#visage;; A striking figure.

[andypantsx3]

READY OR KNOT | 2 | TODOROKI SHOUTO x READER

SUMMARY: Todoroki Shouto is so unsettlingly beautiful, you’re certain he has to be an omega. That is, until a chance encounter with a pushy alpha reveals you were incredibly mistaken—and the surprises don’t stop there. Shouto's suddenly mystifying behavior adds another layer of complexity to an already confusing inter-agency investigation. It would be so much easier to figure things out—and suppress your growing feelings—if only Shouto would stop being so strangely attentive to you... TAGS/WARNINGS: pro hero au, fem + afab reader, omegaverse, alpha shouto, beta reader, misunderstandings, courting behavior, slightly case fic-y, undertones of sexual violence (not between main pairing), aged-up characters, eventual smut, 18+ minors please dni! LENGTH: 4.9k, 2nd of 7 chapters

It turned out it was not so easy to forget what had happened with Shouto. Especially when Monday morning rolled around, and with it, some very pressing questions about the party.

Mina found you first thing in the morning, already up to your eyeballs in the case file at your desk. A frown marred her pretty mouth as she rounded the corner into the case analyst area. She neatly dodged your deskmate’s ginormous stack of paperwork, nearly as tall as she was, eyes homing in on you like dark little missiles.

“I heard about what happened with Suzuki,” she said, looking you over with uncharacteristic concern. Her eyebrows were drawn, her features pinched. It was an expression that didn’t overtake her cheerful visage all too often. “Are you okay?”

You blinked up at her, the name escaping you for a moment, until you matched it up with the support alpha from the party on Friday. Your lips downturned in reflexive distaste.

“I’m fine. You must have heard that Shouto scared him off,” you answered. “All he really managed to do was imply some stuff.”

Mina’s eyebrow twitched, like she had more questions on that, but she dutifully adhered to the matter at hand first. “I did hear that and we are going to be discussing that in a second. But that doesn’t mean you’d still be okay with everything that did happen. I’ve got a meeting with HR about Suzuki this afternoon, and I’m thinking of firing him.”

You jolted, a quick pang of guilt striking through you. Firing him. That seemed a very intense option.

You thought Suzuki was an asshole, sure, and you remembered all too well the horror that had overtaken you as he’d reached for his belt. But you also knew he had been drunk out of his mind—drunk enough that he thought you were an omega of all things, somehow perceiving things that weren’t even there.

You’d thought about it a lot this weekend, running over the events in your mind, and while the whole incident left a sour taste in your mouth, you thought Suzuki probably had been close to alcohol poisoning considering how strongly he smelled of Tetsutetsu’s horrible drink. He wasn’t exactly sound of mind, the lines a little blurry.

You’d never waylaid anyone like that while intoxicated, but you had done and said your fair share of things you regretted when you’d sobered up. You didn’t know what to think.

You looked up at Mina, finding her watching you consideringly. “No?” she asked.

You scrubbed a hand over your face, unclear what the right thing was. “I saw him and he was like, really not all there, Mina. I think he should be punished for sure, but what if you gave him a warning that if this happens at all again, he’s gone?”

One of Mina’s eyebrows arched. “Shouto said he was holding you against the wall even after you said no.”

You could feel your nostrils flare in anger at the memory, the feeling of that hand against the wet patch on your shoulder, unbudging.

“He did, but he also thought I was an omega, Mina,” you said. “I think he was close to alcohol poisoning, actually. He hasn’t caused any other trouble like this, has he?”

Mina shook that head of wild pink curls. “No, he’s been a model employee thus far. But I still don’t like it. That’s not what the Pink Riot agency is.”

A sigh filled your lungs. The support of Mina and Kirishima was enough for now. “I don’t like it either. But he was drunk, and nothing did actually happen, thanks to Shouto. Give him a warning that any other tiny slip up means firing, and I will be satisfied.”

Mina looked hesitant, dark eyes searching over your face, but eventually she sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “Fine. Once and only because you’ll need an accurate record from support in your investigation and it will be harder to get if he’s gone. But he will be fired if I hear even a whiff of a rumor again.” She paused. “And you’ll have to talk to Eiji, because he’s going to like this even less than I do.”

That wrung a smile out of you.

Kirishima was a good alpha and seemed to think of the agency almost like his pack. As easygoing as he was, he guarded his people resolutely, like a farm dog patrolling a chicken coop. You could almost imagine him standing at attention, head forward and tail pointed like an arrow.

As heartwarming as that image was, that didn’t mean you wanted to be the one to tell him though. You shook your head, throwing out your hands. “Oh no. Your alpha, your problem. The one privilege of my secondary gender is I’m not part of this shit.”

Mina clucked, sighing. “He is my problem.”

You laughed, knowing very well she’d know how to solve it. But her expression shifted, suddenly looking sly, and you realized she was about to saddle you with another problem.

“You’ll have to tell Shouto then,” she said, her voice deceptively light.

You blinked, eyebrows raising. Shouto…? “Why the heck would I need to tell Shouto?”

A grin slowly crept over Mina’s mouth, and she leaned in conspiratorially, looking altogether too pleased. Her hot pink nails settled on the edge of your desk, tapping delightedly. “Because he’s your assigned supervising hero. And you’ll be seeing him again in just a few minutes.”

A sudden flurry of butterflies erupted in your stomach, your mind flashing through the feeling of Shouto over you, tall and strong and warm, pressing you carefully to the wall. You could all but feel the whisper of those pretty eyelashes on your skin, feel his careful exhale, the brush of his mouth against your throat.

Your ears prickled with heat, and you could feel your face go slack in shock. He would be here—? In front of you again?

“He’s—what?” you garbled out, trying to dispel the phantom feeling of Shouto against you.

Mina looked downright smug. “He asked to be assigned right after I spoke to him at the party on Friday. Interesting, don’t you think?”

Heat licked at your cheeks. “Is it,” you managed tightly. “That’s… nice of him.”

“Very,” Mina agreed. “Especially since I heard about what happened after Suzuki left.”

You hated her.

“I’m a beta,” you reminded her, not liking the implication.

Mina’s dark eyes rolled. “Eiji liked me even when he thought I might present as a beta.”

“That’s different,” you told her, floored that you’d sidetracked into this so quickly. “I’m actually a beta. Also what the hell are we even talking about. This is a work case.”

Mina flapped a hand at you. “I’m sure you’ll both work it very hard, very thoroughly,” she said with no small amount of relish.

You seized the case file in question, holding it up between you like a shield, flapping it at her in turn. The manila folder flopped stiffly, the pages making a sort of wobbly sound. “Why are you like this,” you hissed.

Mina’s eyes glittered, and she opened her mouth to respond, when the soft tread of a boot in the hall made her perk up. Her grin went unholy. “Speak of the devil,” she said.

Shouto certainly did not look like the devil, as he rounded the corner. The fluorescent lighting made a sort of soft halo off the glossy strands of his distinct two-toned hair, and his features were just as angelic as you remembered—finely-wrought and almost deliberately formed, as though he were sculpture from the hands of a master. He was almost too beautiful to look at this early in the morning, and you felt your breath draw up short in your lungs.

He blinked when he saw you, those heterochromatic eyes widening nearly imperceptibly as he approached.

“Morning, Shouto-kun,” she purred. You hated her.

“Good morning,” he said, his tone low and soft. Your fingers tightened on the file folder, bracing yourself against the loveliness of the sound.

A flush rose to your cheeks as you did so, and Shouto’s eyes followed you curiously. Beneath the high collar of his hero uniform, you could just glimpse a flash of his scent patches, neatly placed as usual. You wondered absently what he would smell like if you peeled them back and leaned in close. As a beta, your nose was not as good as the other genders, but if you got in close enough, and if Shouto’s scent was strong enough, you’d probably be able to tell.

He looked like he’d smell delicious.

A cackle from Mina alerted you to the horrifying fact that you’d just been staring at Shouto as he approached, mouth open and expression vacant.

“Uh… good morning,” you managed.

The corner of Shouto’s mouth quirked up, and something beneath your skin tingled in response.

“I hope you are well,” he murmured.

You could see Mina’s eyes darting back and forth between the two of you with barely suppressed glee, and a sudden bolt of shame went through you.

Just because it was super obvious how hot you found Shouto didn’t mean he felt the same. He was a fucking pro hero for crying out loud. Rescuing people was what he did—the save on Friday did not have to mean anything.

Plus, knowing for sure that he was an alpha had closed the window on your little celebrity crush. Out of the hundreds of couples you’d met in your lifetime, you’d only ever met one alpha-beta pairing—both tradition and biology seemed to win out in almost all mated pairs, alphas and omegas unable to help their inherent attraction to one another.

And with that in mind, it was actually super disrespectful of you to even think about this impending partnership in any terms less-than-professional.

You rallied yourself, inclining your head respectfully to Shouto, gesturing with the case file in your hands.

“Yep, I’m good. I’m grateful for the save and I’m sure I’ll be even more grateful for your help on this case.” You turned to your boss, routing her back on track. “Mina, what information have you shared and what do I need to get him up to speed on?”

Mina’s pout was so defined it could be seen from space. You ignored her, raising your eyebrows.

“I only put the call out to other agency heads for a supervising out-of-agency hero. Just that it’s an omega assault case possibly involving a pro, and your name as the lead investigator.”

Your gaze returned to Shouto. He was still watching you intently.

“How much time do you have before you’re needed back at your agency?” you asked him. “Do you want to grab a conference room and I’ll get you up to speed? I’m sure Mina has a lot to do just now.”

He nodded, his hair falling into his eyes in a way that should not have wrung the oxygen out of the atmosphere, but did. “I am on patrol after lunch, but I’ve asked that my schedule be cleared until then.”

Perfect. Plenty of time. You stood, hefting the case file with you, clearly dismissing Mina, who looked put out.

“Great, I’ll show you to the conference room then,” you said. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Mina flashing you a pink finger, and you could easily guess which one. You stuck out your tongue at her as you passed Shouto so he couldn’t see, not above pettiness.

You gestured Shouto into one of the smaller rooms across the floor with especially good soundproofing, holding the door open for him. You sucked in a breath as he brushed past you, trying not to admire how tall and broad he was, the way those shoulders spanned the breadth of the doorway.

Shouto took a seat and you spread the case file out before him, trying not to look down at him as he glanced up at you. His fingers twitched on the conference table, like he was holding them in place. You carefully retreated to a safer distance, hoping you hadn’t annoyed him.

“Okay so the basic brief is as Mina said. There have been multiple reports of a suspected pro harassing omegas late at night in Bunkyo. Initially they were identified as a masked male wearing scent patches, roughly five foot ten, always wearing some dark jacket. But the suspected hero element came into play late last week when they attempted to strap quirk suppressors on their target. The omega in question had a vapor quirk so she was able to dissolve and escape before he did.”

Shouto’s eyes tracked you as you spoke, solemn and attentive.

“So far the suspect has not shown any signs of a quirk himself, and without any scent ID it’s hard to know what secondary gender to look for. Our best option is to work the possible-pro-hero angle and rule out who we can, since that’s all the identifiable detail we have on this guy at this time.”

Shouto nodded, propping an elbow on the table. You tried to ignore how even that small gesture made him look like a center spread in Heroes Illustrated.

“I’d like to read the individual reports and hear your plan once I have,” Shouto said.

You perked up, pleased with the terms he was speaking in. A good case analyst always had at least a sketch of a plan—what order to speak to specific people in, which angles had highest priority of investigation, and how the labor could be divided and work double-checked.

Most heroes were people of action and hated having to be corralled into approaching cases like some sort of assignment, instead of busting in and blowing things apart. But it was the best way to make sure all avenues were investigated thoroughly and that work was peer-reviewed in case someone missed something.

Shouto’s phraseology told you he was familiar with approaching cases like this, meaning he probably listened to the Todoroki agency analysts. You’d never worked closely enough with him before to know, only trading high-level information back and forth on a couple of joint cases, presenting findings in a meeting room stuffed full of Pink Riot and Todoroki agency heroes.

You found yourself smiling faintly.

“I’ll get you some coffee while you read. Everything is in chronological order in the file and I’ve tabulated some notes,” you said. “How do you take yours?”

Shouto’s gaze slid over you, careful and assessing. He paused. “I’ve been told I should not share that information.”

Your eyebrows went up. “Your… coffee order?”

Shouto nodded seriously. “Bakugou says it’s disgusting and embarrassing.”

Bakugou—pro hero Dynamight, that was—was Kirishima’s best friend, a loud alpha of an explosive manner and incendiary opinions who often showed up unprompted at the agency to stomp around and mean mug, all the while hiding that he was attempting to press leftovers on Kiri and Mina. You laughed, curious what Bakugou had browbeaten another pro over.

“Your secret will be safe with me,” you said coaxingly.

Shouto blinked, mouth quirking slightly again. He looked like he genuinely liked the idea of that, and your stomach fluttered in response.

Of course then he opened his mouth and provided a rundown of the inhumanly numerous sugars and syrups he liked, such that it constituted more of a soft drink than a coffee order. You tried to keep your eyebrows from creeping up into your hairline, smothering a laugh.

That was so unexpectedly cute. Especially for an alpha.

“One coma-inducing order of sugar with a splash of coffee, coming right up,” you saluted him.

He did something with his face that was a cross between a tiny smile and a pout, and you threw yourself out the door before you dissolved into a puddle of goop.

You went down to the cafe that operated out of the ground floor of the Pink Riot building, a favorite lunch spot of most of the heroes for how enormous their sandwiches were. The order took a fair few minutes, as it took the barista a good while to pump in the zillions of requested syrups, his eyebrows raised nearly to the moon as you recited them.

When you returned to the conference room, Shouto was already well into the case file. He glanced up as you entered, those heterochromatic eyes pinning you with an unexpected intensity. You started, wondering if you’d done something wrong.

But then his mouth slid into another tiny smile, and he looked so genuinely pleased to see you—or the coffee cup—you found yourself helplessly smiling back.

After depositing his cup next to him, you fetched your laptop and emailed Shouto’s agency the case files while he read. You wrote up the preliminary notes you’d been able to pull together on the case—a list of three agency heroes whose exact whereabouts had been accounted for during one or more of the incidents, who were therefore not on your list of possibilities.

Shouto was staring at you when you shook yourself out of work mode an hour later, quiet and intent. You startled, jumping in your seat.

“Oh my god—I’m sorry—did you say something? I didn’t mean to ignore you,” you said.

Shouto shook his head, another smile quirking that perfect mouth. That expression was growing familiar. “I have just finished,” he said.

A sense of relief washed over you. “Okay great. Did anything stick out to you that you think I’ve missed so far?”

“No,” he murmured. “Your work is very thorough. I would like to hear your plan.”

His tone was low, almost appreciative, and you tried not to let it go to your head.

“Okay, then we’ll begin with the active duty and equipment logs,” you told him. “I’m already through all of the duty logs available, but I still need the one from Thursday when the last incident happened—it’s supposed to be ready this afternoon. That will rule out a few heroes, and the equipment logs can tell us more about who had what out during the time of the attacks—I think we start with the heroes who had suppressors on them then.”

Shouto nodded, looking like he was following along. “You want to narrow the pool before you speak to anyone in case you arouse suspicion.”

You nodded, pleased he understood. “Yes.”

That blue and gray gaze nearly pinned you to your seat. “That is smart.”

A sudden wash of heat licked up your spine, pooling in your limbs. You struggled to keep your face neutral, your ears burning. “Th—thanks.”

“Who have you ruled out so far?” he asked.

You turned your screen to him, showing the notes you’d drawn up. “Kiri’s clear—no shock there—Tetsutetsu, and Tetsu’s sidekick who was with him on a cleanup during the first incident. I’m hoping Thursday’s log will clear at least one or two more.”

Shouto inclined his head in agreement. “And your interview plan?”

You smiled, and scrolled down to your notes on that, pleased at how he was letting you lead the investigation. He listened intently as you walked him through an outline, double-checking that everything worked with his schedule.

As you talked, he offered a few suggestions of his own, but he mostly seemed content to follow your outline—completely unlike even the most agreeable of the Pink Riot agency alphas. In fact it was so contradictory to everything you’d experienced thus far that you found your gaze darting to his scent patches over and over again, as if assessing whether they were really covering up an alpha scent.

But no—you had felt the pull of his Order under your skin on Friday. You, a beta, naturally resistant to Orders in the way omegas weren’t. And you’d gone so boneless against him, too, affected by his proximity in the most embarrassing way. Shouto was definitely an alpha, with that kind of pull—and probably a preternaturally strong one at that.

But he was also just—your eyes drifted to his coma-inducing coffee cup—kind of a strange one, too.

The two of you discussed the case for a few more minutes—until your stomach growled, loud enough to interrupt your planning, and the corner of Shouto’s lips lifted again.

“Would you like to finish up over lunch?” he asked, saving you the embarrassment of excusing yourself.

You grinned. “I think my stomach already answered for me,” you agreed.

Shouto helped you reorganize the paper files and lingered over you as you locked them into your desk cabinet, waiting for you patiently. Then he let you lead him downstairs to the cafe. You were conscientious of not standing too close to him in the elevator, all too aware of him in that tiny, enclosed space.

When you made it down to the ground floor, Shouto surprised you by steering you over to one of the tables, bidding you to sit.

“What do you enjoy here?” he asked, looking down at you expectantly. “I would like to get it for you.”

You shook your head. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I should be treating you for the save. How about you tell me what you want?”

Those heterochromatic eyes blinked down at you, and a tiny crease appeared between Shouto’s eyebrows. His mouth turned down. Against the subtlety of his expressions thus far, the look appeared almost distressed. “I insist,” he said, something strange in his tone.

“Shouto, really, I—-”

“I insist,” Shouto said, a little more firmly. There was the flicker of something strange under your skin again, like the tiny molecules of your body shifting in response to him.

You froze, startled, and your mouth opened for you before you realized what you were doing. “I—a pesto sandwich—”

You clamped your mouth shut, mystified.

But Shouto looked pleased. He smiled, wider than you had seen so far, a devastatingly handsome quarter-moon sliver that sent your pulse pounding in your ears. You watched him turn and walk off, something you might have said was almost smug in his step, had you known him better.

You sank into one of the seats, befuddled by what had just happened.

Shouto returned a few minutes later with water and an order number, placing the bottle in front of you like an offering. You regrouped, thanking him, then raised your eyebrows as he leaned forward, looking serious.

“I have been wanting to ask. Where does the alpha who harassed you work?” he asked, his tone dropping low. A strip of afternoon sunlight caught in his hair, dancing like flickering flames in the strands of scarlet, liming them in an orange glow.

He was beautiful in the sun, and it took you a minute to reroute your brain from his face to his question.

“Suzuki’s in support,” you said. “But Mina’s disciplining him, and I don’t have to see him often. I do expect he’ll behave after this. But why do you ask?”

Shouto frowned, leaning in closer. “Support maintains the equipment logs.”

It was the same at the Pink Riot agency too. “I—well, yes, but—”

“I should like to be there when you go to support,” Shouto said, catching your eye. His expression shifted into something solemn, his mouth a flat line.

You waved your hand dismissively. “I appreciate it, but don’t worry. He’s not gonna do anything, it’s literally just logs—”

“I must insist,” Shouto said again, his tone soft but unmistakably firm. His fingers flexed tightly where they rested on the edge of the table, the knuckle of his index turning white.

Despite yourself, his concern warmed you, that hot, tingly feeling heating your ears again.

“I really would be okay,” you said. “But if it means something—I’ll wait until tomorrow when you get here?”

Shouto nodded. “I would like that very much.”

A smile teased at your mouth. Now that was stereotypical alpha behavior, much as you appreciated his concern. Suzuki wasn’t going to jump you over a log file in a workplace—especially not after Mina had taken him to task. Shouto’s concern was unnecessary, but so very typical of an alpha. It felt familiar, like Kirishima’s brand of protectiveness over his tight knit agency, you thought. Harmless and well-intentioned.

A tray being placed on your table cut off any response you might have given, and your eyes blew wide as you registered the amount of food on it. Your mouth dropped open when a second tray was placed alongside the first one, the cafe worker smiling down at Shouto before she left, clearly recognizing him.

Shouto looked down at the food, his features arranged in minute shock.

“I do not remember ordering this…” he said, glancing at his receipt slip. You watched as his eyebrows furrowed slightly, that crease appearing between them again as his eyes flickered over the order. Then he cut himself off, those long eyelashes fluttering. “I… apologize.”

Apologize? Meaning, he had ordered this?

“You bought all this?” you asked, floored.

Shouto gave a tight nod. “It… would seem so.”

Your gaze picked over the trays again. They were piled high with at least six sandwiches, several pastries, a takeout container of soup, four different kinds of cookies, two fruit cups, and a handful of the granola bars they kept by the register. It was a literal mountain of food, and you sort of doubted even a pro hero could put that much away in one sitting.

“If you were so hungry we could have come down so much earlier,” you insisted, but Shouto’s embarrassed expression only deepened.

“It is… not for me,” he said slowly. It looked like it pained him to admit it.

You blinked, drawing back in your seat. “It’s…..me?”

Shouto nodded seriously.

A shocked laugh leapt out of you, bright and pleased. “Shouto, I was hungry but this is like, eleven meals!”

“You will have leftovers, then,” Shouto replied, sounding embarrassed. The tips of his ears were red where they peeked through his mop of multicolored hair.

You were so suddenly, utterly charmed by him, a splash of warmth pooling in your stomach, flooding through your limbs. You had absolutely no idea what had possessed him to do this, but it was undeniably sweet. Coupled with the easy way he’d let you take the lead on the investigation, and the way he’d moved to protect you on Friday night—it all painted a portrait of a very good, very kind sort of person.

You’d really lucked into a good partnership. You were grateful.

“Thank you, Shouto,” you said sincerely. A hint of a flush colored his high cheekbones, and he nodded.

You decided not to press him anymore, setting aside your speculation for when he’d gone. Instead, you unearthed your requested sandwich from the mound of food, and selecting a pastry at random. Shouto watched you as you bit into your food, a strange sort of intensity in his gaze.

Eventually, however, he took his own food, and the two of you chatted as you ate, moving on from the case to discuss his patrol, your shared friends, and a slew of other silly topics. You found him just as easy to talk to outside of case work—he had the same straightforward way of approaching life as he did his casework, his outlook consummately honest and thoughtful.

You regretted it when Shouto eventually had to excuse himself for patrol, but not before disappearing and reappearing with a takeout containers and a bag for all the things he’d ordered you, which he carefully but insistently packed away, before putting in front of you with a meaningful look.

You laughed again, taking the bag from him as you got up to make your way back upstairs as well.

