#cacophony of gold

[leona-florianova]

I feel like that czech guy who makes train horn covers of melodies should have like 1 milion subscribers, cause that stuff is real art.

#my brain too often #i think i have already shared this #but i need to share again #im not joking although it hurts my ears #trains #czech railway system #Pachelbel train horn #Prague Main Railway Station #pavel jirásek #cacophony of gold #vlaky #czech republic #české dráhy

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Quiet Ones 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: don't ask me why I did this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You keep to yourself. That’s the safest, the easiest way to live. You keep your head down, your eyes to yourself, your voice bottled up. 

You grip your phone as you approach the coffee shop. You stand on your toes to see through the painted windows and frown at the long queue. You won’t have to worry about that. Like everything else social, you’ve found a work around. 

You look at your phone, the app showing your order as ‘preparing’. It should be done shortly as the progress bar fills close to complete. You can bear the claustrophobia for a minute or so until it’s ready. 

You go to open the door but an arm reaches past you and does that first. You step back, patiently waiting for the other customer to precede you. They don’t move. You stare at their shoes. Dark blue velvet loafers with gold emblems on chains.  

“Go on, baby face, I got it,” the man’s voice makes your skin crawl. 

You shrink down and give a nod, throat clenching as you struggle to find your voice. You’re not much for conversation but you’re but impolite. 

“Thanks,” you force out without raising your head. 

You scurry through quickly, a bit to close to the stranger than you like, and you clasp your phone against your chest as you stand just away from the cluster of people awaiting their orders. You bounce on your feet as the noises join together to form a cacophony; the hissing steam, the clanging metal, the clinking porcelain, the calls of the workers behind the counter, and the buzz of the crowd seated or standing around the cafe. Sweat gathers on the nape of your neck as the chaos swirls a storm around you. 

You pull your phone away from the front of your pullover and check the screen. Should be ready any moment and you’ll be free of the circus. You adjust your grip on the phone, almost jittery as another customer joins the wait at the pick up window. 

You breathe out. It’s not usually this busy at this time. You have a routine. You can handle the expected. You order on your phone so you don’t need to talk to anyone. You wait outside until it’s almost done then come in too quickly claim your prize. But not today, something’s different and it’s throwing everything off. 

It’s only on Wednesday’s that you venture down to the cafe. It’s the halfway point of your week so you mark it with a taste of motivation. The same order every week. A London fog latte. Simple and affordable. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. 

Your name cuts through the din, “...medium London fog.” 

You drop your arm to your side and set your shoulders. You march forward through the parting bodies ahead of you and reach for the cup. Before you can grasp it, someone else scoops it up. You nearly cry out in horror. Someone’s stealing your order! 

You turn to the tea thief but they make no move to flee. They hold the cup nonchalantly, turning it to read the sticker on the side, reciting the same name that just rose from the barista’s lips seconds ago. You face the stranger but again, your eyes are downward.

The blue loafers! 

“Cute name,” he comments as he holds the cup out. 

You once more try to take the cup but before you can, he has it out of reach again. Your lashes flick and your fingers twiddle helplessly. His large hand is firmly around the cup so even if you did try to wrestle it from him, you doubt you’d have any hope but to spill it all. 

You look around but no one else seems to notice. They’re all staring at their phones or talking with the person next to them. The staff behind the counter are too busy appeasing the rush of orders. 

“I’ve never tried one of these,” he taunts, “I’m more of a ristretto guy. Like my espresso.” 

You shake your head and rescind your hand, balling it against your fist. What does he want? Why is he bothering you? You said thank you. Did he not hear you? 

“Don’t get yourself in a tizzy,” he pushes the tea towards you, “there you are, sweat pea.” 

You hesitate. You slowly unfurl your fingers and reach for the cup. As you wrap your fingers around it, you can’t help but brush his. Thick and strong and unmoving. He clings to it for just a moment before he lets you have it. 

“Thanks,” you squeak again, this time louder so he certainly hears you. 

“You got a sweet voice,” he puts his hand on his hip, a glimpse of a shiny gold watch face peeking out from beneath his sleeve, “I’d love to hear more of it.” 

Your eyes round as you focus on the zipper of his thin jacket. You shake your head and meekly raise your cup awkwardly and dip your chin slightly. No thanks. 

You turn and weave your way back through the crowd. Your heart is thumping in your chest. What an odd encounter. 

More so, you’re dismayed that he saw you. That he noticed you. For years, you’ve done your best to be invisible. You prefer it that way. You don’t even think your neighbours know you exist. But that man, he seemed to see nothing but you. 

You push outside and nearly drop your cup. You try to steady yourself. You’re all knotted up and tense. You tuck your phone into your back pocket and bring the cup before you nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the foam. Something about it isn’t as soothing as usual. 

You turn down the pavement and wince as a sole scuffs close behind you. Suddenly, another set of steps walk next to yours, measured to keep in tandem with your own short legs. Blue velvet.  

You walk faster. Is he following you? Why? What does he want? He’s much taller, you can’t outpace him. 

“You know, when I said I’d like to hear more, I thought maybe over a coffee?” He suggests. 

You don’t say a word as you keep your eyes forward, squeezing your cup tight as you try not to swish it around too much. You’ve never had to deal with this before. Men don’t see you. There was a time you hated that but since, you were grateful for that. 

“I mean, I could do most of the talking, never had much of a trouble with that, jellybean,” he offers. 

You shake your head. Your throat tightens. You can’t speak. You want to scream but you can’t make a noise. 

As you get to the corner, you stop short. He steps past you but just as quickly catches himself and turns to face you. You gulp and look down at your cup. You can’t keep going. If you do, you’ll lead him right to your home. 

“What’s going on, sweetheart? You forget something? How about we head back and I’ll buy you something sugary to go with that?” 

You furrow your brow and step back on your heel. You bring your eyes up, a furtive glance at his face, brief and flickering. You just want to know what he looks like so you never see him again. 

His blue eyes twinkle, his nose is long but proportioned to his chiseled face, his hair is combed back, the sides shaved, and a thick swatch of hair lines his upper lip. He’s older than you, you know that much, but you’ve never good at gauging age. You’ve never seen him before but you can’t be sure. You don’t look at many faces. 

You pivot and cross the street without looking. You narrowly miss a bumper and get a honk in remonstrance. You can’t stop yourself. You’re panicking. You head down the next street as his footsteps follow. It’s all you can hear.  

As you pass a bin, you dump the drink. You don’t pause as it plummets heavily into the trash and you fall into a brisk half-jog. You pump your arms, puffing wildly, dizzy as you search for a saviour.  

You dash into the library. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Just for anyone to get this man to leave you alone. 

You don’t look back as you enter and head straight for the front counter. You’re out of breath as you approach the rounded edge and tap the bell frantically. A woman emerges from behind the window wall and she greets you with a confused chime. 

“Hello, can I help you?” She asks. 

“Yes, I need...” you gulp and glance at the doors. You push away from the counter and spin, searching. You don’t see the man. He’s probably waiting outside. But you never looked back. You never really saw if he was following. “I...” you turn back to the woman, “never mind.” 

You cross your arms and turn away. You cringe as you realise how ridiculous you must have seemed. Worse, you didn’t mean to bother someone just doing their job and over what? You’re own issues. You should go home, back to your reclusion, where you can’t be in anyone’s way. 

👄

When you finally muster the courage to leave the library, your journey home is slowed by your paranoia. You have your phone out, held up so you can see over your shoulder with the front camera. You watch the screen more than the sidewalk ahead of you. 

