you going to come in?" he drawled, his voice dripping with arrogant amusement.

In a desperate attempt to lighten the mood, and maybe even distract yourself from the confusing realization, you tried to joke, but your voice trembled with desperation, making it clear that your words lacked any real conviction. You managed to stutter out a reply.

"... I'm not sure yet."

The Nott's smirk widened at your pathetic attempt to play coy. He pushed away from the door and stalked towards you, his gait predatory and confident.

He stopped a mere inch from you, towering over you with his greater height. His gaze softened slightly, his head tilting to the side as he studied your expression.

"Oh, my little bird," he murmured, his voice softer now. "You're a terrible liar."

He raised a hand, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing over your skin in a disturbingly intimate gesture.

"Deny it all you want," he whispered, leaning in so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. "But I can see right through you."

He leaned even closer, his body pressing against yours, his words a low, sensual murmur whispered directly into your ear.

"You’re scared." he breathed, the smirk returning to his voice. "Confused. Aroused. And you don't even understand why. That's adorable, really.”

He hums, his pretty emerald eyes darken the longer he looks over your form. His hand running down your chest. “Don’t worry, my little wizard. I’ll take care of you.”

His voice was soft and almost comforting, like a dark, poisonous lullaby that wrapped around you like a suffocating embrace.

He stepped back slightly, just enough to look down at you. His gaze was still just as intense, but there was a softer edge to it now.

"So, will you come in, or will you run away?" he said, his tone still arrogant, but there was an underlying hint of hope in it. As if he actually wanted you to enter, even though he knew he could force you if he so desired.

You couldn't know if it was genuine or just another part of his manipulations, another cruel game. Either way, the choice was yours. Would you enter the dorm and give yourself to this boy with the beautiful viper eyes? Or would you run away, back into the dimly lit corridors filled with the creatures of the unknown wandering the dark hallways?

As you stood there, the silence between you two thick with tension, you wondered if his offer was genuine or just another part of his manipulations, another cruel game. The choice was laid out before you like a treacherous path, each step promising either the allure of a dangerous liaison or the safety of the unknown corridors.

With a pang of anxious uncertainty, you ask yourself if you're willing to give in to the boy with the beautiful viper eyes, knowing that what lies beyond might be more perilous than the ghosts prowling the night.

You had to ask yourself: Would you cross the threshold into the serpent's den, or flee from the enticing jaws of the beast?

The choice was yours, dear reader.

No use of y/n, no in-depth descriptive features.

Please feel free to send in requests.

What would you have chosen? Let me know in the comments or reply with a reblog!

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Fires of Fidelity”

Rhaenys Targaryen x Female Reader

wc : 4800+

cw : ambiguous relationships // description of violence which i wouldn’t call graphic but it depends i guess // there’s smut towards the end, also not very explicit but then again, it depends :’)) // i am OBSESSED with her hair, so it would only make sense that my reader is also obsessed

rook’s rest doesn’t exist for me 🥰 fuck rook’s rest, and happiest of birthdays to my absolute badass of a queen 🥳🎂 but fuck her too (affectionate)

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The market is teeming with hustle and bustle of common folks. A cacophony of vendors shouting and shoppers strolling around, alongside an undertone of your lady’s heeled boots kissing gravel throbs inside your ears, softened only by the cloak that you are currently shrouded under.

Overhead, clouds hang heavy, a grim portrait of gloomy greys and ivory whites, the sun but a vague presence in the silver-lined edges. No shadows paint the ground aside from you who is hot on your lady’s heels. Everywhere she walks, you follow, akin to a shadow perpetually casted on the ground.

Meanwhile, a few children scamper around you, shouting, laughing, and one comes astray, collides with your lady before she continues scurrying on her jolly little way, blissfully unaware. The sudden jostle has the precarious effect on the body in front of you for you notice the break in rhythm of the feet that are taking graceful steps. All at once, you are directly behind her, the gentle sway of her body braced by a stable palm across her back.

“Careful, Prin-” Eyes, a milky-way of green and brown, render you quiet. You are, after all, accompanying your Princess on her covert little trip to town.

Nevertheless, a token of her gratitude follows in the form of the tiniest hint of a smile that beautifully graces her features. Disguised beneath the cloak though her head is, given the close proximity of your bodies, you are granted an audience with wisps of moon-kissed locks caressing the delicate plane of her forehead.

“Walk next to me.” She says, and donning a playful smile, you drop a whisper directly into her ears. “As my lady commands.”

Aloofness shrouds her mien, lips a firm line, although it is not lost on you that there is a twinkle in her eyes, the cause of which dawns on you as soon as a sly hand disappears into the privacy of your cloak. Two of her digits waste no time in pinching your flesh through the fabric of your cloth. Pain blossoms, bringing with it a small wince to your face.

When her fingers remain unrelenting, a grumble flies past your lips, “I jest. I jest.” And only then does she relent with a hum, feet never faltering as you walk abreast, her body the very picture of cool and collected save a smile touching her lips.

“I have promised gifts for my granddaughters. What do you think would delight them?”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m the worst person you could have turned to for such suggestions.”

“Indulge me, then. Go on.”

Ever the woman of queenly manner, even her cadence oozes charisma. It colours your cheeks rosy, bringing forth memories from which the delightful utterance has graced your ears under more intimate circumstances.

“I don’t know.” You begin by clearing your throat, a shrug on your shoulders as you walk. “Perhaps a kiss on their cheeks would suffice? I know for a fact that it would delight me greatly.”

Being both a Princess and a Dragonrider, your lady looks every bit the epitome of poise and gravitas. Seldom does she wear her emotions on her face, head held high and spine ram-rod straight, always an enchanting enigma except to trained eyes which, as a matter of fact, are few and far between, although an aura of authority is effortlessly, perpetually crowned on her Targaryen head. However, having spent a better part of your years by her side, during formal as well as more personal occasions, you have mastered the art of unravelling the subtleties of her features and nuances of her words.

It is how you find yourself now, raising a hand in faux surrender along with a defensive arm across your waist by merely a slight tilt of her head and a gaze to your face.

“Again, I jest.”

In the vicinity of the place where you currently stand, a ruckus suddenly arises, a heated argument between two vendors, it appears, which quickly fans the flames of a full-blown uproar. A crack of thunder is a prelude to the heavy drizzle that descends upon the crowd as fists are thrown, and like a carcass attracting vultures, the fight lures those who have an innate thirst for violence.

While the chaos unfolds, your sole focus is solemnly fixed on the Princess by your side, all the more so because a plethora of people are darting around in panic. You do not know, have no time to seek what your lady’s wishes are as instinct forces you to act. Taking her waist in your arm, you tuck her body into a nook as delicately as possible.

A desperate attempt on your part to narrowly escape the wagon that whizzes past leaves your bodies fitted together, your lady’s back pressed against the wall with your hand behind her head softening the impact. Her breath caresses your face, and the perfumed air is tentalising, fruity with sweet floral notes alongside something that is entirely her.

Meanwhile, the downpour has become more merciless, and you commit to memory the way raindrops cling to her lashes like tiny diamonds.

“Have anyone ever told you that you have such beautiful eyelashes, Princess?”

An arch of an eyebrow accompanies the dainty little rain-soaked lips as they curve into a dizzying smile.

“Evidently, I have.”

“So it seems.” You chuckle, step away, although not before you have adjusted her cloak in such a way that it will offer her face more protection against the rain. “I’m afraid you’ll have to cut your trip short, my lady.”

“It would appear so.”

“Shall we return to the castle then?”

Rivulets of rain travel down your cheeks, and your lady invites herself into your space, mirroring your movement from a while ago as fingers fix the hood on your head, supple in their movements.

“Yes, let’s return home.”

Home.

Home to you is not a place, but rather, a person. A person to whom you have sworn loyalty, to protect, to kill for, and should the need arise, to give your life for. Simply put, your home is by your Princess’s side, and hence, the subtle admission that the castle is as much a home to you as it is to her becomes the culprit behind the joyful little swell of your heart.

The short journey back to the castle is taken by way of a detour, in which you lead your lady through quiet alleyways, except that they are too deserted, almost suspiciously so. Once you reach the town square, you guide your lady to the exit on the other side, a hand on her back as you match her pace.

Beyond the archway, a hooded person is looming out of the darkness, and no sooner have you registered their dubious presence than your hand is grabbing your lady’s waist to urge her behind your body.

“Well, well, look who we have here.”

You recognise the voice to be that of a person from your life before your Princess, a thug who has had unsavoury history with you.

“I don’t have time for your tomfoolery.”

Mockery drips from your lips as you turn, taking your lady by her arm to leave through another archway, but to your vexation, you find that more hooded hooligans have obstructed your path. Hidden beneath your cloak is a sword attached to your hip. Closing your fingers around the hilt of it, you scan your surroundings with a surreptitious move of your eyes. There is a total of five people, six if you include the man standing behind you.

“Don’t you mean, you have no time at all because you see, me and my boys, we’re about to end you right here.”

He taunts you with his words, his insufferable tone grating on your nerves, and irked, you unsheathe your sword, just in time to swivel on your feet and parry his slash, a clang echoing through the alley when your blades collide. At the same time as you hold your stance, a strong kick is unleashed to his chest. The force of it sends him sprawling across the ground, and you let loose a snicker.

“All bark and no bite, eh?”

From your left and right, two of his lapdogs charge at you, and your blade effortlessly cuts through the air in a blur of sharp counterattacks and swift manoeuvres. You make quick work of them, one stab through the abdomen, another through the chest, and they are nothing but marionettes severed of strings, drowning in a pool of their own blood. Following in the wink of an eye is a shower of three more swords that descends upon you in full force, and you block them with your blade, raised horizontally above your head. No matter how well-trained you are, the combined strength of three against one is proving to be a little beyond your endurance.

Your knee has barely braced against the muddy ground when all of a sudden, one of your opponents drops dead, the Velaryon seahorse adorned hilt of a dagger which is embedded in his back letting you know that it has been a product of your lady’s great finesse.

Until now, all of their attention has been fixated on you, but now that your lady has divulged her capabilities, the two lapdogs disperse, one rushing towards your lady with a cry while the other swings his blade at you with renewed vigour. Every inch of your body screams at you to rush to your lady’s side, but the wretched little demon in front of you is giving you no leeway, lavishing you with onslaughts upon onslaughts of attacks, one of which, in your desperation to end him quickly, manages to catch you in your cloak.

“Stay focused, tigress.” As if sensing your distress, your Princess calls out to you. “Don’t worry about me.”

One touch of her voice and fire meets gasoline, the flame within you burning so fiercely that you let out a loud roar.

“Come on! Come at me, you cunt of a coward!!”

Having his feather ruffled by your gibe, he charges at you once more, but when the blade comes, rather than avoiding it, you catch it between your arm and body, trapping the sword and its wielder in place as you push your blade through his chest so hard that a good few length of it escapes through his back. Blood pours out of his sorry little mouth, and retrieving your sword from his body effectively drops him to the ground.

Your lady’s strikes, not as refined though they are as yours, can easily withstand a vermin whose attacks are disorganized at best. Furthermore, she is swift on her feet, wielding the agility of a crane whereas you possess the strength of a tigress, or so your Princess has whispered into your ears, your strikes always heavy, deep and precise.

Speaking of the Princess, your gaze catches her in time to feast your eyes upon her magnificence. The vermin has swung his blade at your lady, but she has gracefully swept down, and before he can recover, her dagger has made his stomach its temporary case, a snug fit. You watch, morbidly fascinated, as blood spills forth the hole once she pulls out her weapon before bestowing another swift stab upon his neck.

Out of five lapdogs, two lie dead at the hands of your lady, and three at yours which leaves only the old hound who at present, is eyeing you with contempt. When he starts advancing however, instead of lunging at you, he opts for your Princess, but having predicted his dirty, old tricks, you easily intercept, swift and light on your feet as your blades clash. You dance around each other in an exchange of onslaughts until once again, you are forced to maintain a firm stance to keep his sword from bearing down on you.

The rain has thinned and through the clouds, the sun’s rays has spilled across Driftmark. In the corner of your eyes, you discern a glint. You notice it a second too late though because one moment, both of his hands are keeping a firm grip on the blade, and the next, one hand has disappeared into his cloak to retrieve a hidden dagger. Nevertheless, his strength barely wavers, and so engrossed in keeping the looming threat at bay you are that you have not been able to stop in time the dagger that stabs you.

Although its sharp tip has scarcely pierced your flesh before you lock your fingers around his wrist, the struggle that pursues leaves a crimson slash across the plane of your stomach. Gritting your teeth, you swallow the pain in fear that it will upset your Princess who apparently has seized the opportunity to deliver cuts to the backs of his knees. Immediately, he falls to the ground with a grunt. Meanwhile, you waste no time in kicking the dagger away from his hand and throwing his blade across the square.

“Bagged yourself another degenerate like yourself, huh? Or did you whore yourself out?”

You are not as perturbed by him making a ridicule out of you as you are livid by his insults towards your lady, but when you have poised to throw a punch to his face, a gentle hand on your arm stops you.

Pulled free of the hood and kissed by sunshine, a waterfall of liquid starlight almost appears to be glowing.

“Lady wife of the Sea Snake.”

She remains silent at his observation, staring him down, but something about him not addressing your lady by her individual title rubs you the wrong way. Still, you will not interfere, for after all, you dance to your lady’s every desire.

Entwined hands resting just below her waist, your Princess has donned intimidation as though it is regalia, a goddess to be worshiped oozing effortless allure.

“I- I didn’t know. Have mercy.”

“I can be merciful if I so choose, but I can’t in good conscience have a vengeful man pouncing on my sworn shield at every chance he gets. And what’s more, you have thrown insults to my face. I could have your tongue for it.” She blinks, sly and languid, slow and deliberate, alongside a small tilt to her head. “So, what do you propose I do, hm?”

“My tongue. If- if it would appease you-”

The old hound in the face of the dragon is like a lamb to the slaughter, grovelling at the feet of the exalted creature who slowly approaches him.

“Insults are insignificant.” So, she drawls, and before he can register a word, a dagger has been plunged so deeply into his throat by way of his mouth that blood gurgles. “Keep your tongue.”

A squelch accompanies the recovery of the dagger. While she wipes it clean off blood on his cloth, you carry out your own retrieval of her other dagger buried in the back of another body. It, too, is wiped clean before being sheathed on her hip.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Your question is answered with a query. “Are you?”

Her gaze, beneath the dapple of daylight, holds the warmth of sunlit amber, flecked with whispers of forest green, and when it caresses your body from head to toe in silent observation, the wound hidden beneath your cloak throbs in harmony with the beat of your heart.

“I am.” You say, and your lopsided grin garners a small smile in return. “It’s high time we returned home then.”

It is only when you have escorted your lady into the safety of her castle that your false bravado comes to light. Your fingers touch your stomach and they come away wet, viscous, and overwhelmingly red. While you are lost in your head, the voice that caresses your ears comes in the form of your name, and you look up to find your lady standing in front of you.

Stickiness clings to your palm as you curl your digits into a fist, but your sorry excuse of an attempt is proven futile when lithe fingers lock around your wrist. A tug coupled with a look from her is all it takes for your fist to pour open. You can almost pinpoint the exact moment when realisation dawns on her, in the delicate lines on her face that have all but calcified into rocky plains.

“Uncloak.” Her tone harbours an icy ring to it by the time she speaks, releasing your hand at the same time, although when you stand unmoving, she demands instead. “Now.”

Pulling your dark cloak open reveals to your lady the cut across your stomach in all its scarlet, grisly glory. There is a twitch to her jaw as well as a tiny tilt to her head, and when she looks at you, a tempest brews in her eyes, but beneath the blaze of storm-tossed sea, dark and churning with a blazing anger, you find a shadow of concern.

“Pay a visit to the Maester, get it treated, and by nightfall, I want you in my chambers.”

And so, that is how you find yourself in your lady’s chambers after getting the crimson slash properly cleaned, stitched and wrapped in fresh linens at the masterful hands of House Valeryon’s Maester.

The door shuts with a soft click, and a greeting falls past your lips.

“Princess.”

You have crossed paths with her handmaiden in the corridors leading up to the chambers, and she must have helped your lady get ready for bed, you conclude, for the Princess is now comfortably clothed. Oddly enough however, her braids are not yet unwoven which is how you find her now, sitting in front of her vanity desk, a waterfall of white silk flowing down her back.

As if possessing a mind of their own, your legs carry you towards your lady before depositing you directly behind her back. Immediately, reverently, your fingers make a descent onto the intricate little bun perched atop her head, during which the Princess regards you silently through the mirror’s reflection. With much delicacy, you unbind the thick braid that is keeping the bun in place, and doing so spills another layer of those silken locks in an effortless cascade down her back.

“You would do well to remember-” It is amidst you undoing one of the smaller braids that her voice graces your ears for the first time since you have set foot in her chambers. Meanwhile, her gaze finds yours in the mirror. “-that your fealty to me is to no avail should you lie wounded and are unable to fulfill your duties.”

“But what good is a sworn shield who cannot…well…” With a sigh, you drop your gaze to your hands before seeking her eyes once more. “…shield?”

“And what good is a sworn shield who cannot stand?”

“I am perfectly capable of standing though.”

“Are you?”

And then, she is turning on her seat, a lock of her star-kissed hair slipping through your fingers like liquid silver, as she seizes you by your tunic. In the wink of an eye, dainty lips collide with your own, all but sucking your soul out of your body, and your witty remark, which you have been intending to let loose, dissolves on her tongue altogether.

Such marks the epilogue to your little repartee.

While one hand holds a fistful of fabric, another wanders, ghosting along your thigh to then settle on your stomach, fingertips dancing across the gauze before it grabs your waist. A wicked pad of a thumb presses onto your side, and the outcome is just shy of agony, a whimper being fed into your lady’s mouth as your knees very nearly fail you.

“Kneel.”

With a mere touch of her murmured breath branded so deliciously onto your lips that are presently bearing the fruit of her ardent assaults, you are instantly reduced to a puddle at her feet, eager to worship your goddess.

“Hmm, I thought as much.”