“Thank you for lunch,” you told him, trying to convey how sincerely grateful you were. “I’m looking forward to our partnership.” You stuck out your hand to him, smiling up at him.

Shouto’s expression didn’t change much, but his mismatched gaze grew warmer where it rested on you. “As am I,” he said, tone soft.

Long fingers curled around yours, and for a moment you felt that same, weak-kneed desire to collapse against him as you had on Friday. It took an inordinate amount of focus to pump his hand in a handshake, and even more willpower to let him go.

You waved him off, and watched him go, feeling a strange sense of emptiness as that broad back disappeared through the door. In just a few short hours, it seemed, Todoroki Shouto had dug himself a comfortable little spot in your heart—far deeper than a case partner should have.

You ruminated on this as you made your way back upstairs, mind running over the events of the last few days. You couldn’t figure out why Shouto was having a weirder effect on you than any other alpha, even accounting for his unearthly good looks, nor why he seemed to be equally lost today—ordering a zillion things without even realizing he’d done so.

As you made your way back to your desk and cracked open the case file again, you resolved to solve this mystery as well. You were good at getting to the bottom of things—and Todoroki Shouto would be no exception.

[remxedmoon]

“shadowy figures appeared before you. apparitions, memories of what once was. reminders of who you’re fighting for. are they your true family, or merely wearing their visage?”

[twohats spoilers below the cut!]

DEATHCARDS!!! WOOO!! that leshy quote isn’t entirely set in stone yet, btw. i made these for a king boss fight i’m working on so realistically he’d be the one narrating? but eh. it’s fun to write in leshy’s voice. anyways, hopefully this won’t be too long?? i’ve got way less design notes this time around, but there’s also 6 cards here and i’m not very succinct. sorry in advance!!

siffrin

2 power - 2 health - 5 bones

loose tail - when a card bearing this sigil would be struck, a tail is created in its place and a card bearing this sigil moves to the right. a tail is defined as: 0 power, 2 health.

steel trap - when a card bearing this sigil perishes, the creature opposing it perishes as well. a pelt is created in your hand.

GOD it was hard to come up with sigils for this one. since these are boss exclusive cards, i had a pretty limited pool to work with… hopefully this is still fitting

loose tail is the closest i could get to a sigil that avoids death, since sigils like unkillable and many lives were off the table. plus, there’s kinda a connection with him not valuing his own life?? and sacrificing a part of himself? i think it works

steel trap!! this sigil is exclusive to the trapper boss fight! since summoned cards (like chimes and tails) inherit sigils, their tail card will also kill whatever’s in front of it when it’s destroyed! sort of a “taking you down with me” situation.

mirabelle

2 power - 5 health - 3 blood

swapper - after a card bearing this sigil is dealt damage, swap its power and health.

swapper!! this is an act 3 sigil exclusive to swapbot! ahhhhhhhh i had such a hard time trying to figure out another card design for her. i REALLY liked the bellist sigil for her and didn’t really have any other ideas. swapper felt like it fit with the change belief to me! and it also makes her a pretty terrifying card to go up against. since this is a boss card, that cost is basically entirely for show lol

ALT CARD ART!!! YIPEE!! literally all i did was flip her eyes to look angry lol. swapbot’s sprite changes when it swaps so i think hers would too!

isabeau

2 power - 4 health - 2 blood

dam builder - when a card bearing this sigil is played, a dam is created on each empty adjacent space. a dam is defined as: 0 power, 2 health.

fledgling - a card bearing this sigil will grow into a more powerful form after 1 turn on the board.

dam builder feels like a very defensive sigil to me, and it synergizes well with fledgling!! after a turn, isabeau will be doing 5 damage across 3 lanes! good god.

odile

1 power - 2 health - 2 blood

trifurcated strike - a card bearing this sigil will strike each opposing space to the left and right of the spaces across from it as well as the space in front of it.

sharp quills - once a card bearing this sigil is struck, the striker is then dealt a single damage point.

this was the HARDEST card to think up, and probably the weakest out of the bunch imo. i think i really nailed her regular card and i just. couldn’t come up with anything. agonies

i picked trifurcated strike as a reference to her being able to use all three craft types, and sharp quills… i think because of her aversion to touch? i think. it’s been a while since i made these aaaaa

bonnie

1 power - 1 health - 1 blood

waterborne - a card bearing this sigil submerges itself during its opponent's turn. while submerged, opposing creatures attack its owner directly.

leader - creatures adjacent to a card bearing this sigil gain 1 power.

if yall remember the notes on my kid card, this is based on the beta version of that card!! which means that for once i’m not putting bonnie through the torments. hooray!

waterborne is there because they always stay out of danger during battles! plus they’re from a coastal town so it fits on that front as well. i didn’t really think about the actual sigil names for cards this time around but hey! it’s a nice bonus!

the beta card had trinket bearer, but that’s a sigil that would only benefit the player in battle, so i swapped it out with leader! since they can’t be directly attacked, this basically makes them a permanent alpha on the king’s side of the field. also, leader, snack leader, it fits namewise as well!

loop

2 power - 1 health - 4 bones

haunter - when a creature bearing this sigil dies, it haunts the space it died in. creatures played in this space gain its old sigils.

bifurcated strike - A card bearing this sigil will strike each opposing space to the left and right of the space across from it.

“i’m normal about inscryption” i say as i give one of my cards a sigil that only appears in the completely missable rulebook of grimmora’s segment of the finale.

so. haunter! the aforementioned grimmora sigil! this appears on no cards ingame, but cmon. it fits. this sigil reminded me of how loop reacts when you guess that they’re a ghost! in battle, i imagine that siffrin will always get played right behind loop. because twohats

bifurcated strike was added here for the same reason it’s on their normal card! it feels like scissors craft!! i needed them to actually have A Sigil to transfer to siffrin and this felt the most fitting to me.

also, just like the normal cards, siffrin and loop are both the only ones to have a bone cost instead of blood cost! teehee :333

and i think that’s it! i’m not making inhabited versions of these cards because they aren’t meant to be accessible outside of the king fight! also! hi! i drafted this post and wrote siffrin’s segment: almost a month ago! oops!! i kept putting this off… at least it’s actually written out now lol. hope you guys enjoy!!!

[504py]

Candlelight and Calluses - Knight!Leon Kennedy/Reader

A particularly unruly thunderstorm begs you to ask your knight to stay by your bedside, just for a little bit.

i see quite a bit of bodyguard leon fics so i always thought he'd fit into a knight au rather well. art by me!!

Historical inaccuracies, I'm terrible at old-timey speak LOL, reader referred to as "my lady" but no other gendered terms or descriptors besides that, no use of Y/N, relationship is dubious so this could be seen as platonic, romantic, or however you'd like.

1, 2, 3

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It seemed like life would continue like normal after your former knight was discharged for stealing from your mother, and Leon came to replace him. He definitely feels more trained, more skilled, more refined, someone very reliable, so you can see how he was hired so quickly.

Somehow, you just can't get used to his presence, though.

You see him at very scheduled times of day. He sleeps in a room close to yours, mother said its safer to have him closer at night in case someone breaks in. If you're awake early enough, you can catch him leaving his room. You see him training in the courtyard through the window you pass by when you head to the kitchen. He always escorts you to your bedroom and says goodnight when you decide to call it a day, and stays posted near your door for a few minutes, before retreating to his own for the night.

Tonight, you ask him to stay just a little longer. Rainy days never really bothered you, but the thunder today was particularly bad. It was painfully loud and booming, each strike and roar making you flinch in the anticipation that the ceiling might cave in on you any moment and swallow you whole. You knew he was there to protect you, that's the main reason he was here, but your cheeks burned at the loss of your pride when you give him your request.

His expression, illuminated by the lantern in his hand and highlighting the sharp planes of his visage, is slightly different than usual at your query. His dark eyebrows are slightly raised, the frown on his lips not as deep as it usually is. His eyes are softer.

"Of course, my lady."

You head inside your bedroom, your sight settling on your nightwear set on your bed by one of your maids. You turn to Leon, asking that he leave while you change, but his back is already turned to you. You figure he got the hint, and you undress.

He's listening intently to the sounds of cloth shuffling, till he hears your weight dip your mattress, "Have you finished dressing, my lady?"

"Yes, I'm all done." You reply. Your voice is weaker than usual, perhaps scared that the thunderstorm will hear, and a crackling boom will respond, instead of Leon.

He turns back to you, seeming to pause for a moment, thinking of what to do. You've never seen him do that, perhaps this situation is new to him. That thought makes your face warm in shame.

"I... Shall I stay in the room, or shall I stay at my post, milady?" His voice is quieter than it usually is, too. Admittedly, it's a little hard to hear each other with how loud the rain is.

"If... If it would be alright, Sir Leon, could you stay by the side of my bed? Just until the storm subsides. I'd hate to keep you here for too long."

"It is no trouble to me, my lady, I promise."

He makes his way over to you, confidence in each step despite being so unfamiliar with such a strange, intimate request.

"...You can grab that chair by my vanity, Sir Leon, you don't have to stand."

He obliges, grabbing said chair and setting it by your bed.

He's dressed in a simple cream-colored linen blouse and trousers. You can see his neck. You breathe out a laugh realizing that this is probably the first time you've ever seen it. He wonders what you find amusing. You rarely ever see him without any armor on, maybe just a glimpse when he leaves his room in the morning, and even when he's not in full steel plating, he's usually donning chainmail.

"...Is it heavy?" You mumble, drowsily.

"What is, my lady?"

"The armor you wear. Is it heavy, Sir Leon?"

"Well... Not particularly, milady, but perhaps I've just gotten used to it. It does get hot, though."

"Mm..." You hum, "Always wanted to try it on, always wondered what it was like... I know mother and father won't let me, though." You chuckle.

Leon smiles a little, maybe the first time you've seen him do so. "Maybe I'll let you try on my helmet someday, milady."

"Really?" The drowsy smile you send him makes him feel warmer, "That'd be nice... I always thought the armor you knights wore looked so fashionable." Your eyes close.

He laughs slightly, and the sound is clearer now. Without realizing, the storm had passed, and you feel at ease. Leon waits a little longer, counting your breaths and seeing if your eyes will open again. He thinks the way your eyelashes rest against your cheeks look beautiful.

"Sir Leon?" You mumble, barely legible.

"Yes, milady?"

"Have a good night..." You add, before dozing off.

"You as well, my lady. Good night."

He waits a few minutes more, like he usually does when he escorts you to your door. He's never watched you sleep before, despite this being part of his nightly routine. He wishes a little more that thunderstorms would happen more habitually so he could do this more often.

Leon gets up, and quietly places your chair back to your vanity. He returns to take his lantern from your bedside table, and he pauses, watching you for a few beats more, before retreating to his bedroom for the night.

"...Calling me just Leon would be fine." He ends, with a whisper of your name.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

[oozedninjas]

RED NIGHT

Summary: Their encounter is brief, but it leaves an indelible mark on him. What begins as a fascination with kindness and beauty takes a haunting turn.

WARNINGS: NSFW / Dark content / +18 / Stalker!Raph /masturbation/descriptions of blowjob (male receiving) / Xenobiology (descriptive) / light dirty talking/belly bulging (one mention) / suggestions of kidnapping / set from five-seven years after out of the shadows so he's in his mid or late twenties

The image is a beautiful piece of art, courtesy of @thejudiciousneurotic 🖤 go check it out!

It was stupid to think he could be seen as anything more than a monster, especially through the hateful eyes of humankind: Judging, ungrateful, suspicious, casting glances bolted with a sick tone of curiosity, and some twisted kind of surprise. Despite whatever acceptance they enjoyed at the beginning, some Police officers still cling to their reservations. And those are the ones that hang heavier over Raph's shoulders. 

The staring is the worst. It produces an eerie sensation, one that simmers in his veins like a boiling toxin, equally choking as electrifying, and Raphael knows, deep in the marrow of his bones, that he has to draw a breath or risk losing control.

Heroes don’t lash out, Raph reminds himself as he climbs up the ladder out of the lair. They smile, protect, comfort. All things that physically squeeze his guts. Especially because he has to force himself to be nice after their prying eyes. It’s beyond sickening and yet, he understood. After all, in or out of the shadows, hero or vigilante, a mutant’s still a mutant. 

He spots you first before standing under the streetlight and signaling. The light is scratchy some nights more than the looks themselves, but wrapped in Halloween’s safety, he figured it wouldn’t matter if you see him. 

Raph watches as you take off your helmet, powering off the colorful motorbike. Then, as he stands before you, you bestow upon him the sweetest, most beautiful of smiles. Your visage radiates warmth, and your demeanor tranquility.

"Wow, dude you look great!" you gush in a friendly tone.

It takes him by surprise, so much he runs out of words briefly.

"Uh... Thanks," he mutters, chastising himself inwardly.

Cringing at his own awkwardness, Raph accepts the pizza box, offering the money with his free hand. You place your hand atop his, gently pushing the money back with a smirk.

"Hot guys don’t pay tonight."

His heart pounds within his chest, tummy twisting in a pleasant way. The outlines of a smirk peek through his face, his gaze gleaming with his usual bravado.

You smile. Raphael grins back. The radio on the bike snarls your name, Where are you? You're 15 minutes late for the next delivery!

"Well, duty calls," you remark, securing your helmet in place. "See you around, big guy!"

You strike a chord in him, awakening something so strong it's frightening, and from that moment on, Raphael is unable to shake you from his mind. Soon, thinking of you becomes a part of his everyday life. What things do you like? What would you think if someone like him were to flirt with you?

Repulsion.

A terribly cruel part whispers within him. Disgust, aversion, disdain when you find he wears no costume. Yet, you were kind the first time you met him. But it is your job to be, he reminds himself. That's why Raphael decides to spare himself the heartbreak by simply following you from the shadows. This way, he can see you, spend time with you, and, most importantly, he can protect you.

It takes him one or two days to discover how careless you are, forgetting to close windows, take out the trash, and get home before the area gangs demand payment for safe passage down your street. Ridiculous. He takes care of them in the blink of an eye. Perhaps being a little rougher than necessary, just to be sure.

Sometimes, he would stay watching from the neighboring roof - because you are careless enough not to close the curtains - as you get ready for bed. The memory of the softness of your touch on his hand hits him with bull force as you slide the shirt off. The skin on your torso looks impossibly smooth. But the way your underwear molds perfectly to your ass makes him almost unable to resist getting closer. To wait for you to fall asleep and take a direct look inside, letting your scent intoxicate him.

It wouldn’t harm anyone, would it? The question lingers as he contemplates entering your house while you're away. The idea flits through his mind for a couple of nights until one day, he convinces himself that it wouldn't disturb anyone if, while you're at work, he takes a peek.

—---

Your room is cramped for him, but not so much that he can't move. Upon entering, he heads straight to your room. With each advancing step, his gaze broadens, his smile widens, and the butterflies in his stomach grow wilder, craving to slide inside your space, to bask in the warmth of your bed. He pants, his crotch pulsing with the thought of breathing your scent directly from your sheets.

You weren't exactly neat, but he couldn't say you were as messy as he was either. A couple of shirts lay scattered on the bed, a few clothes strewn across the floor. He smiled affectionately, letting his eyes wander, as if he'd just uncovered a whole new chapter in his mental book about you; and he knew he'd have a hard time leaving. 

The dressers with your clothes were open, and then he saw it: the place where you keep your underwear. His uncertainty lingers briefly, a startled exhale escaping his lips. Then, unapologetically, he raises a pair of panties to his nose and breathes in. A low, guttural groan slips from his throat as he savors your scent.

An exquisite tickle runs from his chest to his lower belly, spreading hot weaves of craving through his veins. His dick twitches. If you were there, if for just a moment you could see him as something other than a monster, Raphael is certain you would smirk deviously, gaze stuck on him, starving for him. His breathing trembles as he presses one hand over his pants, pressing his cock gently. 

You’d place your hands over his plastron dragging them down slowly as your nails graced the surface of his pectoral area, trailing down to his abdomen. You bend down, never tearing your gaze off his face while urgently unzipping his pants to fist him.

A breathy gasp spurs from his mouth. He grips the base of his shaft stroking it just a bit to ease up the building need to fuck his fist. 

“What a pretty cock,” you’d say, rubbing his length gently, “bet I can make it come fucking hard.” 

You lick a stripe from the base to the tip, not even minding about the alien-looking of it:  huge by every human means, with two bulges growing from the base and attached to his shaft. You mouth him deliciously, trailing your tongue through the seminal ridges near his tip, which surely look to you like mobile skin folds. And you embrace it with your hot wet mouth like it’s luscious.

His hand is soaking with a hot slippery-transparent liquid seeping from his tip down into his dick, pooling into his hand as he uses it to lube himself more. He quickens the pace of his hand as he pictures you bobbing your head up and down, your pretty mouth around him velvety soft. 

His breaths quiver.  

“So fucking tasty. Wanna drink you down, babe. Give me everything,” you sound drunk-like, and he can’t help the loud moan. 

Fuck— agh, fuck…

Raphael pants as he slowly comes down from his peak, enjoying the last bits of blissful spasms inside his lower belly. His cock yet throbbing in his closed fist. 

—--

After meticulously erasing all traces of his presence and stashing the ruined underwear somewhere within his attire, Raph slips out of your apartment quietly, feeling so empty it wrecks him, but It's better this way. It's better to indulge in the fantasy that you’d want him than to face the harsh, cold reality where you'd scream at the realization that his skin isn't just a costume.

However, the first drawback of fantasies is that they can be addictive. The second is that they can lead you to do things you wouldn't do in your right mind, like keeping some of your stuff for himself. It’s really not that bad, is it? He’s not stealing from you, it’s more like a long term loan. 

It is way more comfortable to envision yourself from the comfort of his bed, spacious enough to snugly fit him. So, what harm could it do if he takes along some things with your scent? A couple of pillows, a bit of perfume, some shampoo, and a few bedclothes here and there; so that when he takes a deep breath from them, it's easier to see you there, stuffed with his cum as he keeps thrusting inside you, your belly bulging from fitting his size as your squirm, moaning for him, dripping on him, deliciously begging for more. 

When he returns to your apartment, the window is closed. Bolted shut with a small metal bar. How odd. You never do that, and you don’t have to; he's always in the neighborhood, guarding to ensure no harm comes to you. Do you have something to fear?

—---

You start drawing the curtains, coming home earlier, adopting a less predictable routine that he struggles to follow. It's annoying. Very annoying. And then it happens: some stupid ass gang attacks you. At least, that's what he can hear through the wall as you narrate the incident to someone over the phone.

You walked down a dark alley, far from the area Raph had cleared for you, as lately, you've felt like someone's been watching you on your way home.

He feels a stab in his stomach after hearing that, but nothing as paralyzing as seeing you bleed from your temple. It is a clean, swift wound, maybe from a knife. You cry: raw, desperate, so nerve-wracking it’s unbearable.  

Raphael leaps from rooftop to rooftop, seeing nothing but red. When the frenzy of rage and bloodlust finally subsides, there's nothing left but a bunch of guys with torn jackets sprawled all over the place. They're not dead, but they won't feel alive for a very, very long time.

He stands there silently recognizing he'll have to deal with the consequences of his outburst as Leo would know, because of course he would, he'll jump to that conclusion. And sure, Donnie would back him up. He can't afford such indulgences when he's supposed to be there for you, when everything could culminate in his brothers forbidding him to do so.

He wishes he could keep you away from where your erratic behavior might harm you; he wishes he could just take you with him—  Raphael gasps. That's it! He'd take you with him; if he explained the situation, you'd surely understand. You'd be safer at the lair.

With a grin on his face, he heads back to your apartment. The rain that lashed the city that night helped him wash away most of the bloodstains on his skin. He reaches your apartment in a blink of an eye. He peeks through the living room window. The silhouette of your figure on the floor tells him you're in the bedroom.

He taps the window to get your attention. You seem troubled, and he knows that if you see him hanging like a Sewer monster outside your window, you won't let him in. So Raphael hides once more, circling around to reach your bedroom window from the back, and he waits, his eyes on the sky and his bicep against the window. The rain pours heavily. He waits. Then, a lightning bolt streaks across the sky. Next, the thunder, and as it crashes, Raphael rams the window, masking the sound of the latch snapping open.

The lights go out. The floor creaks under his weight. The sound freezes you. You seem to shrink further into yourself as you tremble. His heavy steps echo in the room. The emergency light kicks in at that moment: dim and red, just enough to cast his reflection on the glass before you. You bring your hands to your mouth, stifling a scream. Your tear-filled eyes stare at him through the glass, paralyzed, utterly terrified. 

Shh, no, you don’t have to be afraid, silly. Don't you know he's here to protect you?

[prickly-paprikash]

One of my favorite things about Denis Villeneuve's style is how utterly masterful he is at subtle storytelling. Using the visuals to tell a tale that, even when you don't figure it out explicitly, one feels it immediately.

In Dune Part 1, my favorite form of this is at the very beginning when the Herald of the Change arrives to formalize the transition of Arrakis' ownership from the Harkonnens to the Atreides. The procession is full of pomp and posturing, with the Herald speaking in this loud, bombastic voice just to announce what is already a given, and Leto responds with his own spectacle—the armies of Atreides, chanting as one. It's all a show, since at this point House Atreides has been commanded by the Emperor. The contract is a legal formality; the costly procession on Caladan was (un)necessary showmanship. In the books, showing off the illusion of power and authority is vital in maintaining this cruel, unyielding power system, and without bringing mention of it, the film shows this off too. Then, once the Duke has sealed the form with his signet ring, everything just... drops.

Leto looks at the Herald in the eye, and asks, "So, it's done?"

And just as Leto replied to the grandiose display of the Emperor, the Herald now replies with the levity the situation truly deserves.

"It's done."

Both the Herald and the Duke know what this truly is. It's not a reward. It's not a show of love. The Herald, at this moment, is looking at a dead man walking. Millions of their currency sunk into this process, barely five minutes in total, and all to simply declare it all "done."

You can even feel a sense of satisfaction from the Herald.

The Emperor, in his paranoia and envy, guided the hand of the Atreides into a trap. And the Atreides know it is their doom, but they have no choice. They are popular and loved by the Great Houses, but they are bound by honor. And bound by might.

And all of this, narrowed down into one brilliant scene.

Once again, this subtle, visual storytelling is in full display in Part 2, and my favorite by far happens on Giedi Prime.

The Bene Gesserit Sister, Lady Margot Fenring (who is also a Lady of her own House in the books), watches on as one of their prospects, Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha engages in ritual combat for his birthday. Afterwards, in a hallway lit by only the fireworks outside, she stalks the Harkonnen heir, and Feyd catches on immediately.