You get home without a second shadow. As you let yourself through the grated front door of the building, you can’t help but feel stupid. That man must’ve got the idea when you as good as ran in the other direction. You’re being dramatic. 

You close the camera and put your phone away. You waist six dollars in your frantic flight. You mourn the tea latte as the heavy inner door clunks shut behind you. You drag your feet up the stairs as your keys jingle on your finger. 

You apartment is at the very end of the hall. You enter and twist the latch. You slide the chain into place and hang the key ring on the little hook beside the door frame. You untangle your purse and leave it with your phone on the table in the corner. 

You shuffle the few feet to the front room and look around. You find comfort in the familiarity of your little apartment. Your hideaway. 

You go back to your desk and sign back in. You’re back later than usual but you can still make up the time. As long as there’s enough tasks left in the portal. You don’t have to let that man ruin your whole day. You’ll never see him again. In a few days, you won’t even remember him. 

👄

Wednesday. Halfway through the week.  

You scroll and click around your screen as you watch the clock in the corner tick on. Usually around this time, you’d be excited. You’d clock out for your break and go down to the cafe. As much as you looked forward to the treat, the walk alone was relaxing in its own way. 

Not that day. Despite your efforts to shrug off the strange encounter, you haven’t shaken it. So instead, the kettle boils as a bag of earl gray sits in an empty mug. You’re not going. Maybe next week. 

You’re a bit depressed but you’re too nervous to make the venture. Oh well, you’ll save a bit of money. You could find a different place next time. That might be easier. 

You stay logged in and claim a new task. Hey, you can be done work earlier if you can power through. You might even make a few extra bucks. 

The kettle clicks and you get up to pour the water. You leave it to steep, forgetting it for the screen before you. Your fingers tap endlessly across the keyboard, filling the silence as you zone in on the words, transcribing messy ink to Times New Roman. 

Your trance is broken by a sudden buzz. You sit up, the kink in your neck pangs. You need to stop hunching. The buzz comes again. Is that... It must be a mistake. It happens now and then, someone buzzes the wrong apartment. 

You get up as it sounds a third time and you shuffle down to the speaker box. You hit the button, “wrong number.” 

“No--” 

You let go of the number before you can hear the response. They buzz again. You sigh. You hit the button. 

“I’m sorry but you have the wrong number,” you repeat. 

“I don--” 

You release the button again and take a step back. Buzz! You’re getting annoyed. You hit the button. “Wrong--” 

“Got a delivery. 212.” The man’s voice drowns out your own, reciting your name after your apartment number. Your finger stays on the button as you frown. A delivery? 

“I’m not expecting a delivery.” 

“Are you...” he says your name again. 

“... yes.” 

Silence, filled with the low hum of the speaker, “so, can I come up or...?” 

“Uh, I guess.” 

You pull your finger away and hover it over the other. Maybe it’s from work? There was the one time they sent a cheap mass production travel mug with their logo on it as some incentive. A poor attempt at employee appreciation. 

You press down and hold until you’re certain they have enough time to get in. You wait by the door, ringing your hands. You hear the door at the end of the hall open on its old hinges and you peek through the peephole. 

You watch the fuzzy figure come into focus with each of his long steps. He doesn’t hold a box nor wear the uniform of a postal worker. No, he wears those blue leather loafers and holds a bright pink paper cup with a white lid. From the cafe.  

As he comes close, you get a pigeon’s eye view of the hair on his upper lip and his bold blue eyes. It feels like he can see you too as he stands smirking on the other side of the door. This can’t be real. 

He knocks and you wince as the door shifts in the frame. 

“Special delivery,” he calls through, “open up, baby face.” 

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #fic #dark fic #the quiet ones #dark!fic #series #the gray man

[msfantasy-comics]

The Wayne Welcoming

Damian Wayne x Reader

Summary: A short story sequel to The Family Meet and Greet, where Y/n meets members of the Wayne Family one by one.

A/n: honestly… I don’t like what I wrote…. But it took me a whole month to write it - so I’m just going to publish it.

Masterlist - Tip Jar

Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown

Steph keeps following Damian because she really wants to meet Y/n, Tim is following Steph to ensure her enthusiasm isn’t over exerted, as if it wasn’t already.

“Go away!” Damian shouts at the two who’s standing by the light post. Stephanie wearing her incognito hat and glasses. Whilst Tim just stands there out in the open with his hands in his pockets, not even attempting to hide himself unlike Steph, whose standing behind the thin pole as if it was a genuine hiding spot. Steph looks over her shoulder to see what Damian was talking about. As if her disguise wasn’t absolutely transparent. “Stop following me.”

Steph releases a small whine. “Aw but you two have been dating for like ever… I just want to meet her.”

“I don’t care, you weirdos will scare her off. I’ll never introduce her so long as I live.” Steph begins to swoon.

“Aw that’s so cute Dames, you’re such a protective boyfriend… too bad she’s here anyway.” Reaching her hand over Damian, Steph joyfully grabs your hand and begins to shake your hand with an unmatched enthusiasm. “Hi my name is Steph, and this is Tim! It’s so nice to finally meet you, Damian is sooo secretive! I tried to meet you like a million times but Damian always ruined our plans!” You begin to giggle, caught off guard for the unfiltered joy running off of Steph. Her over excited hand shake continues to the point of shaking your entire arm. Damian grits his teeth, ripping Stephs grasp from your own.

“Go. Away.” He says, eyes bearing into Stephanie’s soul, an earnest threat swimming in Damian’s ominous gaze. Steph winces at the sincere danger floating in the air.

“Alrighty, so what are we doing today?” Tim asks, immune from Damian’s demands.

“No. No. No. Go home. Right. Now. Or else I’ll call Conor to come get you.” The two besties look at each-other silently before laughing.

“… you know Conor would just join, he’s dying to meet Jon’s new friend.” Damian goes red in the face. You slug your arm around Damian’s shoulders in a friendly embrace.

“Come on, let’s seize this impromptu meeting! It could be fun!”

Jason Todd

You stood alone at the end of the red carpet, the cameras were flashing as arriving couples walk the velvet floor to have their photos taken before entering the Wayne’s Gala.

You looked around nervously, looking for Damian, waiting to walk the carpet with him. Instead, the ushers were rushing you to begin your walk alone.

Your requests to wait for your partner falling on deaf ears as they attempt to force you to walk the carpet by yourself. Panic filling you as the ushers continue to shout and push you towards to start of the velvet walk. You felt incredibly anxious to step out in front of the cameras, the attention was overwhelming.

Jason sucks his teeth, irritated that the ushers were putting unnecessary pressure and seemingly, ruining your night.

“The brat needs to pay better attention.” Jason mutters to himself, abandoning Roy with an eager gold-digger who is clearly not catching onto Roy’s disinterest. Walking up behind the beautiful girl. He loops his arm around your form, resting his hand on the small of your back.

“I’ve got things from here.” He guides you towards the velvet carpet and begins to stride slowly as the cacophony of shouts and flashing lights assault your senses. Jason digs his fingers into your side, grabbing your attention.

“Don’t pull faces, the press will run it for months.” He reminds you, pulling out his sparkling toothy smile.

You both walk the carpet together, before shortly reaching the entrance to the Gala.

“See first timer. It’s not so bad.” He says with his award-winning smile. His attention turns to a cranky Damian and Roy.