“Well,-” Your tone is tinged with a whine, whereas a smile blossoms on your face. “-that was unfair.”

“Are you questioning your Princess?”

You tuck your face into her stomach, dropping a little kiss onto the spot where you think her navel lies.

“I wouldn’t dare, Princess.”

In the meantime, fingers trace patterns on your cheek, caress the outline of your jaw, and closing your eyes, you revel in the luxurious sensation up until a palm that cradles your face coaxes you out of your sweet sanctuary.

“It would be cruel of me to have you remain kneeling.” As she speaks, her thumb maps each curve and contour of your lips, which, swollen by now, speaks of whispered words and the heady waltz of fervent kisses. “I believe improvisations are in order.”

“Strip.”

And strip, you do, for at present, you stand only in your loose trousers.

Gracefully, tentalisingly, your lady arises, and even though a few braids remain in place, her hair, now freed from its confine, flows freely past her hip, a cascade of luminous waves shimmering like moonlight upon a still lake. Her gaze, on the other hand, is fixed on the linen that is entirely wrapped around your waist. The seepage of blood from the wound paints the white fabric in a vague vermillion which offers a glimpse into the extent of the injury.

“It will heal in no time, my lady.” Your attempt at soothing your lady is received with a gentle threat. “I do not tolerate imprudence. Nor deceit. It would do you well to remember that.”

“I will, Princess. But it doesn’t mean I won’t do it all over again if it concerns your safety.”

“Stubborn as ever.”

“My Princess likes me stubborn though, doesn’t she?”

“With that bold tongue of yours, count yourself lucky that I do.” Although she has leveled you with a glare, the blaze of which can very well put the sun to shame, you smile a cheeky little grin, looking every bit the picture of a cat that has eaten the canary, or rather, a tigress who has eaten the dragon. “That I agree. My tongue is capable of doing unimaginable wonders after all.”

You feel her hands move, and fearing that her fingers are once again going to subject you to those ruthless torments, you quickly raise your hands in surrender. She proves you wrong however by snaking her fingers into the waistband of your trousers.

“These need to go too.”

Your Princess has said her command, and like the very devotee that you are, your hands make swift work of getting rid of the only piece of clothing that is covering your body. Meanwhile, what enters your line of sight is a heap of white fabric that pools at your lady’s feet.

A breath catches in your throat, your heart beating with an awe so profound that it borders on reverence. She is a nymph of old tales, a creature of myth sung by the bards, born of the elements and graced with the beauty of the divine. Her presence, lucid and otherworldly at the same time, seems to draw the very light towards her, bathed in a halo of celestial radiance.

Your lady’s bare frame, delicate and strong, speaks of both grace and power, a goddess in her own right. It is a sight that will never tire you, and despite having seen it before, you are awed anew by such glorious vision. Your gaze lingers, admiring the soft curves and the rise and fall of her chest, enthralled by the sheer wonder of her existence that stirs the deepest corner of your soul.

Fascinated, you go to take her hips in your hands, but a push from her, and pliantly, you let yourself fall onto the mattress, for after all, a dragon will always be a dragon no matter the circumstances. You have not so much as blinked when she climbs atop the bed to straddle your body, toned thighs, befitting a dragon-rider of her caliber, on either side of your ribcage.

Your lips collide.

Amidst the clash of tongues and teeth, your hands find home on her waist, flesh supple and soft beneath your fingertips, as you move to sit up, lifting your lady slightly to reposition her on your lap, a special throne fit for your Queen.

Wetness oozes, and as soon as you feel the heat of her core on your thigh, you moan, but given that you are locked in place by a hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and an arm around your neck, it tumbles directly into her mouth. There is a sway to her hips, her essence coating your flesh, and all too eagerly, you encourage the dragon-rider to ride your thigh to her heart’s content, hands sliding into the delicious little dip of her waist as you help her maintain the rhythm that she has set.

Her lips part from yours with a delectable little mewl. Those delicate buds, once dainty, now beautifully bears the bloom of passion’s visit. Each swell hints at the fervor of love’s embrace, leaving them a charming, rosy hue, a testament to moments of rapture. Coated in a layer of dew, they glisten softly in the warm glow, as if kissed by dawn itself, promising the sweet ache of desire.

Like a siren’s call, they lure you, and enchanted, you give in, raising a hand to gently trace the curve of her lips beneath your fingertips. A gasp escapes your lips once your wrist is caught in her hand. Another catches in your throat when two of your fingers are sucked into her mouth.

Every ridge and bone is visited by a velveteen tip of a tongue, licking, prodding, and by the time she guides your hand between her legs, your fingers are as equally soaked as her core. They slip inside smoothly to be enveloped in luxurious softness. Curling your fingers into a cruel, little curve seems to drown your lady in sweet suffering if the way her forehead falls atop your shoulder to muffle the sounds, that very nearly spill out of her, with a bite to your flesh is any indication.

Beneath the soft folds of her belly, you can see muscles straining, hidden little pearl, hard and sensitive, grinding against your palm to seek friction. Meanwhile, your love-struck gaze is busy admiring the lovely little freckles that are scattered across her chest, a spillage of stars, and upon chasing them with your lips, syrupy sweet kisses blossom in their wake.

The sight of her trembling frame as she rides your fingers is a scene worthy to be immortalised in art form, but at the same time, you frankly doubt that bards and painters all across Westeros can truly do your lady’s ethereal beauty justice. Swelling to near bursting with adoration, you hold her to your chest, fingers doing their job in the warm cavern of her core, and in doing so, you earn yourself a nibble to your neck, lips closing around your pulse point, sucking, kissing.

Hot air escapes your mouth as you bury your nose in the healthy mane of her hair.

“You seem awfully fond of my hair, tigress.” She pants, whereas you smile, nuzzling her silky strands that are not only smooth but also addictively fragrant. “Fond is an understatement, Princess.”

“What is it, then?”

“Love.”

“You love my hair?”

You abandon your happy, little haven in favour of taking her face in your hand. Tiny pearls of sweat blooms on her forehead while her lips are slightly parted. A knit occupies the space between her eyebrows while her eyes, usually an intense hazel brown, are now hazy with hunger.

“I love you,-” It is into the delicate lines forming at the corner of her mouth that you breathe your admission. “-and everything you have to offer.”

She says nothing, but you doubt even a thousand spoken words will be capable of touching you the way you feel deeply touched by being made aware of the effect it has on her in the fluttering of her folds as they clench your fingers. Your lady has died that sweet little death in your embrace, head collapsing onto your shoulder. It is only when her muscles have relaxed, and her core has released its grip on your fingers that they can finally slip out.

“And my dear tigress.” Fingers lazily toy with your hair. “Yes, Princess?”

“Don’t you dare hide your wounds from me ever again.” Your arms wrap around her body to hold her a little closer, a little tighter, into which she happily melts, rare moments where you can witness her softer, more affectionate side.

Nevertheless, you must have taken too long to her liking because the delicate flesh of your neck falls victim to her teeth.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Although she has left you throbbing in pain, the happiness that swells inside your chest easily prevails over anything and everything, burning so fiercely that you feel as if you can conquer the Seven Kingdoms to offer it to her on a diamond platter. Suppressing your silly little urge, you content yourself instead with a delicate press of a kiss to her bare shoulder.

“Delightfully so, Princess.”

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

[pochipop]

＃FNAF MOVIE !! ♡ — SWEET NOTHING (MIKE SCHMIDT X READER).

#. synopsis! — sometimes it feels like mike may never escape the past, but he hears the future in the beat of your heart (nightmare reverse comfort) .

#. characters! — mike schmidt .

#. warnings! — vague references to past traumatic events (canon compliant) .

#. word count! — 1.1k .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — i got an autism diagnosis today lmao, makes sense tho.

The house is dark and shrouded in silence, broken only by Mike’s uneasy groans and his occasional writhing in his sleep. What seemed peaceful at the get-go has become something less content, leaving him entangled in the sheets and pulling most of the shared blanket to his side of the bed. The late autumn chill hanging thick in the air has you shivering, casting a tired, half-lidded gaze to the digital clock resting on the nightstand. It’s four minutes past three thirty in the morning, displayed in vivid, neon green digits that prompt a slight scrunch of displeasure from your face at the glaring brightness.

You remind yourself that this really has gotten better. It’s been weeks since the last time, and he’s been going to therapy like you suggested, even if he was a little unsettled by the idea at first. His new job cleaning up after club-goers at a nearby joint pays pretty well, all things considered, and with your income added to the mix, money is still tight at times, —but he’d decided after the first few sessions that you pressured him into that it was worth the trouble.

Still, that doesn’t negate the obvious. Mike has suffered a lot in his lifetime, and that’s hardly lent itself to consistency or stability. Some of it has been his own doing, while other parts have been far too out of his control, and he’s been learning how to maneavour his way around that misty grey area in between to the best of his ability. But he’s not ineffable, and sometimes, especially on nights like this, the cards fall where they may. At least this time he’s not waking up in a cold sweat, halfway to a panic attack, sweat drenching the mattress beneath him. At least this time he isn’t gasping for breath, clawing at something unseen in the shadows of the bedroom, jerking away like a rodeo bull the moment you reach out to ease him down. 

He mumbles something that sounds like a plea in his sleep, but it’s muffled by the pillow his face is squished against. If he weren’t obviously disgruntled, you might have been tempted to admire how cute he looked for a little while longer.

“Mike,” you say softly, reaching out to rest a gentle hand on his bare shoulder, “hey.”

He reacts slightly to the touch, but isn’t fully awake, so you try again.

“Mike,” you repeat, fingers curling around the curve.

This time, it’s enough. His eyes shoot open, taking a moment to adjust to the darkness, then locking on your face. He sits up slightly, perching on his elbows. The breath he lets out in the aftermath is sobering.

“Sorry,” he utters, letting his head hit the pillow unceremoniously.

You ignore the unnecessary apology in lieu of brushing some loose strands of brown hair away from his forehead.

“You alright?”

He gazes up at you with those sweet, puppy-dog eyes that he doesn’t even have to try to put on. They’re just his natural state, and heaven knows you could spend a few lifetimes gazing into them if it were possible.

“Yeah, yeah,” he huffs a little, reaching up to grab your hand and hold it in his own.

His touch is so soft and tender, albeit calloused and a little clammy from the leftover adrenaline of his nightmare. He’s really come a long way, and you hope he knows that. You wouldn’t mind saying it, but he’d definitely get embarrassed by it, so you avoid laying verbal praise on too thick when you can help it. This time three months ago, he’d have been jumping out of bed to rush down the hall into Abby’s room, only letting himself relax upon seeing her sleeping form bundled up beneath her covers. Now, he takes a deep breath, exhales it slowly, and kisses your wrist.

“Nothing to worry about,” he assures you.

“I always worry about you,” you answer, offering him a lopsided smile.

He gives you a knowing look and replies: “That’s exactly the problem.”

You roll your eyes playfully and watch as he fiddles with your fingers for a bit before glancing in the direction of the clock.

“What time is it?” He asks.

“Too early for you to be awake,” you respond lightly. “You can sleep for a few more hours at least. You’ll need it.”

Mike nods, letting his heavy eyelids close again.

“Bit of an understatement,” he jokes.

It really is though. If anyone knows about hard work, especially hard work for the sake of anyone but himself, —it’s him. The least he deserves is a proper night’s sleep. You figure that’s why it’s so hard for you to see him like this, even when it’s getting better. You’d trade your dreams for his in a heartbeat if it meant he could be less haunted at night.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice laden with drowsiness.

He drops your hand only to open his arms, encouraging you to take your place on his chest. It’s comfortable and intimate all the same as you nestle against him, seeking comfort and closeness, and hoping with every fiber of your being that you can offer the same to him. Mike tugs the comforter up to your neck, one arm folding around your shoulders, thumb caressing the fabric of your pajama shirt. For a moment, you find yourself wishing you’d gone to sleep without it, just so he could rub against your skin directly.

You relish in his warmth, body molding to the contours of his own, —finding the closest thing you’ve ever known to heaven on Earth. Quiet connection simmers in the surrounding air, sparking like static electricity, and you let your eyes close.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” You ask quietly.

He probably won’t, but it’s always better to ask, if for nothing else than to let him know that the option is available.

“Not right now,” he replies, and though he’s turning your offer away, there’s an undeniable softness threaded amidst it all.

“Later, then?”

He hums, and you feel it ripple through his chest.

“Maybe.”

Later might never come, but that’s okay. As long as he knows that you’re a safe haven to seek refuge in, then that’s enough for you.

“Just get some sleep for now,” he continues, craning his neck forward to ghost his lips against your forehead, his stubble scratching your skin in a way that makes you smile on command.

“Night,” you mutter quietly, snuggling further into his chest.

“Night, baby,” he returns, smoothing a hand along your hair.

It’s quiet for a moment or two, and then he sheepishly adds: “I love you.”

No matter how many times you hear it, it still gives you butterflies.

“I love you too.”

[jaystardust]

‎ ☆ 🖇️ 𖥻 ˚.ᵎ UNVEIL

Pairing: Park Jay x reader

Genre: bad boy, strangers to lovers, angst, blackmailing, suggestive, kind of Gossip Girl universe themed, apparition of Yeonjun (txt)

Warnings: blackmailing, making out, angst, betrayal (tell me if I forget something)

Summary: Enigma, Hybe High's anonymous gossip queen, finds her carefully crafted world threatened by the arrival of Park Jay, a rebellious kind of bad boy. a web of blackmail and stolen glances leads them down a thrilling path of forbidden desire, risking Enigma's online persona and a chance at real love.

Word count: 6.5K

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

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and Prada perfume mingled in the air, a potent signature of your mornings at Hybe High. You weren't royalty, but reputation was everything at this elite private school, and yours was meticulously crafted. 

You were Enigma, the mastermind behind the anonymous blog, Unveil. A digital oracle dispensing juicy gossip about the student body with a scathing wit that left its targets squirming. 

This year, however, the tea had gone cold. The usual suspects – the president's son's gambling problem, the head cheerleader's secret nose job – held no allure. You craved a real scandal, something to reignite the blog's fire and solidify your position as the school's unseen puppeteer.

Then came Park Jay, the new transfer student who arrived shrouded in a veil of mystery. He wasn't your typical Hybe High royalty. Clad in a worn leather jacket and ripped jeans, his indifference to the school's social hierarchy was as refreshing as it was infuriating.

However, digging up dirt on Jay proved impossible. He was a ghost, his past shrouded in mystery as thick as the expensive perfume that clung to you. Frustration gnawed at you, a familiar itch that Unveil usually scratched. But this time, it was different. This time, the frustration was laced with a strange fascination for the boy who didn't seem to care about the social games everyone else played.

One gloomy afternoon, as you hunched over your laptop in the library, a shadow fell over your screen. You looked up to find Jay, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Enigma, I presume?" His voice was a low rumble, sending shivers down your spine.

Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. How? How did he know? You scrambled to mask your surprise, forcing a nonchalant shrug.

"And who might you be, Sherlock Holmes?" you retorted, trying to sound flippant.

"Just someone who appreciates a good secret," he said, his gaze unwavering. "And who wouldn't want to leverage it?"

The blood drained from your face. Leverage? This couldn't be happening. Your mind raced, desperately searching for an escape route. He leaned closer, his voice a husky whisper.

"How about you do a few little things for me, Enigma," he purred, "and I keep your little blog a secret?"

The world tilted on its axis. This wasn't how the game was supposed to be played. You were the puppet master, not the marionette. Yet, there you were, trapped in his gaze, the weight of your secret a suffocating burden.

"What kind of things?" you managed to croak.

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Homework, errands, maybe even something a little… humiliating." His eyes glinted with a challenge, daring you to defy him.

You hated him. You hated the way he made your carefully constructed world crumble around you. But more than that, you hated the strange thrill that danced along your nerve endings. This was a game you didn't know the rules of, a game that was both terrifying and strangely exhilarating.

In the end, you agreed. You couldn't risk exposure. Unveil was your lifeblood, your shield, and the thought of losing it was unbearable.

The weight of Park Jay settled on your shoulders like a leaden cloak. You, Enigma, the queen of gossip on Unveil, were now a prisoner of your own creation.  The evidence he held was a leash that kept you tethered to his whims. You weren't a captive in the physical sense, but your freedom of speech, your very identity as Enigma, was held, hostage.

Becoming Jay's shadow began subtly. A whispered request for a double-shot espresso from the overpriced cafe across the street during your first-period break. A casual mention of "forgotten" notes in trigonometry class, with a knowing smirk that sent a shiver down your spine. You complied, your stomach churning with a mix of apprehension and a strange sense of obligation.

The whispers started then, too. Furtive glances followed you as you delivered the steaming coffee cup to Park Jay's table, a tableau that felt staged, and surreal.  "Y/n, errand girl for Park Jay?" the hallway echoed with unspoken questions. The indignity of it all fueled a simmering anger within you.

But the tasks escalated. One afternoon, you found yourself hunched over his desk during your lunch break, surrounded by textbooks and loose-leaf papers spilling like a chaotic waterfall. 

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, casting your workspace in a harsh spotlight. You were translating a French poem for his literature class, lines blurring before your eyes as the indignity of the situation gnawed at you. This wasn't just running errands anymore; it was academic servitude.

"This," you finally muttered, slamming the textbook shut with a force that sent papers scattering across the floor, "is getting ridiculous."

Jay, sprawled lazily in his chair, finally looked up.  A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, a challenge that ignited a spark within you. "Is it?" he drawled, his voice laced with a hint of something you couldn't quite decipher. "Or are you secretly enjoying the attention, Enigma?"

You straightened in your chair, glaring at him with defiance. "Attention?" you scoffed, the word laced with venom. "I'd rather clean the toilets with a toothbrush than be seen cavorting with you in public."

His amusement morphed into a full-blown laugh, rich and intoxicating. The sound filled the room, washing over you like a wave, and for a moment, you forgot the anger simmering beneath the surface. He stopped abruptly, his gaze locking with yours, the laughter fading to a smoldering intensity. "Don't lie, Enigma," he said, his voice a husky whisper. "You find me fascinating."