Here's the thing: barring other Sisters of the Bene Gesserit, Paul Atreides, and some very gifted Mentat Assassins—you will never know if a Sister of the Order is stalking you. From the beginning, she had wanted to be caught by him. A lure. A tantalizing bait, perfectly designed to entrap the feral Feyd.

And he sinks in immediately.

Here is where my favorite visual storytelling comes into play.

In the hallway, we begin with a fully covered Margot. She is veiled completely in shadow, with the oil fireworks illuminating only her visage.

Next, Feyd strikes and holds his blade to her neck, revealing her face. But only her face.

Slowly, the scene shows off little by little her skin. In the hall, I believe the most we see is her throat, and I could be mistaken. The light flashes erratically, and we see her the way Feyd must see her.

In the shadows, a threat. In the brief sparks of light, a curiosity.

And when Margot confuses him, leading him to the Guest Wing where she stays, the light fully shows her off. She's still in formal clothing, but now we see her dress. It reveals a plunging neckline that barely shows off the top of her chest. Her top is sleeveless, showing off her shoulders and the soft musculature of her arms. In the dark, we could clearly see her wearing a veil that covered her body.

And the light mimics her, stripping away and revealing something beautiful. Irresistible, especially to Feyd, who despite his high intelligence and skill, is just as brutal and animalistic as his uncle and brother. All three so easily give in to their vice, and Feyd is no different.

He is allured by her. He lusts after her.

And all this without a word hinting towards sex in their entire shared dialogue.

Just the use of light, shadow, and body to tell a story.

Afterwards, Margot speaks to the Reverend Mother and Princess Irulan, revealing that she has secured a child from Feyd in her womb, which again without saying anything specific immediately shows that the Sisters have such power over their own bodies that they can ensure fertilization and have complete knowledge over their pregnancy. They even control what sex the child will be, as alluded to in Dune Part 1 when Jessica, out of the love she had for Leto and his desire for a son, rebelled against the Bene Gesserit's orders and sired a male.

Again, without info-dumping, we immediately understand that this religious order engages in Eugenics, and uses sex, fanaticism, and more to control the Great Houses.

Please watch Dune. Please read Dune.

[bloodmoonmuses]

gardenia (can't get you)- jeong jaehyun

warnings: slight body horror (mentions of bones, dismemberment as a metaphor), mentions of death, stalking

genre: florist!jaehyun x gn reader, mystery, drabble (one thousand words)

summary: jaehyun can't seem to get you out of his system.

The hairs on the back of your neck stick up and you know he’s watching you, as he had been for the past week or so, but you needed the energetic confirmation, to be in close proximity enough to feel his gaze descend upon you. You knock the slurry of snow and mud off your boots, bones chilled to the marrow, as you trudge down the sidewalk. 

Jeong Jaehyun. Florist. Botanist. Rumored mad scientist. The folklore shrouding him had gotten so wild, so absurd, that you’re not sure what’s true anymore; the most tame of the stories being that he goes by a fake name and the craziest being that he uses human remains to fertilize his flowers. A thicket of lies and convoluted jokes sputtered over drinks at the occasional after-work rendezvous. 

And you had passed his flower shop so many times, blissfully unaware of the intrigue that lay inside it, that it’s almost funny. An unassuming place really, with its chipped paint and signs scrawled with chalk- if anything, you’d have called it charming. Now, the sign that reads “J’s Flowers & Stationery” sends a shiver down your spine. 

Seven days ago, last Sunday, you had caught Jaehyun peeking at you through his blinds, his apartment window directly across from yours. At the time, you had written it off as having an active imagination- you hadn’t been getting much sleep lately. That was until he appeared at the grocery store. Then the dog park. And the post office. Each time vanishing as quickly as he had materialized. 

Surely it was just a coincidence, you had thought to yourself, stretching the truth in an attempt at assuaging your anxiety. He lives in the neighborhood and you hadn’t noticed him before. But when he starts appearing at your place of employment, glimpses of him flashing during your lunch break or as you leave the office, you knew the run-ins were intentional.

And thus here you are, parading around his establishment under the guise of searching for Gardenias, which Jaehyun tells you are not in season.

“Perhaps a Primrose or Pansy bouquet would tickle your fancy?” he asks. In lieu of words, you simply stare back at the man, eyes as icy as your fingertips currently are. “Who’s it for?”

You deny him the satisfaction of hearing your voice, an unearned reward for a man with a habit of stalking his neighbors. He’s probably aching for it, you figure- imagining what pitch and cadence your voice contains. 

So you give him one word to work with- not even a “hello” or “how’s your day”-  just “Gardenia". 

The word is clipped and curt as it escapes you, bouncing off the hollow walls with an unsettling warble. Jaehyun stands in the middle of the shop, a splotch of darkness surrounded by bright blooms, and the two of you wade in the uncomfortable silence, each passing minute a wave that jostles you just so. A stalemate of sorts, giving you an opportunity to drink up his visage.

The clashing of dark and light features make Jaehyun striking- stark even. Dark: his eyes, his hair, his clothes. Light: his fingers, deft and tactful, the linen fabric he’s clad in, his smile, airy and slight. 

The hunter is now predator and prey. You dissect him  with your eyes, dismembering his form; His twitching nose, his red ears, his nervous hands. The lines have been blurred. Who will break first? Bite first. Draw blood. And it’s a dance, a routine between the two of you, the way you walk in and deny him of everything except the word Gardenia. Its meaning morphs as it floats between the two of you, sweeter each time it graces your tongue. 

Monday: “Gardenias,” you mutter as a bell rings upon your entrance. 

Jaehyun’s eyes focus on the movement of your lips, licking his own in quiet hunger. “Yes, Gardenias.”

Tuesday. “Gardenia?” Jaehyun says before you can breathe out your one word greeting. He says it as though it’s your name. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, revealing a dimple.

Wednesday. Instead of a placard denoting an empty section of flowers as “Gardenias”, Jaehyun has replaced the small chalk sign with your name. “For when they’re in season,” he states.

Thursday. Jaehyun gives you a postcard with watercolor Gardenias adorning the front of it. His eyes are soft as he slides the paper across the counter. You wonder if he painted them himself.

Friday. Slowly, you’ve stopped looking over your shoulder every few minutes. In a twisted way, you look forward to seeing him. You shake off the feeling while quickening your pace to reach him before the shop closes for the evening. (An hour early on Fridays.) The bell rings and Jaehyun doesn’t even turn around. He just says, “Gardenia?” Again, like it’s your name. Your heart swells and you fight to temper the feeling.

“Stop following me,” you bite, finally breaking the week-long stalemate. Finally fed up with this game of passcode. At this, Jaehyun turns around, meeting your eyes with little hesitation, and you’re lost in the dark abyss of his, endless and vast.

Keys in hand, he walks up to the door in front of which you’re standing, the closest he’s ever been to you. His breath fans over your face as he leans into you, lips grazing the shell of your ear. He smells of smoke and cinnamon.

“Okay,” Jaehyun whispers, his deep timbre rattling your core. Then, without another word, he exits the shop, locking the door behind the two of you and vanishing into the night. 

You walk in the opposite direction, turning on the kitchen light after entering your apartment. 

Waiting on your dining room table, in a pristine bouquet wrapped in brown paper, is a bunch of Gardenias, so white and sterile that they look fake. They’re ice cold to the touch and slightly damp as if they’d been thawing from a frozen state. Instinctually, you look over your shoulder, jerking your head with such force that it hurts, only to find your own shadow. 

Beside the bouquet lays a note that simply reads: “J.” The dead of winter howls outside your window like a wounded puppy as you throw the flowers away. 

You never see Jaehyun again.

a/n: thx for reading, feedback is always appreciated! <3

[wildechildwrites]

Bodice Ripper

Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: 18+, noncon, kidnapping, violence, oral, masturbation

No use of Y/N

Summary: You, the princess of an unnamed kingdom, are attending a masquerade ball. You get kidnapped by a man in a skull mask with unclear intentions.

A/N: I got too caught up into the nuances of political kidnappings which is crazy because I really just wanted to write some bodice ripping smut but the social implications of being ravished were too detrimental to your fake life that I couldn't commit to it fully

AO3 Link: Bodice Ripper

18+

The gown you’re wearing is decadent, layers of pearlescent pink silk flowing around you, your shoulders bare, your waist tightly cinched. You’re wearing your mother’s best diamonds, glinting prettily in the hollow of your throat. The mask obscuring your face matches your dress, delicately resting on your nose bridge. 

The ballroom around you is lush with wealth, thousands of candles illuminating the space, rich tapestries covering the walls. Couples spin in the center of the room, and laughter fills the space. The masquerade is the event of the season, everyone decked out in finery. The prince is here, somewhere amongst the masked guests, and you’re determined to find him. Your country is small, but powerful, and there have been whispers of an engagement, an advantageous love match between you and the young dauphin. You survey the scene, looking for a familiar figure.

The man who catches your attention is massive, wrapped in a black burial shroud. His face is entirely obscured by a skull mask, the very visage of death. It's a horrible costume, brutal in a way that makes it striking, sticking out from the soft splendor of the rest of the crowd. He’s standing completely still, a harsh juxtaposition from the revelers milling about, and his eyes are unmistakably fixed upon you. A chill runs down your spine, and fear makes you turn away from his cold gaze.

A young man approaches you and asks for a dance, and you quickly recognize him as one of the sons of a duke your father often goes hunting with. He’s a fine enough dancer, despite his clammy hands, and you allow him to twirl you about, temporarily forgetting your unease. Your eyes catch on another man, tall and slender, dressed in velvety royal purple, and smile to yourself. The prince certainly hasn’t made the sport a difficult one. You detach yourself from your partner, politely making your excuses.

When you cross paths with the prince, you let your fan slip out of your hand. He smiles brightly at you, before leaning down to pick it up. His mask does little to hide his handsome face.

“You dropped this, madam.” He says, returning your fan to you with a gallant, slightly pompous, bow. When you reach for it, he captures your gloved hand in his, softly bringing it to his lips. 

“Thank you, your highness,” you say, dropping your eyes and curtseying appropriately.

“I believe you have mistaken me for someone else,” he responds, his voice playful. “But if you’ll do me the honor of dancing with me, I will attempt to behave as princely as I am capable.” 

You’d be a fool to think you’ve captured his full attention, and you ignore the way your dance partner's eyes stray hungrily away from yours. You know what’s expected of you, what is expected of him. True fealty from the future king is an unachievable goal, one you have no interest in. This is what you’re meant for, the duty that has been hammered in since you were a child. Resources and connections for your father’s kingdom, the admiration and envy of the court. The prince talks about his own accomplishments, the hunting he’s done recently and his skills with a blade. Your eyes flit almost unconsciously around the room while he speaks, looking for the terrifying specter from earlier, but the man that had frightened you is nowhere to be seen. You let yourself unwind, getting lost in the music and the prince’s eyes.  

You dance a few waltzes before the prince excuses himself. “I promised I’d play cards with the duke,” he says, his eyes following an earl’s daughter across the room. You curtsey sweetly, murmuring the appropriate tittering phrases, and you two part ways. The room is warm, and you head towards the balcony, desperately in need of some fresh air and solitude.

Outside, the terrace is deserted, and you’re grateful for the momentary peace. Music filters through the open doors, the sound of conversation muted to a dull hum. You sigh quietly. The gardens beyond are dark, but the moon is shining brightly. You stare up at the stars, picking out constellations. A branch snaps, just out of sight, and you stiffen, peering into the dark. 

“Is there someone there?” You call. 

The only response is the quiet chirping of crickets. 

You’re uneasy, hairs standing on end. Turning back, you yearn for the crowded safety of the ballroom.

The man in the skull mask stands between you and the french doors, and you let out a gasp. You grapple for your manners, trying to regain control of the situation.

“I–I apologize, sir, you startled me.” You say. The stranger makes no answer, taking a step closer to you. You step back. He takes another step. His eyes are cold, locked on yours as he advances. 

“You’re behaving most uncouthly.” Your tone is demeaning, but it makes no difference, not seeming to register as the man takes another step, closing in on you.

“You can’t– You’re not supposed to–” your composure cracks, adrenaline coursing through your veins. He reaches for you, and you evade his grasp, whirling around to run into the gardens. 

You hike your skirts up, uncaring of modesty, sprinting as fast you can through the darkness. Branches scrape at your skin as you dodge around them, trying to put distance between you and your pursuer. You hear him behind you, loud footfalls drawing closer and closer. Lungs burning, you desperately try to breathe around your tightly laced corset. There’s a hedge maze on the grounds, and if you could just get away from him–

You yelp when he lunges for you, tackling you roughly into the dirt. Your gloves rip, your palms and elbows aching from the impact, but you struggle against the weight on your back. You throw your head back hard, smashing the back of your skull into his nose, and are rewarded by a string of oaths, half of which you've never heard before, falling from the stranger’s mouth. His large, thick fingers wrap around your throat, pinning you in place. 

“Stay still,” the man snarls. He’s breathing heavily, voice raspy. His accent is thick and distinctively english. 

Something hard is pressed into your back, and you fearfully wonder if the man is armed. When he grinds his hips against yours,  a cold trickle of realization hits you. Your parents had kept you largely in the dark about what happens between men and women, but you had heard the whispered stories of the servants, the tittering of married friends. Horror stories about highway men and rapers. Your maidenhead is the only thing of any real value that you have, and you renew your struggles even as he keeps you pinned. 

“Get off of me!” You shriek, and the man freezes, as though caught off guard, before pushing himself off of you. He lets out a string of curses, before grabbing your arms and roughly pulling you up. 

He reaches up and pulls the mask off your face, drinking in your features hungrily. You stare at each other for a heartbeat.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, trembling. Your words seem to reset him, and he straightens up, towering over you. He’s massive, broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight, his costume sending a chill down your spine.

“It's not what I want from you, princess. It's what I want from your father. What you’re going to help me get from him.” he replies coldly. “The people are starving. Not that you’d even notice, hm?” He’s hurting you, his grip almost crushing, shaking you as he speaks. “Your father and that bastard of a prince don’t care about the common folk’s struggles.” 

“What exactly do you expect me to do about it?” you hiss, speaking before you have the sense to stop yourself, irritation rising. The man’s expression is impossible to read with the mask, but you think you’ve shocked him. “I have no claim, no real power. I do what I can, I feed the poor and donate to the church, but I do not write laws. I cannot influence my father’s decisions nor the prince’s.”

“You’re standing here, neck dripping with diamonds, telling me you’re powerless?” 

The aggravation in his voice scares you, but you forge on through gritted teeth. “I am merely a bauble and a future broodmare. You’d have better luck kidnapping one of my brothers. My father may not even condescend to pay whatever ransom you’ll demand, but you obviously didn’t plan this out quite well.” Your tone is frosty, haughty despite your terror.

He slaps you, hard, and you gasp in shock, tears welling in your eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me, princess.” He snarls. “Whether it’s money or your pretty little head on a spike, I’ll get what I want.” 

He pulls coarse rope from his cloak, binding your hands tightly, cutting into your delicate wrists. He heads into the darkness, dragging you behind him. You stumble in your heels, and he lets out an irritated sound before wordlessly throwing you over his shoulder. It’s as if you weigh nothing, and your face feels hot when his large hand presses against the back of your thighs, holding you steady. You can feel the warmth of him through the layers of fabric. You’re hyper aware of the indecency of it, your skin tingling.

The path isn’t lit, but his footsteps are confident. A horse snorts softly in the dark before the man suddenly puts you down, grabbing your bicep roughly. 

“Don’t move,” he says, his voice ice cold. You nod, too frightened to speak. The horse in front of you is beautiful, stormy gray and massive. He lets go of your arm and reaches into his cloak, procuring an apple. He offers it to the animal, whispering softly as he feeds it, petting its nose gently. You take a step back, trying to be subtle, and his head whips around. 

The man boosts you onto the horse, throwing himself on after you. You’re pressed against his chest, back flush against the hard planes of muscle as he urges the horse on, setting a quick pace. 

The horse is bigger than your own, stretching your legs uncomfortably wide, and you shift, quickly getting sore. Whatever is in his pocket is prodding into your lower back, and you wiggle your hips, trying to make yourself more comfortable with the limited space you have, when the man lets out a low noise in the back of his throat, a firm hand grabbing your waist.

“Quit squirmin’,” He grounds out. His voice sounds oddly strained, and you cease your movements immediately. You ride in silence for a few more moments. 

The path you're taking is unfamiliar, and curiosity wins over your reason.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask.

The man ignores you. Time passes, and you peer into the darkness, trying to spot any landmarks. Hopefully your absence has been noticed by your guards by now, and there are people looking for you. The night is cold, your arms covered in gooseflesh as you begin to shiver. Your captor wordlessly pulls you closer to his chest, wrapping the cloak he wears around your bare arms. You murmur a thank you automatically, and his grip on you tightens slightly.

“What's your name?” You ask softly. 

“It's Ghost,” the man replies after a moment. You feel a spike of irritation. 

“What’s your real name?” you ask, your tone slightly petulant.

“Why do you want it so bad, hm? Going to set your betrothed on me? If he’s not too busy whoremongering, maybe he’ll chop off my head.” His tone is mocking. “You’ll call me what I tell you to call me.” 

 You ride until dawn is breaking over the hill, coming upon a barn in the middle of a field. The surrounding countryside is unfamiliar, and you haven't seen any other houses or buildings for miles. You're exhausted and sore, body aching and stomach rumbling. Ghost stops short of the barn door, dismounting before pulling you into his arms in one fluid motion. You don’t resist as he carries you into the barn and places you with surprising gentleness on a pile of soft hay.

“I need to go feed and water the horse.” His voice is stern, a cruel bite to it that chills you. “There’s no one around us for miles. You've run from me once before and I caught you, if I have to chase you again I will punish you.” 

You stare up at him, trembling uncontrollably. There’s a beat of silence. He sighs, an almost wistful noise, before wordlessly leaving the barn. 

Your body is failing, the long horse ride and constant terror leaving you drained. You fight against unconsciousness, worried about what Ghost may do, but the hay is soft and sweet smelling, the barn warmer than the chill of the night.

Ghost finds you curled up on the hay, head cradled in your arms. He watches the soft movement of your breath pensively. The soft skin of your wrists is rubbed raw, angry beneath the ropes still holding them together. There’s a bruise forming on your cheek, and he’s sure that you’ve got more bruises hidden under your dress.

The concept had seemed so noble when the revolutionaries who hired him planned it. Distribute the ransom money amongst the poor, remind the monarchy of their own vulnerability. Standing in the dim light of the barn, confronted with a frightened girl and his own brutality, Ghost doesn’t feel noble. 

The desire that has been mounting since he had chased you down doesn't feel very noble either. 

Less of a man and more of a monster, he removes his mask and lowers himself on the hay beside you.

When you wake, you're laying on Ghost’s chest, hand curled in the tunic he wears. Your wrists are no longer tied, and he’s no longer wearing that horrible mask. Your face gets hot. He’s handsome but rough looking, light scars scattered across his face. There’s a smudge of dried blood under his crooked nose from when you headbutted him last night. You attempt to untangle yourself from him as gently as you can, scared of waking him. In response, his brow furrows, arms tightening around you unconsciously. You freeze and lie still, watching the shadows on the wall change as the sun rises, his heartbeat steady in your ear.

You can tell when Ghost finally wakes by the way his breathing changes. He pushes you off of him gently, and you feign sleep, listening to him move about. When the door of the barn creeps open and shut, you sit up and look around. It had been too dark before, but now you look around for any exits. There’s a loft, and you wonder if you could reach it before Ghost gets back. 

The mental image of him dragging you down after you’ve climbed up makes you reconsider the idea. 

You wonder if he can be bargained with. You knew how to play the game with men, how to simper and say the things they wanted to hear, and the game was much easier when they were attracted to you. You remember the way Ghost looked at you when he first ripped off your mask and heat rushes to your face as you begin to strategize.

When Ghost comes back inside, you’re standing, hands clasped behind your back and posture straight. You look more like you did when he first saw you, confident and blooming in the low light of the ballroom. The dirt on your face and gown do little to detract from your regal nature, and your eyes meet his without the fear from last night.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask, your voice clear and almost musical. 

He doesn’t respond, his gaze trailing down your figure, and you bite your lip, pushing down your trepidation and stepping towards him. The surprise in his expression is poorly masked, and he tilts his head, an unspoken question.

“I’m being paid a large amount of money to bring you to a revolutionists group.” He says frankly. He’s stalking closer to you, soft and slow, like a fox after a hare. You resist the urge to step back.

“Please Ghost,” you respond, eyes wide, letting your bottom lip tremble, “My father can pay more than what they’re offering. Whatever you ask, I will write a letter demanding it, and we can have a courier from the nearest town take it to the palace immediately.”

You close the gap between the two of you, gently reaching out and placing a hand on his chest, tilting your chin to look him in the eye. Your expression is soft and pleading, and you resist a shudder at the odd, predatory look quickly forming in his eyes. One of his hands shoots out, grabbing your wrist, keeping you trapped against him. 

“Are you trying to negotiate with me?” Ghost murmurs. The intense look on his face frightens you, and you take an abrupt step back, trying to pull away from his iron grip, realizing your judgment of him had been erroneous far too late. You’d been desired before, exchanged longing looks across ballrooms, swapped love tokens and letters, but no one had ever looked at you with such fierce hunger. 

“I–I’ll tell the king that you rescued me. That you heard my screams and saved me.” You feel the tables quickly turning against you. “I’ll get you whatever you want.”

He laughs, a dissonant sound against the grim set of his features. “What I want,” Ghost leans in, his voice dropping. “Is something I can’t have.” Your chests are nearly pressed together.

 “I have been fighting my baser nature since the moment I saw you.” The intensity in his eyes is overwhelming, his voice like velvet. 

“I don't care that you're a princess. I wish you were a shepherd’s daughter, then I'd have snuck you away to the woods to fuck you on the soft ferns while your father tends his flock.” 

No one has ever spoken to you in such a way. Heat fills you unexpectedly, but you rebel against the foreign sensations and growing need, tugging your wrist out of his grip.

“You can’t have me,” you say weakly. Ghost leans down, fisting his hand in your hair. You expect him to kiss you, but he uses his grip on you to pull your head to the side, exposing the smooth column of your throat. His breath is hot against your neck.

“Come now, princess. You expect me to believe that there have been no trysts with stable boys? I’m sure your beloved little prince has stolen a kiss or two. It’ll be our little secret.” His voice is a purr, and he places a delicate kiss right below your ear lobe. You tremble, gasping at the sensation.