“I can’t believe you just ditched me like that.” Roy utters in betrayal as Jason shrugs unapologetically.

Dick Grayson

A drawn out yawn escapes Damian as he slowly stumbles into the sun room, ready to start the day with Alfred’s world famous onsen eggs.

But instead Damian is greeted by the most peculiar sight.

Shoulders touching, Damian sees his beloved girlfriend oddly cosy with his older brother Dick. More specifically, why the fuck is Dick slinging his arm around his girlfriends back, his chin resting on her shoulder as he looks down at the phone held in her hand. Giggles escaping the odd duo as they continue to watch whatever is on your screen.

Jealousy bubbles under Damian’s skin watching his brother touch his girlfriend in and oddly familiar way. This level of physical touch took Damian months to build up to, only for Dick to do it seemingly over night.

“Morning!” Dick beems seemingly, unbothered by the evasion of his girlfriends personal space.

“Morning Grayson. If you touch Y/n so familiarly again, I’ll break your fingers.” He threatens without so much as a blink.

The two sit, staring, only to break out in fits of laughter.

“Aw Dames! You’re such a protective boyfriend!” Dick cooes pulling Damian into a embrace, the scowl on his face looking dangerously similar to that of a cornered dog.

“Hehe, so protective.” Y/n also cooes, sandwiching Damian from the other side with a playful peck on his cheek.

“Oh god, now there’s two of you.” He mutters limply between his overly affectionate brother and partner.

Duke Thomas

The incessant buzzing amongst the couch cushions is ruining the heart-wrenching scene playing out on the TV screen.

On one hand, Duke is keen to remove the irritation immediately as to not further ruin his viewing experience.

On the other hand, Duke is not keen to relive the experience of finding Damian’s phone only to see a private message not meant for him.

However, the continuous vibrations running through the couch is grating on Dukes nerves. He cannot hold back any further. Stripping the cushions which were once perfectly place, moulding around his form, now strewn amongst the floor until Duke is able to find the black phone laying innocently under the seat covers.

Turning the screen he sees dozens of missed calls from Y/n.

Immediately, Dukes stomach drops to the floor as he quickly realises that Y/n may needed urgent help and instead of answering the phone like a normal person, Duke just tried to phase out the noise until it went away, all because of his favourite show.

Fumbling the phone, Duke quickly returns the call immediately, praying to any god that Y/n was okay and not dead just because he wanted to finish the last 7 minutes of the episode. God that would suck.

“Hello?” Y/n answers, her voice is shaky, as if confused.

“Erm-Y/n? It’s Duke, I found Damian’s phone and I saw your missed calls - AreYouOkay?” Duke blurts quickly. The line is silent for an uncomfortable amount of time because a snorting laughter blasts through the phone.

“Oh my god! Yes I’m okay! I was just calling Damian’s phone because he can’t find it! I promise I’m okay!” Giggles follow, which leaves Duke stunned.

“Why don’t you guys just use phone location services?” The line falls dead silent before another snorting laughter burst through the phone.

“Honestly I completely forgot that was even a thing! Hey do me a favour? Don’t tell Damian, I want to see how long it takes him to figure it out.” Oh Duke likes you. Damian’s loving girlfriend now pulling a harmless prank of the Wayne’s resident bad boy.

“Okay. $20 he finds the phone through some form of tech tracker.”

“$20 that he’ll use Goliath to try and locate his phone.” Oddly specific, but Duke is game.

Bruce Wayne

Damian would never willingly come to any Gala. Not without trickery, bribery, or blackmail encouragement.

But right now, Bruce stands in astonishment as Damian grills the poor event planner for not arranging for Y/n’s place at the VIP table.

“Everything has to be perfect. Please reset the table immediately.” Damian orders with crossed arms. Now examining the staff scrambling to reset the VIP table to ensure you had a place to dine next to him.

Shock was one synonym for what Bruce was feeling. He was sure Damian, would never set foot in the ball room, so long as he lived.

Yet to Bruce’s utter surprise, Damian pitched the gala event, hired the planners and set out the invitations.

Damian wasn’t just attending the gala… he was hosting the gala.

“I’m late for my red carpet walk with Y/n. Hurry up and finish.” Damian snaps, taking quick strides towards the exit.

Why was his dear son hosting a gathering he loathes attending? Why, it’s because Damian’s beloved girlfriend expressed her desire to one day attend such an event. She was in aw of the glitz and the glamour and wanted to try it at least once.

Instead of just taking his beloved partner to the next event. Damian insisted that if she was to attend, it will be the best gala she would ever attend.

So now, Bruce watches in delight as his children, who also never willingly attend a gala, along with Y/n boisterously bound around the hall, engaging with other guests, eating the hors d’oeuvres, clapping along to the entertainers and finally eating the delicious four courses whilst the MC engages the crowds interest, greasing the wallets of the wealthy for funding of social causes.

Damian’s eyes looking at his partner in adoration, gaging her delight at his hard work.

Y/n abandons her seat during the speeches to sit next to Bruce.

“Hi Mr. Wayne, I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. My name is Y/n, it’s a pleasure to finally meet Damian’s father.” You smile shyly, sticking out your hand.

Your face is set with confidence, but your slightly shaky hand suggests your nerves are firing away with nervousness.

Smiling he takes his future daughter-in-laws hand and gives it a sturdy shake.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too Y/n. Please, call me Bruce.”

Talia al Ghul

“So you’re the girl whose stolen my sons heart.” Your neck just about breaks, your startled heart thumping at the sudden presence. Your demeanour is reminiscent of a frighten bunny.

A scowl presses along her face in irritation and dissatisfaction. “You’re who Damian picked to partner with?” Her mocking tone dripping with venom.

“Uh… yes?” Y/n utters awkwardly, not quite sure what to say in the presence of Damian’s supposed mother.

She hums unamused. “This is going to be interesting.”

And just like that, she was gone.

#dc imagine #dc x reader #batboys #batboys imagine #batboys x reader #Damian Wayne x reader #Damian Wayne imagine #Damian x reader #Damian imagine #Robin x reader #Robin imagine

[cuffmeinblack]

Memory Lane

Sebastian Sallow x f!reader

Tags: explicit | sex | blowjobs

2.5k words

Summary: Whilst attempting to find Sebastian, instead you stumble upon his memories. Events take an unexpected turn when he finds you.

ao3 link

A/n: Is this even possible? Who knows. I had a vague idea of 'pensieve porn' whilst falling asleep last night and decided to follow through. I'm meant to be on hiatus, whoops. *Throws this out and runs away*.

You'd not frequented the Undercroft in quite some time, finding the place held too many memories you'd rather forget. It had been a source of comfort once, but after so much turmoil two years ago you preferred to find your solitude in the room of requirement. In fact, only Sebastian still used the cold, vaulted room buried underneath the castle—as far as you could surmise, mostly for target practice. Your boyfriend wasn't often found alone these days, but even he needed time alone when not busy devouring your body. Ominis simply retreated to one of his many napping spots when the world became too much to bear.

It was with some trepidation that you approached the cabinet with the clock face now. Silly as it was, after all you'd been through, to allow a room to elicit such uncomfortable feelings. But you needed to find your boyfriend, who had disappeared several hours ago in a huff. The argument was nothing new, but you knew you'd pushed too far. Bringing up his worst mistake had crossed the line and you knew it, so here you were, on your knees and grovelling for forgiveness. With a tap of your wand, the clock face began to click and whirr, the door swinging open to allow you access to the pitch black passageway.