The heat that rose to your cheeks was a betrayal. You scoffed again, but this time, it lacked conviction. He was right, of course. Park Jay was an enigma wrapped in a mystery, a puzzle you couldn't resist solving. His disregard for the social hierarchy, and his rebellious streak – it was a stark contrast to the entitled drones who populated Hybe High. 

He was a constant thorn in your side, a danger that sparked a rebellious fire within you. You hated being under his thumb, yet there was an undeniable allure to the challenge he presented. Jay was a storm brewing beneath the surface, and you, once the master of information, were now caught in its eye.

--

Days bled into weeks, the initial awkward tension between you and Jay morphing into a strange, symbiotic dance. Resentment, once a simmering ember, cooled into a begrudging respect fueled by your growing realization that his intellect mirrored your own.

Witty remarks became heated debates that spilled over lunches, dissecting the intricacies of literature, or anything that threatened to break the charged silence simmering between you. 

Discussions that began in hushed tones over hastily consumed sandwiches would morph into stolen moments after school, the library your refuge from the watchful eyes and gossiping tongues of Hybe High.

One particularly dreary afternoon, rain lashed against the library windows, a relentless drumbeat mirroring the disquiet in your heart. You found yourselves huddled under the awning, a shared haven from the downpour.

The library lights cast a warm, honeyed glow on Jay's face, highlighting the sharp angles and the unexpected vulnerability that flickered in his eyes.

"You know," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a tremor through you, "blackmailing someone isn't exactly how I envisioned my first semester at Hybe High."

You snorted, a humorless sound escaping your lips. "Being someone's secret errand girl wasn't exactly on my top ten either."

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that seemed to vibrate through the air. "So, Enigma," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "is there anything you crave from me besides the assurance of keeping your little blog a secret?"

Your breath hitched in your throat. This wasn't part of the bargain. You hadn't signed up for emotional entanglements, for the way your heart would stutter a frantic rhythm in his presence, or the jolt that shot through you when his fingers brushed against yours while passing a textbook.

Yet, here you were, caught in the captivating pull of his gaze, a prisoner of your own traitorous emotions.

"I, uh…" you stammered, cheeks burning under the harsh glare of his scrutiny.  "What makes you think I want anything from you?"

His smile was a knowing one, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "The way your eyes linger on me a beat too long when you think I'm not looking. The way your cheeks bloom a charming shade of pink whenever I unleash a particularly witty remark."

He was right, of course. You had tried, oh how you had tried, to maintain the facade of the detached blogger, the anonymous voice of truth. But the walls you'd so meticulously constructed around your heart were crumbling under the relentless assault of his undeniable charm.

Suddenly, the air crackled with a tension that transcended words. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as his lips hovered tantalizingly close to yours. "Unless," his voice dipped to a husky whisper, "you'd prefer I ensure your secret's safety… in another way."

Before you could even register the audacity of his suggestion, his lips were on yours. The kiss was an electrifying collision, a tangle of pent-up emotions and unspoken desires. He tasted of rain and peppermint, a heady mix that sent a jolt through your system.  

Your initial resistance crumbled like sandcastles under a tidal wave, and you melted into his touch, a desperate need washing over you.

His hand snaked around your waist, pulling you closer, his touch igniting a fire deep within you. The kiss deepened, a desperate exploration that spoke volumes more than words ever could. It was a whirlwind of stolen breaths and tangled limbs, a moment of raw passion that felt forbidden and exhilarating all at once.

Just as abruptly as it started, he pulled away, leaving you breathless and yearning for more. His eyes held a dark intensity you hadn't seen before.

"This changes things, Enigma," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

"Changes what?" you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

He stared at you for a long moment, a battle of emotions playing out in his gaze. A beat of silence followed, and then, with a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine, he added, "See you tomorrow, Enigma. Don't forget – French poem, due first thing."

He turned and walked away, leaving you reeling in the wake of his touch. Your heart thumped against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the conflicting emotions swirling inside you. You had just crossed a line, a line you never thought you'd even consider.

The guilt gnawed at you like a persistent pest. Here you were, the anonymous blogger who reveled in wielding information and controlling the narrative, now entangled with the boy who held your secret hostage. 

But amidst the turmoil, a flicker of something else bloomed – a tentative hope that maybe, just maybe, this forced partnership could lead to something more. 

Something exhilarating, something terrifying, and something that felt like a story far more captivating than anything you'd ever written for Unveil. This wasn't just a stolen kiss under a library awning; it was a turning point, a page ripped from a yet-to-be-written chapter.

The following day, French class was a blur. You sat there, the poem forgotten on your desk, replaying the kiss over and over again in your mind. Each stolen glance from Jay across the room sent a jolt through you, a secret language only the two of you could understand. 

The power dynamic had shifted. The fear of exposure was still there, a cold serpent coiling in your gut, but it was overshadowed by a burgeoning sense of… possibility.

After class, you lingered by your locker, pretending to rummage through your bag. His voice, nonchalant yet laced with a hint of amusement, broke the silence. "Ready for round two, Enigma?"

You met his gaze, a wry smile playing on your lips. "Just call me Juliet, yearning for her forbidden Romeo."

He chuckled a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Careful, Enigma," he drawled, leaning closer so only you could hear. "This game we're playing could have unforeseen consequences."

His words sent a thrill of excitement through you. This wasn't just about blackmail anymore; it was about a secret shared, a line crossed, and the exhilarating uncertainty of what came next.

"Consequences?" you echoed, feigning innocence. "What consequences could there be, besides detention and disapproving stares?"

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. Then, a slow smile spread across his face, a hint of something dangerous glinting in his eyes. 

"Let's just say, Enigma," he said, his voice a low murmur, "the consequences could be very interesting indeed."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you breathless and a little bit scared. But more than fear, you felt a surge of excitement, a sense of being swept up in a whirlwind of your creation. 

You, the anonymous blogger, were now a player in the game, and the lines between truth and deception, love and hate, were about to become beautifully blurred.

The story you were living was far more captivating than anything you could have ever written, and you couldn't wait to see where the next chapter took you and Park Jay.

--

The next few hours were a whirlwind of stolen glances, cryptic messages disguised as homework assignments and a constant battle within yourself.

You should have been furious, plotting elaborate revenge schemes against the infuriating boy who had manipulated you into his web. But as you watched him across the crowded hallways, a strange warmth bloomed in your chest, a flicker of affection that defied logic.

You were drawn to his sharp wit, his rebellious spirit – qualities that felt like a refreshing splash of color in the beige monotony of Hybe High. Yet, the memory of the stolen kiss lingered, a bittersweet reminder of the precariousness of your situation.

Then, it happened. On this exact same day you discovered that your secret wasn't so safe anymore.

Lunch break buzzed with the usual pre-weekend chatter as you sequestered yourself in a corner booth, laptop humming with the final touches of a particularly scathing post for Unveil. The target? A particularly arrogant senior named Yeonjun, whose inflated ego needed a good public deflation.

Just as you were about to unleash your literary vitriol, a shadow fell over your keyboard. Your blood ran cold. Park Jay stood beside you, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. He didn't have to say a word. The look in his eyes, a mix of amusement and something you couldn't quite decipher, was a dead giveaway.

Panic clawed at your throat. You scrambled to shut down your laptop, fingers fumbling like a startled cat. But a gaggle of students, including the aforementioned Yeonjun, had already gathered around you, lured in by the commotion.

"What's going on here?" the senior demanded, his voice dripping with entitlement, his gaze flitting between you and the now-ex-blackmailer.

Jay's smile widened, devoid of any warmth. "Just enjoying a little private reading session, wouldn't you say, Enigma?" His voice echoed in the cafeteria, each syllable dripping with calculated malice.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The air crackled with shock and disbelief. You felt exposed, raw, like a butterfly pinned beneath a collector's gaze.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring the cruel grin spreading across Yeonjun's face. You wanted to lash out, to scream at Jay for his betrayal, but the words wouldn't come. Shame and humiliation choked them back.

Yeonjun, his relief barely concealed beneath a mask of fury, snatched your laptop before you could react. He flipped it open, revealing the unfinished blog post – a glaring accusation aimed squarely at him. A cruel laugh erupted from his lips, echoing cruelly in the stunned silence.

"So, this is Enigma”, he sneered, brandishing the laptop like a trophy. "The anonymous coward who's been making a fool of everyone."

He turned his gaze back to you, eyes filled with malicious glee. "Well, Enigma," he said, his voice dripping with venom, "it looks like your reign of terror is over."

The whispers started as a low hum, growing into a cacophony of accusations and judgments. You felt like a hunted animal, cornered and exposed. The world you'd so meticulously built around yourself crumbled to dust.

Jay, however, remained strangely detached. He watched the spectacle unfold with a blank expression, a hint of something akin to amusement lurking in his eyes.

It was that amusement that stung the most, a final betrayal that ignited a spark of defiance within you. Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to meet his gaze. "You said everything changes," you whispered, your voice surprisingly steady. "Seems like you were right."

Without another word, you snatched your bag and pushed past the crowd, the weight of everyone's stares heavy on your back. You fled the cafeteria, tears finally spilling down your cheeks, a mixture of anger, hurt, and a strange sense of liberation.

Jay's betrayal had shattered your carefully crafted facade, but it had also freed you from the prison you'd built around yourself. The journey ahead would be far from easy, facing the school's judgment as your true identity was revealed.

But as you walked away from the cafeteria, a newfound determination hardened your resolve.

You wouldn't let Park Jay, or anyone else, control your narrative anymore. You would weather this storm, pick up the pieces of your shattered reputation, and emerge stronger, a different person, perhaps, but a person nonetheless.

And who knew, maybe in the process, you'd even find a way to turn the tables on Jay. After all, the story was far from over.

--

As the days passed monstrously slowly, the fallout from the cafeteria incident was immense. You became the subject of relentless gossip, your once-admired anonymity a distant memory. 

Yeonjun, fueled by his newfound power, used your blog posts to turn the tables on his rivals, creating a wave of chaos within the school's social hierarchy. The whispers followed you like a swarm of angry bees, stinging at your ears and filling you with a bitter mix of shame and anger.

You mostly kept to yourself, seeking refuge in the library and the solace of fictional worlds. Yet, despite the isolation, you noticed a shift within yourself. You weren't consumed by self-pity or anger. Instead, a quiet strength bloomed within you. It was a resilience born of necessity, a determination to rise above the ashes of your shattered reputation.

One day, while browsing the library stacks, you stumbled upon Jay. He was sitting at a corner table, meticulously reading a book on philosophy. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a strange mix of anger and a lingering curiosity. He shouldn't be here, not after what he'd done. He should be basking in his victory, reveling in the chaos he'd unleashed.

He looked up as you approached, his expression unreadable. No trace of regret seemed to flicker in his eyes, only a cool indifference that ignited a fresh wave of anger within you.

"Shouldn't you be writing your next scathing article, Enigma?" he said, his voice devoid of warmth. The mockery in his tone cut like a knife, a reminder of the manipulative boy who had used you for his own gain.

"I'm done with that life," you said, your voice firm, laced with a newfound steel. "And with you." You met his gaze head-on, no longer the scared, cornered girl from the cafeteria.

"Oh?" An eyebrow shot up. "Then why are you here?" His voice held a hint of amusement, a cruel edge that grated on your nerves.

You hesitated for a moment, then squared your shoulders. "Because," you said, holding his gaze, "I want to understand why you did it." You needed to know, not out of forgiveness, but out of a desperate need for closure.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by a cocky smile that did little to mask the tension building in his jaw. "Is this where we confess our undying love, stripped bare by the power of truth?"

You rolled your eyes, refusing to be drawn into his games. "Hardly. I just want an explanation. What was the point of all this?" The betrayal burned in your gut, a constant ache that demanded answers.

He sighed, a hint of weariness creeping into his voice. "Let's just say," he began, leaning back in his chair, "my situation at Hybe High is a bit more complicated than it appears." He didn't elaborate, but in his guarded eyes, you saw a flicker of something akin to vulnerability. 

Perhaps, there was more to his story, more to his motives, than you initially thought.

"Fine," you said after a beat of silence. "But don't expect my forgiveness just yet." You wouldn't let him manipulate you again, not without a fight.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine despite yourself. "Fair enough," he conceded. "But perhaps we can start with a truce? No more manipulations, no more secrets. Just… two people trying to navigate the wreckage of this whole mess."

A truce. The word hung in the air, a flimsy offering in the face of his betrayal. There was a raw honesty in his gaze, but trust wouldn't come easy, not after the way he'd thrown you under the bus. He'd used you, exposed you, and left you to pick up the pieces of your shattered reputation.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips. "A truce?" you repeated, the word tasting like ash in your mouth. "You think after everything, a simple truce is enough? You get to walk away unscathed, while I face the consequences of your actions?"

"No," he countered, his voice firm. "I messed up. Big time. But I'm not the only one who can fix this." His words hung in the air, a plea for some kind of partnership, but the betrayal still stung too raw.

"Then fix it," you spat, your voice shaking with barely contained anger. "Fix the mess you created. Pick up the pieces of my reputation that you so carelessly shattered. Then, maybe, we can talk about a truce."

The challenge hung in the air, a gauntlet thrown at his feet. His face hardened, a flicker of frustration crossing his features

A tense silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of his betrayal and the defiance simmering in your eyes. Jay clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the worn armrest of the chair.

"You want me to fix it?" he finally said, his voice low and dangerous. "You want me to navigate the school's social minefield, clean up the mess you made stirring the pot anonymously?"

"Isn't that what you wanted all along?" you countered, your voice sharp. "To control the narrative, to use me as your puppet master? Well, now you can face the consequences of pulling the strings."

He scoffed, a sound devoid of humor. "Easy for you to say. You can walk away from this, disappear back into the shadows. But me? I can't just vanish."

The vulnerability in his voice, a stark contrast to his usual arrogance, gave you pause. Perhaps there was more to his story, a secret that held him captive at Hybe High. But the hurt and anger were still fresh, a wall you weren't ready to tear down just yet.

"Then figure it out," you said, your voice softening slightly. "That's the price you pay for playing with fire, Park Jay. You get burned." 

Turning away from him, you started to walk away, leaving him sitting at the table, his face a mask of conflicting emotions.

"Wait," he called out after you, his voice laced with desperation. You stopped, but didn't turn around.

"What?" you asked, your voice flat.

He hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. "There's more to this," he confessed. "More to my situation than I can explain right now. But trust me, it's not what you think."

You considered his words, the weight of his secret hanging heavy in the air. Part of you wanted to believe him, a flicker of curiosity igniting within you. But the other part, the part that still ached from his betrayal, remained wary.

"Then prove it," you said finally, turning back to face him. "Show me that you're not just another manipulative player. Show me there's a way out of this mess, for both of us."

A flicker of hope sparked in his eyes. "Okay," he said, his voice steady. "But it won't be easy. It'll require… a different kind of partnership."

Intrigued despite yourself, you crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow. "A different kind of partnership?"

He leaned forward, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "One where we use your words, my information, and maybe a little bit of chaos to rewrite the narrative, together." 

The challenge in his voice was laced with a hint of something else, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a way to turn the tables on their betrayers, to reclaim your voice and expose the truth, all while forging an alliance as unexpected as it was thrilling.

"Alright, Park," you said, a slow smile creeping across your face. "Let's see what kind of trouble we can get into."

The truce might be off the table, but a new game had just begun. A game where revenge and redemption intertwined, and the lines between enemy and ally blurred. And as you locked eyes with Park Jay, a sense of anticipation buzzed in the air.

The road ahead wouldn't be easy, but one thing was certain: the story of Enigma was far from over.

--

Weeks bled into months, the dust of the exposé settling over Hybe High like a shroud. You weren't the untouchable gossip queen anymore, the fear and thrill of anonymous takedowns a distant memory. But a different kind of power simmered beneath the surface. 

People saw you, the face behind the Voice of the Unheard, and that honesty felt far more liberating than fleeting popularity. It was a power borne of vulnerability, a shared connection with the students who finally saw themselves reflected in your words.

Your relationship with Jay remained a complex puzzle, a Rubik's Cube of guarded glances and unspoken truths. The initial distrust still lingered a guarded tension that crackled between you whenever you brushed shoulders in the crowded hallways. Yet, beneath it, a hesitant camaraderie had begun to take root. 

Shared late nights fueled by brainstorming sessions revealed a surprising depth to him. You discovered a mutual love for the way words could paint vivid landscapes and ignite emotions, a passion for literature that transcended the walls of the stuffy library.

But most unexpectedly, you found a fierce passion for social justice burning just as brightly within him.

One afternoon, hunched over worn library texts researching the history of student activism, you found yourselves locked in a heated debate. The topic? The ethics of anonymity.

"People deserve the truth, unfiltered," you argued, your voice ringing with conviction, the memory of Yeonjun's smug face fueling your passion. "Anonymity shields those in power, leaving the vulnerable even more exposed."

"But at what cost?" Jay countered, his gaze sharp, challenging you to see the other side. "Sometimes, anonymity is the only shield for the vulnerable. It allows them to speak their truth without fear of reprisal."

His words struck a chord. Maybe Unveil wouldn't be a platform for petty gossip anymore. Maybe it could be a weapon wielded in the name of justice, a voice for those too afraid to speak, those silenced by fear or social hierarchy.

A slow smile played on your lips, a hint of a plan forming in your mind. "So, Park," you said, testing the waters, "partners in truth?"

He returned the smile, a hint of mischief flickering in his eyes, the playful glint that sometimes replaced the guarded facade. "Partners in truth it is, Enigma."

"But with one condition," you added, leaning closer, your voice a low murmur, the scent of old paper and forgotten knowledge filling the air.

He raised an eyebrow, a silent question hanging in the air.

"No more blackmail," you stated firmly, the sting of betrayal still a fresh memory. "This time, we fight together, on equal footing. Collaboration, not manipulation."

"Deal," he replied, a thrill coursing through you as your hands brushed for a fleeting moment. The spark of shared purpose ignited something deep within you, a sense of hope you hadn't dared to feel in a long time.

This new chapter, this partnership with Jay, felt exhilarating. It was a chance to rewrite the narrative, not just for yourselves, but for every unheard voice within Hybe High's walls.