 He huffs, amused, before sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin. You let out an indecent mewl, hands rising up to fist the front of the tunic he wears. Ghost pulls back, his eyes sparking with an avian intensity before capturing your lips with his.

The kiss is fierce, want shooting through you as you gasp against his mouth. His tongue sweeps against yours, and you lose yourself in it until you feel his hands wandering, touching your breasts. You struggle against him, tears welling in your eyes as you try to pull away. He pulls you against him harder, grinding his hips against yours. You turn your head to the side, trying to escape his demanding mouth.

“Please don’t,” you cry. “I’ll be ruined.” 

“We wouldn’t want that.” His voice is full of sarcasm, but he cups your face tenderly, wiping the tears from your eyes. “Don’t cry now, dove, I just want a taste. We’ll keep you nice and pure.” 

He picks you up, laying you back onto the straw. You look at him, a pinched expression on your face, and he captures your mouth in another kiss, devouring you. You can feel the burning heat of his body through the layers of your dress. His hands run down your sides, bunching in the fabric of your skirt. He hikes your skirt up, forcing your legs apart, and you know what's coming, bracing for his touch as he mouths along your neck, but his rough hands are still a shock as he pushes your thighs apart. You freeze with anticipation as he lowers himself down your body.

The only warning you get is the feeling of Ghost’s skin brushing against yours before his warm tongue traces a long, relishing lick up your dripping slit, ripping a gasp from you. He buries his face against you, licking deeper, his tongue exploring previously untouched places as you writhe beneath him. The sensations are all so foreign and overwhelming. You fist your hands into his hair, unsure if you want to push him away or pull him closer. 

Ghost is relentless, his hands pinning you down, trapping you as he licks you open, and you let out a wail. An odd sensation is building in your stomach, and you try to escape his insistent mouth, squirming against his hold. His nose is pressed up against the top of your slit, his tongue circling around inside you. A shudder runs all the way through your body, reaching a pitch that has you crying out, bucking against him as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your thighs tremble around his head, and you whine as he continues his ministrations, feeling overstimulated, your head hazy. He finally allows you to push him away when he’s had his fill, leaning backwards. The lower half of his face is soaked, and you blush as he uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.  

Ghost unlaces his breeches, pulling you out of your haze. He’s still got one hand holding you down, and you begin struggling again, fear building.

“No, you can’t—” Ghost leans down and captures your lips with his, interrupting your pleas. He pulls back, gently cupping your face in his hand and shushing you, making soft noises as you struggle against him. 

“I promised princess, I just want to feel you.” You relax slightly, still nervous as he pulls his cock free. It’s huge, the tip leaking and nearly purple. He kisses you again, his mouth rough against yours, and you whimper as he presses himself against you, dragging his cock through your folds, gathering your slick. When the tip catches against your entrance, you let out a gasp. 

He pulls back, his eyes dark. You watch, entranced, as he wraps his hand around himself, pumping his fist slowly up and down, coating his cock with your slick. It’s obscene, and you feel yourself flush at the indecency. Heat rushes down to your core as you watch him stroke his cock.

Ghost’s gaze is burning, eyes flitting between your face and your wet center, drinking up the sight. 

“See what you do to me?” He snarls, picking up speed. He grabs your hip and pulls you closer, flat on your back with your legs spread around him as he fucks his fist, his knuckles brushing against your center. You whimper, and the hand on your hip digs into your skin, hard enough to bruise. 

When he finishes, he says your name like a litany. It echoes in the empty space of the barn, like the clanging of church bells. 

His cum dries on the soft skin of your navel and mound, sticky and uncomfortable. He helps you pull your dress down, and tucks himself back into his breeches. 

Ghost kisses you again, his mouth is softer against yours now, and you kiss back, your inexperienced tongue rasping against his. He pulls away, and the silence between you is heavy. 

“What are you going to do now?” You ask, your voice quiet. His expression is conflicted as he reaches up a large hand to push some stray hair out of your face.

After a long silence, he finally answers you. “I’m taking you home.”

[littlefireball]

Can you make a Werewolf Yeosang too?

Yah of course 😎 sub yeosang is here btw 😗

ʏꜱ|ꜱᴇx ꜱʟᴀᴠᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴡɪɴɴɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴡᴀʀᴅ (ᴍ)

ʙᴇᴛᴀ ᴡᴇʀᴇᴡᴏʟꜰ ꜱᴜʙ ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ x ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ʟᴏɴɢ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ|ᴏʀᴀʟ| ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ,ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ| ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅ|ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇx|ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴘᴏɪꜱᴏɴᴇᴅ|ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ꜱɪɢʜᴛ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.5ᴋ

Masterlist

Had it not been for the poisoning incident, you would have never found yourself caught up in this questionable contest. Now, standing toe to toe with your rival, you pace anxiously, battling the discontent bubbling inside you and the "toxins" wreaking havoc on your system.

A wave of regret washes over you as you think back to your adventurous spirit that led you to sample such strange concoctions—a glass of wine laced with aphrodisiacs. With no known cure for these powerful agents, the only path back to normalcy lies in having sex with others.

A searing heat envelops your body, your heart pounds wildly in your chest, and every breath feels like a struggle. At first, you tried to withstand the agony, but the toll on your body becomes too much to bear, drastically affecting your everyday existence. In a fit of desperation, you find yourself wandering into the grim world of the slave market.

Whether it's the intoxicating haze clouding your mind or amplifying your cravings, the sight of the prized "championship trophy" stirs a fire within you that demands to be unleashed.

Yeosang—renowned as the finest sex slave in the shadowy underbelly of the black market. To be more specific, he is a werewolf slave. How unfortunate for him, as he was forsaken by his own kind. The tale is straightforward. The mate of the wolf pack's leader became infatuated with him, yet he refused to yield to her advances, leading to her slandering him. Naturally, he stood no chance against the alpha; after all, he is merely a beta.

Clad in a sleek black silk suit, he kneels within the confines of a cage, his hands and feet ensnared by heavy chains, reminiscent of a peacock deprived of its liberty. His striking beauty feels utterly misplaced in this grim reality, with his youthful visage starkly contrasting the violent chaos that surrounds him.

Yet, he remains indifferent to the impending clash, for he is merely a "trophy," and the value he offers will remain unchanged, no matter who emerges victorious.

"Oh damn, what's wrong with me…" Your gaze is irresistibly drawn to him. Yeosang bows his head, his eyes fixating on the handcuffs encircling his wrists, a look of sorrow washing over his face as he gently traces the angry red marks left by the bindings. You take in this poignant scene, but soon redirect your attention to the looming battle.

Ho, you must be crazy because of that fucking alcohol. Why do you feel pity when you kill people for a living? Why do you have to compete in person when you can obviously solve the problem with money?

Just fuck it.

You inhale deeply, centering your thoughts back on the game. Both of you stand poised, hearts racing, waiting for your foes to make the first move.

Your eyes lock in a fierce stare, each of you radiating intensity. In your mind, you strategize, plotting the perfect moment to strike and finish the duel with a single, decisive blow.

Yet, the crowd's restlessness grows, their thirst for blood palpable.

"Just fight already! Quit stalling! You two idiots!"

A voice cuts through the tension, a man shouting in frustration at the drawn-out standoff. The knights halt their fidgeting, turning their fierce gazes toward the impatient onlookers.

Seizing the moment while your adversary is momentarily distracted, you launch yourself forward, driving your sword with all your strength!

He attempts to defend himself with crossed arms, but your blow is too powerful, sending him crashing to the ground, his trident skittering away.

You stride over him, looking down at the defeated figure, and raise your gleaming blade.

In a heartbeat, his head tumbles away like a ball kicked across the field, blood erupting like a geyser, splattering your armor and weapon.

Thus, the clash concludes—an outcome devoid of tension or buildup. The audience stands in stunned silence, unable to comprehend how this "epic battle" could be resolved in mere moments.

Even Yeosang stands in shock, having never encountered such raw power in any battle he has witnessed before. A wave of terror washes over him. Panic surges in his chest, gripping his nerves and rendering him motionless. His eyes, wide with fear, lock onto yours, as if he might crumble at any moment.

You step closer to Yeosang, your face devoid of expression, unlock the cage, and reach out your hand to him. "You belong to me now," you deliberately lower your voice, ensuring that your words remain unheard by others. After a tense pause, he finally responds, trembling as he takes hold of your hand.

You draw him out of the cage, your hand resting firmly on the back of his neck, and once more you lower your voice, whispering, "You understand what you need to do, don't you?" "Yes, Sir."

You both step into the room, the door clicking shut behind you. He reaches for your armor, but you halt his hand. Confused, he tilts his head, yet you ignore his puzzled expression and pull him onto the bed.

"Listen, I'm poisoned. I just need your help to detox, and I promise I don't have any strange habits."

"But… how can I assist you?"

"You're amusing. Did you forget your role?" Leaning down, you gently lift his chin with one finger while your other hand rests on his thigh.

"What's your safe word? I don't want to cause you any harm." He blinks in surprise, having never been posed such a question, but quickly gathers himself and replies, "Gr… Green."

"Good," you say with a smile, removing your mask and letting your hair cascade down. It's then he realizes you are a woman.

Taken aback, he stares in disbelief, struggling to grasp the reality. In all the slave competitions he's been part of, it's predominantly men who compete, with only a handful of women.

"You are staring."

"You are stunning"

He can't hold back any longer, his words spilling out in a rush as his cheeks flush with embarrassment. Your heart swells with affection at his charming confession, and you can't help but chuckle. You gently cradle his face in your hands, leaning in to press your lips against his.

This kiss is unlike any he has known; it's soft and tender, wrapping him in a blissful haze. There's no urgency, no nibbles—just the delicate dance of your lips, occasionally brushing against each other in sweet little pecks. You soon break the kiss, tracing your finger over his lips and softly ask, "Wanna feel good?" Confused, he nods his head.

"Words." you remind him. "Yes, sir… master." You stand up and remove your armor, leaving only your bra and underwear, then kneel in front of him.

Your hands caress his thighs as you kiss his sensuous lips again. With a hint of aggression, your tongue slides into his mouth while dancing with his and taking control. He can't help but moan shyly. The vibrations from each moan he releases gradually pushes you over the edge that makes you desire more.

"Oh fuck, your voice is so beautiful." You say between the kisses. The heat within your body burns like a flame, urging you to have sex with him. "Damn it…"

Your lips part once more as you settle onto his lap, rhythmically swaying your body back and forth, intentionally pressing against his member. The friction between your thighs sends shivers through you both, igniting a warmth that spreads rapidly. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, drawing nearer, occasionally brushing against his growing arousal.

Even through the fabric, the friction sends waves of excitement coursing through Yeosang. He can feel himself growing harder as the tip of his cock brushes against your lower core. A rush of heat envelops him, concentrating on his manhood, while the pre-cum seeps out, dampening his underwear, leaving him with a chill from the wetness.

With a firm grip, you pin him down, and he submits willingly to the bed, your lips locked together, creating an embarrassingly wet sound with each kiss. Breaking away from his lips, you begin to suck and lick at his neck, expertly targeting his sensitive spots. Your playful teasing elicits deep, satisfied moans from him.

"I have never used the word beautiful to describe a man." You whisper in his ears before planting a kiss on his lips. "Oh… gosh…" Yeosang has never experienced such pleasure before. For him, sex is always about service rather than enjoyment.

"Sounds good" Smiling, your hand trails down to the hem of his panties, pulling down enough to free his cock. You hold his member, feeling his hardness beneath your palm. Moving up and down slowly, you make sure he feels every move of your fingers. "Goodness…" The itchy feeling sends shivers down his spine, especially your finger rubs against his tip while giving it a hard press.

He never thought he could be so eager to have sex with anyone. Even you can say, he hates it. But you are different. Each of your movements sends a thrill through him, his desire rising like a tide of ecstasy. He craves you deeply, yearning to feel your warmth wrap around him, guiding him to the ultimate climax.

"Hmmm… I wanna enter you. Please." His beg makes you let out a low chuckle. "You're more impatient than me. Are you the one who was poisoned?" You release his handcuffs and pull him towards the headboard, where he clasps his hands onto it. Taking off all his clothes, his semi-hardened cock is revealed with precum covered on it.

"So horny, aren't you?" "Yes, yes. Please let me have you, master." You are hesitant from his words, wondering if it is education in the black market. He is supposed to be strong, brave, but not beg from others. 'What they did for him.' You think, an inexplicable anger ignites in your heart.

You will kill for him after this encounter ends. You promise.

"Be patient, little wolf." You kneel down before sinking down your face between his thighs. "Let me have a taste first." Gripping his cock, you guide it to your mouth and lick it from the bottom to the top. "Oh god." He arches his back as the numbness and the pleasure crush within his body, a long-throaty moan leaving his lips as you continue to please him with your tongue.

"Open your legs wide or I will stop," you command. "Yes, master. I am sorry." His legs wide open again as you prop against his thigh as support, moving up and down quickly while teasing his ball. Your tongue circled the head of his shaft, sucking hard, leaving a reddish mark. He rolls his hip to thrust deeper; his cock twitches each time the tip reaches your throat, and you know he is about to reach his peak. But you pull out before he comes undone in your mouth.

"Why…master…I want to cum." He cries out, tears dripping down because of delightful. "Only a good boy can cum. Will you promise? Little wolf." "Yes! I will! I promise." His begging satisfies your ego and makes it grow. Maybe the beast called desire inside you is finally breaking out of its cage.

"Then help me." Removing your panties, you throw it away before aiming at his erection, sinking down slowly. You can feel every vein of his cock as your wall tightens around it, making you carve for more. "Master, it feels so good!" "Yah, fuck!" His sperm keeps flowing out, wetting your velvet wall.

"Tell me if you can't bear it." He remains in disbelief at the words that reached his ears. You actually care for him? Is that true? What could possibly motivate that? Even if he's merely a means for your own cleansing, there's no obligation for you to feel anything for him. Yet, before he can delve deeper into his thoughts, you begin to bounce, rhythmically rising and falling after adjusting his size and the sensation of being enveloped.

Your hands press firmly on his shoulders, your nails piercing his skin just a touch too deeply, drawing blood and inflicting a sting. But he feels excited instead of painful. Your breasts bounce up and down from your movements, making him lost in this alluring sight. God, he can just watch how you bounce on him for an hour.

"Ahhh…master…gosh!!" Each time you descend, his tip brushes against your tender skin, eliciting a symphony of moans from both of you. Your rhythm accelerates, and the power behind your thrusts grows stronger. It feels as though you've drained every ounce of energy, leaving a hollow sensation in your lower body that is increasingly uncomfortable.

He yearns to explore your body, to savor every curve and contour of your skin. However, he remains immobilized, his hands bound at the head of the bed. The relentless tugging creates faint red lines on his wrists, while his palms grow slick with sweat from the tension of his clenched fists, leaving crescent-shaped marks.

Your right hand finds its way to his throat, applying pressure that steals his breath and brings dark spots to his vision. He attempts to lift his head for a gasp of air, but you have no intention of granting him a moment's relief. Your rapid up-and-down movements force him to hold his breath. The overwhelming stimulation leaves him dizzy and pushes him to the limit.

"Ahh! Ahh!! Green!!" The moment he speaks the safe word, you instantly cease all movement, loosening your hold on his throat. "Are you alright? Is there any pain?" you inquire gently, a trace of worry lacing your tone. He hesitates, words escaping him as he simply gazes into your caring eyes. You tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, your fingers gliding over his delicate skin until they rest on the vivid red birthmark.

Throughout his life as a slave, comfort has been a foreign concept, with no one ever caring for his well-being. In stark contrast to your indifference towards life in the heat of battle, you show genuine concern for him, striving to bring him joy. How could he possibly resist falling for you? Perhaps he's been ensnared by a different kind of poison, one known as "love at first sight." You lean closer, brushing your lips against his, captivated by the magic in his eyes.

"I can stop if you want." You remark. "No, please. I want you, master. I want my cock deep inside you again. I want to touch you. And has your poison been cured?"

Responding to his beg, you pull out from his body and free him from his bindings. Your gaze falls upon the bruises encircling his wrists, and you gently stroke them with your thumb.

"It appears my poison still lingers. Come and help me."

In an instant, he straightens up, his hands finding their way to your shoulders as he leans over you, pinning you down. Shock flickers in your eyes at his abrupt action, but you swiftly gather your calmness and align yourself with his intentions.

"Let me serve you, my lord." His face falls into your neck, sucking and biting your skin to leave a crystal clear red mark. He is really skilled at turning others on harder;the wet muscle trails down to your breast, licking your left nipple while squeezing another with his hand. His thumb circles it along the curve, giving a hard press to make you moan and throw your head at the back.

Guiding his cock to rub against your clit, he thrusts your cunt once again, hitting your sweet dead on. "Here, right?" He smirks with a sense of pride. "Ye..yah!" Not waiting for you to finish your words, his tip hits the same place once again. The waves of numbness make you squirm, and your screams are not as high-pitched as before, but with a shy feeling.

"I love your moaning, master." You let out an exasperated sigh, feeling a surge of warmth envelop you completely. Yeosang leans in, planting soft kisses along your neck while maintaining a steady rhythm. His shaft glides against your slick walls, creating a sound reminiscent of flowing water. With each thrust, he quickens his pace, closing the gaps between each tantalizing connection to your G-spot.

Your breath becomes shallow, and your heart pounds wildly as he maps out every curve of your body with his lips and hands, as if he were intimately familiar with every secret you hold. You wrap your arms around him, your nails digging into his back, leaving a trail of marks on his skin.

Yeosang buries his head in your chest, groaning against it. You are so perfect for him, from head to toes. Just everything. Although he doesn't even know your name, your personality, he ensures you are the one he is looking for. Someone who cares about him, someone with whom he can enjoy sex.

He loathes the idea of sex, viewing it as a repugnant transaction. He has grown weary of the way others have treated him, often rough and unkind. Each encounter left him battered to some extent, reduced to nothing more than a plaything. Yet, when he sees you, everything changes. You bring him joy and tenderness, showering him with genuine care.

It may seem almost humorous, but deep down, he realizes that you are the only one he desires, and his body confirms the truth of his feelings.

He places your leg on his shoulder and thrusts as fast as possible. "Ah!Fuck!" "Please say my name, my lord. I want to hear you say it." "Oh…yeosang ar…" Shit! He is unable to control himself anymore. He withdraws a bit and pushes into your cunt in a powerful motion over and over again.

"I'm cumming, master." He feels his cock twitches as you keep sucking him in. "Cum…cum inside me." Yeosang's thrusts become rushed and lose his rhythm; you grab his shoulders, making an "O" shape with your mouth, panting as if you are about to run out of oxygen.

"Oh! Oh! God!" After a few more thrusts, you both reach climax; your hot juices cover his cock and his sperm creams your wall. He thrusts forward twice before pulling out, lying down beside you. After a short rest, the hot feeling in your body has finally dissipated, you get up and put your clothes back on, ready to leave.

"My body is already healed, thanks." You say without noticing his sadness.

"Aren't you staying?" Yeosang asks with confusion.

"Staying? Why? Didn't I tell you that I'm just here to detoxify? Also, I have work." Yes, you have to 'deal with' those people who treated Yeosang badly.

"Will you come back then?"

"Nope." You observe him bow his head, gently stroking his wrist before hesitantly reaching to the nape of his neck. Even in his silence, you can sense the thoughts swirling in his mind. "No worries. I'm gonna kill those people who treated you badly and you can be free."

"What? No…I…"

"Isn't this what you wanted? To leave the cage and no longer be bound by anyone."

"But I don't know where to go or what to do…I'm just a reward…"

"Then go find out, go explore what you want to do."

He lowers his head in silence, deep in thought. Suddenly, he tightens his embrace around you.

He bows his head, enveloped in his thoughts, and then suddenly tightens his hold around you, as if fearing you might slip away.

"Will you stay…? That's all I want. Please… don't leave me alone. You're the only one who cares for me. I'm yours, and I'd do anything for you. Just don't go."

You can't help but giggle at his endearing gesture, stroking his hair softly as you respond, "Are you really sure? I'm a knight, and my profession is to take lives."

"Yah!I'm yours! Just let me stay with you. I'll even give you a written promise, if that's what you want!""

Maybe he sees you as a lifeline. Although you have never thought about buying a slave, it seems that if you reject him, he may feel sad. Also, you don't want him to serve anyone else.

"Umm…fine."

"Really?" A radiant smile spreads across his face, his eyes sparkling with excitement. You give a nod in response.

"Can I cuddle you?" It's the first time he's asked this as a servant, and he can hardly believe he's free to follow his heart's desire. You nod again, and he gently pulls you down onto the bed, nestling his face against your chest.

"Just like a little puppy."

"Perhaps I know your name? My lord."

"Y/N."

"It sounds like a name for a genuinely good person."

"You're being overly dramatic." You chuckle softly, allowing him to wrap his arms around you as you both drift into a peaceful slumber.

Well, maybe this aphrodisiac isn't so terrible after all. And of course, you make your promise ─ kill others for him, only.

[livesworthlivingau]

Behind the Vale Chapter 21

ISAT/Two Hat Spoilers abound! CW: (oh boy this is a big one y'all...) Deadnaming, Blood (coating, coughing up), body horror, horror, psychological torment, very gorey description. For real everyone, be mindful of this one, it's a LOT. (Thanks Shrub >.>)

[After staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, you finally drift away into the void of unconsciousness. It's peaceful at first, until you're awoken by the sound of dripping. You sit up, blinking, trying to adjust your eyes to the dark. After a moment you realize it's not your eyes, looking around in the lightless void you were now in.]

Drip. Drip. Drip.

[You slowly stand, trying to trace the source of that incessant sound. You turn around to find it, a puddle of perfect darkless on the floor. Something disturbs its surface, like a drop fell up to it from below. You look closer, beginning to lean in, before the puddle suddenly grows wider. You stumble back, thin pillars of the substance begin to rise into the air. Strings, only visible now that they're coated. The pull a figure from the depths, more details becoming clear as the liquid slowly falls away from it.]

[Coattails. A cravat. This... Thing is wearing a mirror of the first outfit you purchased. Light where it should be dark, dark where it should be light. And where once upon a time a star sat atop it all, now sits... something darker than even the void surrounding you. Seemingly untouched by the liquid it was dredged out of.]

[You're locked in place, staring at this horrific puppet dredged from the depths. Your eyes dart across it's outfit, unsettled at seeing it draped upon this being. You simply watch, waiting, unsure what to think of all of this.]

[Even though it's 'face' was bereft of eyes, it appears to stare directly at you, perking up at your attention. The strings pull it into a standing position, then, a stiff, deep bow. You raise a brow, surprised by such a cordial greeting.]