Silence enveloped you as you began the descent, heartbeat picking up slightly the more steps you travelled. The dim firelight of the Undercroft was visible now, the grate all that separated you. Still, it was silent. Perhaps he wasn't here; perhaps you should have retreated then. Curiosity pulled you further, past the grate which scraped shut behind you and clattered to the floor. Just as cold as you remembered, the only humanity provided by the sofa strewn with books and battered training dummies. You smiled despite yourself, smelling the lingering scent of fire and musk you associated with Sebastian.

Your feet took you further into the room, gaze drifting over the disarray until it landed on the pensieve that had remained untouched since appearing years ago. Surrounded by the triptych, the stone basin stood not inert, but swirling with pearlescent ripples—a memory. Surely, this wasn't that same memory you'd bottled and stored; the revelation of Isadora's motives? Standing over the pensieve, you squinted at the contents, noticing the slight gold glint to the memory; it looked different, somehow. Something told you that this particular memory didn't belong to Miss Morganach.

Leave.

You told yourself to walk away, yet you found yourself leaning over the basin, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. That flicker of curiosity stoked into a roaring fire the longer you stared at the contents. Into the pensieve you delved, allowing the rush of cold to envelop you, sending you hurtling into the memory with a force that made your head spin. Your feet appeared to hit solid ground, an illusion that nonetheless felt real. Staggering a little to right yourself, the scene in front of you was nothing you'd ever expected, nor were the sounds that filled your ears.

You recognised Sebastian at once by the back of his fluffy brunet mane, his freckled back, that delectable arse. He was completely naked, legs spread and bent slightly over a figure you couldn't quite make out. Your heart twisted in fear until you took a step to the side to reveal…yourself, splayed on a bed you recognised as Sebastian's, back arched and writhing with pleasure. The cacophony of pleasurable moans you'd heard had been your own, mixed with those of your boyfriend's. Judging by the state of you both, you were quite far into this particular session.

“Sebastian…oh, fuck!”

Perhaps it should have made you recoil in embarrassment to hear yourself coming undone in the depths of this memory, yet it took your breath away and reared a hunger deep inside you. You felt like an imposter; a ridiculous thought, maybe; but this was Sebastian's recollection, and you were here uninvited. But you couldn't tear your eyes away as he pounded into your flushed and limp body, legs thrown over his shoulders and close to tears. You recognised this particular memory as one that had occurred a month previous—you’d spent the day teasing Sebastian to near insanity and this has been the product. It had been an unforgettable night.

“Don't think you can get away with that again,” he growled, his powerful thrusts shunting you up the bed.

You gasped in tandem with memory-you, instinctively reaching out a hand for Sebastian's glistening skin. You phased right through him, and the disappointment was palpable. No matter, the view was enough to hold your attention. You could tell your mirage was close by the way your face contorted and legs shook uncontrollably. As your eyes fell on Sebastian's cock impaling you, the skin between you already slick with combined arousal, you felt yourself ache with a very real need. Sebastian fucked you harder, faster, pushing you over the edge and continuing his pace with unrelenting force. A smirk crept across his face you'd not noticed in the moment of your orgasm, a smug and self-satisfied smile that made you want to either slap him or jump his bones.

To your dismay, the memory evaporated before you could see the conclusion. Surely that hadn't been the end? As you recalled, there were hours left of that particular night. No, the forceful ripping from the scene and tug at your collar had you gasping for breath, re-emerging back in the Undercroft with a stumble. 

“Enjoying yourself?”

The smooth, silken voice brushed your ear and a familiar warmth enveloped your back. Your collar still pulled uncomfortably around your windpipe.

“You…you kept the memories here?” you gasped.

Sebastian's hands slithered around your waist, pressing a kiss to your nape.

“I like to peruse them every once in a while. That one's my particular favourite.”

“Me too. I'd never thought of watching such things in a pensieve.”

Sebastian finally spun you around, trapping you between his firm body and the cold stone of the pensieve which dug into your behind. The memory still swirled beneath your fingertips as you gripped the side of the basin. Your boyfriend had that irresistible glint in his eyes that somehow darkened the chocolate brown irises, pulling you in, powerless to stop the attraction. Just as you'd fallen into the swirling pensieve, you could have delved into those eyes, drawn to their depth and promises of love, comfort and indescribable pleasure. Sebastian gripped you tightly, possessively, tilting your chin to keep you looking before capturing your waiting lips in a passionate kiss.

Through shortened breaths, you responded eagerly as your hands found his soft hair, so ripe for tugging. A low rumble grew in his chest, his hands wandering, tugging at your uniform to rid you of these wretched clothes. 

“Clearly you enjoyed it,” he chuckled. “Look at you…all flushed. I'll bet you're soaking wet for me already.”

His fingers grazed your neck as he perused the rising pink blush. He was right, of course; watching him defile you like that in such clarity had wound you so tightly that your cunt pulsed and ached for his touch. Your head fell sideways and eyelids drooped, and you saw the flicker of a smirk in your periphery; the same such smile that had tugged at his lips when he'd had you coming apart underneath him.

“Seb…”

“Shall we make a new memory?” he whispered in your ear.

You shuddered, from the slither of warm breath down your neck and the tantalising prospect put forth. He didn't wait for a reply; the question had been rhetorical. Of course you'd say yes, your body already malleable like putty in his hands. He undressed you first with his eyes and then with his hands, sliding the cotton from your shoulders before attacking your bare skin with his mouth. The chill of the Undercroft couldn't compete with the warmth of his lips, his tongue. Still your skin prickled underneath him, nipples peaking as he made quick work of your remaining garments. The ribbon of your stay had fallen away with the merest suggestion.

He'd barely touched you, and you suspected magic at play.

“Are you going to take me over the pensieve?” you asked jokingly.

“I wonder,” he hummed. “Would you like to watch the memory again whilst I fuck you? Consider it an experiment.”

Oh, he was deadly serious. He pulled open the buttons on his trousers and pushed the fabric down to his thighs proudly letting his girthy cock spring free. 

“Tell me how much you want it, darling.”

“So much…”

With a whimper, you dropped to your knees which froze against the cold stone and sent shivers up your entire body. Only the warmth of your arousal kept you from shaking uncontrollably, the heat of overwhelming lust that coursed through your veins. From this vantage point you could appreciate his impressive cock nestled in coarse, dark hair. The vein that protruded from the underside throbbed under your thumb as you took him in your hand, licking the swollen tip with a wanton moan.

“Mmmh- fuck, such a greedy girl…”

The heady smell you’d encountered upon entering the room assaulted your nostrils, mixed with the scent of his arousal. It made your head spin as much as his taste, and you took him in your mouth with yet more unrestrained sounds of pleasure that echoed in the vaulted room. Sebastian threaded his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp in rhythm to the movements of your head as you sucked him as if you’d been starved. You pressed your throbbing clit against the heel of your foot as you worked him, shifting a little to ease the ache.

“If you can bear to stop sucking my cock I’d…like to fuck you senseless now…ah!”

Sebastian groaned as you forced him deep into your throat, holding him there just long enough for him to fall forward against the pensieve behind you. Once satisfied he was reeling with pleasure, you pulled away, popping off of his cock with a farewell lazy flick of your tongue.

“Merlin’s bloody balls. Bend over. Now.”

His voice was husky and he peered down at you with an almost crazed expression, his eyes wild and teeth bared. Predatory. You knew just how to tempt him, and he you.