The school, once a symbol of conformity and stifling authority, now held the potential for change.

The first salvo of the revamped Unveil targeted the archaic dress code, a system that blatantly favored students of wealth. Armed with interviews from disgruntled students who felt ostracized for not fitting the mold, and research on the psychological impact of such regulations, you crafted a compelling piece that ignited the student body.

The response was electric. Comments flooded the forum, sparking debates that reached the ears of the administration. Buoyed by this success, you and Jay tackled a series of issues – the exorbitant cost of textbooks that burdened families, the lack of mental health resources leaving students drowning in silent struggles, and the rampant cheating culture fostered by the relentless pressure to succeed.

Each meticulously researched and written piece ignited a firestorm of student activism, forcing the school to acknowledge and address the long-ignored problems. Through it all, your partnership with Jay deepened. 

The initial spark of curiosity had blossomed into a genuine friendship, one built on mutual respect, shared ideals, and a healthy dose of playful banter.

You discovered a side of him you hadn't expected – a fierce loyalty that extended beyond his carefully constructed persona, and a genuine desire to use his privilege to help those less fortunate, to dismantle the very system that had once benefited him.

Together, you were the Voice of the Unheard wielding the power of words to rewrite the narrative of Hybe High, one story at a time. The road ahead wouldn't be easy.

Powerful forces still held sway, determined to maintain the status quo. But for the first time, you felt a flicker of hope. You weren't alone. You had him, and with him, the unwavering belief that change, however gradual, was possible.

–

One crisp autumn morning, as you sat huddled over your laptops in your usual library corner, a charged silence crackled between you. You glanced up from your screen, catching Jay's gaze linger on you a beat too long. A slow smile tugged at his lips, sending a familiar warmth fluttering through your chest.

"Being a partner in truth with Enigma isn't exactly how I envisioned spending my senior year," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. 

It wasn't just the words, but the way he said them, a hint of something deeper, something unspoken, lingering beneath the surface.

You mirrored his smile, a playful glint in your eyes that masked the tangled mess of emotions churning inside you. "And getting blackmailed by Park Jay wasn't exactly on my bucket list either," you countered, the memory of his betrayal still a fresh wound.

He chuckled a rich sound that sent a jolt through you. "But somehow," he continued, his eyes locking with yours, "it all worked out in the end… maybe."

The last word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken possibilities. Before you could decipher the meaning, the library door swung open with a bang, shattering the fragile peace.

Yeonjun stood there, a smug smirk plastered on his face, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.

"There you two are!" he boomed, his voice dripping with mock surprise. "Skipping class again? Looks like someone's got a lot of explaining to do."

A surge of defiance coursed through you. "Actually," you said, your voice firm, "we're working on something rather important. Something that might actually benefit the school, unlike your… extracurricular activities."

Yeonjun's smirk faltered for a moment, a flicker of unease crossing his features. Jay leaned closer, his voice a dangerous murmur that sent chills down your spine. "And if I were you, Yeonjun," he said, "I wouldn't push your luck. We have a few stories about you that might be of interest to the student body."

The threat hung heavy in the air. Yeonjun's face flushed red, and he stammered a few incoherent words before retreating with a defeated slump. You watched him go, a sense of satisfaction washing over you. 

The tables had truly turned. Unveil wasn't just a blog anymore; it was a force for positive change, all thanks to your unlikely partnership with the boy who had once held your secret hostage.

As you turned back to your laptop, Jay raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. "So," he said, a hint of something more flickering in his gaze, "ready to tackle the next injustice, y/n?"

You swallowed, the sudden shift in the atmosphere making your heart pound a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "Always, Jay," you managed, a secret thrill dancing in your chest. "Always."

The future stretched before you, an open book waiting to be written. But in that electric moment, the words on the screen seemed insignificant compared to the unspoken tension simmering between you and the boy who had become your unlikely ally.

The silence returned, thick and heavy with unspoken desires. Jay's gaze held yours, a storm brewing beneath the surface. You felt the warmth creep up your neck, a blush mirroring his. The air crackled with an energy you couldn't explain.

"Maybe Unveil isn't the only thing that needs a revamp," he murmured, his voice husky and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden stillness. He leaned closer, his breath warm on your cheek. The familiar scent of peppermint mingled with something new – a musk that sent shivers down your spine.

"There's something I've wanted to do ever since that stolen kiss in the library," he whispered, his lips brushing your ear.

You inhaled sharply, the memory of that electrifying moment flooding back. The defiance, the spark, the raw emotion – that stolen kiss had ignited a flicker within you that you hadn't dared to acknowledge.

He didn't wait for your answer. His hand cupped your face, his touch sending a jolt through you. The library, once a refuge, now felt charged with a dangerous tension. He tilted your head up, his eyes searching yours.

Despair battled desire in his gaze. "This might be crazy," he admitted, his voice a rough rumble, "but I can't keep pretending anymore."

His confession hung in the air, heavy with unspoken longing. The dam within you broke. You closed the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a searing kiss.

This was different from the one fueled by defiance and adrenaline. This kiss was desperate, raw, and filled with a yearning that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks. 

His lips were firm, and demanding, yet held a tenderness that surprised you. You clung to him, your fingers tangling in his hair, the scent of his cologne a heady mix.

The world dissolved around you. There was only the frantic press of his body against yours, the frantic beat of your hearts, the intoxicating taste of him. You explored each other with a hungry urgency, the pent-up emotions of weeks finally finding release.

He pulled away abruptly, his breath ragged. His eyes were dark with desire, his gaze roaming your face like a famished man surveying a feast.

"We should stop," he muttered, his voice thick with restraint. "This isn't the time, not here."

You traced a finger across his lips, a silent plea mirroring the turmoil in your own heart. "Don't stop," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. "Not yet."

He surrendered to your unspoken request, pulling you closer once more. This time, the kiss was slower, more deliberate, an exploration filled with tenderness.

His hands roamed your back, sending shivers down your spine. You melted into his touch, a delicious sense of surrender washing over you.

Just as you were about to get lost entirely, the library door creaked open again, shattering the spell. A young couple, oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded, snuck in, searching for a quiet corner.

Jay cleared his throat, a sheepish grin on his face. "Looks like we have an audience."

You blushed furiously, burying your face in your hands. Despite the interruption, the tension remained an unspoken promise hanging heavy in the air.

"We should probably get back to work," you mumbled, gathering your scattered laptop and papers.

Jay helped you up, his hand lingering on yours a moment too long. A silent promise flickered in his eyes. The rest of the afternoon flew by in a blur. You barely registered the words on the screen, your mind replaying the kiss over and over again.

As you packed your bag to leave, he approached you. "So," he said, his voice a low rumble, "about that revamped Unveil…"

You met his gaze, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Thinking of a more… hands-on approach to exposing injustice?"

He winked, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Maybe. But perhaps there are other kinds of stories we could write together as well. Ones that don't involve the student body."

Your heart skipped a beat. The thrill of the forbidden, the intensity of his touch – it was intoxicating, and you knew the risks. But the memory of his kiss, the vulnerability in his eyes, whispered a different story.

"Maybe we can," you whispered, the thrill of the unknown dancing in your chest. "Maybe we can write a story no one will see coming, not even us."

You walked out of the library together, not just partners in truth, but partners in a different kind of adventure, one fueled by desire and the promise of something new, something exhilarating, something that felt like the start of a story even more exciting than the one you were writing for Unveil. 

The crisp autumn air felt electric as you walked side-by-side, the weight of unspoken desires and a shared secret creating a bond as powerful as any exposé.

The road ahead was uncertain, filled with potential consequences, but you weren't facing it alone. And with him, the exhilarating certainty that the most captivating story of all was just beginning.

A/N: hope that you liked it! i really like to associate enhypen members with that kind of Gossip Girl universe. should i do it for future work for other members? don’t hesitate to give me some feedback 🌷

[iamchaos1234]

Owl house scene breakdown (pt 1) (goes from most obvious to least in my opinion)

1: Sprig(Amphibia) plushy under his pillow. While a lot of people have noticed it, it really shows how young Hunter is to have all this on his back. Also the fact it's partially hidden implies he's potentially not supposed to have it.

2: Certificate of the Emperor's Coven. It's directly over his bed, suggesting he is very proud of it. With that rigorous of training I would be proud too.

3: Remy(Big City Greens) figure on his shelf. Similar to the Sprig plush just seems to be a bit less noticed by fans.

4: Odd orange potion hanging from a hook. Pretty noticeable but also something looked over easily. I wonder what it does?

5: Belos figure on his shelf. On the top shelf, shrouded in shadows. Not much to say about it except it's a bit creepy.

6: Hunter keeps a first aid kit in his room. This made me quite sad once I noticed it. This implies he gets injured enough times to keep one in his room. Even sadder, this suggests he heals himself instead of going to a healing bay or such.

[fgumi]

the fever: an enhypen series

༺ ♰ ༻ synopsis: in a city ravaged by a mysterious fever that turns people into demons, you find yourself seeking refuge in an abandoned mansion on the outskirts. the fever's influence lingers in the air, but the mansion offers a semblance of safety—or so it seems. within its labyrinthine walls, you discover four others who have also sought shelter: heeseung, jay, jake, and sunghoon. as the fever begins to take hold, transforming desires into something more twisted and dangerous, you find yourself drawn to each of them in ways you never expected.

but the mansion has its own dark secrets, feeding on the deepest desires of those who enter. as you navigate the growing intensity of your connections, you realize there is no escape from the fever’s grip—or from the allure of the ethereal forms the fevered ones become. trapped within the mansion’s embrace, your only choice is to succumb to the desires that bind you all together.

in a world where love becomes obsession and escape is impossible, you must decide how far you’re willing to go to survive—and what you’re willing to sacrifice for the ones you can’t resist.

༺ ♰ ༻ pairing(s): enhypen (hyung line) x f!reader ༺ ♰ ༻ genre: dark romance, psychological drama ༺ ♰ ༻ warning(s): monsterization, demons, suggestive content (mdni) ༺ ♰ ༻ status: ongoing

The night was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and decaying leaves, the sky heavy with the promise of another storm. You ran through the darkened streets, your breath coming in ragged gasps as the world around you seemed to close in, suffocating, oppressive. The fever had taken over the city, twisting it into a grotesque reflection of its former self—buildings stood abandoned, their windows shattered, like the hollow eyes of forgotten souls. The air was charged with an unnatural stillness, broken only by the distant echoes of the wind howling through the empty streets.

Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat a frantic reminder of the danger lurking just beyond the shadows. You could feel the fever in the air, a palpable presence that clung to your skin, seeping into your bones. It whispered to you in the back of your mind, a seductive voice that promised to make all your fears disappear if you just let it in. But you couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it take you. You had seen what it did to others, how it twisted their bodies and minds into something unrecognizable, something monstrous.

As you turned a corner, your foot slipped on the wet pavement, sending you crashing to the ground. Pain flared up your side, but you forced yourself to stand, your eyes scanning the dark alley for any sign of movement. The fevered ones, those who had succumbed to the sickness, could be anywhere, their twisted forms lurking in the darkness, waiting to drag you into their nightmare.

You needed to find shelter, somewhere safe, somewhere the fever couldn’t reach you. Your gaze fell upon a looming silhouette at the edge of the city—a mansion, old and weathered, its stone walls covered in ivy that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. It stood apart from the rest of the city, shrouded in mist and mystery, as if it had been forgotten by time itself. Something about it called to you, a strange pull that you couldn’t quite understand, but you knew, deep down, that it was your only chance.

With a final glance behind you, you sprinted toward the mansion, the ground beneath your feet turning from slick pavement to overgrown cobblestone as you approached the ancient structure. The air grew colder, the wind whipping through the trees with an eerie, mournful wail. You could smell the dampness of the earth, the scent of moss and decay filling your senses as you crossed the threshold into the mansion’s courtyard.

The heavy wooden door creaked open as you pushed against it, the sound echoing through the empty halls like a ghostly whisper. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the lingering scent of something sweet and rotten, a cloying perfume that made your head spin. The flickering light from a distant chandelier cast long shadows that danced across the walls, creating the illusion of movement where there was none.

You stepped further into the mansion, your footsteps muffled by the threadbare carpet beneath your feet. The silence was oppressive, pressing down on you like a weight, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, that something—someone—was waiting for you in the darkness. The fever’s pull was stronger here, almost tangible, as if the very walls of the mansion were alive, breathing, feeding off your fear.

You shivered as a cold draft brushed against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. The mansion was a labyrinth of forgotten rooms and hidden corridors, each one filled with secrets waiting to be uncovered. But there was no turning back now. This place, strange and unsettling as it was, was your only refuge from the fever that hunted you.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you inside, and for a moment, you felt a strange sense of peace. The fever was still out there, in the city, but here, in the mansion’s cold embrace, you were safe—or so you thought. Little did you know, the true danger was waiting for you within these very walls, ready to claim you as its own.

i. arrival; released 260824 @ 00:00 CST ii. seduction; released 300824 @ 00:00 CST iii. desire iv. game v. silence vi. bound

disclaimer: this, in no way, reflects the idol. this is purely fiction. a/n: this was inspired by the "fever" music video and ja3yun's the doll house! if you haven't read it, i recommend that you give it a read—only if you are 18+! ✧ comments are appreciated! ✧ !nanamlist

[pxnsneverland]

Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 1)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 3,025

warnings/notes: I decided to post another Austin fic I've been playing with for a little while. This is a set up chapter for the story and hopefully you guys enjoy it. The romance will begin soon :)

Chapter 1: Anchors and Aspirations

The icy wind bit through Violet's thin shawl as she maneuvered through the bustling market square, her gray eyes flitting from stall to stall. With the stealth of a seasoned thief, she slipped a hand into a basket, withdrawing a bruised apple before anyone noticed. At her heart, there was no love for thievery, but survival in the grim alleys of Victorian England left little room for scruples. As she tucked the stolen fruit into the folds of her dress, a shadow loomed over her. Her heart caught in her throat. She turned slowly, only to see Mr. Clarence Johnson, a local shopkeeper known for his scrupulous eye and unforgiving nature.

“Miss Everly,” he said, his tone surprisingly soft, his gaze not on the stolen apple but on her face. “You look more worn than usual. Are you unwell?”

Violet tensed. Clarence Johnson was an uncommon figure in their decrepit part of town; his presence alone suggested he was either lost or up to something far beyond her understanding.

“I am just fine, sir,” Violet replied, her voice steady despite the fluttering of her heart. “Just tending to some errands for my father.”

“Aye,” he nodded slowly, his bushy eyebrows knitting together in concern.

“But you needn’t resort to pilfering for your sustenance,” he continued, glancing at where the apple had disappeared into her dress. “There are other ways, Miss Everly, ways that do not risk your slender neck at the gallows.”

Violet stiffened, her hand instinctively clutching the fabric over the apple. The threat of the law was always a ghost that haunted her every step in these streets. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Johnson, but I assure you, I manage as best I can.”

Clarence surveyed her with those discerning eyes that missed little. “Your father,” he began, his voice dropping to a softer timbre, “he does little to provide, am I right?”

The accusation stung because it was true, yet Violet felt a surge of defiance. “He is my father still,” she said coldly, daring him with her gaze to speak ill of the man despite his failures.

Clarence sighed digging into one of his pockets and pulling out a few coins. He handed it to Violet. “Go buy the apple, girl. It would be a shame to see you hang for a fruit.” A trace of regret flitted across his features. “Miss Everly, I—” He paused, seeming to choose his next words with care. “I find myself in need of a reliable assistant at my shop. Someone keen and observant. Your... talents could be put to better use than thievery.”

Violet's heart pounded fiercely against her ribcage at the offer. Employment from Mr. Clarence Johnson was an unexpected lifeline, a beacon in her relentless sea of struggles. Yet, mistrust curled inside her like a dormant snake. Why would a man of his standing offer her, a known petty thief, an opportunity?

"I appreciate your offer, Mr. Johnson," Violet started cautiously, her voice a low murmur as she glanced around the bustling market to ensure no eavesdroppers lurked nearby. "But why would you trust someone like me in your establishment? You know very well my... activities."

Clarence's eyes softened, hinting at a depth that Violet hadn't noticed before. “Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, Miss Everly. I’ve watched you, not just today but many times. You’re quick, smart, and despite your current... enterprise,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, “you have morals. You steal only what you need and no more.”

He was right—Violet never took more than necessary to survive. Her actions were driven by desperation, not greed. The acknowledgment of that fact from Clarence Johnson stirred something akin to hope within her chest.

"Consider it," he urged gently as he started to turn away, leaving the coins in her palm.

Violet watched Clarence's retreating figure, the coins heavy in her hand like the sudden possibility they represented. In a world that had offered little but hard edges and cold shoulders, the warmth of an unexpected offer ignited a flicker of daring in her spirit. She could almost taste the promise of stability, a stark contrast to the bitter tang of pilfered fruit and the relentless ache of uncertainty. Still, Violet knew better than to leap without looking. Her life had taught her the sharp lessons of betrayal and disappointment too well. As she moved away from the market square, her mind raced with both the perils and prospects of Clarence Johnson's proposal. Could she truly step into the light of legitimate work without the shadows of her past pulling her back? And more pressingly, what did Clarence see in her that others didn't? Was it pity, a calculated gamble, or perhaps something more personal?

As she wandered through the alleys, her route took her instinctively towards home—a term used loosely for the cramped, dingy room she shared with her father. The door creaked ominously as she pushed it open, revealing Edward Everly slumped over a table littered with empty bottles. The stench of stale liquor and despair hung thick in the air. Violet's entrance went unnoticed by her father, his consciousness lost to the depths of another drunken stupor. She stood there a moment, her gaze hardening as she took in the sight of his decrepit form. This was the life she was born into, one suffocated by poverty and neglect, a stark reminder of what awaited her if nothing changed.