"Uhh... H-Hello?... And you might be?"

"What's the matter, Vay?" [A voice you've not known for long, but more familiar than most at this point, echoes from the lightless void that this thing has for a head. Strings pull it up from it's bow, it's face suddenly adorned with a mask, one you recognize too clearly.]

"Don't you recognize me?" [This rendition of Nille is near perfect, save for two details. The eyes are hollow, letting you see the hungry, lightless depths through it. And the mouth... does not move naturally. It moves like a puppet's, a section of the mouth and chin opening and closing in an exaggerated jerking manner. The sound of wood on wood striking whenever it closes.]

"Why, I'm your friend, Nille!" [You stumble back, your eyes wide as you stare in horror. Your heart begins to race, your own mouth opens to speak but nothing comes out, just frozen at the sight of this sick, twisted version of her.]

"What's the matter, Vay? Star got your tongue?" [Its strings tug and pull, making it take exaggerated mockeries of footsteps as it drifts closer to you.]

"Wouldn't surprise me. You never want to talk, not about anything that matters." [You take a step back each time it draws closer, still physically shaking, unable to look away.]

"Wh... What are you?..."

"I'm Nille, silly! Don't tell me you've forgotten me too!" [A hand is brought to it's face, hooking some fingers behind the mask and prying with inhuman strength, the mask tearing off with the sickening sound of flesh being torn apart. It twirls the mask between its fingers, revealing a decorated reverse side before applying its new borrowed countenance to its lightless head. This face you recognize in an instant.]

"It wouldn't be the first thing you've forgotten~." [It speaks, borrowing the visage and voice of your Stardust. You fall back with a stumble, looking up in absolute horror at your own face from so, so long ago...]

"N-No! No! Stop this!! What the stars ARE YOU?!"

"I'm you, Loop. The you you're trying to abandon. Even though all the hallmarks of siffrinhood, you're still wearing with pride."

"Sh-Shut up!! D-Don't call me that!!!" [You shout in fury as it dares use the name you abandoned, especially with his voice. It slowly leans down closer, its strings supporting an angle that would cause most to fall to the ground.]

"The inability to let go. A deeply entrenched refusal to say what needs saying. And a pretty face to boot, so there's at least something worth keeping around."

"S-Stop this... Stop this, now..." [You try to command, though it comes out almost like a whimper instead. Stardust's face suddenly crumples towards the inside of the void head before disintegrating and disappearing. The Nille mask comes into view again, orbiting around it as if it could twist it's head around like an owl.]

"How many more demands are you gonna make of me, Vay? You spend all my money, you keep stalling us from finding Bonnie. I didn't hear anything in that story of yours that sounded worth staying with. So give me one good reason why I should."

[It's fake... it's a lie... it's not her... So why does it sting so much to hear her say that?... You feel a tear streak down your face, clenching your fists.]

"St-Stop it... Stop this now! Stop this charade!!" [You shout, trying desperately to overpower your own sadness with a welling up rage. The thing takes another large, grotesque pseudo-step as it drifts abruptly closer.]

"Do you know how much I hate the fact I want to kiss you?"

"... Y... You... What?" [You mumble out, stunned into near silence as the words ring out in your ears.]

"You're awful to be around. Everyone you try to help ends up worse off. You're lucky that new face of yours is easy on the eyes. I would've left your corpse under the favor tree otherwise." [The mask is now mere inches from your face.]

"But even so... I think I regret saving you." [You feel more tears flow down your teeth as your heart sinks. You grind your teeth and make a scissors sign, lashing out at them with a scream.]

"SHUT UP!! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!" [For just a moment you swear you hear both your own and Stardust's voice echoing out, it's enough to throw you off course, snapping the string holding up one of it's arms as it begins violently thrashing out clawing at you with the wild abandon of a rabid animal and the pure unbridled hatred of a person moving inhumanly fast and REACHING WITH A DESPERATE HUNGER TOWARDS YOUR THROAT while the rest of it keeps the graceful serenity of a doll on strings, keeping you just out of reach.]

[You stare up at it, unsettled to your very core. You start crawling backwards away from it as the sight of it going for your throat sends memories flashing in your mind of the last time you saw your Stardust...]

[Its still restrained hand calmly flips the mask once more, returning to the visage of your little duplicate. It speaks in his voice, paying no mind to the arm that wants to RIP YOU OPEN AT THE SEAMS.]

"The tables sure turn, don't they Loop? Last time we saw each other you murdered me! Ha, I didn't know we had it in us! What happened to you that you could kill a person? I couldn't even do that. Not even when it was the King. Somehow not even when it was you." [You struggle back onto your feet, keeping a few paces back from it.]

"I told you not to call me that..." [You keep your guard up, watching that rabid, inhuman arm, keeping a scissors sign in one hand, paper in the other, ready to attack or defend as needed.]

"What am I supposed to call you? That new name you like is as false as your face. I'm surprised you didn't recognize another mask, you've worn so many."

"At least mine's not some horrid Façade!!" [You shout back, your heart pounding as the instincts of fight or flight continues to build within you. The thing removes the mask with another grotesque tear and bows once more. The act allowing its rabid starving arm that's trying to grab AND GRAB AND GRAB get just a little bit closer making your skin crawl and the hair on your neck stand and it's strings pull it upright again, once more wearing the face of Nille.]

"It's still felt like an empty front this whole time, Vay. For the past few days you've talked like you killed someone and you're trying to cover it up." [The rage of seeing her face puppeteered like this continues to build within you.]

"You're one to talk! You can't even speak without wearing someone else's face! At least I had a voice as that damned star!" [The thing hesitates except for it's arm, then the strings slowly bring a hand up to the Nille mask. It pries off the visage of a friend, lightless substance dripping from the seams as that sickening tearing sound is heard again.]

[It drops the mask.]

[It begins taking its awful, caricature steps again as it drifts towards you the arm grabbing at you with increasing DESPERATION AS IT GETS CLOSER. Your eyes widen once more, staring that endless void down now, taking a few steps back before turning and darting in the opposite direction, terrified of it reaching you.]

[Your steps don't take you far before you feel something wispy and thin tugging at your feet. It causes you to stumble before it wraps fully around your ankles, sending you slamming into the ground with a thud. You panic, struggling to get away, crawling forward as fast as you could and making the mistake of daring to look back behind you... You pause as you realize it was simply gone... Until you feel something drop onto you from above.]

Drip. Drip. Drip.

[Your heart stops... You stare forward, paralyzed in fear... Don't look... don't look.... DON'T! LOOK! You can't stop yourself, slowly glancing upwards and widening your eyes at the sight. The Façade is dangling over you from above. Darkless fluid drips from its fingers as it reaches towards you CLAWS AT YOU and slowly descends. More strings appear, restraining you as they wrap around your arms, your legs, your waist. The only thing its leaving uncovered... the scar plastered across your chest.]

"N-NO!! G-GET BACK!! STOP THIS NOW!!!" [You scream and thrash about in your restraints, frantic and terrified. You make a scissor sign again but can't move it enough to use any craft. You're trapped, forced to watch as it slowly sinks closer and closer and...]

[The Façade's restrained hand grabs its free wrist tightly, guiding its hunger towards the center of your scar you feel its fingertips pressing against your skin it squeezes its own wrist, nails digging into its skin and releasing a torrent of darkless fluid that flows down its hand to pool against your scar. You feel it push and push and suddenly something gives and sinks into the puddle on your chest and IT CLAWS INSIDE YOU AND GRABS AND STARTS PULLING AND PULLING AND PULLING AND YOU FEEL STRINGS INSIDE YOU SNAPPING ONE BY ONE UNTIL IT PULLS SOMETHING FREE.]

[There's a sudden flash of something familiar, that visceral shade from the end of the world. From when Stardust broke apart. It fills your very senses and when it all fades... You're lying there, broken, pained, the agony of it was almost welcoming as it distracts you from the torture of that thing digging around in your chest. You weakly glance down, coughing up blood, seeing it slowly pull something from the pool of liquid it had made on your chest... Another mask. A face you've seen all too little of, but you recognize in an instant. The Façade drifts upwards as it affixes your own face to it's dark void of a head.]

[You continue your weak, pathetic struggles, rasping and struggling to bring air into your pained lungs. You glance back up at it, shuddering as tears continue to pour down your face, both from the unbearable pain, and the disgusting sight of your ruined face staring back at you with it's sunken, hollow eyes. The same face you went through such agony to get.]

"N... no..." [Is all you can manage to wheeze out.]

[It speaks in your voice, its free hand clutching at the mockery of your face as if letting go was death.]

"Oh, but you can't blame us~. This face feels so good, so right, it almost doesn't feel like a mask at all~. Oh, I can't wait for us to wear this face together, forever and ever while Stardust loops again and we never get to die because everything's about hi-" [The same vibrant color fills all your senses yet again. Your senses slowly return again. First is your hearing, the sound of yourself screaming, both from yourself and the awful creature above you. Your vision returns to find spiderweb-thin cracks forming across your stolen visage, that same bright shade leaking out as light through them, and pouring down as fluid from behind it, dripping down onto your face as it clutches at itself in pain.]

[You muster up every last bit of strength you can, managed to break a hand free from the weakened grip of the string. You choke up more blood, giving pained gasps for air. You're confused as you watch it writhe in a similar agony, but you need to make use of this opportunity. You swipe your scissor sign again, a slash of craft slamming into the mockery of your face as you see it shatter for just a split second, erupting in another flash.]

"-ale... vale!... VALE!!!" [You gasp awake, hacking up more of that violent hue, Nille is standing over you, hands on your shoulders, having been desperately trying to wake you. You lock eyes with her, so relieved to see those dark pupils instead of the terrible void behind them. You pant roughly, tears flowing from your face, you can't help but latch onto her, pulling her into a tight hug as you break down sobbing.]

"V-Vale!? Wh-What happened?!" [She cries out in shock, but quickly returning the hug, even rubbing at your back some. You can't bring yourself to speak, you don't even want to open your eyes. You're just glad whatever that was is over.]

"... I-It's okay. J-Just let it out Vay..." [Hearing her say that makes you shudder for a moment. You try to block out the memories and sensations of what just happened, but they keep replaying in your mind. Especially your chest being desecrated once more...]

"I'm s-sorry Nille..."

"For what?" [She asks, still hugging you close as you choke back a few more sobs.]

"E-Everything..."

"Hey!... You knock that off, you've got nothing to apologize for."

"B-But-"

"No! No buts! I'd make you repeat what you said last night, but you can barely talk, so you better think it for me, alright?"

"... I-I...." [You try desperately to make the words come out, you want to say it, you need to say it... but then something else sticks in your mind... "Do you know how much I hate the fact I want to kiss you?"... She could never love you... Don't let her pity for you pressure her into saying it back...]

"It's alright Vay, I'm here, just let it all out." [You fall silent, letting the tears flow again. You remain in her embrace as long as she allows, eventually falling back asleep against her.]

Wow... @tactical-shrubbery has done it again y'all... I basically just edited the whole interaction into my format and wrote the ending, pretty much everything else (aside from Vale's reactions) was her own creation, and WOW did she do a damn good job with Façade. We wanted to make an MDP for Vale so we came up with the name and basic concept together, but pretty much everything past that was her own making.

Okay, I'm gonna like... go lie down for a week now, enjoy!... the uhh... trauma I guess ^^;

[janumun]

Obsidian Retribution (IkePri Gilbert von Obsidian - NSFW)

Rated: NSFW/18+ 🌶️ Pairing: Gilbert von Obsidian/Reader Words: ~4k

Tags: developing/denial of feelings, church desecration/sex, vaginal fingering, minor violence, spoilers for Gilbert’s route (chapter 9), re-telling of canon events, angst 

Summary: What happens when you throw yourself into harm’s way in a bid to protect Gilbert at one of Clavis’ covert anti-monarchy meetings? Unconsciously stirring out the whetted fangs of the Conqueror Beast. 

And you witness, once more, just how scathingly cruel his desire for monopoly over your body truly is.

A/N: I’m currently in the midst of Gilbert’s route but he’s been such a flowing inspiration and need that I had to write this indulgent piece for him, for myself and the five other Gil fans out there who would cry with me LOL.  

Characterization might not be accurate to end route Gil, as I’m at the beginning of his route still, so this is written with my understanding of an early Gilbert. ILOVETHISMANSOMUCH. 

The lethal sweep of the blade engulfs your vision entirely, the noble’s hand poised right above his shoulder — a strike you know you cannot avoid. Your life, as if you view it through the distant barrier of a panorama, right before it’s extinguished.  

The sole knowledge that you do not regret your actions one bit, your one solace, eyes drifting shut, that one moment of death stretching slow and long.  

A glacial whisper, of knelling death curls into your ears, “I do not recall allowing you permission to die by another’s hand,” His only pre-emptive warning, just before Gilbert grips a harsh hand about your neck and hurls you backwards— 

“Belle!” Into Luke’s body as he catches you against himself right before you careen straight into the ground. 

A whimpered groan breaks into the air right after; your whirling head, catching its bearings just enough to catch sight of Gilbert standing above the writhing figure of your would-be assailant, bunched at the ground. The sharp end of the perpetrator’s blade — now within Gilbert’s hand — he brings up in a vicious arc, surely in murderous intent. 

“Prince Gilbert, don’t!” Your voice breaks in terror into the air, before the knife is able to find home within its pitiful target.  

His hand, fortunately, halts just before it slits through the noble’s carotid, the latter long having fainted in mind-numbing fear, unable to bear the single-focused brutality of the conqueror beast.  

Gilbert raises his face as if operated via a puppeteer's strings, cut before it could fulfil its performance. Garnet gaze, sweeping slow, before it finds its next victim, within you. Your breath frosts within your lungs, incapable of function, the vicious weight of his terrifying visage subjecting you to his splintering displeasure, despite the cruel smile that remains even now, firm in place. “What is it, little rabbit? Are you begging me to kill you instead?”  

“Prince Gilbert!” You hear Luke entreat, as if from afar.  

A volatile shiver cascades down your spine at the look he’s giving you, thinly veiled revulsion and rage within that sole scarlet eye.  

Gilbert takes a step toward you; your breaths coming in short, staccato bursts and yet you’re unable to turn away from the hungering violence within that gaze. Scurrying thoughts unable to comprehend why exactly he seemed so incensed at you.  

“Come now, out with it. I know you wish to say something to me.” Gilbert offers you an encouraging smile, even as the murderous intent radiating from him with each step he takes forward, threatens to smother you entirely.  

You know what he wishes to hear in that moment, of no mind to hear your own thoughts on the matter. An apology, for your actions, reckless, they may have been, but you do not hold an ounce of regret for trying to protect the man that continues to disconcert your heart; sink his dark trellises deeper into your soul. 

“Prince Gilbert, I—”  

The stifling pressure in the room, cut through only upon Clavis’ interruption, just as he steps into the room to offer a jaunty congratulations to Gilbert for providing an entertaining show.  

The weight of his gaze flees entirely from you, your body — you did not realize you’d held steadfast by sheer force of will — collapses back against Luke’s comforting presence, just as he hauls you up and into his arms, to carry you back. 

“Aren’t you a lucky one?” Gilbert’s cheery voice drifts, discomfiting against your retreating back. 

“Prince Gilb—” 

 “Take care you don’t let me catch sight of you again, or I might just kill you.” Your heart thrums in confounding pain at his words, the clear line he carves in between the two of you in that moment.  

Your mouth unable to form sufficient words to try and catch his attention just as Gilbert turns away from you entirely, the soft flitter of his cape as he does, the last sight you capture of him, as Luke carries you away from the scene. 

 

The longcase clock at the end of hallway has long struck midnight. You continue to pace, restless, about the corridor. Eyes cemented upon the window, affording you a clear view of the castle gates as you stake your agitated wait for Gilbert’s return.  

Luke and you had returned a few hours back, to the castle in a private carriage. You’d run into Rio as soon as you’d alighted, almost immediately after, being carted in between the two men as they’d fussed you straight into the infirmary. The good part of the hour after, spent in making sure you were truly unhurt save for the minor scrap at your arms.  

It was only multiple reassurances later and holding Rio back from charging deep into the night after Gilbert, did you escape from the fretful affections of your friends and out, to await Gilbert’s return.  

His expression returns to your mind’s eye in vivid detail; the way that cold, scarlet gaze had zoned in on you, the shuttered intensity of violent rage underneath. It was as if you’d been looking upon a stranger.  

Now that you’d had a few quiet moments to compose yourself away from the fright of your earlier situation, bone-deep remorse was beginning to settle within, at having displeased Gilbert the way you did. A forced companionship he may have forged in between you two, but the startling glimpses of his kindness that lurked beneath the serrated edge of his cool blades, had your heart shred asunder between fear, rationale and genuine care. You couldn’t deny it, not after tonight. You had, perhaps, grown to care for Prince Gilbert, far more than was ever appropriate. 

The soft whinnying of horses disturbing the quiet of the night outside drags you out of your reverie just in time to catch sight of Gilbert’s figure descending the carriage.  

You begin your rush towards the main entrance, but instead of making his way into the castle, Gilbert’s steps veered off towards a path leading to what seemed to be, the back of the castle.  

You fly down the winding staircase and into the foyer, heart battering against your chest. Pulling open the great doors to the entrance before you dart after his retreating figure that is a mere speck in the distance, now.  

You do not want to lose sight of him. You must see Gilbert tonight and make him listen to what you have to say. Despite your fears, you do not wish to abandon Gilbert with the notion that you did not care. Even beneath the carving of a beast, he was just a human too. A man who’d come so close to bordering a rapidly diminishing line in between friend and foe.  

Up ahead, Gilbert ducks past belting cobblestone, headed in the direction of what seems to be the structure of an old church. You frown, thoughts wrought with questions you know you’d get no easy answers for.  

The tapering sweep of his cape disappears just past the great, carved wooden doors of the church, and you too follow, on tentative, urgent steps, slipping through the entrance and into the church.  

It sits empty, save for the dark figure of the man standing motionless, close to the pulpit.  

“I didn’t think you were foolish enough to come chasing after me even after I warned you not to.” Gilbert’s voice drifts eerie in its calm, down the long hallway, even as you trudge closer on careful steps. “Tell me, is it that pure kindness of yours which feels for every living being, or an empty head that has dragged you this far into the beast’s den?”  

Gilbert’s words are scathing, deliberately cruel, meant to burn. You have not heard him utilize that tone of voice with you in so long. 

“Well then,” he prods; voice, sweet poison. “Are you going to answer me or shall I make you answer me?” 

You drift further into the church on uneasy steps, the great doors behind sway shut behind you in a creak of finality, as if knelling of an ill-fated decision. Against all wise sense, however — your heart insists you do — you tread towards the man who stands waiting, at the end of the long, carpeted hallway.

A poised form; his head at an easy cant, a crinkled garnet eye fixated upon your foolish movements — you do not miss the incessant, muted tap of gloved digits across the flared bulb of his cane, an uncharacteristic agitation to his visage, you’re not used to witnessing on Gilbert. He stands, all obsidian, against the backdrop of watered twilight that filters in shafts past great, ornate windows on either sides of the quiet hallway — as though he is a devil awaiting the willing scurry of a sacrifice right into its willing maw.  

You grit your teeth against the frightening intimidation he’s settled deep into your bones, a festering cloak he’s had thrown over in between you, warning you to stop prying deeper into his affairs. “I want to speak to you, Prince Gilbert.”  

“Oh? What if I do not wish to listen, little rabbit?”  

“Then, I insist you hear me out.” The cutting streak of his blade is so swift, you only but feel the soft stir of your hair about your face before your breath frosts within your windpipe at the deadly edge of the sword he holds against the careful swallow of your throat.  

“You really do wish to die by my hand tonight. What an utterly insipid way to cut my fun short, Belle.” 

You force yourself to hold your ground, even as the first tremors of fear crumple across your limbs. “I don’t want you to kill me.” Compelling courage to rise in the face of his raw vitriolic anger, you wish to parse the reason for his distress. “I only want to know why you are so angry with me.”  

A serrated smile tugs across his mouth. “Do you ask because you really do not know?” 

“I don’t. And I don’t think I did anything to warrant your unjust ire either.” 

“Unjust...” he murmurs. “You would’ve realized it if you took but a single moment to think.” 

Your mind takes his words and works about them in a million different ways. “I realize my actions were reckless...” 

“That is a good start.” the sardonic amusement of his voice does not reach his eyes.  

“But I do not regret my actions, Prince Gilbert. I...” you swallow around words that are sudden lead within your throat. “I do not think I could bear to see you get hurt.”  

The admission uttered on soft, firm words; stews dense within the space in between you both. Gilbert's lone scarlet gaze, watches you, motionless as the terse silence stretches taut into several excruciating moments.  

Before he gathers his blade back into its secreted scabbard once more, beneath the cloak at his waist — your breath escaping you on a rush of relieved air, you did not even know how tensed you’d held your body, until its released from the grip of Gilbert’s dread, with the withdrawal of his blade. The Obsidianite prince turns on his heel, the flourish of his great, dark cape behind, as he moves to seat himself in the first pew. He does not look back at you as he instructs, “Come.”  

And you follow, without a word of complaint uttered; know that you tread in dangerous waters. A single, wrong move, and you’d miss your window of opportunity with Gilbert entirely. His emotions would be shuttered off to you, once and for all, were you to lose your nerve now and flee from him. Despite how part of your heart still tremored within his presence, how you still couldn’t help doubt each single edge of his kindness so deeply steeped within his malice; hope still sprouted within you regardless. Willing to gamble upon the Gilbert you often times caught glimpse of; one who’s consideration did not come attached with its poisonous strings.  

You shift on anxious steps once you’re in front of him, Gilbert’s gaze, mildly muted of its ire when he fixes it upon you. “Your impulsive actions could’ve cost you dearly tonight.” He begins.  

“Impulsive, yes... but even if I had stopped to think, Prince Gilbert, I couldn’t—” 

“You couldn’t afford to see me hurt, yes, I heard that silly part the first time you spoke it, little rabbit.” he reiterates.  

You clam up on yourself. 

“You could’ve died. Did you stop to think how much the mere thought of your demise irked me?” He angles the head of his cane, to tap against your hip, gesturing you closer.  

And just as you steal close within arm’s length, Gilbert’s gloved digits are curving about your arm in a vice, hauling you down to topple onto his lap. His murmur’s a warm caress against the shell of your ear. “I would’ve hated it if you’d died.”  

Your mind careens into a rash halt of all thoughts, blanking entirely at the quiet certitude of those words. 

“...What?”  