“Enjoying yourself?” you teased, echoing his earlier question as you stood up.

Sebastian spun you around with a hard smack to your behind that made you giggle. That laugh was stifled when he pushed and pulled you into position, your elbows crashing into the stone rim of the basin.

“I’ll be enjoying myself a lot more when I’m deep inside that pretty little cunt,” he muttered.

“Fucking hell, Seb…”

His cock rocked impatiently against your behind, fingers gliding through the slick that coated your folds until he found your entrance. You cried out as his fingers pushed inside you, gripping the pensieve tight as you gazed into the swirling waters.

“Time to take a trip down memory lane, hm?”

With a final look back at him, ingraining his face to your own memory, you plunged into his. Once again you were pulled in once your face hit the cold barrier, landing on your feet in the illusion of his bedroom. You were met by his hunched figure, and a step revealed yourself, panting and submissive beneath him. Still a passive bystander, you watched his hands palming your breasts, yet you still felt all of which happened to your body outside of the memory. You felt the pulsing and stroking of his fingers, and the retreat of them which made you gasp.

The memory of Sebastian paid your very real moans no mind, unable to respond and thoroughly absorbed by those made by the version below him. His freckled hand moved from her breasts to her neck, squeezing as his hips gathered pace. You were mesmerised and thrumming with excitement, until suddenly you’d collapsed against the bed in ecstasy. The very real Sebastian pushed his cock inside you, filling you to the brim. Your walls fluttered and you whimpered as you felt him move, caressing every nerve ending you possessed deep inside you. 

The figures before you became secondary to your pleasure, but still you watched, especially enraptured by Sebastian’s dishevelled appearance and the wet slapping of skin. Your flesh pinched and bruised around your hips as his fingers held you in place above the pensieve, the coiling tension in your abdomen mounting with every thrust. Unable to stay upright, you slumped onto the mattress at the opposite end of the bed to where your memory was being pounded. 

It felt as if every roll of Sebastian’s hips coincided with that of the other’s. Your brain was mush, body writhing with the endless assault to your body and the deeply erotic display in your vision.

“Sebastian…oh, fuck…”

He couldn’t hear you, but it didn’t matter, everything you did was driven by instinct now; the grab of your breast and the arch of your back; the desperate, begging eyes you made at the memory in front of you. The pleasure was so much, too much, your breath stuttering and a tear leaking from your eye. You were sure you could pull yourself out of the memory with a thought, but why would you want to do so when you were floating amongst the clouds?

“Harder…harder…”

He seemed to sense your plea in the real world, or perhaps it was how your pussy clenched around him, anticipating your climax. He fucked you with enough force to make your eyes roll back into your head, blurring your vision as you tried to keep them on the couple in front of you. Though bleary, you swore you saw this Sebastian peer up at you through his eyelashes to meet your gaze. That’s when you felt yourself tip over the edge into oblivion. Your orgasm exploded so hard you felt your breath leave your lungs, or perhaps it was the chill from being mercilessly dragged out of the memory and back into the freezing cold Undercroft. But soon, as your body writhed with pleasure under the crashing waves of your orgasm, you were encased in the warmth of Sebastian’s body as he held you, his cock pulsing as he released his load inside you.

“Seb…oh Gods, I love you…”

Sebastian chuckled and kissed your sweat-laced cheek, squeezing your chest tightly as he breathed heavily against your skin. Your muscles relaxed in his embrace as the waves ebbed, until you both stood in the room, dazed and happy.

“I love you, too. How was it?”

“Interesting. Amazing. I missed you, though. Does that make sense?” you said with a breathless chuckle.

“Maybe I’ll have to experience it for myself.”

“You work out the logistics, and I’ll be happy to show you.”

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow smut #sebastian sallow fanfiction

[daughterofyore]

hiii !! loved your george post your writing absolutely amazing.. i was wondering if you could write about george and readers honeymoon or george fucking reader on even days (intense smut and angst i beg)

thank you anon who I definitely don’t know- ;) I’ll do two different stories for you, one for the honeymoon and one for even days :)

Honey Sweet.

King George x f!reader

[[Queen Charlotte (netflix)]]

category; heavy smut, fluff

wc; 2,783

a/n; You and King George have been friends for years, playfully teasing each other and sneaking improper meetings with each other. You marry and your honeymoon is very, very spicy. The naughtiness you both tried to tame flares.

!!W!!;; nsfw, light bondage, virgin, degradation, praise kink, lowk rough sex, gagging, breeding kink

The wedding had been a grand affair. Lavish, sprayed in the finest jewels and freshest flowers. All those of importance in attendance. Anyone who was someone sat along the gallery and watched as you walked up the aisle. Your train felt miles long, the skirts of your wedding dress billowed around you as you traveled up the aisle. You could see him, standing at the altar. Your first time seeing him since your secret rendezvous in the garden. He looked, spectacular. You admired him, devilish smile grinning down at you. You swore his eyes were glazed as he watched you approach.

When you finally stepped onto the altar he took your hands in his, he whispered a gentle “You’re beautiful.” Before turning to face the Bishop. The pair hearing the bishops words but not really listening. The tension between the pair of you was palpable. You watched him in your peripheral, a smile creeping onto the corners of his lips. A man of mischief, it seemed.

“I now proclaim you man and wife, King and Queen of the United Kingdom’s.” The bishop smiled, looking between the pair of you as you both turned to face each other. “You may kiss your Queen, sire.” George smiled down at you, grinning from ear to ear. How lucky were you to marry the love of your life? Your childhood best friend? The man you truly, utterly adored. George stepped close to you, holding your hands close to his heart.

“I love you.” He whispered, loud enough for only you to hear. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. Quickly before you could register what had happened he bit your lip, sly enough nobody else could notice it. You withheld a yelp, looking at him with slightly widened eyes. “That’s a hint for what’s to come later.” He smirked down at you, squeezing your hands as you turned to face your court. The Ton rose, applauds erupting in a cacophony of celebrations. The pair of you strode down the aisle, hand in hand, united before all.

You entered Birmingham House, fresh into your honeymoon respite. The house staff applaud you as you entered, and George thanked them gratefully. You nodded and thanked them, the pair of you beelining for the grand stair case. Red carpet and flowers from the reception lining the bannisters. George leaned down to your ear, whispering “I would run up these stairs right now with you in my arms if I could, but your wedding dress is much too heavy for me.” You chuckled, looking up at him. “You look ravishing in it, I must say.” His grin widened, you couldn’t help but scoff at his flattery.

“And you, my dear husband look delicious in this white and gold uniform.” George bit his lip, looking like he could devour you this very moment if given the chance. He would, once you were in your chambers.

“I cant wait to rip that beautiful dress off of you.” You felt butterflies erupt into flight in your stomach, your knees almost buckling. “But for now, I’ll admire your strength in carrying the thing.” He stopped at the stairs. He stood behind you, waving handmaidens away as he scooped up your train and skirts, lifting the weight so you could climb the stairs. “First act of marital duty, help my wife to bed in her wedding dress.” The pair of you laughed, climbing the stairs in tandem. The staff admired the pair of you, if this was your first night they were sure the pair of you, were a match made in heaven.