With a soft sigh, she stepped over the threshold, her boots echoing softly on the bare wooden floor. The coins still clenched in her hand felt like both a promise and a burden. She walked past her father, careful not to disturb his fitful slumber, and seated herself on the small, worn-out chair near the cold fireplace. Here in the dim light of their one-room abode, Violet allowed herself a moment to think. Mr. Clarence Johnson’s offer was tempting—an escape from this life of constant desperation. Yet doubt gnawed at her; trust was a luxury she could scarcely afford. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden groan from across the room. Edward Everly stirred, his eyelids fluttering open only to squint at his surroundings in befuddled drunkenness.

"Violet?" he slurred, his voice soaked with alcohol and confusion.

"Yes, Father," she replied quietly, steadying her voice to hide the tumult inside.

"What are you doing, sitting there like a lost soul? No food again?" His voice was rough, accusatory, as he tried to focus his bleary eyes on her.

Violet's hand tightened around the coins, the metal biting into her palm. She considered telling him about the job offer, about the possibility of change, but the words died on her lips. Her father's unpredictable temper and his disdain for any sign of ambition or hope outside his own distorted view discouraged any such revelations. Instead, she rose to her feet, smoothing the front of her dress with a practiced motion. "I'll get us something to eat," she said, her tone neutral. "Rest now. You need it."

Edward grunted in response, collapsing back onto the table with a weary thud. Violet turned away, feeling the weight of responsibility press down on her once more. As she stepped out into the waning light of day, the coins still in her grasp represented more than mere currency; they were a test of her courage and resolve.

The streets outside whispered with the voices of dusk—traders packing up their stalls, children playing before they were called in for supper, men heading towards the pubs for their evening respite. Violet moved through them like a shadow, unnoticed yet sharply attentive. She made her way to the tiny store at the corner of the street, its windows dimly lit and shelves sparsely stocked. Mrs. Bauble, the elderly proprietor, looked up from her knitting as Violet entered, her eyes narrowing slightly with suspicion and then softening as she recognized the young woman.

"Back again, Violet?" Mrs. Bauble asked, setting aside her knitting. Her voice was raspy yet carried a warmth that was often absent in their bleak surroundings.

"Yes, Mrs. Bauble," Violet replied, approaching the counter with the coins still tight in her grip. "A loaf of bread and whatever meat you can spare for this."

Mrs. Bauble eyed the coins and then Violet, a knowing look crossing her features. "Trouble or fortune, my dear? Those coins look heavy with one or the other."

Violet offered a small, weary smile. "Perhaps a bit of both," she confessed softly.

The old woman nodded as if she understood all too well the dual nature of sudden opportunities. She turned to gather the requested items, wrapping them carefully before handing them over to Violet. "Be cautious, child. Fortune's favor is a fickle friend," she advised, her wrinkled hand briefly squeezing Violet's.

Violet nodded, feeling the weight of the old woman's words sink into her heart. "I will, thank you, Mrs. Bauble," she murmured, taking the small parcel with a sense of gratitude mixed with trepidation. As she left the store, the cool evening air brushed against her face, whispering possibilities that both exhilarated and terrified her. The walk back home was a quiet one, filled with the sounds of her own footsteps echoing off the cobblestones and the distant laughter of children not yet called to their suppers. Violet's mind spun with thoughts of Mr. Clarence Johnson’s proposal. It was a chance to step away from the shadowy margins of survival into something resembling a normal life. But at what cost? Could she really leave behind the streets that had taught her everything about resilience and distrust just as easily?

The uncertainty churned inside her as she approached the door of her humble abode once more. Violet paused, hand on the latch, feeling the divide between her current life and the one that might await her with Clarence Johnson. She could almost hear her mother’s voice, soft and encouraging, urging her to take a chance for a better future. Yet, the haunting memories of past betrayals loomed large, making her hesitate. Resolutely, Violet pushed open the door, stepping back into the shadowed confines of the room she shared with her father. Edward Everly was now snoring loudly, lost in an alcoholic haze that seemed to provide him the only peace he knew. Violet set down the small parcel of food on the shaky table and took a moment to look at him. Despite everything, he was still her father, and a pang of compassion tempered her longstanding resentment.

Quietly she unpacked the bread and meat, setting aside a portion for herself before preparing a smaller plate for Edward when he would inevitably awaken. Her actions were mechanical, performed with little thought as her mind wrestled with larger concerns. She knew that accepting Clarence’s offer would mean more than just changing jobs; it would mean stepping into an unknown world, risking exposure and vulnerability in ways she hadn't before.

Later, as darkness enveloped the room and the flickering candle cast long shadows across the peeling walls, Violet sat with her thoughts, tracing the outline of the bread with her fingers. The sense of impending change weighed heavily on her. It wasn't just the prospect of leaving behind the familiar, suffocating squalor that gnawed at her; it was also stepping into a realm so vastly different from anything she had known. What if she was unprepared for the challenges? What if she failed?

As these doubts swirled in her mind, Edward stirred from his stupor, his movements sluggish as he adjusted to the dim light. He squinted at the plate set before him and then up at Violet, a rare flicker of confusion crossing his usually indifferent gaze.

"Did you fetch this, Violet?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

"Yes," she replied quietly, watching him closely.

He took a piece of meat and chewed slowly. For a moment, there was silence between them—a silence filled with unspoken words and stifled dreams.

"Why do you stay?" Edward's question came unexpectedly. His eyes, clearer now, fixed on her with an intensity that made her flinch slightly.

Violet paused, her breath catching in her throat. It was not like Edward to show interest in her choices or her life. The question hung in the air, heavy and laden with implications that Violet had long avoided. She searched for an answer that could appease both her father and her own restless heart. "I stay because this is my home," she replied quietly, her eyes not meeting his. "And because you are here."

Edward snorted, a bitter laugh escaping him as he looked around the decrepit room that barely served as a shelter. "This? This is no home, Violet. It's a prison. You're young still. You shouldn't be shackled by my failures."

His words, so starkly honest, struck Violet with unexpected force. It was rare for Edward to acknowledge his own shortcomings so openly or to express concern for her well-being. This glimpse of the man he might once have been—before grief and vice had reshaped him into the figure he now presented—left her momentarily speechless.

"You could leave, find a better life. Isn't there anyone...?" His voice trailed off, his question unfinished but clear.

Violet’s heart pounded in her chest as she considered her father's words. They echoed the very thoughts that haunted her nightly dreams—the possibility of a life beyond these walls, a chance at happiness that seemed so tantalizing yet so remote. But the thought of leaving her father in this state, as wretched as it was, tugged at her conscience. "There might be," she admitted softly, allowing herself to think of Clarence Johnson once more. His offer had been genuine, filled with promises of respect and a new beginning. Yet, the weight of her current reality shackled her ambitions.

"But I fear what leaving would mean for you," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper.

Edward scoffed, looking away from her piercing gaze. "Don't make an anchor out of me, Violet. I'm already drowning." His voice was gruff, edged with the harsh self-awareness that alcohol sometimes brought to his lips.

Violet swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears she refused to shed. Her father’s usual indifference made his moments of clarity all the more painful for their rarity and raw honesty.

"I need to think on it," she finally said, standing up and moving towards the small window that overlooked the dim alleyway below. There, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass, trying to draw strength from the night itself. The tangled streets of London sprawled out before her—so familiar and yet suddenly brimming with the promise of escape. Her heart fluttered at the thought, a wild bird caged by years of oppression and fear.

Inside, Edward shifted uneasily in his chair, watching her silhouette framed against the weak moonlight that dribbled through the grimy window. For a moment, he seemed about to speak again, perhaps to retract his harsh truths or to further encourage her departure. But no words came; instead, he sank back into his chair with a heavy sigh that spoke volumes of his resignation to life's cruel turns.

Violet remained at the window long after her father's breathing evened out into the rhythm of sleep. Her thoughts were tumultuous waves crashing against the shore of her resolve. Clarence’s proposal was not merely an employment offer; it was an invitation to step into a world where she could perhaps wash away the stains of her past and emerge reborn. It promised safety, respectability, and above all, an identity unchained from the degradation that had colored her life. Yet, her father’s words haunted her: "Don’t make an anchor out of me." Could she really leave him here, adrift in the haze of his vices, or was it her duty to stay and prevent him from sinking deeper into despair? The weight of decision seemed insurmountable, anchoring her to this moment of indecision.

Violet pressed her cheek against the cool pane, the glass fogging slightly with each exhaled breath. Outside, the labyrinthine alleys of London whispered secrets of escape and adventure, but also murmured warnings of betrayal and hardship. Each whisper tugged at her soul, a symphony of opportunity and fear mingling in the night air. Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft noise behind her. Turning slightly, she saw Edward shifting again in his chair, his face etched with lines of discomfort and regret. For a fleeting second, she saw not the man who had failed her but rather the father who had once held dreams and aspirations beyond the confines of their dreary existence. The weight of his words echoed in her mind, a haunting reminder of their shared struggles and the unspoken bond that tied them together.

Drawing in a deep breath, Violet stepped away from the window. The cool air had not offered solace nor had it stiffened her resolve. If anything, it had only deepened her turmoil. Walking over to the flickering candle, she snuffed it out with a quick pinch, plunging the room into darkness. She navigated through the black with practiced ease, her every step whispering against the wooden floor. Reaching her modest bedding in the corner, she lay down without changing, drawing the thin blanket up to her chin. The darkness was not just a physical veil but also a metaphor for the uncertainty that clouded her future. As she lay there, her mind continued to race, replaying her earlier conversation with her father, weighing each word, each pause.

As sleep eventually claimed her in its restless embrace, Violet dreamt of vast oceans and endless horizons—a world away from the cramped confines of their decrepit home. In her dreams, the ocean was a deep blue, not the murky grey of London's foggy mornings. She stood on the deck of a ship, the wind tugging at her hair and billowing her threadbare dress like a sail. This was a freedom she had never known, unshackled from the burdens of her father's failures and the oppressive weight of their squalid existence.

Stay tuned for part 2!! Click HERE to view!

[1080drgn]

[TRANSFORMERS AU: Black Rain — one-shot] [content warning — oc x canon; violence; slight gore]

— English is not my native language, so for any mistakes in grammar, fluency or overall writing, I apologize! —

There, on a barren planet, in the midst of an endless ocean, was a shot spaceship slowly descending into the cold sea. Its sturdy, massive, and heavy, but weaponless design suggested, that it was a resource carrier rather than a warship. It seemed to struggle staying afloat at the surface of the water, which was actually an odd sight in itself, given the carrier's severe damages and beginning to collapse from its overwhelming weight. One would have thought it would've had already submerged in the pitch-black chasm underneath by now. There were no signs of activity and life as well, the hallways inside were silent, dark, and vacant. Only the soft sound of buzzing leftover electricity and water dripping from the walls onto the cold floor could be heard. Bright pink stains covered the walls and floors, gradually becoming darker as they dried out. These stains were an obvious evidence of an ambush and murder that had taken place just hours prior.

However, the peacefulness was abruptly broken by a dark, tall entity arising from the waves and coming on board through an open hangar of the starship. The heavy footsteps echoed through the halls, as they hit the metal surface, which creaked from their weight. But before walking inside, it shook the water from its thick feathers and made sure, that they weren't slowing it down. It then started scanning its surroundings with its mechanical eyes, gradually coming to an understanding what had happened here. But as it walked steadily forward, the entity stumbled on an obstacle in its path. The eyes snapped down to reveal a mutilated, dead body laying on the floor, covered in heavy injuries and "resting" on a dark, pink puddle. It was cybertronian, although already offline, their optics briefly flashed red, as though the victim's internal systems were still desperately fighting for survival. Ignoring it, the tall figure knew there would be no point in trying to save the poor bot, since they were beyond repairing.

"The anti-sinking system is below 50%. Please launch the ship or locate a stable surface as soon as possible."

The being was startled by the sudden announcement, but it just shrugged it off and carried on, thinking it must've been automated. More corpses, shrouded in shadow, were discovered farther along the corridors. When it learned the victims were actually escapees, fleeing from something in order to save themselves, it only scowled at the sight of so many people who had fallen prey to the perpetrators. The traces of gunshots left on the walls, used weaponry just laying there on the metal floor and signs of torture left on the bots' bodies were self-evident. It muttered to itself quietly "Decepticon Justice Division…"

And yet, when everything seemed to be going well, from a distance deeper within the starship, the dark figure heard the sound of a mechanical door opening. Raising its horned head, it turned to face the sound's source, standing motionless in attempt to identify the cause of the noise. The incoming footsteps only confirmed its suspicions, as it got ready to face whatever that was coming. About a hundred meters away, the heavy stomping paused. Silence followed, seemingly becoming louder in the figure's head than the sound of the spaceship's creaking.

But just as things were beginning to settle down, thinking it might've been just nothing, the entity was blinded by an abrupt flash, causing it to let out a loud, hissing sound and ultimately turning around, fleeing. It swiftly weaved through the corridors that led back to the hangar.

"Grab him!" A thick, booming voice yelled through the darkness, clearly enraged. It was then followed by a transforming sound and the roar of a jet engine.

When the entity realized it was a trap and was being chased after, it picked up the pace and spread its wings, making a return flight to the open hangar, where it was eventually able to escape the sinking starship and the danger within. It was quickly lost from view due to the dense fog outside with no more complications. The sound of the wings flapping soon quietened. Now it could only hope, that its hunters didn't have a fog-clearing device of some sort.

The red jet began to brake violently right away, seeing the open hangar and no sight of their kill. Then, it changed back into a humanoid form and stopped precisely at the edge to avoid plunging into the sea. The mech gazed towards the sky, attempting to look for the runaway's silhouette in the thick fog. Seeing nothing and knowing, that he and his leader had failed once more, all he could do was grumble.

"Why did you stop?!" The aforementioned leader shouted as he approached and stood next his lieutenant. The larger, silver mech scowled back at him, as his second-in-command's choice disappointed him once more.

The lieutenant snarled in frustration and rolled his optics. "Why don't you do it yourself? Come on, let's see if you can find Abyss in that fog! Our every attempt in catching him ends with a failure anyways. I bet—"

"This is the last time you do that sort of shit, Starscream. When I tell you to grab him, you GRAB. HIM." The leader striked Starscream in the face, causing the seeker to spit energon out of his intake. "I want his helm on a stick and I don't care what stands in mine, yours, or anyone's way. We were so close this time… if it wasn't for you and your incompetence!" The leader cut him off. Furious, he pivoted and strolled back towards their original starting point. "I'll call Soundwave to come and get us. You're fortunate I'm not leaving you here, otherwise you'd be dead by now."

With the larger mech throwing a fit over not catching their target, Starscream could only listen to what the leader was saying, "There's no winning an argument with you there, Lord Megatron…" the seeker muttered, as his gaze followed Megatron's figure going back into the darkness. He didn't think that he deserved that hit in the face, but he valued his life dearly and refrained himself from striking the Decepticon Lord back out of spite. The mech never understood Megatron's obsession with getting rid of Abyss. Yes, he hated him too, but not to the point where it caused him to act out... yet. Starscream then looked back at the sky momentarily and started to walk back as well with a frown on his face. He wiped the excess energon from his dermas with the back of his servo. "You're simply delusional."

[weemssapphic]

Strange

PART TWO: Welcome home

Link to part one - please read that first!

Brienne of Tarth x f!reader

Summary: Being on the run is the hardest, most heartbreaking thing you've ever done. More than anything, you wish you could go home.

Words: ~1.8k | ao3 link in title

Content/warnings: angst, breakups, hurt/comfort for this part!

A/N: This part of the fic is loosely based on the song Welcome Home by Radical Face! Again huge thanks to @dianneking for suggesting the song for this chapter!

It’s been almost six months now since you left your life - since you left Brienne - behind you. Some days are harder than others - especially when you’re technically on the run. You’ve been lying low, never staying anywhere for too long. You’re in the North now, but winter is coming, and you know that soon you should head farther south - who knows, maybe you’ll end up in Dorne. You’ve never been. Perhaps, though, you should leave Westeros entirely - it’s all getting awfully exhausting, and everything just reminds you of Brienne, and of a life you’ve run away from.

Tonight you’re sitting in a tavern. It’s dark and everyone is drunk, and no one cares about a stranger nursing a pint of ale in the corner, so long as that stranger minds their own business. You stare into your mug and twirl it idly this way and that, watching the amber liquid slosh around. Tomorrow, you’ll move on to the next town, the next tavern. 

Sleep, don't visit So, I choke on sun And the days blur into one And the backs of my eyes Hum with things I've never done

The door to the tavern swings open - the other patrons are too drunk to pay any mind to the tall, hooded stranger who enters, but you notice them immediately. Because they’re tall - too tall, even for a man - and there’s only one person in Westeros who’s that tall. 

You couldn’t tell if you’d be excited or afraid to cross paths with Brienne again - your body can’t decide either, apparently, for your heart flips as your stomach sinks. But there’s no need to get all riled up - the Lord Commander wouldn’t come here, she has no business this far north. 

Except the stranger doesn’t take a seat at the bar, nor do they head for one of the many empty tables - instead, they make a beeline for you. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat as you pull your own hooded cloak tighter around you. Your eyes dart about the tavern, trying to map out an escape route, but it’s too late - you hear the scraping of wood on wood and your eyes snap up to the tall stranger, who has taken a seat across from you.

“Didn’t think the North would be your style. I’d have thought you’d head for Dorne.” Their hood shrouds their face in shadows still, but you would recognize that gentle, gravelly voice anywhere.

You want to cry - you want to scream, actually. You want to fall to your knees and let out all the tears and anguish that you’ve kept in for the past six months. You want to grab onto Brienne’s cloak and beg her to stay with you, whatever she does, to take you back and never let you be so stupid as to leave again.

Instead, you shrug and take a healthy swig of ale. “Maybe for the winter.”

Brienne pushes her hood back just a little. You can see her face now - she looks the same as always, though maybe a bit more weary, a bit more worn-out. Or maybe that’s just your wishful thinking - that Brienne would be just as affected by the absence of your love as you are by the absence of hers. You wonder if she is - just as affected, that is. You wonder if she’s lost any sleep over you, if she still thinks of you sometimes, if she still reaches out in the middle of the night, only to find that spot right next to her in the bed cold to the touch. 