“Foolish, isn’t it?” His smile is wide, undisturbed across his face. Just as transient as the surface of a pond, subject to be disturbed by the slightest of ripples. “Even when I despise you so, Belle, I cannot let you go.” 

“Prince Gilbert...” 

Your mind cannot parse the meaning of his words. If this were earlier on in your relationship, you’d have understood him to mean he did not wish for his prey to be ‘impaired’ by another. Gilbert had told you so, on several occasions and in no less than explicit terms.  

However, now as you look upon Gilbert; emotions naked, unlike you’ve ever seen before. Jagged enough they could cut you through if you dared try wade in deeper. Into the insinuation barely concealed behind that sole garnet gaze.  

The arch of his cane steers a slow caress over the shirt at your chest, before it dents into a stop right above your heart. Gilbert presses in, insisting the polished head against the give of your left breast — your heart seeming to catch at the hook of it with how it seizes at the motion. “This right here could’ve stopped,” he mulls, almost clinically. The insouciant inflection of his voice disarming at the last careful barriers and inhibitions, thrown up in protection of your heart. “I am human too, you know, mere flesh and bone. I cannot be there to protect you each time that heart of yours decides it wishes to do good to all, regardless of their status as man or beast.”  

“Prince Gil—” Your voice fractures into a pained gasp, just as he seizes the fingers you reach out for him, sinking a sharp bite around a vulnerable digit. You clench back further signs of weakness with the slow, aching sweep of his tongue against your captured fingers; the teeth that worry at tender skin, pinching another warning at your approach. And reach out, again, with your other palm. Succeeding in curving your fingers about his cool cheek in a tentative touch up the line of it. Thumbing gentle right beneath the cusp of a surprised gaze, singular scarlet disarmed by the tender action. Before it crinkles in mild resignation, half rebuke, “You truly are a fool.”  

Gilbert tucks his face against your cradling palm, further allowing you slack, to temper at the beast that has — for the moment — lowered its great head to you. That is all the victory you need from him at the moment, for him to pay heed to you for the words you wish to communicate. “I’m sorry.”  

The apology rings piercing in the quiet space, Gilbert’s gaze unrelenting in the long stretch of time that seems to trudge slow in between you both, the longer he lets those two words stew.  

Pink tongue darting out a nervous path to slick moisture at long dry lips, “I’m sorry for not thinking my actions through and for not treasuring myself more in the moment. I realize that upset you greatly and I apologize for that, Prince Gilbert.”  

He remains silent throughout your confession uttered, red gaze, and a gloved hand, tracing a deliberate path across your chest, right above your heart. You know he can feel the moment it thrums faster, beneath his welcome touch — why, why do you not hate Gilbert touching you? — gliding its exploration across the space. “Will you promise not to do what you have today, again?”  

The thought of uttering a cosy lie, flitters through your mind for a split moment of relapsed judgement. Before fizzling in on itself; you know well how Gilbert despises untruths spoken, no matter how small. Would know, were you to try offer false placations. And so, you opt for the bitter truth — one you too, realize with a jolt of realization, “I... cannot promise you that.”  

His eye rolls up to meet yours, the sharp edge to it, you swallow against, as if he has a phantom blade pressed to your throat once more. “For as much as I deeply regret the trouble I’ve caused you, I know I’d hate it even more were something to happen to you.” 

“Those are dangerous fantasies to harbour for a prince of your enemy nation.” A muted smile graces his features; a dark gloved thumb he brings to trace at your lower lip, delicately disengaging it from the worrying bite of your teeth. As if he, too, hadn’t confessed so, in less clearer words, not too long before. A dangerous game you two play; you don’t wish to disentangle the throttling wad of your emotions tonight.  

“Well, that’s too bad then, I guess, because those are my true feelings, Prince Gilbert.” You stare back, resolute.  

His smile quivers in mild amusement. “I know.”  

“And I’m willing to do anything to show my sincerity, if it gets you to accept my heartfelt apology.” 

That garnet gaze shutters, taking on a hard edge at your words; the burbling shadows of darkness that catch just beneath that smiling veneer before it vanishes entirely. “You’re playing a treacherous game here, little rabbit, one that will unfortunately end in futility, no matter how hard you try.” His smile grows wider, until you’re seeing the flash of teeth in it. “Nothing you do or say can ever change the positions you and I stand in. So, tell me once more.” A firm arm curls about your waist, heaving you flush against the cold, clothed expanse of Gilbert’s chest, a stifled gasp leaving you at the motion. “You’re not silly enough to not understand the true implications of your offer, are you?”  

Your next breath quivers out of you. “...I am not.” Your fingers snag awkwardly at the regal collar of his mantle, sinking into the soft fur lining the edges. “I wholeheartedly wish to make amends.” And you pitch your head forwards, the tentative kiss you touch against Gilbert’s cold lips has you shuddering in his embrace. “I can’t promise you what you want but I can convey my honest remor—”  

His hand slinks into the catch of your hair, hauling you back towards him in a kiss of cool desire, mouth moving against yours in a manner, it leaves you flushed and breathless by the time Gilbert parts from you on a wet, sultry sound. A hand he cups about your jaw, thumb denting at your chin in measured strokes. You tip your mouth, catching the edge of his glove in between your teeth to tug, slow. Deliberate. Curving your hands about his, in aid, before you wrest the glove off his hand entirely. Moving to discard it behind, at your feet.  

Gilbert’s bared hand moves to curve about the flare of your hip; a patient squeeze he applies to the flesh beneath. His other hand he extends in silent instruction for you to de-glove before you comply without question. You tremble above him in need, his simmering gaze more than making up for the cold you feel permeating through the thin cloth of your dress. “Go on,” he encourages. “You’re going to work for it, aren’t you?”  

Your breath heaves with the slow rise of your chest, hand stealing past the stiff collar of his cape to settle your fingers at the side of his neck, tracing hesitant pads down the line of it. “You’re so cold.”  

His lashes sweep shut over his eye at your touch, canting his head further into the warmth of your palm; a figure he paints so lovely, you know this empyrean visage is what you’d always envisioned within your mind’s eye when you used to read about kings and princes within your happy fairytales, long before in a time that seems so far into the past now. “You should warm me, then. Show me you’re capable of it.” 

Sinking a vexed bite into your lip — adamant on proving yourself right — you hoist your knee awkwardly onto the narrow seat. Gilbert’s hands immediately flit to curve their supports against your behind and lift, just as your other knee too, settles by his thigh, effectively straddling him. Your breaths stopper momentarily within your throat with the expectant lift of his gaze, palms squeezing softly against your pliant flesh. Your hands fly towards the flow of your dress before you slip the material up against your thighs, deliberately exposing your bare skin to his gaze.  

Gilbert's eye flashes; molten steel bleeding into the gaze, before one of his hands steal past the edge of your still rising dress and in between your legs to glance a searing touch in between your drenched folds, right above your underwear. You gasp at the euphoric sensation, hips lurching against his hand on instinct, trying to capture it deeper into you.  

He indulges you — perhaps he feels particularly merciful in that one moment of whimsy — the pad of his forefinger re-tracing its path in between your folds. Before his thumb tucks aside the edge of your underwear, to slide index and middle in a slow, torturous path across the bare flesh from hood to base. Teasing the cool tips of them just into your entrance. Your body flares in mortified need to feel your wetness gush onto his fingers at that mere testing touch.  

His eye rolls up to meet yours, the smile that lingers at his lips, immensely pleased. “You’re very warm here.” Propelling his fingers, slow, up into your clenching walls. “It’s almost as if you’re running a fever, little rabbit.” You moan against him, with each deliberate thrust, the pads of his digits finding your weakest spot frighteningly quick, to scrape repetitive, at the soft flesh. “Do you think I’d be just as hot were I to settle deep into your place here?”  

Your hips judder against his fingers at those words, grazing the heel of his palm against the neglected bead at your apex, sending fire soaring through your body at that split moment of contact. Your soft, soughing sound of need breaks into the air, body gyrating down against that searing point of contact, in rhythm with the leisured thrust of his fingers into your spasming walls.  

Before Gilbert, cruelly, siphons the heat from you entirely at the cusp of release, fingers pried out of you to drift up against his mouth. He sweeps his tongue against his drenched digits, copious arousal dripping past his wrist to soak into the pristine cloth at his thigh. “Sweet thing,” he hums, just as you flush further underneath his piercing touch.  

And before you can manoeuvre your weak limbs for much else — mind so hazed in its lust addled state, you’re not sure what’s happening — Gilbert’s free hand is stealing about the curve of your spine. Pressing you down against the firm, hard strength of exposed flesh; the smooth head of him bumping about your nub to have you keening into the touch. Spine arching the rest of the way forwards without the coaxing of his hand, so he slips just past your entrance; fingers spasming into his shoulders at the stretch. You rock against that pleasurable almost burn for several, excruciating moments, in and out — surface thrusts — head falling back against your shoulders.  

Gilbert throws his hand about your body, fingers splaying just beneath the wings of your shoulder-blades, hauling your coasting body to hold firm, against his. “Don’t lose yourself now, little rabbit. You have yet to satisfactorily apologize.” Tempting your body down into his lap until he’s propelled, at last, into your drenched walls, a rapid sigh issued from Gilbert’s lips at the sensation.  

Your body quickly warming his into yours — the shape and stretch of him has you nearly faint with desire. “I’m sorry,” you croon on your first roll upon him. “I-I’m so sorry.” Grinding him up into your walls as deeply as you are able, the unyielding strength of him so numbing within your body. Even inside you, connected this intimately, Gilbert von Obsidian must have his own way with you.  

And you’ve let him do so, for so long; at his beck and call, thrown to his tender mercies. And yet, your mind had gone and coddled unfathomable emotions for him within its bosom. He'd gotten past your defences, just as he’d promised; crawling tendrils underneath your skin, into your frenzied beating heart, deep into your mind, until he occupied every thought along with each waking breath of yours. And your tiny victory lay in the knowledge that perhaps, you too had chipped a small chunk past that obsidian armour and carved a shallow wound at his skin, of your name.  

“I’m sorry for angering you, Gilbert.” You weep upon his length, hips driving fast towards a swift approaching release. 

“You are, aren’t you?” He breathes, hands catching at your waist to aid your movements upon him. “I’ll forgive you. And I’ll forgive you for neglecting to speak my proper title too, Belle, since I’m the one who has ruined you.” His smile is almost sweet, pleasant upon his face as he looks up at you — you drink that saccharine poison down almost fervidly. “You’re allowed to be remiss this once, because we are friends.”  

He’s driving, hard, into you — powerful enough the pew beneath you creaks with the propulsions — at an angle that has him brushing hot against your swollen nub in blinding strokes, just at the cusp of release, threatening to overflow. “So, call me Gil instead, when we are alone. I shall permit it, for you. Say it now.” 

Your body breaks, spasming into a release so violent, your entire body shudders above him. “Gil.” You sob out loud, your arms he coaxes about the strength of his shoulders. Fingers you sink into the soft fur of his mantle to ground yourself, just as Gilbert’s warmth follows soon after into your quivering walls. “I-I’m sorry, Gil.” 

A breathless, flushed grin, Gilbert von Obsidian buries against your mouth before he speaks. “Apology accepted, little rabbit.” 

End Notes: Thank you for reading!

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here.

You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter.

[golden-buddle]

I admittedly am not up on the cryptid batfam, so if I am remembering wrong, that is why. :p There's a monster under the bed. Children know it. Especially the children whose parents aren't kind. Whose parents lash out and abuse. There's a monster under the bed, who will not let children in its territory get harmed. (Redhood is the thing that lurks under the bed, to the woe of any abusive caretaker. However feel free to choose whoever fits your muse if it strikes.)

ohoho..

————

There was a Monster Under the Bed.

Every child in Gotham knew it, every child in Gotham has seen it.

It’s a young spirit, the older kids whisper at recess. Just like it’s sire had taken it, it will take you. The murmur louder, in hopes of scaring those who were listening in. But they’re leaving out something very important. That the Monster would never take anyone that didn’t willingly climb into its grasp.

The Monster is big, the monster is scary, it smells like copper and drips blood everywhere, but it isn’t scary. Not in the ways the children who needed it the most would see.

The Monster was big, and the Monster was perfect for those who needed to hide. For those who climbed under their own beds in hopes that their guardians, if the word could be used, wouldn’t see them just that night.

Whenever that would happen, when an adult would stomp down a hallway, their words carrying a drunken slur or an angry tone, the child would get desperate, they would throw away their blankets, grab their pillows and favorite toys, and climb off their bed.

They would crawl under the bed, murmuring ‘Please, I need help, please-‘ and curl up in the corner.

The shadows under the bed would coalesce, curl around the child in a soft embrace and to drown out the angry noises of any nearby adult.

As the shadows would whisper to the child, telling story after story, wind would swirl in child’s room. Curling and wisping in anger, the Monster would climb out from under the bed.

The shadows would warp, creaking and groaning as the giant figure clawed and deformed itself to get out of the small area.

Blood would drip from its stripped skull, it’s face streaked with so much blood that only the whites of its glowing eyes could be seen. No mouth, no nose, nothing but the glowing visage of haunted and angry eyes could be seen.

If the adult was wise, if they only had listened to the murmurs of their colleagues, they would recognize the creaks of the walls as the warning it was.

But not all adults are bright enough to realize that, not all of them were sober enough to flee the hissing rattle of a snake.

Some open their child’s doors, whether it’s by force or something else, and the lights of the hallway would shine in.

They would see It, the Bloody Hood of the shadows, second Eldest of the Gotham’s Knight, and they would scream.

Underneath their bed, the child would be lulled to sleep by the soft lullabies and rocking of the shadows, but outside the bed, the Bloody Hood would feast.

Both on the blood it was named after, and the aftertaste of fear that still clung to the air.

But once it was full, once it’s prey was drained off all it could give, the Hood would return back to the bed. It would break its bones, twisting and squeezing into the bed it came out of to whisk the child away.

Whereever it was talking the child, said child would never have to worry about the person who sent them running to the monster that dripped with blood.

[bleachification]

⸻ THE HEART OF RUINS

pairing: kenpachi x doctor!reader

warnings: a lil gory? not really that bad though, just mild descriptions of injuries.

themes: hurt/comfort, short drabble, sorta-established relationship, flashback, sunshine x grumpy (?)

word count: 2.4K (vv short lol)

+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

Kenpachi knew something was off the moment Captain Mayuri came barreling through his room in near hysterics, frantically inquiring about your whereabouts.

“Where is [name]?” He demanded, eyes shifting around the room in search of you, unusually panicked.

Kenpachi lazily glanced over at the mad scientist, a little curious, a little bored. Mostly irritated. “The hell are you doing in my house?”

“I do not have time to humour simple-minded buffoons like you. The doctor is in grave danger, which means my dear experiment is in grave danger! Now, tell me where [name] went,” Mayuri hissed.

At that, Kenpachi went rigid. Any and all nonchalance fizzled out of existence, replaced by icy tension. “The hell are you talking about, [name] in danger?”

It isn’t possible, he thought. Sure, you didn’t exactly have Kenpachi’s battle prowess, but your own reiatsu and skill rivalled those of the Gotei 13—your healing abilities are only exceeded by Unohana herself.

[Name] hurt? In Kenpachi’s mind, such a thing was inconceivable.

Forbidden.

“Oh for—” Mayuri huffed, exasperated, and quickly spewed out a rapid explanation. “[Name] is helping me test a new drug, and I’ve been monitoring all of their circulatory and respiratory vitals during the serum’s incubation period. Five minutes ago, every vital sign went flat.”

Silence.

A crack! sounded.

The wall splintered and caved in at the force of Kenpachi’s fist striking it.

“What?!” He snarled, the harsh sound ripped from his throat at the news.

Mayuri rolled his eyes. “Yes. Without the host, my research is over, so hurry up and tell me where—“

Before he could utter another syllable, Kenpachi bolted out the door, sword in hand—his eyepatch long forgotten on the bedside table. The force was so great, it sent Mayuri’s headpiece flying off.

“Bumbling idiot!”

As he swore up a storm, the mad (and equally furious) scientist chased after the speeding cyclone of a captain, all while praying for the safe return of his experiment.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 　

“Hello there.”

Zaraki Kenpachi stared down at the figure before him. His own stature dwarfed you in comparison, and the scar on his hardened features did nothing to soften his visage.

You greeted him with a gentle smile all the same.

“Huh? What are you?”

“I am the new head field doctor, [name]. It is so nice to meet you,” you grinned. Strangely, Kenpachi isn’t annoyed by it, nor by the way you treated him—as if you’d known him his whole life. “I have heard so much about you, Captain Zaraki.”

“New field doctor? Never heard of ya,” he said.

“Captain! You can’t just—”

Kenpachi’s gaze swivelled towards his number three. Ikakku fell silent at the look in his captain’s eyes.

“It’s alright, Ikkaku. I don’t mind. Go ahead and help the others. Your captain and I have much to discuss,” you reassured him.

The Third Seat looked unconvinced, but relented at your pacifying tone. He shot an anxious look at his captain before exiting the field, leaving you alone with Kenpachi.

He regarded you with mild disinterest, but you paid no heed. There was only one thing on your mind.

“Please lie down, Captain.”

Kenpachi’s eyes narrowed. “This is nothing. I can still fight.”

You peered down at the five-inch hole in his stomach. The wound was so deep, you were surprised he was still standing, much less speaking to you. Blood gushed out in streams, and the more he breathed, the more flesh teared. As a doctor, you were impressed at his tenacity. As a person, you were horrified.

You smiled sweetly. “I will not ask again.”

He only scoffed before turning his back to you.

One step.

Two steps.

Kenpachi took three steps away from you before you wrapped a hand around his neck and tapped the base of his throat with three fingers—light as a feather and as effective as a tranquilizer. Your power flowed through his veins and pooled in his stomach, shutting off any and all protests.

Kenpachi’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed to the ground.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered, a grave oversight made. How the hell were you going to lug this giant back to base camp alone?

“Shit, shit, shit, shit…”

“[Name]?”

“Oh, Ikkaku, thank god!”

The shinigami had come back. His eyes widened at the sight before him.

“I’m going to need some help.”

It took a few tries and a lot of breaks, but the two of you managed to successfully drag the captain back to the medical cabins.

Kenpachi woke up from his medically-induced coma a day later, demanding to fight you.

“Where’s that damned doctor? I’ll—”

You waved a hand of dismissal as you walked into his ward. Your nurses scattered, all wearing expressions of relief as they left.

“No need to shout, my dear patient. I am right here.”

“You,” he growled, the accusation ripe on his tongue.

“Me,” you sighed, rubbing your dry eyes with a gloved hand. The fatigue lingered despite your best efforts of staying alert.

Kenpachi faltered as he took in your state. His words were still gruff—unkept, but softer, somehow. Careful.

“What's wrong with you?”

You squinted at him, vision blurry. “Huh?”

“You look like hell,” he grunted.

You blinked, his comment catching you off guard. It caught you so off guard that you found yourself bursting into laughter—or hysterics, you weren’t sure.

“Believe me, I feel like it too,” you breathed, all sorts of aches flooding your muscles. You rolled your shoulder and made your way to his bedside, about to check on his wounds. “So if you want to fight me, it will have to wait until I am rested. Though you’ll win regardless, so I don’t really see a point in it.”

Kenpachi eyed you warily as you got closer, but the tension left him after you finished fiddling with the IV, letting the second dose of morphine hit.

“You never know. Maybe you’re just what I need in an opponent. You knocked me out earlier, remember?” His tone was almost… hopeful? It made you smile, despite your exhaustion.

“You were severely weakened, Captain Zaraki. Three types of venom were found festering within your body. Your organs were shredded to practically nothing. The fact that you survived is nothing short of a miracle, and most definitely beyond me. Hell, beyond the scope of anatomy and physiology itself.

“All that, and it still took me an immense amount of energy to put you to sleep. If you were any closer to your original strength, I would likely be dead,” you pointed out matter-of-factly.

It was true. The sheer power he contained and the potential he had… it was nothing short of monstrous.

Kenpachi barked out a laugh. “How boring.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.”

He laughed again. You found you quite liked the sound of his laughter.

“You have a nice laugh,” you pointed out.

Kenpachi doesn’t respond, only slides you a look of half-boredom and half-nonchalance.

“You could at least say thank you,” you teased.

“I don’t do that,” he grunted.

That time, it was you who laughed.

“You don’t say…”

You glanced at him, and the motion made you dizzy. You squeezed your eyes shut for a few seconds in an attempt to curb it as everything went hazy.

“Damn. That was some really bad vertigo,” you murmured.

Kenpachi tilted his head, craning his neck. “What?”

“I said—” you paused as the world tilted left.

Then, right.

Then, upside down.

“Hey—what’s wrong with you?!”

The last thing you remembered before blacking out is the warmth of large arms wrapping around you, and a string of curses that came from their owner.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 　

Kenpachi ignored the biting winds whipping against his skin and the harsh summer heat bearing down on his back as he sped across mountains and plains. Sweat streamed down the frame of his face from the effort, slowing only against the rigid tension in his jaw.

Move, he thought.

Faster, he pleaded with himself.

Just get to them.

The last time Kenpachi had felt panic to such a degree was four years ago—when he had witnessed your unconscious form crumple to the hospital floor, unresponsive to his shouts. Your head had been cradled in his palm, mere inches from hitting the stone floor.

It took six hours for you to wake up, and by that time, Kenpachi had reached a new level of anxiety—one that he did not realize he was capable of. For some obscure and completely unknown reason, the captain who had never cared much about anything seemed to care way too much for a stranger. The feeling gnawed at him and made him uneasy. Such a person was dangerous. He should get rid of you, yet, as soon as you began to lose your balance, his first and only instinct was to catch you—to protect you.

But this time, he may be too late.

Kenpachi shook that paralyzing thought out of his head and pushed himself to even quicker speeds. Solid surroundings turned to vertical blurs as he cut through forests and lakes in his haste.

As the sky shifted to black and the air grew cold, he finally slowed to a stop. Kenpachi found himself at the edge of a familiar cliff overlooking miles and miles of flat fields. On them, rested hundreds of stone pillars and ruins of a broken city. A vast civilization that once flourished—-now eroded by time’s decay, leaving only rotted land and torn buildings.

Where…?

Kenpachi screamed your name. The only answer he got back was the faded echo of his own voice.

A soft scuffle sounded behind him.

It was not you. Kenpachi knew this and pulled his blade out, as fast as lightning and deadlier by tenfold. The ragged metal glinted underneath the moon’s glow as it pointed at its victim, the tip mere millimeters from the hollow of Ikkaku’s throat.