George swung open the doors to the chambers. A crackling fire blazed in the hearth, a grand ordained varnished mahogany four poster bed sits at the far centre wall. Curtains drape across its corners, and of course the room is themed in the famous royal reds. The moment the doors closed behind you, George dropped your dress, turning you around to face him. “I’ve been wanting to devour you the moment I saw you at the bottom of the aisle.” He slipped his fingers beneath the lacy sleeves in your shoulders. “But I have had to wait, and now, my dear wife, I need your attention.” You gulped, your core ablaze. He stood before you, breathing deep as if to calm himself. “I must ask you, I knew we have had our own improper dealings…” he was referring to all the times the pair of you slipped away in gardens, never going the full mile but, playful kisses, bold touches were most certainly exchanged. But never did you expose your bodies or go a step too far. You were friends first, then this romantic attraction had grown. And now here it was, in full display as you stood before each other. Wedding rings brand new and heavy, the sexual tension pulsating between you. “Are you comfortable with going the whole way tonight?” You looked up at him, through your lashes and sucked in a breath.

“I’m ready for anything if it is with you George.” He smiled, immediately leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. His kiss was feverish, desperate nearly. He yearned for your attention, your body. He had controlled himself for so, so long. He had desired you from the moment the pair of you had met and now it was finally coming to fruition. He slipped an arm around your waist, pressing you into his front. He licked your lips, nipping at them gentle. He sucked the tiny sting away, before finally slipping his tongue against yours, dancing around your mouth. Your breath escaped you, gasping against his kiss as he explored you. He took it as an invitation to delve deeper, gently guiding you backwards to the bed.

He lay you out like a feast. Bracing himself over you with a hand each side of your head, he lowered himself down to kiss you again. He brought his head to your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin where your neck and shoulder combined. Your skin popped out of his mouth with a wet smack, and he grinned. “Marked as my wife, I think I’ll do that more often.” You smirked you at him, wrapping your hands behind his neck.

“You dirty thing you.” You chuckled, guiding him back to your lips to kiss him again. He pulled you up, kneeling onto the bed and stepping around you, undoing the various buttons and ribbons with meticulous care. Ever so slowly he undid each fasten, achingly slow and you felt the fiery need in your core grow. Once you were free he came to stand in front of you, pulling you up as he slipped hands beneath the sleeves and pulled down the dress. Teasingly dragging the fabric over your skin and watching it fall from your body. You were adorned in lacy white lingerie, specifically for this moment. The dress fell to the floor, piled at your feet. The white garter around your thigh squeezing your flesh. He sucked in a shaky breath as he admired you, drinking in the sight before him.

“Oh the things I will do to you tonight my queen.” Without another word he ripped his own suit off, throwing the shirt to the side and yanking his trousers down till he stood in briefs. He guided you back to the bed, laying you down and crawling on top of you once more. He pulled you up till you lay completely on its mattress, then he began to turn his attention to your breasts. He grabbed the corset, yanking at the ribbons and pulling it off of you. Your breasts fell free, without a moments hesitation his mouth latched to your nipple, sucking and grazing his teeth over it. Your fingers snaked through his hair, tugging slightly. Your leg raised to wrap around his waist. He groped your other breasts in his hand, massaging it, squeezing and pulling gently. He turned his attention to the other nipple, leaving the other swollen and puffy. He brought his fingers to it as he sucked the other, pinching your nipple and causing you to squirm from the sensitivity. He chuckled against your skin, loving your reaction. The soft skin was heaven for him, this was perfection. You were perfection. He could not imagine himself in any other reality than this one, right now.

His lips left your nipple with a pop, and he licked a trail to your stomach. Kissing you lovingly and snaking his way to your waist. He toyed with the hem of your panties, playing with them as he looked up to you. “Ready my dear?” You nodded, gasping a quick breathless yes as he pressed two fingers to your slit. Rubbing the fabric between them and savouring your juices as they soaked it. He bit the hem of your underwear, dragging it down over your thighs and off your legs. He took it from his mouth, gently turning you over and bringing your hands behind your back. So smoothly he created a makeshift handcuff with the lacy white fabric, tying your hands behind your back. He rolled you back over, spreading your legs and diving into your cunt.

You squirmed beneath him, trying to pull away. He only yanked you closer to him, holding you still as he explored your folds. Licking long lazy lines up your centre, tasting you. He reached your clit, immediately beginning to lick and suck it. You arched your back, unable to contain your ecstasy. Moans escaping you as he played with you. He brought a finger up, inserting it agonisingly slow and working it in and out of you. Feeling you widen and soak his hand, he stuck in a second, then a third. He pumped his hand in and out of you, curling his fingers to reach that particular spot that made you cry out his name. Your moans rang through the room, your hands clawed at his head, simultaneously begging for him to continue and stop. He never slowed his pace, keeping steady rhythm in playing with your clit and pumping his fingers into you. “Oh George you’re going to- to make me cum!” You could barely speak between your moans, yet you felt him smile against you. He didn’t miss a beat, working you towards that orgasm. It was your undoing when he placed his other hand on your swollen clit, rubbing it fast and without mercy.

“Cum for me darling, show me what a good girl you are.” You cried out beneath him, his touch electrifying. The orgasm ripped through you, and he continue his ministrations throughout. Riding it out for you, leaving you a pile of mush and sweat. Breathing heavy. He grinned down at you, watching you catch your breath. “We are far from done my dear, I still have to put a baby in you.” You swore it was almost your undoing again, before he climbed off the bed and stood at its edge. He grabbed your thighs, pulling you off the bed with great care and guiding you to your knees. He pulled off his briefs, admiring his handy work at your makeshift handcuffs. “Show me what a good slut you are, wife. Suck me dry.” His cock stood hard and tall, he pressed it against your lips. You licked a slow line from its base to its tip, George moaned above you.

You took him in your mouth, sucking the tip and only taking him half way into your mouth. His size made it hard to full take him, so you made up for it in sucking him hard and licking his tip as beads of precum leaked. He looked down at you, grabbing a handful of your hair and guiding your head up and down on his dick. He began to face fuck you, creating a steady rhythm of in and out. Working his way deeper into your throat each time. “Such a pretty little slut aren’t you wife? Sucking my cock like this.” He admired the way your tits jiggled with each thrust he pushed into you. Without warning, he pushed himself into you to the hilt, his balls against your chin. “Take it, take it like a good girl.” Your toes curled, gagging on his cock as your eyes watered. He pulled out allowing you to catch your breath, before slamming back in. He repeated this over and over again, choking you on the sheer size of his cock. He was a moaning mess above you, muttering ‘yes, yes’ with each thrust.

“Oh I’m going to cum, drink it all wife. Don’t let a drop go to waste.” He thrust into you three more times until finally, it was his undoing. He came long strings of cum into the back of your throat, forcing you to gulp it down or choke and gag. He watched you swallow, admiring you and how pretty you looked. “My beautiful little slut, drinking my cum so eagerly.” Once he had finished he pulled out, leaving you gasping for air. He let go of his grip in your hair and picked you up, walking to a desk in the corner. With one hand he swiped the contents to the ground, grabbing the panties tied around your wrists he lay you across the table, ass in the air and your breasts pressing into the smooth cold mahogany. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to stand my dear.” You could hear the grin in his voice, this side of George was something you hadn’t expected, but you loved it. You wanted more of it. You needed him, every inch of him.

He spread your legs with his foot, then grabbed your ass cheeks and spread them for a clear view of your cunt. He pushed two fingers inside you, lubing them up before quickly pumping his cock. He lined the tip with your entrance. You could feel the head of it slipping inside, he slowly entered, letting you adjust to his size. He stayed pushing in till he was completely inside you. He waited until he felt you adjust, then slowly pulled out. He gritted out behind closed teeth how tight you were, how wet you were. Your moans and pleads of him to fuck you pushed him to the edge. He knew you were accustomed to his size, so without warning he pounded into you. Shoving you up the table and a resounding clap ricocheted off the walls.