Ships are launching from my chest Some have names, but most do not If you find one, please Let me know what piece I′ve lost

Blinking back tears, you drain the rest of the ale in your mug and slam it down on the table, harder than intended. “What’s the Lord Commander doing this far north? Gone to visit Castle Black? Wouldn’t it be more prudent to send a more lowly knight?”

A strange look crosses Brienne’s face. Her brows knit together and her lips part - she seems to be struggling internally with something, and it takes her a while to find her voice. “Haven’t you heard?”

You snort. “Heard what? I’ve been kind of busy surviving, been keeping to myself. I’m not really in the position to be partaking in local gossip.” You don’t mean for your voice to be so cold and so hard, and you feel sorry for the hurt that flits - however briefly - across Brienne’s face. 

“I-I’m not… I’ve resigned.” The words come out in a rush. Brienne seems to be holding her breath now, and you cock your head to the side, furrowing your brow.

“What do you mean you’ve resigned? From what?”

Her breath comes out in an annoyed huff. “I’ve resigned. I’ve given up my position as Lord Commander.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“You’ve what?” you hiss. You suddenly feel dizzy - you can hardly dare hope to be the reason Brienne of Tarth gave up the coveted position of Lord Commander, surely there must be another reason…

“Months ago, actually.” Brienne’s gaze falls to the table and she traces a long, slender finger over a little hole in the wood. “I’ve been searching for you… You’re hard to find, you know that?”

You can’t help but chuckle a bit - Brienne’s lips curl up into a little half-smile and she risks a shy glance at your face, peeking up through blonde lashes. Her expression is guarded but her eyes aren’t - they’re soft and hopeful and almost girlish in the sparkling naivety that they exude. 

“I probably should have headed to Dorne, it’s fucking cold up here,” you say with a breathy laugh, letting your hood fall back slightly. Brienne’s eyes immediately drink in your face, your hair - in the spirit of becoming harder to recognize, harder to catch, you’ve cut it and dyed it. You suddenly feel self-conscious as Brienne stares at you, your cheeks turning pink. “Don’t you like it?” you mutter, your eyes dropping to your lap.

Strong fingers grip your chin and tilt your head up, stealing the breath from your lungs. “I do, actually. It suits you.” She offers you a soft, sincere smile, and your face reddens further. It all feels so familiar, so comforting, and that hurts. You gently pry your chin from her grip and lean back a tad, just out of her reach - her face falls, and it makes your heart ache.

“Why did you resign? Why have you been looking for me?” Your heart is hammering against your ribcage, so hard it hurts - you’re afraid of the answer but you need to know.

Brienne takes a moment to mull over her words. When she answers, her tone is serious, her expression solemn. “I thought about what you said, the day you left. I-I’m sorry that I got angry, I was afraid. I was wrong to doubt you - I should have taken your side. I afforded my loyalty to the wrong people, and I have been paying for that mistake every day since you left.” Her chin quivers and her eyes are glassy, but she sits tall and looks intently into your eyes.

A swell of emotion crashes over you and you stand abruptly, drawing the attention of a few patrons. You yank your hood over your face and grab Brienne’s wrist - she allows you to drag her outside, where you pull her around to the back of the tavern and push her back against the cold, dirty wall.

“You’ve found me. Now what?” you ask, your voice low and demanding. You can see your breath in the cool air - it mingles with Brienne’s.

“I’m not letting you leave again. I’ll go with you this time. Please. I want to be with you, I need to be with you.”

You search Brienne’s eyes - they’re bright and earnest. “You know what that means for you - for us? Don’t think the King has forgotten what I’ve done.”

“I don’t think he’s very fond of me anymore either,” Brienne breathes out, and you can’t help but chuckle. She laughs, too, and before you know what you’re doing, you’re pushing yourself up on your tiptoes, your hands curling around the base of Brienne’s hood to pull her in for a kiss.

Her lips are cold and cracked - regardless, you feel your heart being mended the second they connect with your own. Her tongue darts out across your bottom lip and, fuck, she tastes like home and you sigh into the kiss as you allow her to deepen it. You kiss until you run out of air - and then you kiss some more.

Peel the scars from off my back I don't need them anymore You can throw them out Or keep them in your mason jars I've come home (home, home, home)

“I have something for you,” she murmurs against your lips, and you rest your forehead against hers as she digs around in the pocket of her cloak. Whatever she’s just pulled out glints in the light of the moon and you pull back to get a closer look. Brienne takes your right hand in her own and places the object in your palm - it’s cold to the touch, and tears spring to your eyes when you see what it is. Her mother’s necklace.

“Bri-”

“It’s yours. It’s always been yours.” Her hand curls around your own and she closes your fist around the necklace, before placing a tender kiss to your knuckles. “I love you,” she whispers against your skin. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it back that day.”

You feel your face break out into a beaming smile - it feels strange (you haven’t smiled properly in so long) but it feels good.

“I love you, too, Brienne. I haven’t stopped, not for a minute.”

Brienne offers you a watery smile and chuckles - she sniffles a bit, her cheeks tinged pink.

“We cannot stay here now,” you whisper, your own smile faltering a bit.

“I know.” She sniffles again but her smile remains, and your stomach does a somersault - she looks so beautiful when she smiles and, Gods, you’ve missed her smile. You’ve missed her.

You bite your lip. “Where will we go?”

Brienne’s blush deepens and she takes in a shaky breath. “Would my lady like to accompany me to Dorne?”

Your smile returns full force - so wide that it hurts. “Your lady would very much like to accompany you to Dorne, Ser.”

“I’m not a knight anymore,” Brienne says with a quirked brow.

“You are to me.”

Brienne smiles softly and her fingers curl in the little ringlets of hair at the base of your neck as she pulls you closer. Her lips brush gently, slowly against your own as her other hand finds your lower back and tugs you flush against her. Her body is warm and comforting, and the tenderness of the kiss steals the air from your lungs and makes you feel dizzy. You wrap your arms around her neck to steady yourself and keep your knees from buckling as your tongue slowly enters her mouth; exploring, memorizing, coming home.

Here, beneath my lungs I feel your thumbs Press into my skin again

You know, without a doubt, that everything will be okay - no matter where you go. As long as Brienne is by your side, you will always be home.

Welcome home (home, home, home)

x

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[rosyrosethings]

KIng Harry and The Nanny p2

this is part 2 of Harry and the nanny. you don't have to read part 1. This is just another part of the story.

Warning: smut, fluff, blow job,

Harry's heart raced like a teenage boy's when he was near her. Every afternoon, as the children drifted off to sleep, his desire for her became overwhelming and irresistible. He would quietly slip away from his duties as king and pull her into any vacant space they could find - a closet, an unoccupied room - just to indulge in her sweet taste. Even just a simple kiss from her was enough to satisfy his longing. It had been so long since he had felt genuine affection from anyone, and he craved her attention more than anything else. When they were alone, she would always tenderly kiss his head before returning to their daily routines. Harry lived for those moments, cherishing every kiss on his forehead from her. Y/n was well aware of the nature of their relationship; after all, he was the married king and she was only the nanny. But she couldn't deny the intense craving she felt for his touch, his love, anything that came from him.

On this particular Saturday night, Y/n relished in having the day off from her duties and lounged at home with her roommate Bri, unable to shake off thoughts of Harry. Her and Bri set there enjoying there second bottle of wine and each other company.

"Bri its all he doess, doesn't do anything else. He won't even let me touch him." She said, resting on the couch looking at her roomate Bri.

"Maybe he’s like really into pleasing you." She said looking up at her offering her comfort.

"Yea he is but He wants more I could tell. Maybe he just doesn't want me in that way." She said sadly.

"No he wants you. Everyone who sees you wants you in that way." She said looking at her up and down. Y/n laughed

"I am serious bri.." she said laughing

"Maybe hes gay." Bri said, Y/n laughed harder

"Oh please, Bri. He's definitely not gay," Y/n said, rolling her eyes. "You should see the way he looks at me sometimes. It's like he wants to devour me whole."

Bri waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Ooh, sounds steamy. So why don't you make a move then? Take control for once?"

Y/n sighed, running a hand through her hair. "It's not that simple. He's the king, remember? And married. I can't just throw myself at him."

"Why not? Sounds like he's already throwing himself at you every chance he gets," Bri pointed out.

Y/n bit her lip, considering. "I don't know... What if I'm reading too much into it? What if he rejects me?"

Just then, Y/n's phone buzzed with a text.

‘I know it’s your day off but I need to see you.’ -Harry

‘Is everything okay?’ -Y/n

‘I’m just missing you. I’m coming over now.’- Harry

The text threw her for a loop. Y/n immediately shot up and started straightening up the apartment

“Are you okay?” Bri asked watching her jump from place to place erratic cleaning.

“He’s coming over! Bri go to your room. I didn’t tell him i told you. I was supposed to keep the affair a secret.” She said,

Bri's eyes widened in surprise, her mouth forming a perfect O shape. "Wait, what? He's coming here? Now?" She jumped up from the plush couch, scattering scattered items as she grabbed her phone and hastily stuffed them into her bag. "Okay, okay, I'm going." Her voice was strained with excitement and urgency. "But you better tell me everything later!"

As Bri hurried off into her room, Y/n's heart raced with anticipation and nerves. She quickly smoothed down her hair, checking herself in the mirror and straightening her clothes. The doorbell rang just moments later, startling her.

As Y/n's heart raced with anticipation, she reached for the door handle and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She swung the door open to reveal Harry standing there, his tall frame shrouded in an all-black ensemble. A dark hoodie was pulled up over his head, casting shadows over his face, while large, opaque sunglasses shielded his eyes from view. Despite the darkness surrounding him, Y/n could still feel the intensity of his gaze on her as she stood before him,

"Y/n," he breathed out, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. As soon as he entered, he shed his hood and shades, revealing his mesmerizing green eyes that seemed to intensify upon locking onto hers. In an instant, he had her pressed against the wall, his body flush against hers. His lips crashed onto hers in a passionate kiss that took her breath away. "I couldn't wait to do that," he whispered huskily as he pulled away, leaving Y/n feeling weak at the knees.

"Maybe we should go to my room, don't want to wake my roommate." She said looking up at him. He smiled

"Lead the way love." She smiled at him grabbing his hand leading him to her bedroom.  She opened the door to her room quickly closing the door behind him. She immediately started to kiss him again. Softly leading him to her bed. She pushed him down on the mattress. Her standing over him.

"Hoodie off." She demanded, he smiled at her attitude. She wanted to please him for once. He obliged taking off his hoodie. Revealing his bare chest. Y/n sat on his lap straddling him.

"I can't wait to have you in my mouth." He said looking up at her. She kissed his lips.

"Not today I will have you in mines." She said kissing his lips again. She felt him stiffening up at her response. Harry was scared. She pushed him down on her mattress as she kissed his neck.

"What wrong? You don't want me to please you." She asked looking at him propped up on both of her hands. Ge saw the disappointment in her eyes.

"No baby, I just haven't had sex in a long time. I don't want to cum to fast. Just looking at you makes me dick hard. I bust just eating you out. I could imagine how it would be inside you." He said, looking up at her. She pressed down her hips to his. Grinding against his dick which was hard already.

"I don't care if you cum quick. I want you inside me I want to see your face while you're deep in my pussy." She said leaning down to kiss him. His dick twitched at her words. There lips moved against one another her hands made her way down his chest. She sat up taking off her shirt.

She slowly slid off of him, her fingers hooking around the waistband of his black joggers as she helped him remove them. Her hands moved effortlessly, unfastening his pants and revealing a pair of gray briefs underneath. In the dim light, she could see the outline of his strong hips and toned muscles, causing a wave of desire to wash over her. She couldn't resist running her hands along his defined abdomen, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. It was as if she couldn't get enough of him, wanting to explore every inch of his body with her touch.

“Gotta get these off.” A mischievous smile played on her lips as she reached for the waistband of his gray briefs. With a teasing tug, she pulled them down, revealing his eager arousal that pressed against his stomach. She gazed at it with a lust in her eyes, knowing that she was in full control of his pleasure. Her hand went him. Harry sighed in relief. Its been so long since he's been pleasured. Especially like this. Her hands went up and down his shaft.

“I’m gonna put you in my mouth now.” Her words dripped seductively from her lips as she looked up at Harry, her hand wrapped tightly around him. A feeling of pure ecstasy coursed through his body at the mere touch of her fingers. She placed a soft kiss on the tip before swirling her tongue around it, sending shivers down his spine. He struggled to hold back, determined not to reach his peak too soon in this blissful moment. But every sensation she created was like fire, filling him with an overwhelming desire for more. Every part of him wanted to surrender to her and fully give into this pleasure that she so expertly provided.

Y/n continued to pleasure Harry with expertise, her lips and tongue working in perfect harmony to bring him to the edge of ecstasy. She could feel his body tensing beneath her touch, his breath hitching with each movement she made. As she continued to take him deeper into her mouth, she could hear Harry's ragged breathing turning into soft moans of pleasure.

"Oh god, Y/n," Harry groaned, his voice husky with desire. "You're so good at this."

She hummed in response, the vibrations sending shivers down his spine. Encouraged by his praise, she increased the intensity of her movements, determined to make him lose control.

Harry's fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her rhythm as he whispered, "Faster, baby. I need more of you."

Y/n complied eagerly, taking him as deep as she could as she quickened her pace. The sounds of their passion filled the room, mingling with the creak of the bed and Harry's increasingly urgent pleas for more.

"I can't hold back much longer," Harry gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily.

Y/n pulled back slightly, her gaze locking with his before she teased, "Do you want to cum in my mouth, Harry?" Her hand still moving up and down his dick.

His eyes darkened with desire as he nodded eagerly. "Yes, please, Y/n.”

“Do it then.” She said, With a sultry smile before she took him back in fully, using every trick and movement she knew to push him closer to the edge. His dick fully down her throat.

As their connection intensified, Harry's moans grew louder and more desperate, echoing off the walls of the room. Y/n eagerly took him in her mouth, feeling his fingers tightly gripping her hair. With one final deep thrust into her mouth and a guttural groan of euphoria, Harry reached his peak. Y/n greedily swallowed every drop, savoring the taste of him on her tongue. He came with such force that it almost overwhelmed her, but she eagerly lapped up every last bit of his pleasure.

As he came down from his high, Harry gazed up at Y/n with a mix of awe and gratitude. "That was… incredible," he panted, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Y/n grinned triumphantly before leaning in to press a lingering kiss on his lips. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," she whispered softly against his skin.

Harry wrapped his arms around her. Pulling her close to him. He placed a kiss on her forehead. She looked up him as his hand traced her back

“When was the last time someone pleased you?” Y/n asked, looking up at him.

“Well charlotte is the only woman i have been with and I haven’t did anything with her since…”he said trailing off.

“Wait you’ve only been with charlotte?” She asked a bit shock. Feeling a bit like she took something away from him.

"And you." He said with nonchalant ease, his gaze steady and unwavering. Y/n sat up, her heart racing as she looked down at him. His face was a mixture of vulnerability and strength, making her heart ache for him. "But Charlottes more of a just a duty to my kingdom," he continued, his voice tinged with sadness. "My parents died when I was young, and Charlotte was one of the women they had approved of before their tragic accident. I had to marry quickly because of my impending kingship. But Charlotte was never my true love."

He reached out and gently took her hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. Y/n felt her cheeks flush with warmth at his touch and words.

"But then I saw you," he said softly, his eyes shining with fondness. "You took my breath away. You were wearing a black turtleneck sweater with white trousers and black boots, and a black hat to top it off. It was snowing but you were determined to get a picture of the palace for our social media. I happened to look out the window and saw you, and I couldn't help but ask William who the crazy lady outside was."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he remembered that day. "William told me you were American and that you worked on the royal social media team. And then I came downstairs shortly after, and there you were - standing in front of the fireplace in Buckingham Palace. Your hands were clasped in front of you, trying to warm them by the fire. Snowflakes were melting off your coat, but I could see your fingers were freezing cold."

His eyes softened as he recalled his actions that day. "I couldn't resist approaching you with a blanket to wrap around your shoulders. And then you turned and looked at me for the first time - our eyes met and I felt something I had never felt for anyone else.” He said, his green eyes meeting hers.

Y/n felt her heart swell with emotion at Harry's words. She remembered that day vividly - how nervous she had been on her first day working at the palace, how cold she had been after taking photos outside in the snow. And then how her breath had caught in her throat when she turned to see the handsome king offering her a blanket, his green eyes warm with concern.

"I remember," she said softly. "I was so flustered I could barely speak. You were so kind to me."

Harry's thumb stroked her hand gently. "From that moment on, I found myself looking for excuses to be near you. I'd walk through rooms I knew you'd be working in, hoping to catch a glimpse. When the nanny position opened up, I immediately thought of you - selfishly wanting you to be around more often."

Y/n's mind whirled with this newfound knowledge. The pieces of the puzzle were finally starting to come together. "So you're the one who recommended me for the job," she exclaimed, a playful giggle escaping her lips.

A warm smile spread across his face as he replied, "Yes, the best decision I ever made."

[starrierknight]

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞

For you to like him, he doesn't need to be perfect—but he's pretty damn close to it.

MASTERLIST | AO3

wc— 3k

pairing— gn!reader x gojo satoru

cws/tags— acquaintances/flatmates to lovers, fluff, suggestive themes, satoru being obnoxious, ft. satoru’s happy trail, is it still counted as “body worship” if this is sfw

The silent hold of the wee hours left you with far too much to think about, if you do say so yourself. In this nocturnal solitude, you found yourself compelled to confront not only your thoughts, but the echoes of loneliness that reverberated through your cavernous chest, leaving your heart to tremble in the corner. The unrelenting grip of weariness rendered you captive in the cocoon of your bedsheets, their tendrils entwined with the threads of your restless musings.

Despite being a steadfast denizen of these late-night hours, tonight was different—an occasion when the relentless routine of surrendering to the purgatory of your bedroom had worn away at your resolve. The solace offered by the quietude was undeniable, and the shroud of darkness, a gentle balm for tired eyes—though not for weary heartstrings.