“Captain. We’re here to help,” Ikkaku announces. If he was threatened by Kenpachi, he did nothing to let it show.

Behind Ikkaku stood the entirety of Kenpachi’s squad. All of whom were drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, sharing the same grim expression of determination.

“If you come back with empty hands, you will die with empty hands,” Kenpachi promised in a low voice.

No one argued. No one complained. Squad 11 dispatched, ready to either bring you back to Kenpachi or forfeit their lives.

The captain ignored his squad members, and jumped straight off the cliff into the rubble below. The ground shook in protest underneath his heavy footsteps as he searched through stone caverns and collapsed wreckage in a crazed, feral frenzy, blind to everything but his desperate need to find you.

Rocks tumbled, dust flew into the air, and darkness crept its way alongside Kenpachi as the night aged. Hours and hours passed without a single sign of life.

Not one squad member had reported anything back to their captain since the search began.

A guttural roar ripped free from Kenpachi as he hit the peak of his rage and frustration. Sheer panic sliced through his bones. He dug through solid walls, fingernails broken and bleeding, calling out your name until it burned his throat to speak.

Think.

Kenpachi had to think. His mind was racing—a storm of jittering anxiety and distress. The thought of you was the only pillar of order in that whirling chaos.

You.

His doctor.

The one who promised to save him, always. Forever.

That day, he had silently vowed to do the same. He would not break that promise tonight.

With renewed clarity, the captain scanned the horizon, squinting at the darkness. His squad members roamed the land, yelling your name and searching. Kenpachi ignored them and focused, looking over each area with a critical eye.

A dull glint of something caught his eye. It peeked out from underneath a huge mass of crumbling granite that had fallen in place of what looked like the entrance to an abandoned mausoleum.

Kenpachi got closer.

The metal’s shape came into form. A familiar ring.

He bolted.

In one swift motion, Kenpachi had heaved the stone slab away, removing the only obstacle between him and what was on the other side.

Your broken body, bruised and caked with dried blood, laid there as still as a corpse. Your complexion was paler than the marble tiles you were found on, and your skin was so cold that it made Kenpachi shiver when he gently gathered you into his arms.

“Hey…” his voice had never been so quiet. He had never felt so small, so helpless.

You didn’t respond.

Kenpachi felt for a pulse, heart hammering, and almost collapsed in relief when he found one, albeit faint.

A few of the squad members realized what had happened and started to swarm, all having similar reactions of shock and fear.

“Is that…?”

“Oh god, do you think—“

“Get Mayuri here now!” Kenpachi barked out, interrupting the whispers and startling the soldiers back into action. They scrambled to locate the other doctor, leaving their captain and yourself alone by the tombs.

You still had not awoken.

“C’mon… Wake up… [name], wake up,” Kenpachi muttered, softly stroking your matted hair. His hands shook, fingers trembling as he kept you within his grasp.

After what seemed like lifetimes, but were probably only mere minutes, Mayuri came running, Ikkaku followed with a myriad of odd (medical?) aids in his arms.

“Damned… give them to me!”

A possessive, irrational streak reared its ugly head and Kenpachi almost refused, clutching you closer, until his senses knocked him straight. He relented, though not without reluctance.

Mayuri immediately got to work, and after a long stretch of tense waiting, he had stabilized you.

“[Name] will be fine, but we need to get them back to the city.”

At those words, the pressure in Kenpachi’s chest that had been present since the beginning of the whole ordeal finally lifted, and he felt like he could breathe again.

He would chew you out later for being so stupid, but for now, he had you.

You were safe.

And that was the only thing that seemed to matter.

•

˚ · . tags: @zjarrmiii @aiizenn @emyyy007 @zaraki-oriented

[aggro-my-beloved]

Trash Polka (AsherxBabe)

note: this hasn’t been fully looked over/edited so if you notice my mistakes just pretend you don’t. k thx.

summary: *doodles that a person draws on themselves will appear on their soulmate’s skin* [babe is tired of wearing hoodies in summer, and leggings in the spring. but their soulmate seems too caught up in his career to mind leaving little notes and drawings on their skin, rather than revealing himself. babe DOESN’T take matters into their own hands, but they soon won’t be covered by a mod-podge of their soulmate’s scribbles. one can hope, at least.]

pairing(s): AsherxBabe (romantic), AsherxDavid (platonic)

warning(s): none

word count: 1.4k

estimated reading time: 7 mins

taglist: @ther3alsweetheart @darlin-collins @professionallyyappinabtangst @elles-roses @ashertickler mwah

“GLOVES AGAIN? IT’S A HUNDRED degrees outside.” Katherine quips from her desk. As usual, Babe’s morning is all swearing and stumbles through the office building as they don a more than modest collection of clothing.

“I think it’s a hundred and one, actually.” Vinny chortles from his cubicle. Since turning down his invitation to be his plus one at the office holiday party the year prior, he’s been more prone to poke fun at them. Babe illustrates the smirk tugging at his lips and fantasizes ripping it clean off his visage while preparing for another busy morning. Bag strap on the back of their chair. The largest iced coffee Starbucks could provide them on the ceramic coaster gifted by Katherine, which reads some motivational slogan Babe would be caught dead uttering in any unironic fashion.

“I still don’t know how you manage to work like that.” Their colleague’s tone is the perfect balance of judgment and concern; a siren song can draw the most taboo answers from anyone she crosses paths with. Babe is aware of this, and yet they still respond. Katherine is approachable, but isn’t as prone to flapping her lips compared to others who lurk in the office.

“I told you before, Kat, I get cold easily. Low iron, and stuff.” Babe clears their throat and wiggles their chair closer to the computer before them. A few minutes pass, and they flicker their eyes between the two cubicles on either side of them, harboring a yapping Vinny on his phone, and Katherine engrossed in her bookkeeping tasks. Babe’s movement is subtle as they sink lower in their chair, and stretch their arms beneath their desktop to flick on the fan to its highest setting. Another glance back and forth. More nonsense gabs from Vinny. Even more sounds of filing papers from Katherine. They are sandwiched in a personal hell, but the heavy dress pants and turtleneck strangling their figure may be to blame for that.

Relieving wool gloves from their hands has grown to be an orgasmic experience for Babe. One of the few things they miss about working remotely is the pleasure of joining video meetings half-naked, and feel content with the fact that their colleagues are none the wiser about what their lower half is lacking. In this office full of prying eyes and passive-aggressive chatter, though, the simple act of baring their hands fills them with equal amounts of pleasure and shame of a lambasted stripper.

Babe’s eyes cascade over the swoops and strikes of black ink on skin, written in their spoken language but still holding no significant meaning—the lines embedded in their palm act as lines on ruled paper.

Sm Tourn @ Davey’s Fri 8

Buy milk, almost out

DO NOT DRINK MILK IN FRIDGE!

For whatever reason, the person who left these notes for themself also found it apropos to doodle a smiley face below the crease of their thumb. Babe stiffens at the tickling sensation on their opposite hand and draws their attention toward the writing slowly appearing on it. It’s messier than chicken scratch with some typos, like every other message this person leaves for them to discover, but Babe’s witnessed these messages long enough to decode them, or at the very least, try to.

The first time their parents discovered the writing on their skin, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. They were freshly tween, overflowing with naivety and curiosity, and they assumed their anonymous messenger was too. Babe’s father clocked them at the dinner table and demanded they show him their hand, where a “naughty” word written in bold lettering was spelled out on four out of five of their knuckles. Any excuse Babe mustered in that moment would have been a lie because they were still clueless as to how random notes appeared on their skin, or who the person writing them was.

They chalked it off as a word they heard from their classmates, but it didn’t satisfy their parents in the slightest. Babe missed a whole week's worth of Pokémon and Spongebob on the family television and held that grudge for as long as they could remember. But with no face or name to target their anger towards, they learned that stewing was pointless. Soapy water was the obvious solution in Babe’s mind. Just scrub hard enough and there would be no proof, right? Wrong. Whatever mystical power is embedded in this ink, or Babe’s skin, allows it to last twenty-four hours when fighting against soap, stain sticks, or even concealer. From that point on, Babe wrestled themselves into floor-length bottoms and long-sleeves up until high school graduation.

They’ve struggled falling asleep at night, trying to view this anomaly as a “gift”. Nobody else they’ve come across has poorly drawn Star Trek characters or names of midwest emo bands littering their epidermis like a composition notebook. Not to mention the person distributing these excerpts of their life–who are they? Do they know they’re capable of something like this? Do they even know Babe exists, and ponders the consequences of this condition in their life, and cries at the reminder that they can never purchase that crop top on sale or be stared at walking down the beach with a sweatshirt on?

Babe is broken out of their spiraling thoughts by Madelyn’s request to fetch the mail from the lobby. They didn’t catch the particular reason, but their ears perked up at the words “big check we need to run.” Babe feels invisible strings urging their eyes to roll and fights them, seizing the pair of gloves and bustling towards the nearest elevator. Once upon a time, Babe would take any excuse to waltz down the seventeen flights of stairs to dilly dally. But that was before their thoughts became consumed with dying of heat stroke between concrete walls and cotton layers.

Babe finds solace in the empty elevator, and decides to savor the feeling of bare hands in every way imaginable by cracking their knuckles, reaching them up to the fluorescent lights of the lift and drenching their skin in the gleam. In seconds, they become clenched fists, clammy and unresponsive at the sound of quickly approaching steps and voice growing in volume.

“Look, I know I left the stove on. I’m sorry, buddy. It was just a little flare up...” In a panic, Babe reaches forward to jab the button to close the doors, and halts at the sight of their hand, covered in more scribbles than before. They reduce themself into the corner, hastily cloaking their hands with the gloves. Amidst putting on the second one, the voice introduces its body in the picture as it squeezes through the elevator doors right before they shut. His phone is situated between his ear and shoulder, as he shuffles through the large stack of paperwork between his hands.

His hands…

Look just like…

“Bye buddy, love you!” His blonde hair swishes against his forehead as he cranes his neck down to end the call. “He’s really trying to turn me into that guy who’s being super loud on their phone in the elevator.” While pocketing his phone, Babe’s eyes follow his hands, scribbled in black. He retrieves a pen from behind his ear, uncaps it with his mouth and lets the ballpoint make contact with his skin before he begins writing. Babe feels the familiar tickle, but is too in shock to respond. Halfway through his latest entry, he shakes the pen violently with a grunt. “Damn, this thing’s getting low on ink.”

Through his peripheral vision, the blonde peeks over at the second set of hands in the elevator, and notices some writing peeking out from the half-worn glove overtaking Babe’s left hand. “Another avid notetaker, I see. My friends can’t stand it when I write on my skin. They say it's a one way trip to ink poisoning. But it’s saving the trees, right?” Again, the nervous chuckle floats through the space, and then awkward silence. Babe’s lips remain parted in awe, too caught up in the current revelation to grab hold of anything as the elevator’s motor stutters and comes to a sudden halt. Before they could tumble to the floor, his coated hands caught them amidst their teetering. Blue eyes pooling with an intimidating level of concern, stare them down.

“Aw man, I think the elevator got stuck. Hey, are you alright?” The eyes flicker down, and the man appears to harbor the same revelation as Babe when he further inspects the writing on their hand. At least, they thought…

“No way! You like Star Trek too?”

soulmate september schedule | main masterlist | abt author

[jetsetlife138]

Imaginary: Reimagined (Alastor-Fem!Reader) - Chapter 2

A Multi-Chapter Story

Previous Chapters: Intro / Chapter 1

Chapter 2: The Introduction

Chapter Rating: Mature

Chapter Warnings: Reader experiences intense feelings of anxiety, discomfort, fear, and unwanted attention from a certain Radio demon.

Startled by the unexpected greeting, you pivoted swiftly in search of the elusive voice. Given the distinct static overlay accompanying the speaker, you initially anticipated seeing an antiquated television or vintage radio. However, to your astonishment, the origin was far more ominous.

The towering, gaunt figure before you exuded a distressing aura, his malevolence etched into every line of his sinister visage. As you examined him further, a labyrinth of unique features unfolded like a tapestry of the macabre, each detail more entrancingly unsettling than the last.

His penetrating leer felt like it could scorch the very depths of your soul, his eyes smoldering with an otherworldly crimson fire. The blood-red sclera lent an eerie depth, complemented by cinober irises that glowed with a supernatural intensity. Thin black pupils, sharp and unwavering, bore mercilessly into whosoever dared to meet his gaze. A burgundy oval-shaped monocle rimmed with sleek black adorned his right eye, adding an air of sophistication to his countenance.

A mischievous, broad smile unfurled across his face, a wicked crescent that exposed a set of teeth colored like sulfurous flames—sharp, pointed, and reminiscent of shards of amber. Each tooth, a gleaming weapon, hinted at a predator's cunning, a testament to the calculated danger that lurked behind the veneer of his baleful grin.

Crowning his head, peculiarity manifested in an unconventional hairstyle—an unruly cascade of fiery strawberry-red, meticulously cropped with a rebellious flair. The tips, dipped in the deepest black, created a striking contrast. Two audacious tufts of hair, tipped in the same jet black, extended defiantly from the apex, creating a distinctive silhouette, adding an almost devilish semblance.

Perched atop this vibrant display were two small, elegant black antlers—a subtle yet distinctive touch that further emphasized his unearthly presence. Together, the hairstyle and the antlers wove a tale of defiance and mystique, marking him as a character who embraced the havoc within, turning it into a crown of eccentricity.

His attire, further validating his enigmatic persona, consisted of a carmine pinstripe coat and dark cherry lapels lined with stark white; the garment exuded an air of both elegance and decay. Torn and ragged along the hem, it hinted at a history filled with battles and untold challenges. Beneath the coat, a bright red dress shirt with a bold ebony cross on the chest hinted at more profound symbolism. A black knotted bowtie with a ruby center adorned his neck, giving the apparel a subtle touch of formality.

His hands, sheathed in sable gloves, each fingertip adorned with a flash of dramatic scarlet, adding a touch of theatrical flair to his gestures as though every movement was part of an elaborate performance. Completing the ensemble, obsidian pointed-toe boots at his feet, their tips dipped in a fiery red, as if the ground itself ignited in his presence.

Maintaining a poised stance with impeccable posture, he stood with shoulders pulled back and chin elevated in a decorous and dignified pose. One arm rested gracefully behind his back, enhancing the implication of formality. At the same time, the other gripped a staff crowned by what looked to be an unusual microphone fixture, hinting at a strange fusion of worlds in his grasp.

This ambiguous figure stood as a walking paradox, a haunting blend of elegance and menace, sophistication and chaos.

Sensing your trepidation, his grin widened even further into a wicked expression that seemed to relish in your stunned reaction as well as the element of surprise. “Tongue-tied already?”

Apologizing nervously, you stumbled over your words and cleared your throat before mustering a hesitant greeting, "Um... hello."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, sweetheart!" he exclaimed, extending his hand to clasp yours forcefully. The unexpected strength in his grip caught you off guard, smoothly drawing you closer—a bold move that sent a tingling sensation through you as you struggled to reclaim your composure. "Alastor, at your service. An absolute pleasure, I must say!"

A subtle crackle in the air marked a palpable shift, signaling a sudden transformation in his demeanor. In the blink of an eye, his welcoming host facade vanished. In its place emerged the persona of a beguiling gentleman, his intentions now veering towards the less honorable. Undeterred, he continued his greeting; his charismatic glamor, now laced with an undeniable allure, hinted at lurking danger beneath the surface. "And you, my enchanting mystery, what should I call you?" With a subtle yet commanding touch, he pressed a refined and tender kiss to the back of your hand, each second stretching into eternity as his intense gaze remained fixed on yours.

Despite your desire to reclaim your hand, it remained ensnared in his firm grip, rendering your haphazard attempts futile. Staring back at him, completely captivated, you failed to muster even the most straightforward responses, such as your own name. His aura derailed you far more than the demons you had encountered when you first arrived, surpassing even the ones who posed more direct threats.

Incoherent and nonsensical words stumbled out of your mouth, the quiver in your voice reflecting the unease that enveloped you in the magnetic field of his presence.

Growing impatient, the demon interjected, "Surely, you possess a name of your own. Come now, don't be a canceled stamp. What moniker belongs to such a captivating individual as yourself?"

As he continued speaking, you noticed his language unmistakably belonged to a bygone era. The vintage phrases and rapid-fire delivery echoed the dialogue of old black-and-white movies you had encountered over the years, particularly those with brisk and lively commentary.

His manner of speech carried a peculiar mix of disconcerting enticement, seamlessly melded with his overall style and disposition. A fleeting thought crossed your mind, contemplating whether it was a carefully crafted act or if he could indeed be a relic from the 1930s. In your current setting, where boundaries between eras blurred, the possibility of him being a genuine product of the past could be as likely as any other extraordinary occurrence in Hell.

Drawing a deep breath to steady your nerves, you eventually yielded, surrendering your name to the demon. Alastor, as you now knew him, flashed his ever-present grin, the twisted mirth dancing in his eyes as if he had just secured a coveted prize. The lobby's light seemed to flicker in tandem with the sinister satisfaction on his face.

"Why, that's absolutely delightful," he declared, testing the sound of your name on his lips. "It just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? Splendid! Now, forgive my curiosity, but you don't strike me as a local." It was challenging to focus on his words as Alastor's eyes bore into yours, like embers dancing in the shadows. His impeccable manners and theatrical gestures were a stark contrast to the ominous air that surrounded him.

Collecting yourself, you felt your pulse quicken as you stammered, "W-what gives you that impression?" It was a feeble attempt to challenge his assumptions, but even as the words left your lips, a moment of realization struck, making you feel somewhat foolish. The truth was painfully obvious – you were undeniably human, not a demon. The air around you seemed to tighten with an awkward silence, a palpable acknowledgment of the absurdity that hung in the space between you and Alastor.

"Well, my dear," he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes, "first and foremost, you're alive. There hasn't been a living soul down here in… well, ever, to my knowledge. Your heartbeat practically sings in this abyss of torment!" His tone carried a mix of mischief and genuine fascination as if he had stumbled upon a rare and captivating treasure. "Quite the twist, isn't it?"

Another chill crept up your spine, the realization settling in that Alastor's interest extended far beyond mere pleasantries. Each syllable he uttered bore the weight of a concealed agenda, leaving you to navigate the labyrinth of his enchantment cautiously.

"Secondly," he continued, visibly unfazed by your gawking stare, "You're quite noticeably average. Hell is brimming with anthropomorphic beings. I regret to inform you that you stick out rather drastically. If your intention was to be discreet, it appears you're off your trolley!"

Perplexed, you furrowed your brow. His attempts at communication through outdated terminology failed to resonate and left you even more bewildered. "Sorry, what?"

He laughed heartily in response to your evident confusion, delighting in the disorientation you were experiencing as he playfully tapped the microphone on the top of his staff. "Hello! Is this thing on? Can you read me loud and clear?"

Battered by the relentless onslaught of mayhem and Alastor's nonsensical banter, you felt your sanity teetering on the brink of collapse. The unyielding pandemonium you had continuously endured was reaching its limit, and the existential panic lingering in your mind was now threatening to surface. You felt the unraveling of your composure, desperate for a moment of peace.

Sensing the strain on your waning mental stability, Alastor abruptly ceased his heckling. A sudden stillness replaced the dastardly mirth as he offered assistance, his tone surprisingly gentle. "Forgive me, I've been a bit uncouth. I reckon you've had quite the day with all these novel experiences! What might I fetch for you to aid in a moment of repose? Some giggle water? A gasper, perhaps?"

Once again, the unfamiliar jargon failed to resonate, intensifying your confusion. The unexpected, yet supposedly sincere, offer of abetment from the intimidating demon further disoriented you. The interaction alluded to a hidden layer of complexity within him, contributing to the overall intrigue surrounding his character.

Despite your efforts to remain composed, a heavy sigh escaped you, vocalizing the frustration that had taken place within. Your hands found solace in cradling your head, a physical manifestation of the turmoil that enveloped your thoughts.

"Look, it's Alastor, right?" His nod of confirmation prompted you to proceed as you dropped your hands to a less manic stance. "Okay, Alastor. I'm sensing a disconnect here. I'm not sure if this—" you gestured toward him, observing the quizzical tilt of his head before continuing, "... old-timey persona is your 'shtick' or whatever… But, honestly, I can't deal with this right now. While I appreciate your hospitality, up until earlier today, everything in my life was perfectly normal. Now, I'm trapped in some bizarre cartoon universe filled with humanoid monsters who apparently want me dead, and I'm having a hard time coping. So, could you give me a minute? Please?" The pain in your voice was evident, a desperate request for a moment of calm amidst the surreal madness that had become your reality.

A profound silence settled between you. Alastor's piercing gaze carefully scrutinized you while he pondered your words. While his perpetual smile never faltered, a subtle nuance in how he regarded you conveyed a hint of disappointment. It was as if he feared he had inadvertently damaged his newfound source of entertainment before fully indulging in its potential.

"Dear, I was only–"

"You heard her! Back off!"

You and Alastor swiftly redirected your focus as a commanding voice resonated across the lobby. Emerging from the distance was a feminine figure resembling a moth adorned with long white hair elegantly secured by a vibrant cherry bow. A prominent X marked her left eye, accentuating her distinctive appearance.

As the figure drew closer, you noticed the disapproving scowl etched across her face, which looked pointedly fixed on Alastor. The tension in the air heightened as the unexpected ally intervened, her presence signaling a shift in the unfolding dynamic.

"Vagatha," Alastor greeted with cool nonchalance, an almost dismissive nod accompanying his words. "Right on cue."

"That's not my name," The moth-like woman mumbled under her breath, her narrowed eyes betraying a lingering suspicion. Yet, when her attention turned to you, her demeanor transformed. A warm smile replaced the scowl, and she placed her hands protectively on your shoulders, instantly creating a sense of comfort.

"I'm Vaggie," she introduced herself amicably. "Don't let this guy scare you off. Somehow, he wormed his way into becoming the hotel's Facility Manager, but that's on a probationary period. He's already on thin ice." Vaggie's gaze shot back to Alastor, a glare loaded with unspoken challenges. Alastor, however, seemed to relish in the confrontation, his eyes crinkling in mischievous glee.

"Charlie got held up on an important phone call, so she sent me to help get you settled until she can meet up with us. Come on, we've got a room ready for you upstairs." The promise of sanctuary in the form of a bedroom thrilled you, a welcome reprieve from the brewing storm in the lobby.

"Thank you, that sounds great," you agreed, your response punctuated by a nervous swallow. You were still attempting to stifle any apprehension triggered by Vaggie and Alastor's unique features. Turning back to Alastor, you offered a polite farewell. "It was nice to meet you, Alastor. I guess I'll see you around."