“Fuck George, yes!” You cried, your front flush with the wood. He pulled out and slammed into you again. He kept your legs spread, yet held onto the panties tied around your wrists and used them to hold you in position. He fucked you relentlessly, moaning above you as he pounded into your pussy.

“Oh fuck, you delicious heavenly thing. My wife, taking my cock like a good slut.” He rammed himself into you again, picking up the pace and without mercy slammed himself into you. His balls slapped against your clit, it was overstimulating. “You look so pretty like this, bent over my desk, bare to me and being fucked so brutally.” He pounded into you with each word, not giving you a moments rest. “I’m going to cum in you, you will look so beautiful while you grow our heir inside you.” This realisation fuelled him, and as you cried out his name he slammed himself into you to the hilt, over and over again.

“Fucking hell I’m going to cum!” You yelled out, followed by a chorus of moans and pleas. He smiled at you, watching you rock back and forth on the desk with each thrust.

“Cum for me pretty slut.” He said as he reached a hand around your thigh and rubbed at your clit. It was your undoing, you released and a moan so loud escaped you. George muttered a ‘fuck, yes’ and suddenly you could feel a pool of warmth growing in core. His seed spilled into you, filling you. He stayed inside you, breathing deeply for a moment. The pair of you could barely catch your breath, stars dancing in your eyes from the level of ecstasy you had just reached.

George lifted you with such gentle care, he stayed inside you, but guided you to the bed. He lay down and placed you above him, he kept himself inserted into your weeping cunt. “I refuse to let any leak out my lovely wife.” He smirked at you, but you couldn’t help but kiss him.

“If this is how we fuck my love, we will have a lot of babies.”

#bridgerton series #bridgerton spoilers #queen charlotte #king george x reader #king george bridgerton #king george x f!reader #king george smut #king George and reader smut #king George x reader smut #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton smut #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton

[yandere-wishes]

𝕐𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕄𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℍ𝕚𝕘𝕙

❤️‍🩹Characters: Yandere! MH Ghouls x GN! Reader

❤️‍🩹Summary: There's something ancient within you. Lost and forgotten. You're an eldritch creature living amongst monsters. A piece of you lives within each of them. And a piece of each of them lives inside you...

❤️‍🩹Warnings: Yandere behavior, obsessive tendencies, Body horror in Frankie's part, slight gore and blood in the rest, angst, super cryptic.

❤️‍🩹Could be read as romantic or platonic.

I am a monster, for now and forever. I am a monster, what a terrible being.〜♡॰ॱ

There's something ancient within you. Lost and forgotten. ~❣✧❣

⚡︎Frankie Stein ⚡︎

There's something ancient within you. Lost and forgotten. Frankie is desperate to unravel it. To crack it open. She feels you in every one of her limbs. Feels you in the stems of her patchwork heart. That has to account for something right? 

Your melancholy seeps through you, tainting the tiles in shades of gold. 

Frankie blames the binding of your skin, she's always found it too loose. 

Nothing extramundane, to tether your essence within yourself. She wouldn't mind taking you apart and stitching you back together. Recreating you into something perfect. She's grown wry of watching you crack your ribcage open, shoving astral celestials where your heart should be. You mutter things, things she doesn't understand, things she's scared she'll never understand. Her bones rattle, a rouge spark runs down her spine. Every piece of you haunts her...

Frankie use to believe, verily childishly, that parts of her were salvaged from you. She knows now that that's impossible, yet she still wishes every night for the childish dream to come true.

In many ways, Frankie has always been bound to you. Your first friend, your first confidant, your first punishment, your first comprehension. Even when you'd been too young to understand the cacophony of the world, you'd still know the two of you were connected. 

It had only taken a lifetime to understand why. 

Bones collapse into constellations. Somehow she feels you slipping away. Her slender fingers trace the stitches across the hollow of your chest. A meteoric reminder of her work. "It's okay I'll have you fixed in no time." Frankie doubts you find any truth in her incentive. You've always been drawn to pessimism. Still, she feeds the needle through skin and muscle. Praying she remembers the stronghold pattern her mother taught her. 

The shade they used for your blood is too bright. You bleed in rivers, 

flowing with no end insight. You wash away her sorrows with farfetched promises. Awakening a longing, she never knew she had. 

Frankie wishes she could pluck out your spine. Kiss each vertebra like an iridescent pear. Maybe then your souls would tether, maybe then everything will go back to the way it once was. The needle snags across bones, marring your skin in star-kissed bruises. She pecks each one, muttering a sorry across cold flesh. You feel like home under her lips. A home she never got to know. 

Yet the echoes of its brilliance linger faintly in the hearts of those who once knew its warmth.

Frankie smiles as your eyes crack open. Dizzy and distant, you've yet to notice your enhancements. The pieces of herself she tethered onto you. She wonders when you'll notice the new eye, the new leg, the mismatched fingers. Her heart sparks thumbing loudly in her ribcage. 

She sinks down, by the operation table,skinning her knees. You feel like home, now more than ever. 

Your fingers find her head, patting the matted hair, she smiles something solemn and forlorn. She trails her fingers over one of the stitches on your arm, prying her slender digits between the threads and into the gaping tissue. Her fingers release a spark, your body arches off the table. After all, blood has always been a good conductor for electricity. "It's just a power boost. You'll be right up in a few minutes." a giggle rips from her throat, as you mummble an acknowledgment. Eyes overcast with equal parts grief and glee. 

She always knew she loved you how could she not? You'd been linked to her for as long as she had a conscience. You had always been her everything. Sometimes she wonders how you both ended up like this. Stitching pieces of yourselves into each other. 

Frankie closes her eyes. Her mind struggling to regain control. Her deep breaths waver as she hears shifting from the table. 

"It's alive..."

𓆩❤︎𓆪Draculaura𓆩❤︎𓆪

Draculaura can smell the ethereal ichor now. Maybe it's always been there. Hidden under bygone layers and golden sand. She wonders if now, knowing what you know, makes you see her as anything less. You're older now, smarter. Maybe you understand the world just a little bit better than she ever could. 

Despite her gifted immortality, Draculaura likes to think that she's grown, too. No longer the little batling who faints at the mere scent of blood. Yet the urge to vomit is still there, an acidic reflex in the back of her throat. She's been avoiding you lately, simply because you make the urges go away. 

She can't live with that.

Can't live with what you make her. 

You trace the heart on her cheek. Your fingers feel like divinity sinking into her skin. You try to reason with her, tell her the truths of the crypt. "Surly Draculaura, you must know who you really are. Isn't it silly that you persist in this nativity?" Your words are harsh. Good intentions wrapped in silver blades. She bites her tongue, killing the queries before they dare spill. 

You make her crave things. 

Things she's avoided her whole life.

There's blood on your lips, dripping onto the ground. She fights the urge to kiss you. The heat of the sun amplifies the scent of the decaying flesh. Her stomach growls, this isn't right. The grip on her parasol tigtens. There is justice behind your actions, not one she can make herself understand. She watches as you tear into the decomposing body. "Don't", it's nothing less of a prayer. She feels her fangs elongate. How she wishes the world would turn to black.

Can a vampire be haunted? 

Surly they can, it's the only answer to your staunch lingering. 