As you rose, the floor beneath your feet felt cool, sending a shiver through your body, and the door swung open soundlessly. The corridor awaited, a narrow passageway obscured by conspiring shadows so that you had to place a hand on the wall, trailing your fingertips over the plaster to find your way. The darkness here was thicker, pressing against the walls, and the only companion was the soft exhale of your breath. 

A faint light spilt from the slightly ajar door, a beacon that prompted you to squint as you approached. It became evident that Satoru must have left the lights on, a small yet comforting revelation. Upon opening the door, the kitchen burst into luminosity, momentarily dazzling you as your eyes adjusted.

Satoru had his back turned to you, doing the washing up, shirtless. His back was broad, as if carved out of marble, and toned to perfection. Though his face was obscured, he carried himself with a distinct air of confidence that only those of a certain beautiful visage have—all movements were deliberate, executed as gracefully as could be. He didn’t respond to your presence, nor did he turn around, continuing to wash the dishes as the gentle slosh of water and clatter of plates filled the room.

Your gaze swept across the kitchen, a subtle amusement dancing in your eyes as you took in the scattered evidence of Satoru's attempts to corral the week's accumulation of clutter. The peculiar surge of productivity in the late hours hinted at a shared restlessness, a tacit acknowledgement that sleep eluded him just as it did you.

Returning your attention to Satoru, a quiet fascination seized you as you observed the rhythmic dance of his shoulders. They gently sloped, guiding your eyes down to the graceful curvature that traced the arc of his spine. The muscles, flexing and contracting in harmony with his movements, held a hypnotic allure that further captivated your already-addled mind. 

The subtle rasp of your cleared throat echoed in the kitchen, a deliberate attempt to compose yourself and redirect your attention. The sound elicited a flinch from Satoru, his head tilting in acknowledgement without turning around. Your gaze wandered, initially fixating on his hands immersed in soapy washing-up water, then traversing the sinuous lines of his arms, the broad expanse of his shoulders, and back again to the rhythmic play of muscles along his spine. A fleeting imagination tempted you, picturing the sensation of placing your palm between his shoulder blades, curious about the palpable strength concealed beneath his skin.

Shaking your head to dispel the reverie, you took tentative steps forward, crossing the quiet expanse of the kitchen. Leaning against the cool granite countertop, your elbows found a resting place, and you propped your chin up on your fist. Your eyes remained fixed on Satoru, lingering on the meticulous yet effortless movements of his hands. A small, tentative smile graced your lips as you observed his actions, wondering if he could sense the unspoken sentiment in your expression.

Breaking the lingering silence, you mustered a simple "Hi," but it was met with a stony quietude. 

You wondered if speaking up was the wrong choice, but delirium and the ache to be close to another person had brought you this far. Satoru glanced over his shoulder, his gaze meeting yours with a slow blink. A subtle raise of his brow conveyed a hint of amusement, seemingly deriving pleasure from your visible unease.

His response finally fractured the silence, a sly smirk accompanying his words, "Enjoying the view, are you?" 

The low, husky timbre of his voice carried a weariness, likely a residue of a day spent teaching. It forced a certain softness to his tone, you thought.

You shrugged off his inquiry. "Sue me."

Satoru's response wasn't a hearty chuckle or a deep guffaw, but a light, breathy laugh that filled the quiet kitchen. There was a quiet amusement in the sound, and a trace of a smirk lingered on his face as he looked you over. Your heart responded with a subtle clench beneath your ribs, particularly at the sight of a faint shadow of a dimple on his cheek, carved there just to taunt. The moment, though fleeting, etched itself into the quietude of the night as he returned his attention to the dishes.

"What d'you rate it? A ten out of ten?"

Your response, offered with a playful quirk of your eyebrow, "You want me to rate you?"

Satoru's smirk morphed into a pleased expression as your gaze trailed over him. The contours of his skin, smooth and unblemished, seemed to glow like moonlight in the spill of light from the windows. Intrigued and sufficiently drawn into the distraction your company provided, he turned to face you, leaning against the kitchen cupboard. As he dried his hands on a towel, his arms folded across his broad, rippling chest, the subtle flexing of his pecs synchronised with each breath drew your attention.

"Come on, give me a score anyway. Out of ten."

After a moment's consideration, you offered a teasing response, "A nine." 

Satoru's amused countenance swiftly transformed into a scowl the moment your rating escaped your lips. His eyes locked onto yours, and he spoke with feigned indignation, "Only nine?"

The palpable teasing in his voice was accompanied by a puffing out of his chest, a subtle rise onto his toes, and a slight shift in his weight—an adjustment that added a touch of theatricality to his stance. His gaze fixed on you with an impatient yet expectant intensity, resembling a playful, albeit puzzled, puppy.

Your chuckle, a note of satisfaction in provoking a reaction, accompanied a dismissive wave of your hand. "Ah, I don't know. You're missing a certain je ne sais quoi."

The scowl on Satoru's face evolved into a lopsided frown, confusion and amusement vying for dominance on his expressive features.

"Je ne sais quoi?" he echoed, his head tilting in curiosity, a teasing glint in his eye. The amused twinkle hinted at his attempt, albeit futile, to resist giving you attention.

"Well... You're just a little too perfect, aren't you? Like a sculpture."

Satoru's lips curled into a cocky grin at your explanation. "And what's wrong with being a sculpture? People look at sculptures all day, right?" His smirk widened as he leaned in ever so slightly, a challenge lingering in the air. "Maybe you should do that, then."

Suppressing a grin, you bit the inside of your cheek, allowing your eyes to trail along the line of his left shoulder, up the side of his neck, and to his jawline. "I might," you mused.

The rhythmic rise and fall of Satoru's chest betrayed the subtle restlessness within him, his breaths a steady cadence of inhales and exhales. The heat radiating from his body made the glistening sweat on his skin all the more apparent. His lips, licked in a moment of contemplation, added an unintentional allure as his eyes momentarily darted away from yours. Every inch of him exuded an undeniable appeal, and your gaze couldn't help but be drawn repeatedly to the contours of his chiselled body, a clear testament to where your attention lingered.

As he shifted his weight onto his right foot, a cock of his hip added an extra layer of invitation. "I might let you," he declared.

"Who says it's a question of 'letting' me?"

"I do," Satoru shot back, his eyes taking on a steely glint as he jutted his chin in a clear challenge. The air crackled with tension as he asserted, "I'm not a pushover, and I don't take orders from anyone. If you think you're gonna boss me around, you're sorely mistaken."

The shift in his expression, from cocky to cold and steely, echoed through the space. Your heart quickened its pace as his gaze, those vivid blue eyes glinting like precious stones, locked onto yours. The challenge hung in the air, a silent dare.

Satoru's face transformed, breaking into a wide grin, and a warm laugh escaped him, lighting up the atmosphere once again. It was evident he had been playfully messing with you, and the realisation prompted a quiet laugh of relief from you, your cheeks flushing warm. 

"You got me.”

"You know me. I wouldn't say no if you were offering." 

His words, delivered in a hushed whisper, lingered in the air, barely audible above the rhythmic cadence of your breathing. Your gaze involuntarily drifted to Satoru's lips as his grin faded into a more contemplative expression. There was a subtle hint of shyness in his features, his cheeks now adorned with a magnificent shade of red as he shifted his weight to the other leg.

“Offering?” you queried.

Satoru's laugh, more relaxed this time, accompanied his response. 

"I'm not completely clueless, you know." His gaze finally returned to yours. "You were eyeing me up, weren't you? I didn't mind, though," he drawled, glancing down at his own body. "Well, I don't blame you." With a wink, he added a touch of assurance.

Suppressing a snort, you reciprocated with a wink of your own, much to his bemusement. Satoru's gaze descended from your face, lingering on your body for a moment that felt like an eternity before swiftly returning to meet your eyes.

"The attraction's definitely mutual, so maybe you should just c’mere and kiss me," he suggested, his words teasing, yet there was a genuine note beneath the surface.

"Who says I want to?" you countered.

"My ego, mostly—I'm the prettiest guy you've ever seen. Why wouldn't you wanna kiss me?" 

The familiar arrogant half-grin adorned his face as he tilted his head to the side, shifting his weight onto one leg and cocking his hip once again. When your reaction amounted to little more than a gawp, he theatrically fluttered his long, white eyelashes at you.

"C'mon, you know you want to..."

A stunningly triumphant expression illuminated Satoru's face as you walked around to his side of the kitchen island, leaning against it as you beckoned him closer. For a moment, he observed you, searching for any sign that your actions were merely a tease. Upon finding none, a cheeky grin spread across his features, and he took a step toward you.

Closing the distance, he stood in front of you, leaning in until your bodies were almost touching. "What are you waiting for? Kiss me already.”

Rather than yielding to the demand, you countered with a smirk, meeting his gaze through your lashes. Simultaneously, your hands rested on his bare, narrow waist, and your thumbs brushed against his skin. From such proximity, you could discern the faint marbling of bluish veins beneath his pale skin. 

Tracing the pad of your thumb along one of these delicate lines, just underneath his ribcage, you elicited a sharp intake of breath from Satoru. His chest rose and fell, hands clenched into fists at his sides. You could almost hear his heartbeat quicken—although, your own heart rebelled against your ribs to try and tunnel its way out of your chest and to him.

Undeterred, Satoru met your gaze without a hint of hesitation or shyness, a defiant smirk still playing on his lips. His eyes, those endless blues, were sharp as they studied your face—though his judgement was tentative. The heat from his skin warmed your palms, and you could see goose bumps forming on his flesh as it reacted to your touch.

"Is this okay?" you murmured in a sweeter voice.

Satoru, still captivated by the proximity, was brought back to the moment by the sound of your voice. Slowly, he opened his hands, relaxing a little. "It's more than okay..." he admitted, a smitten look adorning his features.

The exchange continued as he let out a quiet laugh, shifting his weight and allowing his free hand to caress your cheek, tracing along the line of your jaw. Leaning in, he pressed his forehead against yours, his gaze soft, and his touch gentle. Wisps of Satoru’s downy, white hair tickled your temples, tempting your fingers to comb through its softness.

"You're adorable," he complimented, a genuine smile gracing his lips, before leaning his head back slightly to get another look at your face.

Your fingertips, gently brushing against the white trail of hair just below his navel, drew a soft gasp from Satoru. His abs tensed at the touch, his cheeks blushing a deeper shade as a slight shiver coursed through him. In the ensuing silence, the only audible sound was the subtle intake of breath, a shared moment suspended in the quiet kitchen.

Satoru glanced down at your fingers, his body language a blend of tension and receptivity. Swallowing thickly, his eyes flicked downward momentarily before meeting your gaze again.

"What gives?"

"I take it back. You're a ten," you admitted, a playful twist to your tone.

Satoru laughed, his breath hitching before he composed himself. His response was light-hearted and teasing, "Why the change of heart?" 

His cocky grin returned as his gaze dipped down to your hands once more.

The soft brush of your fingers against the hair of his happy trail prompted a soft groan to escape Satoru's lips. His eyes shut, exhaling slowly, and his jaw flexed in response to the sensation.

"I found the one you needed," you declared smugly.

Satoru couldn't contain another soft groan at your touch. He licked his lips, swallowing, his gaze shifting between you and your hands as you continued to explore. His weight shifting onto his other foot, he adopted his best flirtatious expression. Leaning down toward you, his smile widened as he lowered himself to your eye level.

"You're lucky the feeling's mutual, then. So, about that kiss?"

His right hand cupped your cheek, and you instinctively leaned into his touch. The warmth of his palm, surprisingly soft, conveyed a sense of comfort, even as the faint scent of dish soap lingered. Time seemed to slow as your faces inched closer. Something citrussy, you noted vaguely.

“What about it?” you whispered.

"I'm sick of waiting for it..." 

The kiss ignited a cascade of sensations, a marvel that transcended the mere meeting of lips. His hands, so gentle, cupped your cheeks, their journey extending down to cradle the vulnerable expanse of your neck. Fingertips, like feathers, grazed the back of your hairline, leaving a trail of tingling warmth in their wake.

Soft, syrupy lips, vessels of unspoken words, melded seamlessly with your own. As the kiss deepened, your hand remained a steadfast companion on his waist. The caress, a silent declaration, pulled him incrementally closer, drawing him into your orbit. His hands, still cradling your face, mirrored the tenderness. Satoru, in response, leaned in, his lips maintaining their pillowy softness against yours, his entire body communicating a tranquil surrender to the moment—to you, if only briefly.

Your fingers, entwined in his whispery, silver hair, brushed away the few locks that always seemed to fall just right. As you both pulled away, the affection shared in that fleeting gaze lingered, plain for all to see on Satoru's face.

"And what would you rate that?" Satoru said breathlessly.

You hummed and wrinkled your nose, making a show of thinking it over. "A nine."

“Not a ten?" his voice was low and intimate. He brought his hands down to your waist to hold you, and you could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin.

"Well, I'm kind of banking on you to keep kissing me until I give you a ten," you murmured.

He huffed out a laugh as he shook his head, followed by a soft, ironic, “Of course.”

A mischievous grin adorned Satoru's face as he leaned in for another kiss, this time more intense, more hungry. Tilting his head, he skillfully avoided a direct alignment of his lips with yours, adding a delicious edge to the kiss. His tongue ventured, a slow exploration that gradually deepened, causing your breath to catch in your throat.

Your fingers dug slightly into his waist, a feeble attempt to keep your mind tethered before you lost it to him completely. Satoru's tongue pressed deep into your mouth, his grip on the back of your neck tightening slightly, intensifying the kiss. The softness of your lips pressed against his body allowed you to feel every sculpted muscle. The passion of the kiss remained gentle, not rough, yet the sensation left you craving more.

As you both eventually pulled away, a quiet panting filled the space. Your nose brushed against his jawline, a content smile playing on your lips.

"Still a nine?" he inquired, a teasing note in his voice, his voice quiet but carrying an undeniable edge of confidence.

Satoru shifted his hands to your shoulder, fingers lingering for a moment before crossing his arms over his chest. His warm breath caressed your face as he looked down at you. Pressing his forehead lightly against yours, he closed his eyes, savouring the touch.

“Still a nine.”

"Just you wait," he added, a promise whispered. "I won't stop until it's a perfect ten."

a/n: alternative title, “Gojo Satoru is so pretty he makes me stupid” haha. I wrote this to get out of my writing slump lolol. and ooooo first sfw fic on this blog!! how exciting :3 -> based on this ask!

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

[mumms-the-word]

Shadow Curse Events Pt. 3

The first 40 days

Hello, friends, and welcome to the third and final installment of this little series about the Shadow Curse in BG3. Part 1 talked about Ketheric's descent into Sharran worship and how he built his Dark Justiciar army. Part 2 detailed the events of the war between the Harpers/druids and Ketheric's army, a bloodbath that culminated in Ketheric's supposed death and a high-cost victory for the Harpers and druids.

With Ketheric's dying breath, he utters a curse and the shadow curse takes full effect within hours. That's what this post is about. There are two journals that give us a day-by-day breakdown of the shadows as they roll outward from town, Olam's Journal and Oliver's Diary. Using these (plus other materials, naturally), I wanted to construct a kind of timeline for the first 40 days of the shadow curse as it slowly took over the landscape.

Quick cw: some descriptions of madness and implied sexual trauma from one note left behind by a Reithwin citizen

As always, long post ahead, under the cut!

———

Dear Diary, Day 1: Nothing ever happens in this town. I'm ready to go to the Gate. If Mother won't let me, I'll run away myself. She says my lungs are too weak for the smoke. But how am I living at all, when all I do is milk the rothe? [mumms' note: I imagine this diary entry by Oliver was written before the battle, but during the siege. I can't imagine him writing "nothing ever happens" when a battle is actively taking place.]

Let me set the stage. It is the third day of the battle between the Harper-druid army and Ketheric Thorm. The Harpers have already tried to surrender, only to be denied by Ketheric, who joins the battle himself. The death tolls are astronomical and the citizens of Reithwin are either cowering and trying to survive the battle that rages outside their doors or fighting as part of a volunteer force. The tides have turned in the Harpers' and druids' favor as reinforcements for Dark Justiciars inexplicably stop coming (thanks to the mason's infernal deal). At last, some lucky Harper or druid strikes the blow that finally fells Ketheric Thorm. Ketheric uses his last breath to utter a curse on the land, the actual words lost to time, and dies. Together with other Harpers and druids, Jaheira assists in dragging Ketheric's body from the battlefield and sealing it inside the Grand Mausoleum. But the damage has already been done.

It's day one of the shadow curse.

Day 2 of Darkness I stood calm as Ketheric uttered his final curse and then withered. As my fellow Harpers dragged his putrid corpse from the battlefield, I allowed myself to feel relief, even solace. A wrong had been righted, an evil thwarted. Victory had come - but I had yet to know its true cost. The darkness shrouded the land like a vast cloak. It began as a chill, as if the Claw of Winter had gripped us. Within hours, every breath was a dagger piercing my throat. I hungered for air like a wolf hungers for meat - yet I could still get my fill, thanks to my armour. Would that the men and women of Reithwin had been so well-equipped. One by one they fell, only to rise as shadows of themselves, intent on extinguishing all light, and all life. The shadows hang less heavy in this place. It still takes some effort to fill my lungs, but better to expend effort than to unite with darkness. My traps should keep me safe - or at least, safe enough.

Olam, an aasimar Harper who eventually fell victim to the shadow curse as he was trying to find ways to reverse it, is our best record for the first day. According to him, the first sign of the curse was a chill, as cold as the Claw of Winter, a reference to the winter month of Alturiak.

Months in Faerûn have two names, a sort of "official" name and a common name. The second month of the year, Alturiak, is commonly known as the Claw of Winter, a month of deep cold that sets in after Midwinter (the day right before Alturiak 1). Given that Ketheric's speech to his troops suggests they're preparing to face winter, and the fact that Thisobald's notes tell us that Ketheric was poisoned by the Harpers in Elient, the month that contains the Autumn Equinox, it's safe to suggest that the battle happened in late autumn. A sudden chill as cold as deep winter would be very alarming, especially accompanied by an unnatural darkness.