To your astonishment, you recoiled as his teeth seemed to sharpen even further, the unwavering smile on his face widening at your acknowledgment. "Oh, yes, dearest. Sooner than you think," he purred, his words dripping with a subtle menace that left a trail of anticipation in their wake. The air thickened as Alastor's gaze lingered on you, a predator watching its prey, as you turned to follow Vaggie towards the large, creaking staircase.

As you climbed the grand staircase, the glare of the lobby gave way to the soft glow of sconces that adorned the walls, casting flickering shadows along the ornate patterns of the carpet. The plush and intricate designs felt as though they absorbed the echo of your footsteps, creating an atmosphere of subtle refinement.

Vaggie led you through the upper landing, the ambience changing as you ascended. A faint scent of aged wood lingered, intermingled with the distant wails of Hell's tormented souls. It was a disturbing reminder of the realm you found yourself in.

"Your room is just down there," she said, her tone easing into a more casual cadence as she gestured ahead. The subtle tension of the encounter with Alastor seemed to dissipate with each step. "Sorry about that weird thing with Alastor. He's... unique. But don't worry, you're in good hands now."

The hallway unfolded as a corridor of opulence, with ambient lighting casting a vermillion gleam upon the dark, polished wood of the ornate doors that lined either side. Vaggie halted before a particularly imposing door, turning to you with a small, apologetic smile. "This is it. Your new home, at least for the time being." The door's intricate carvings and richly hued finish hinted at the luxury within, offering a glimpse into the mysterious haven that awaited you.

Entering the room, you were met with a surprisingly cozy atmosphere. The large bed dominated the space, adorned in rich crimson and gold bedding. Four beams stood proudly on each corner, supporting a black canopy that added an air of elegance. With their shears drawn, the two giant windows along the wall hinted at consideration for your well-being, shielding you from whatever horrors lurked below. Despite the obscured view, the city's lights cast a warm and inviting glow into the room.

A large, regal dresser stood proudly between the windows, a vast mirror attached on top reflecting the refined atmosphere of the room. Against the opposite wall, an armoire added a touch of vintage charm, and in the corner, a matching vanity whispered of bygone elegance. A door beckoned on the opposite end of the room, leading to your private en-suite bathroom.

Vaggie, her posture casual yet observant, leaned against the wall, her eyes following your every move. "It's not exactly the Ritz, but it's got its own flair."

You turned to face her, the weight of the day's events still etched on your features. "Flair might be an understatement, Vaggie. This place is..." You searched for the right word as you regarded the room. "Impressive."

She chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the quiet space. "Hell has a way of blending horror with splendor, doesn't it? Anyway, make yourself at home." Stepping back to survey the space again, you marveled at how it had met your needs and exceeded them.

Captivated by the allure of your new living space, you nearly missed Charlie's spirited entrance. Bursting through the doorway, her radiant expression illuminated the room like a burst of sunlight, and she greeted you with unbridled enthusiasm. "Welcome!" she exclaimed, extending her arms to accentuate her elation. "I hope that this space will suffice. If you need any other accommodations, I'm sure our gracious Facility Manager will happily assist!"

A derisive snort from Vaggie redirected your attention, her skepticism evident as she shot Charlie a sidelong glance. "Yeah, our 'gracious' Facility Manager has a knack for overstepping boundaries and could learn a thing or two about minding his own damn business. You're better off coming to me or Charlie for anything you need."

Charlie, undeterred by Vaggie's cynicism, chimed in with an eager smile. "Oh, we'd be thrilled to help with whatever you need!" Her eyes sparkled with genuine sincerity as she moved closer to Vaggie, intertwining their fingers as if grounding herself in their shared strength. As she took Vaggie's hand in hers, Charlie's gaze lingered with adoration. "Vaggie has done so much to help get this place up and running. She's not just my right hand; she's my better half."

Vaggie smiled sheepishly, trying to conceal her blush. Charlie planted a delicate kiss on Vaggie's cheek before turning her attention back to you, adopting a more serious tone. "Listen, I know this must all be pretty terrifying, and you must be so scared, but we've got you, I promise."

"Try to keep a low profile," Vaggie encouraged, placing a hand on her hip as she stood confidently. "Keep to yourself, avoid any potentially dangerous situations, and most importantly, stay away from the Shitlord. If you can do that, you should be fine until we can figure out how to get you home."

You blinked, puzzled by the peculiar term. "I'm sorry, the 'Shitlord'?"

"Alastor," she grumbled, ignoring Charlie's subtle scowl. "Our not-so-friendly neighborhood Radio Demon."

"Why should I avoid him?" you inquired, your interest piqued, especially after your earlier encounter. "If he's here helping to redeem sinners, he can't be that bad, right?"

The conflicting responses from Charlie and Vaggie painted a vivid picture of the polarizing figure that was Alastor. Charlie's eyes lit up with loyalty, defending the demon's actions, while Vaggie's glare spoke volumes about her mistrust.

"He's an ass," Vaggie stated bluntly, not mincing her words. It was clear she had little patience for the potentially problematic Radio Demon.

"He's not!" Charlie interjected, her tone almost pleading. "He… has a certain reputation, is all. I can't just assume that every demon that walks through our doors has bad intentions. We've got to give him a chance. He's been nothing but helpful since he's arrived."

Quirking your brow, you glanced back and forth between them as Vaggie rolled her eyes. "Charlie is endearingly optimistic."

As you observed the dynamic between Charlie and Vaggie, you noticed the subtle interplay of emotions – Charlie's infectious optimism and Vaggie's more cautious demeanor. The room's atmosphere shifted, transitioning from the initial excitement to a more serious undertone. The warmth of the welcome clashed with the ominous warning about the unpredictable Radio Demon.

Vaggie's gaze hardened as she met your eyes, a stern expression on her face. "Seriously, it's for your own safety. Alastor might come off as charming, but there's a reason other demons keep their distance. He's one of Hell's most feared Overlords. He's unpredictable, and you never know what he's up to. Just steer clear of him, okay?"

Charlie tried to diffuse the tension with a comforting smile. "We're just looking out for you. The Hotel can be hectic, and we want you to feel at home." Her words carried a gentle reassurance, attempting to balance Vaggie's wariness and her own hopefulness.

Vaggie sighed, a hint of frustration in her voice. "Just trust me on this one. He isn't just a happy face; he's a creep we've reluctantly allowed to help us. And the last thing we need is an innocent, unsuspecting soul falling under his influence."

A momentary flicker of doubt passed over Charlie's expressive eyes, but she swiftly regained her composure. "Alright, let's not dwell on this too much tonight. You must be exhausted," she said, her concern palpable. "We'll talk more tomorrow. If you need anything else, Vaggie and I are just down the hall, last door on the left."

"Got it," you affirmed, inclining your head in gratitude.

"Oh! And don't be alarmed if you cross paths with some of the other hotel staff," Charlie resumed, her enthusiasm returning. "Niffty is our diligent housekeeper, and Husk is our skilled bartender."

"At the moment, we only have two other guests," Vaggie chimed in, her tone more pragmatic. "Sir Pentious is usually occupied with his little minions and shouldn't be too much of a nuisance. Angel Dust is another story. If he bothers you, just ignore him. Or strangle him. Either one works."

"Will do," you chuckled, her attempt at humor injecting a welcome lightness into the atmosphere. "Thank you so much. I don't know what else to say. I'd probably be dead by now if you hadn't found me. It means a lot that you'd go through so much trouble for someone you don't know."

"Happy to help," Charlie replied, her sympathetic smile providing tender reassurance. "Get some rest!"

With those words, the two exited the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Eager for a distraction, you sauntered to the windows, drawing back the curtain and peering through the grimy glass.

Hell unfolded its macabre grandeur before your eyes. The twisted, decrepit structures that lined the streets challenged the laws of architecture. Each building, crooked and battered, exuded an eerie magnetism that hinted at the horrors within. The air was tinged with a paranormal quality, a discordant symphony of colors and shadows playing on the blood-splattered streets.

As you contemplated the surreal spectacle, a question involuntarily danced through your mind—what form would encapsulate your essence in this infernal realm? Would you morph into a whimsical creature, an embodiment of the anarchy that defined Hell, or perhaps manifest as an object reflecting the remnants of your earthly existence? The sheer absurdity of the thought evoked a quiet laughter that bubbled up from deep within, a coping mechanism against the overwhelming horror surrounding you.

"Remarkable, isn't it?"

The unexpected voice, a sinister melody that sliced through the eerie silence, prompted an involuntary yelp. You spun around with a start, almost stumbling over yourself, only to find Alastor standing in your bedroom doorway. The unnerving permanence of his smile rattled you while his eyes, gleaming with an otherworldly intelligence, seemed to leer at you.

"Jesus Christ!" you choked out, a hand instinctively clutching your chest to steady the frantic beat of your heart.

"Hmm… not quite," Alastor replied, his grin deepening, causing his eyes to crease with malevolent cheerfulness. "Forgive me, miss. A gentleman should refrain from intruding upon a lady's private domain. However, our earlier conversation was abruptly cut short, and I am not one to leave matters unresolved," he continued, twirling his staff with a casual flourish. "I would be remiss if I did not take advantage of this rare opportunity. Would you grant me the pleasure of your company, perhaps for a brisk stroll?"

Your eyes narrowed, wrestling with the uncertainty of his intentions. On one hand, curiosity was a shared sentiment; however, Vaggie had explicitly warned against spending any time with Alastor. Additionally, your suspicion that Alastor's interest in you concealed darker motives had only intensified since your previous encounter.

Observing your hesitation, Alastor's low, rumbling chuckle reverberated through the air like an ominous prelude, the static overlay even more prevalent than before. He casually leaned against the doorframe, his dark silhouette swallowing the feeble light in the room.

"No need to be so guarded, sweetheart," Alastor drawled, his voice an unnatural blend of charisma and menace. "I'm merely captivated by the anomaly of a living soul gracing Hell's grounds. You see, it's not every day we welcome a newcomer like yourself." Despite his attempt at reassurance, the room felt suffocating, as if his presence tainted the entire space. "You couldn't have arrived at a more intriguing time," Alastor continued, his eyes glinting with a vicious spark. "It seems fate has a sense of humor, placing a delicate creature like you amidst the chaos of Hell–and so soon after an extermination!"

Your eyebrows furrowed, skepticism etching lines on your face as you shot him a look that bordered on irritation. "Am I supposed to know what an 'extermination' is?"

"Sweet girl, an extermination is a grand spectacle of Hellish proportions! It's a symphony of destruction orchestrated to cleanse and reset the infernal balance," Alastor explained, his words dripping with macabre enthusiasm. The way he spoke made it sound like he reveled in the mayhem. "And you, my unsuspecting guest, have stepped directly into the aftermath."

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, a mix of defiance and fear lacing your words. "Is this your idea of a sick joke?"

Alastor leaned back, a wicked grin still playing on his lips as if savoring the fear dancing in your eyes. "Who's joking?" he jested, his voice resonating with a chilling levity.

You eyed him warily, the manic in his eyes intensifying. "So, what's your role in all of this? Are you some kind of demonic tour guide or a sadistic host?"

He hummed softly as he mused. "Oh, you could say I wear many hats. But most importantly, for the time being, I'm here to make your stay in Hell as... entertaining as possible."

His words dripped with a malicious promise, each syllable carrying the weight of an unspoken threat. As he spoke, the air around you seemed to thicken with an unsettling energy, and you couldn't shake the feeling that you were just beginning to scratch the surface of the twisted game that Alastor had set before you.

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

Chapter End Notes: Okay, I'm seeking honest opinions here... is my writing TOO complex? I feel like I'm using a lot of words that aren't used in everyday conversation, and I worry about any unsuspecting readers whose first language isn't English. It concerns me that they might struggle with comprehension and have it take away from their experience. I don't want to stress anyone out. Does that make sense? I'm an overthinker, so any feedback is appreciated!

[dewdropdinosaur]

Screen Time is Bad for Your Brain

VOX x READER(PLATONIC) Summary: Vox is desperate for information about Alastor and is running out of options. So he turns to the only person in Hell who might know and that comes with...costs Warnings: NONE For the lovely @gerascophobicmuch (sorry if the username is wrong) REQUESTS OPEN!

In the depths of the underworld, where chaos reigns and power is both coveted and fleeting, there existed a peculiar alliance - or perhaps more aptly, a rivalry - between two formidable figures: Vox, the technological tyrant of the Hellish airwaves, and Y/N, the enigmatic overseer of a secrets nestled in the murky heart of a bog-like district.

Vox, with his penchant for the latest in infernal technology, ruled over his domain with a metallic fist. His domain buzzed with neon lights and the constant hum of screens displaying his broadcasts to the denizens of Hell. He craved information, but not just any information - he craved the instantaneous, the digital, the easily manipulable. It best served his purposes after all.

On the other hand, Y/N was a creature of subtlety and cunning. Their library, hidden within the shadows of the swamp, was a sanctuary of ancient tomes and whispered secrets. Y/N was the keeper of these mysteries, a being who danced on the fine line between chaos and neutrality. They dealt in information, but unlike Vox, their methods were more traditional - ink on parchment, whispered rumors, and clandestine meetings. It had been their trade since before their death.

Their paths collided not out of coincidence, but out of the inherent nature of their roles as overlords of their respective domains. Vox, always hungry for fresh knowledge to manipulate, sought to tap into the vast reserves of secrets hidden within Y/N's library. Meanwhile, Y/N, ever the collector of stories and knowledge, found Vox's reliance on technology distasteful and saw him as a threat to the delicate balance they maintained.

Their relationship was defined by a delicate dance of banter and manipulation. Vox would send his lackeys to negotiate access to Y/N's collection, offering promises of power and influence. Yet Y/N was not easily swayed. They would meet Vox's advances with a sharp wit and a cunning smile, always keeping their true intentions veiled behind a facade of somewhat passive aggressive friendliness. Distasting Y/N’s adept parries to his lackeys, Vox decided to take matters into his own metal hands. He always did a better job anyway. The neon-lit confines of Vox's domain buzzed with a frenetic energy as he paced back and forth, his metallic shoes tapping impatiently against the polished floor. He needed information - crucial, damning information that could shift the balance of power in Hell between himself and Alastor. But try as he might, his usual sources had come up empty-handed, leaving him with only one option: Y/N and their infernal library of stolen secrets.

With a begrudging sigh, Vox clenched his fists, steeling himself for what he knew would be a less-than-pleasant encounter. He despised the idea of relying on Y/N, of stooping to such lows to get what he wanted. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Vox had never been one to shy away from doing what was necessary to achieve his goals.

Summoning all of his resolve, Vox made his way through the winding corridors of Hell, his mind racing with thoughts of the bargain he would have to strike with Y/N. He hated the idea of relinquishing one of his precious secrets, of allowing someone else to hold power over him. But he knew that in the cutthroat world of Hell, sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

Vox's form flickered into existence within the dimly lit confines of Y/N's library, the faint glow of his neon visage casting eerie shadows on the ancient tomes that lined the shelves. Vox sauntered into the swamp surrounded library, the glow of his blue neon accents casting an otherworldly sheen. The library was a broken down building, made of marble and accentuated with embellish statues and markers long dirtied by th terrain.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Vox purred, his mechanical voice tinged with a hint of amusement. "The elusive Y/N, surrounded by dusty old books. Don't you ever get tired of living in the past?"

Y/N glanced up from their desk, the candlelight barely illuminating their haunting figure. Dressed in a 1940s beige dress, they looked right out of the Shining in the boggy domain. A sly smile playing across their lips. "Ah, Vox. Tell me, do your screens ever whisper secrets to you like these pages do to me?"

Vox chuckled, the sound reverberating through the library like distant thunder. "Oh, they do more than whisper, my dear Y/N. They shout, they scream, they broadcast the truth to all who would listen."

"But do they tell the whole truth, or just the truth you want them to tell?" Y/N retorted, arching an eyebrow.

Vox's grin widened, the flicker of his holographic eyes betraying a hint of mischief. "Why settle for the whole truth when you can have the version that suits your narrative best?"

Y/N chuckled, shaking their head. "Ah, Vox, always the pragmatist. But remember, there's more to power than what can be displayed on a screen."

"Indeed," Vox replied, his tone tinged with mock sincerity. "There's also the power of a well-placed secret, wouldn't you agree?"

Y/N's mouth twitched in amusement. He was sucking up…he wanted something. "Ah, but secrets have a funny way of finding their way into the light, don't they? And when they do, it's always fascinating to see who's left standing in the aftermath."

Vox chuckled, the sound reverberating through the chamber. "Oh, I appreciate secrets, my dear Y/N, just in a more... efficient manner. Why waste time leafing through dusty old books when I can access the information I seek with a simple click of a button?"

"Efficiency is overrated," Y/N retorted, waving their hand dismissively. "There's something to be said for the thrill of the chase, don't you think? Besides, not everything worth knowing can be found in your precious digital archives."

Vox raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Oh? And what, pray tell, do you have that I couldn't possibly find in my vast network of data?"

Y/N's smirk widened into a knowing grin. "Ah, but that's the beauty of it, isn't it? Some secrets are meant to be kept hidden, known only to those who are clever enough to uncover them. And trust me, Vox, you'll never find them in your cold, sterile world of technology."

Vox chuckled, the sound echoing through the chamber like the distant hum of machinery. "You may have a point, Y/N. But mark my words, one day I'll crack open those dusty tomes of yours and uncover every last secret hidden within."

Y/N's laughter mingled with Vox's, the sound echoing through the library like the ringing of bells in the night but then they turned a sort of deathly calm. "Oh, Vox, you can certainly try. But remember, not all secrets are meant to be revealed. Some are best left buried in the shadows, where they belong."

Vox gritted his teeth, forcing himself to maintain a semblance of composure in the face of Y/N's taunts. "Cut the pleasantries, Y/N," he growled, his voice tinged with impatience. "I need information, and I know that you're the only one who can help me."

Y/N's smile widened into a smirk as they leaned back in their chair, steepling their fingers beneath their chin. "Oh, I'm well aware of my... unique position in the grand scheme of things," they replied, their tone dripping with amusement. "But what makes you think I'd be willing to help you, Vox? After all, we're not exactly the best of friends."

Vox clenched his fists, his frustration mounting with each passing moment. He knew that Y/N was toying with him, reveling in the opportunity to hold power over him. He had tried to play it cool, starting out with some banter as a power play; that failed. But he had no other choice - he needed the information, and he needed it now.

"Fine," he spat, his voice laced with venom. "What do you want in exchange for your precious information, Y/N? Name your price, and I'll pay it."

Y/N glow eerily in the candlelight and glow of the talking screen, a small smirk widening into a malicious grin as they leaned forward. "Oh, Vox, you're so predictable," they chuckled. "But I'm afraid that this time, the price is quite steep. I want one of your secrets - something juicy, something scandalous. And trust me, Vox, I won't settle for anything less."

Vox's heart sank as he realized the gravity of Y/N's demand. He hated the idea of relinquishing one of his secrets, of allowing someone else to hold power over him. But he knew that he had no other choice - if he wanted the information, he would have to pay the price. Y/N extended her hand with a sheet of paper, eyes glowing a deep dusty gold as Vox signed his name on the contract in front of him. The ink melted into a black puddle on the page, sealing his promise to her.

With a heavy sigh, Vox nodded his head, his resolve hardening with each passing moment. "Fine," he growled, his voice tinged with resignation. "You'll get your secret, Y/N. But mark my words - one day, I'll come for what's mine, and when I do, you'll regret ever crossing me."

And with that, Vox turned on his heel and stalked out of the library, leaving Y/N alone with their thoughts and the tantalizing promise of the secrets yet to be revealed. But deep down, he knew that his bargain with Y/N had only sealed his fate, setting into motion a chain of events that would reshape the very fabric of Hell itself.

[darklyndivinely]

Hope

Fandom - Star Wars

Pairing - Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader x gn!Windu's former padawan!reader

Summary - Now that Darth Vader has finally found you, there are revelations to face and decisions to make.

Warnings - Angst, reader and Vader duel. Nothing much really.

Wordcount - 450+

A/N - Inspired by THE scene in Obi-Wan Kenobi. I'm enjoying writing these small imagines(?), it's helping me write while also fulfilling my current obsession with Anakin. If Vader or Windu are ooc, no they are not. Hope you all like it!

Masterlist • Leave a tip! • Taglist Form

"It's over." His voice echoes from behind you. In the dark of the night, he is nothing but an extension of the shadows, a billowing phantom lit in red. "The chase ends now."

"It doesn't have to be this way," you say, unclipping your lightsaber from your belt. Come home, Anakin, you want to say. But you're not sure you have a home anymore. You're not sure if there's anything left of Anakin in this suited ghost. You're not sure if there ever was an Anakin at all.

He moves forth, every bit of warrior, lightsaber flashing above his head, and then it's on. Your own purple lightsaber comes alive in your hands, rising to meet his strike. You use his momentum against him to bring your conjoined sabers down towards the ground, then twirl, aiming a hit at his torso. He deflects. Then goes for your exposed face. You block the hit and reach a stalemate, the muscles in your arm setting on fire as you hold against his strength. His mask is lit in red and purple. You peer into his reflective lenses. Anakin, please.

His other hand flicks up, thrusting towards you. You gasp, the Force propelling you backwards and into the base of a cliff. Jagged rocks slam against your shoulders and back. It's sheer luck that the cliff doesn't crumble on top of you. Breathe, you think. Get up.

"Anakin Skywalker burned on Mustafar." He nears you, his footsteps stirring the loose gravel scattered beneath his feet. "He is long dead."

You stare up at his visage, the red of his lightsaber so close to your skin. You were so tired; so unfathomably tired. How long had you been running now? From and towards this suited man? With hope that maybe the rumours were false, the whispers untrue? With hope that maybe all hope was not lost?

Give up, a voice whispers. Give in.

Give in to what? The dark side? To hopelessness?

"We fight for the greater good, for the people who can't protect themselves. We fight for hope." Master Windu had taught you. He seemed to be there then, in this dark cloudy night, a soft breeze on your skin, image of a soft reserved smile, a gentle hand that corrects your stance. "Jedi must always fight. For the galaxy depends on us."

You knew what Vader wanted. He would not have kept you alive for any reason other than to lure you to the dark side. Unfortunately, in a world so cruel and divided, getting what we want is next to impossible.

You raise your hands, pain throbbing through your shoulders, and call upon the Force. The cliff breaks above, raining down on your still figures in a shower of rocks and dust. If you don't get what you want, neither will he.

"Goodbye, Vader."