So, first comes the cold, so piercing and uncomfortable it makes it hard to breathe. Then comes the shadows, a darkness that settles over the town and begins to spread. If you're in armor, if you've trained your body to withstand magical and physical attacks, if you're resistant to any kind of damage, if you're one of the miraculous soldiers who hasn't been horribly wounded and weakened, you have half a chance to survive the initial shadows.

The untrained citizens of Reithwin don't have even that half-chance.

One by one they fall to the shadows. One by one they rise again as twisted, changed, ravenous undead, "intent to extinguish all light, all life." We've seen what the curse does ourselves to Harpers like Yonas, or to other living creatures like the hyena or the goblin near the mountain pass entrance. The Harpers and druids who believe that they can put battle behind them at last are now faced with a new enemy—the undead, shadow-cursed husks of innocent (and perhaps not so innocent) citizens.

Image: An armored arm covered by black and green shadow magic reaching out.

Not just citizens, either. The shadows soon claim Harpers and druids too. The shadows do not discriminate.

Halsin: Even in defeat, though, Ketheric turned to Shar. Not long after we sealed him away in his tomb, the shadow curse took hold. No one had seen the likes of it before. No one knew how to react…Then it started to claim all those within its reach. Those who had survived the battles now fell to the shadows - became part of the shadows. And worst of all…I lost contact with Thaniel. I wanted to try and find him, but we couldn’t stay. We would have all succumbed. When the Archdruid of the Grove - my predecessor - was seized by the curse, I had to lead the survivors to safety. That was my first day as Archdruid. An inauspicious beginning.

The Harpers and druids no doubt scatter, scrambling for light, caught flat-footed in a fight against the undead they must now kill, some of whom might even be their own allies, their own friends, and a darkness they can scarcely understand. As more and more people fall, more and more corpses reanimate. There's no use fighting. Their only real choice is to run.

Halsin, among the survivors, desperately tries to gather together druid survivors and rescue the wounded from the curse, going so far as to carry some on his back, according to unique dialogue with Jaheira. As they attempt to flee, the former Archdruid falls, seized by the shadows. Halsin is forced to leave him behind to ensure the survival of the other druids.

Halsin: It is an honour to see you again, High Harper. Jaheira: No need for titles. You may call me Jaheira, so long as you are content to be known as Halsin. And the honour is mine. Your stewardship of the Emerald Grove has made for something of a story among the circles. The apprentice who survived the shadow curse, and carried his masters home on his back. Who was raised their master in turn, and searches still for a way to save what was lost. [mumm's note: Halsin says he never met Jaheira, but this could be him being polite, or him referencing that he has seen Jaheira before, they've just never spoken or officially met.]

At the same time, he's lost contact with Thaniel. The spirit of the land has been pulled into the Shadowfell somehow by the onset of the curse as it spreads outward and begins to take over the landscape. Perhaps the Shadowfell claims others, as well, the moment the darkness falls over them, rather than transforming them into undead shadow corpses. We know this happens to Art, after all.

But Halsin doesn't have time to think about Thaniel, unfortunately. With the Archdruid dead, it is now his responsibility to look after the wounded and surviving druids and lead them to safety.

[This is an ancient notebook, whose ink is faded and pages are starting to crumble. It's not easy, but some words can still be made out.] Ketheric is finished, but it cost us the land. Darkness has fallen, corruption is everywhere. [...] ...chased by shadows, picking us off, druids and Harpers alike. [...] ...our wounded were safe, I returned, searching for survivors... [...] ...lost, but I found his shade. I put it to rest and took his glaive... [...] ...blade infused with shadow. I have locked it away, to serve as a reminder that even victory can taste bitter.

In the launch version of the game, the glaive Sorrow belonged to the old Archdruid. (In early access, it belonged to Halsin, but that is an entirely separate post.) Halsin's old notebook reveals the lengths he went to save the wounded, becoming the Grove's leader the very hour, the very minute that the old Archdruid succumbs to the curse. He doesn't stop to fight the Archdruid's shade. He must save whoever he can.

In town, others are trying to flee the curse as well. The first couple of days, it's all the citizens can do to stay ahead of the darkness and escape the shadows before they're taken. One person attempts to send word via a raven seeking help. The raven, too, succumbs to the curse.

[This letter is written on a scrap of paper. Blood and age have made it near illegible in parts.] HELP! A darkness has rolled into Reithwin, cutting us off on all sides. We’ve sent people through, but no one can make it more than a few steps before [the words are obscured by drops of blood.] This letter is our last hope. Send help - anyone, from anywhere, I beg of you. I will renounce our Lady Loss and kiss the Moonmaiden’s feet if that’s what it takes. Just don’t let the darkness take us.

It's nearing the end of the first day. Halsin has at last seen the wounded to some kind of safety and turns back, braving the shadows again to try and find the old Archdruid. He finds his shade and kills it, taking his glaive as a reminder, since the shadow-corrupted body must be left behind. With his duty at last done, Halsin departs the shadow-cursed lands to return to the Emerald Grove with the survivors. He does not return again until a century later.

———

Day 2 of the shadow curse.

Olam the Harper manages to secure something of a safe refuge in a hidden room of the House of Healing's morgue where the shadows hang less heavily. He sets up traps to deter shades and shadow-cursed zombies.

Citizens of Reithwin who haven't fled the curse on day one and are resilient enough to survive the first day are slowly succumbing, too. Some citizens seem to willingly give themselves to the shadow curse, or are taken entirely by surprise.

A couple on the roof of the House of Healing lay together, whispering poetry to one another as the darkness falls. Another couple lays curled up in their home, perhaps trying to hide from the shadows as the darkness presses against the doors and windows. Other citizens drag their feet, trying to pack up their lives and follow after more slowly. The result is the same for all of them. Death to the shadow curse, or the shades it creates from the dead. Their skeletal remains lay untouched for decades afterward.

———

Day 5 of the shadow curse.

Olam, sequestered inside the morgue, is simply trying to survive. The curse begins spreading outward, its borders expanding toward the outer reaches of the landscape.

Day 5 of Darkness The shadows ebb and wane. A torch flame is sometimes enough to burn them away, but no light can dispel the deepest of them. I called my familiar Corvin to my side, but he could scarcely take wing. Tomorrow I search, and not just for food and drink. I might find a scroll, or an artefact, or an arcane focus that can ward off this curse. Perhaps I might even find another survivor. 

Olam is hopeful, but he is very likely the sole survivor of the shadow curse within the town itself. There are, however, survivors outside the town, some of whom are still trying to flee. Others, like Oliver and his mother, are forced to stay in their home as the shadows creep closer and closer.

———

Day 7 of the shadow curse.

Before Oliver held half of Thaniel's essence, he was a young boy (possibly a tiefling) on a rothé farm on the outskirts of Reithwin. He seems to have been born with or developed a chronic illness of some kind, as his mother worries about his lungs not being able to handle the smoke of Baldur's Gate (I assume this is a passing reference to some early industrialization of the city). But by day seven of his journal, the shadows have already started to spread outward toward his home.

Day 7: Ha, a strange fog is descending over our own town. Hasn't left in days. Getting hard to breathe. Mother is eating her words, saying we should head out to the city to stay for a while until it lifts. We go at dawn.

(I personally don't think the numbered days in Olam and Oliver's journals align, where Olam's Day 5 of darkness is also Oliver's Day 5 in his diary. I think it's more likely that they're offset by 2 or 3 days, with Oliver beginning his journal 2-3 days before Olam did, so Olam's Day 4/5 would be Oliver's Day 7, and so on. But for simplicity's sake, I'm just going to use both of their dates as if they were perfectly aligned.)

———

Day 8 of the shadow curse.

Oliver and his mother try to brave the shadows to head west to Baldur's Gate, but the shadow-cursed creatures are too dangerous. They turn around and take shelter in their home once more. They spend another several days protected from the curse, somehow.

I suspect it's Thaniel's lingering presence near the house that is saving them. But they couldn't possibly know that.

———

Day 14 of the shadow curse.

Oliver and his mother have given up hope for any kind of escape. The shadows are too dangerous. It's too late to leave.

Day 14: We tried to leave, but there are creatures from beyond the grave, skulking around the outskirts of our land. It's too late.

———

Day 18 of the shadow curse.

Everything is dead or undead. Everything except Olam, Oliver, Oliver's mother, and the animals they care for...for now. The town is still, as if suspended in time, but not quiet. Things stir in the darkness.

Day 18 of Darkness It's a particular loneliness, in these shadows. Corvin shows great affection when I call him, even as he suffers. Those few minutes are at least some comfort, for us both. It is remarkably still in here, and even stiller out there. I have found a few scrolls and books near the House of Healing, as well as some scattered artefacts, but they hold nothing for me. The only answers call out from within the House itself, where I dare not enter. I hear the moans of the anguished, the shouts of the cruel. There are those who make their home in the shadows, but I am no less alone for them.

Olam's hopes are dwindling. The shadows had taken the life of everything they've touched. Many shadow-cursed undead lie dormant, waiting for something to stir them back into action. Others have been reduced to shades and towering living shadows. Still others, like those inside the House of Healing, have been transformed. In particular, it seems as though the nurses, if not Malus himself, have become twisted undead versions of their living selves, something different than the average shadow-cursed corpse.

Because, you see, being transformed into a shadow-cursed being doesn't simply mean death and undeath. Not always. It also means a descent into pure madness as you lose your entire sense of self. Some victims choose to venture more into the darkness rather than fight it.

Shadow creature transformation is like this: I am standing in a tunnel with one way leading into light and the other leading into darkness. The tunnel glistens and stinks like a tube of rancid sausage. Everything slick with slime. I've got to get out of here. I know I do. But which way? Light or dark? Not day and night. The light is coming from the face of my grandfather, who used to squeeze my knee under the dining table with his bony fingers. His wizened, grinning face is the face life wears. It has flayed off his face and is wearing it now, lantern bright, in the light at that end of the tunnel. The dark though. The dark is absolute. No faces there. No old family trouble there. No bad dreams or memories there, well, well that's decided then isn't it! Sauntering now, striding now, running into the velvety black, embraced, bones snapping, body softening, silking, feeling the change, old life left behind, new life new me let's go yippee!

(There's also weird poetry about the shadows, if you're interested.)

The shadow curse is still Shar's darkness, and the allure of the dark's embrace is still there. Victims who lose their minds to the shadow curse as they turn into shadow creatures are drawn to this twisted idea of a new life (an un-life, really). As we see with Yonas, they're eager to bring others down with them.

Harper Yonas: There you are...come...join me...

Reithwin may be dead, and it may be still, but it isn't quiet.

———

Day 21 of the shadow curse.

In the outskirts, the shadows have possessed Oliver's rothé. They too grow mad, attacking one another and dying, only for the shadows to resurrect them again.

Day 21: The rothe are all possessed, knocking down their fence, battling and bashing one another to death... Dying then fighting again. The shadows are everyone... right outside our window. I can't see more than a few strides out.  [mumm's note: I think "everyone" is supposed to be "everywhere" here.]

The darkness is only getting worse.

———

Day 26 of the shadow curse.

Nearly one full month since Ketheric's death. The shadows have grown darker and darker. In Oliver's cabin, he and his mother can only see a few strides beyond their windows. In town, where Olam continues to try and search for ways to end the shadow curse, the air has darkened from grey to black and grown so thick that breathing it in is like swallowing molasses or tar.

Day 26 of Darkness I called on Corvin yet again, but I cannot bear his torment. Nor can I bear my own. Grey has turned almost to black, and the air might as well be molasses or tar, so hard as it is to choke down. 'All beings should walk free of fear', I was taught. Oh, if only were I granted such a fine fate.

This is the last entry in Olam's journal. After days of trying to break the shadow curse, experimenting with various spells to push back the darkness or dispel the magic, after days of him and his bird familiar, Corvin, being the only living things he has encountered since the onset of the curse, Olam finally succumbs to the shadows. Perhaps he chooses to end his own life, or perhaps the shadows have crept into the morgue and at last killed him. Either way, his body, tainted and ruined by necrotic magic, remains sealed in his morgue hideaway for another century.

———

Day 28 of the shadow curse.

There are only two people still living in the midst of the shadows. Oliver and his mother remain unaffected by the curse, so long as they stay within their home. Oliver has no idea why the curse does not push into their house—it certainly has no issue creeping into every other home in and around town.

But I suspect Thaniel is at work. Given that Thaniel's spirit was torn in half by the shadow curse, perhaps the part that lay behind took refuge in Oliver's home. Perhaps that half is already in Oliver himself.

But Oliver grows restless. Though the curse has yet to take them, living with it is not easy. His weak lungs can't handle the shadow-thick air, even if it does not corrupt him immediately. He begins to contemplate death.

Day 28: I'm not dead yet. But I'm going to die here, aren't I? I can hardly breathe. Why does it not get into our house? Why doesn't the curse take us already. Day 35: I can't stand this. I've been trying to write a memoir of myself but it's still no good. I'm too weak to pen fine words. I am going to die unremembered, be what may. It's getting pointless to cower in here. There is nothing we can do about this all-encroaching dark. Tomorrow, I will walk out into the fog, and I will laugh. With love, a farmhand, forever to be unknown.

———

Day 35 of the shadow curse.

Olam is dead. Everyone in town is dead. Most people in the outskirts are dead. Except for Oliver, and perhaps his mother, and even Oliver can no longer handle the loneliness and despair of the shadow curse. Oliver plans to leave the safety of his home and give in to the shadows, rather than die a much slower death as the shadows continue to creep in.

———

Day 36 of the shadow curse.

Oliver opens his door and walks out into the dark fog of the curse. Some flowers still bloom, untouched by the curse or the shadows, just outside his doorstep. The corpses of the rothé lie inert in the darkness, having died twice over days before. Oliver likely doesn't linger on either detail. It only takes a few strides for the darkness to envelop him.

It only takes moments for it to change him.

Oliver as he was in life is gone, taken by the shadow curse. But some vestige of Thaniel keeps him alive, keeps them both alive. But the shadows have already done their damage.

Oliver remains near his home as the years pass, his laughter and his games turning ever deadlier as the curse strengthens and grows.

———

Day 39 of the shadow curse.

Halsin and the other druids have long since returned to the Emerald Grove. The mantel of leadership weighs heavy on his shoulders. He has sealed away the old Archdruid's glaive, tainted as it is with shadow magic, and begins to turn his attention to leading the Grove. A task he never asked for, and doesn't feel he deserves.

Jaheira has moved on to other adventures, working independently or with other Harpers. It will be another several decades before duty calls her back into the shadow-cursed lands, back to the site where she fought to maintain balance and put an end to a corrupted Sharran general.

The town of Reithwin and the surrounding landscape is dead. Dead, but not quiet. The shadows sink into the land itself, twisting the trees, slowly cracking the very earth apart. Shadows continue to stir, corrupting everything they touch. The unlucky undead that are not granted blissful oblivion shamble among the ruins of the town, between the remains of the battle. Their actions are twisted recreations of their living days, as nurses or as patrons of the Waning Moon. Their minds are all but obliterated.

The town settles into a pattern of hungry shadows on the hunt and undead corpses shuffling mindlessly through the motions. This pattern will remain undisturbed for a century or more.

———

Day 40 of the shadow curse.

Inside the Grand Mausoleum, behind the sigil-sealed doors, the crypts of the dead are not as still and silent as they should be. Something, someone moves in the darkness.

Ketheric Thorm, pulled back into the land of the living, stands at the foot of his daughter's sarcophagus. He wants to forget. He wants the darkness to swallow him whole. But it does not.

A bloated, fleshy hand reaches out in the darkness, and Ketheric hears an all too familiar voice, deep and resonant with dark magic.

"Let us refocus our efforts, General. In here, we have everything we need to bring her back. It will only take time."

Ketheric, having lost everything, agrees.

———

Okay, so maybe Day 40 was just me guessing/wanting to get creative. I believe Ketheric probably woke up, since he's still functionally immortal thanks to Aylin, relatively soon after the shadow curse was unleashed. But because he was sealed in the mausoleum by the Harpers and druids, he must have spent the better part of a few years, maybe even a few decades, trying to gather the strength to blow open the doors and leave.

He's been defeated, and Shar has likely withdrawn her blessings on him. His only power now is his immortality (probably). We know he doesn't build an army again until a century later, when he does so under Myrkul's command. So I imagine he probably spends many decades in the mausoleum, trying to forget, or (failing that) trying to resurrect his daughter.

Forgetting evades me in this infinite darkness. Balthazar is my own source of the barest comfort - the thought that, perhaps, she might be brought back to me. If oblivion can fail, what defence have we against death? None except its mastery. Balthazar's words have never felt more promising.

Somehow Balthazar finds him. Perhaps Balthazar was sealed inside the mausoleum too. But Balthazar promises to find a way to restore the one thing Ketheric wants. Ketheric doesn't desire vengeance. Ketheric doesn't want another army. Ketheric wants Isobel. And Balthazar, a powerful necromancer, believes he can deliver.

So the experiments begin. And fail. And fail. Thisobald, Gerringothe, Malus. The Thorm family members rise again, except they're twisted, grotesque, a little mad. Not how Ketheric wants Isobel to be. But they keep trying. Until at last, nearly a century after his defeat, after a century of struggling to forget and fall into oblivion, ignored by Shar, Ketheric turns to Myrkul. He agrees to become Myrkul's Chosen and do his bidding, in exchange for the one thing he wants most.

Isobel.

Melodia would understand, if she knew my aim. She too, I believe, would have turned to Myrkul under such conditions as these. Our darling will live again. What kind of man would I be if I didn't raze the world entire for her sake?

Ketheric at last renounces Shar to pledge himself to Myrkul. And Myrkul, unlike Shar, keeps his promise. The death that began the spiral into Sharran zealotry, that led to the shadow curse itself, is finally reversed.

After more than a century of death, Isobel wakes up.

———

So ends the three-part series about the shadow curse. What a ride. I'm so fascinated by this entire act/history because it feels like diving into war history or something. So thanks for following, if you followed all three parts!! Let me know what other deep dives you want me to do!

Tags for those who wanted an update! @fingons-rad-harp @stuffforthestash @cakenpiewhyohmy