Draculaura's coffin feels too snug, like a home and a prison encapsulated in one. She wishes she could feel cold dirt under her nails, feel the thrill of digging her way out of a grave. It's your fault, it has to be. Why must you awaken such ancient sensations? Such horrid cravings, such primal needs. 

Why must she see divinity in your face, liquid darkness shimmering behind enigmatic eyes? You are something terrifying, something painful. You are what she was supposed to be, what she's fled from her whole life.  

Your silhouette is a curse and a blessing. A reminder of a lineage she was thrusted into. A legacy she never wanted. Everything about you is a hunting familiarity for a family she never knew. She wonders if she would have been the prettiest girl in the morgue. She wonders if her father should have let her die all those eons ago.

 "I used to be human" She confesses one night. She doesn't know why you agreed to come over. Why seeing you in your pajamas sparks one too many fond memories.

"So?" your tone is one of perplexity. She feels foolish under your gaze. You glide the makeup brush across her cheeks. dusting them with faded nostalgia. "I can't eat them. It'll feel like I'm eating myself" How long has it been since the transformation occurred? how long has it been since she shedded the body of that sickly fragile girl? She's been a vampire for centuries yet still can't get used to the title. 

"You can eat these ones..." Something ancient within her stirs, her bones rattle with comprehension. She knows what you mean and it fills her with a need to scream. 

Draculaura can't see her reflection, can't gauge how different she is now. You used to help her with her makeup back in high school. Back when the shade of your lipstick determined your personality for the day. She's never seen her face. She prays it's identical to yours. She prays that someday she can embody you...

There's a deathly hunger within her. Bubbling in her stomach. She needs to let it out before it kills her. Can she even die? She's almost sure she wants to. You almost make her want to succumb to the impulse of quitting her humanity all toghter. Your presence makes her all so hungry. She's gotten better at hiding it under school-ghoul gossip and trend talk. 

She settles for a kiss tonight, a rushed peck on the cheek. Some vampire she is, instead of bleeding you dry she's pouring her sorrows into you. She wonders if you take note. See the ghosts jouncing within her soul. 

Draculaura's nails pick at the skin of her birthmark.

The skin cracks.

blood trickles. 

Can a vampire even be haunted?

Yes. 

She knew the charade wouldn't last forever. 

Knew that one day the lights would dim and the stage would fade to black

A final curtain call. An impending doom.

The final nail in her glass coffin. Rendering it to shards.

And she'll be left plucking fragments from her eternal flesh.

There's a small joy in knowing you'll be her effacer. 

The one to put an end to 2,000 years of pretend. 

"And then he was all like "You know?" and I was like "Whatever" and he was-" 

"Draculaura, I have no idea what you are talking about." She turns to face you, your smile is a crushing weight. On her shoulders crave. You throw your head back and laugh. Laughing at how little she's changed since you shared a desk in class. Since your most eminent concern was fearleading practice and algebra tests. Draculaura should laugh too, this she knows. Yet she remains distracted by your neck and all the glory it holds. 

Just a small bite won't hurt...

☾🐾☽Clawdeen Wolf☾🐾☽

Clawdeen is protective to a fault. A trait she could never identify as innate or habit. Still, the urge to stalk you persists. Pricking away at her fur like wolfsbane. 

Clawdeen's been brought up to believe in legacy, to worship the moon and the stars and their maker. Ancient things have a way of lasting lifetimes. She knows this now, finds its evidence when she unravels her family, her pack, herself...you. Her kind has been known to nurture those they love, to birth and raise every great warrior. She ponders again if this was originally encrypted in their blood or if her species picked it up throughout the years. 

All she knows is that something inside her awakens when she sees you. A testament to an ancient love, long since stifled under sand and snow. 

She wonders if that's what she's done with you all these years. If, in her own way, she's raised you to become some sort of warrior, a great beast living amongst subsidiary. 

The two of you sit beside the bay window. Her newest sketchbook draped across her lap. You lean in resting your head on her shoulder, listening as she explains the inspiration behind each design. 

You feel like you've been mauled. A piece of you thrown in every direction. Only to morph into the creations of your hunter. "You remember your first design?" you ask, closing your eyes to still the world. "Wasn't that when we wrapped Howleen in a red blanket and my mom's scarf?" Her claws prick her upper lip as she stifles a giggle. "And made her walk around the house like it was a Scaris runway" You add, relishing in the bygone recollection. 

Your childhood memories together are coated in ichor. Jejune days 

when you'd watch her tumble over herself trying to be everything she could never be. Even back then, you'd known something was amiss with the world. Seen the ancient wolf that lay dormant within her. felt its bonds call out to you, pulling you in deeper. You'd cling to her like a frightened child to a teddy bear. 

But you're older now. Instead of the scared child, you've turned into the monster under the bed. Funny how everyone's heritage catches up with them at some point. Even when you grow unaware of its presence. Legacy still tends to echo in your bones. You're both the same in that regard.

"I can never tell if I'm alive or dead." You tell her one night. 

"Neither" Clawdeen's voice is rigid, stiff. She can feel your awakening and rebirth. It sings in her head, more vital than a howl. "creatures like us don't die so easily. We only transform." She remembers the legends, the wars, they rattle in her bones sending shivers up her spine. Neither of you have ever died. You've survived every tribulation. 

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" you reply, Clawdeen notes the embers that burn behind your eyes. How they spread across your body like a wildfire.

"What doesn't kill me, simply gives me a reason to kill it" She swears she sees the moon flicker in retort. 

Clawdeen slits her throat with her claws. 

Choking on moondust and half-fallen stars. 

Her father once told her heritage is everything before giving her a golden ring fashioned as a wolf's head. She still doesn't know what he means. 

She knows her kind was born from misplaced love. 

She's just glad your fates are entwined. 

"Someday you'll have red eyes." You trace your thumb over her lashes as you speak. Trailing down to play with her curls. She knows what you mean. Oh how, she wants to devour the hope you offer so freely. Rip it from your heart and feel it pulsing under her fangs. Maybe then her stars will align and she'll truly understand what she is. 

 Clawdeen's feelings grow teeth, gnawing at her carnivorously as she pulls you close. Muttering a 'thanks' as if it holds the weight of the world. There's comfort in the thought that she's molded you. Helped nourish your flames until they grew so potent. She's ever only been the middle child of the moon. But with you, she feels like so much more. Like something celestial, something ancient. An heirloom made of blood and moonrock. 

Above you the clouds part. Giving way to the full moon. 

₊˚.༄Lagoona Blue₊˚.༄

The air in her lungs feels synthetic, dry. She chokes off the sand and ozone, blinded by the unfiltered light, leaving burns on her frail, scaled, skin. She wonders if this is how a fish feels as it's being reeled on land. She wonders if she's any different now.

Her heart hammers when she sees you, cracking her ribs in hysteria.

Water lilies bloom from their marrow, she counts them just to distract from the stars burning in your eyes. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, gnawing the pink flesh like a shark does its prey.

Her eyes burn when she catches a glimpse of you by the pond. Gazing conflicted at three-eyed frogs. She can't help but see you as a cacophony of unmarked graves. Too many ghosts linger across your body, they're prints evident in the afternoon sun.

You leave a water lily behind her ear as you brush past her in the hallway. She thinks your perfection is exaggerated, artificial like the air. The kind daydreaming divers pray to find in rogue oysters. Lagoona is sure you're the last of your kind. An endangered creature too proud to ask for help. She clumsily fingers the flower's petals. The wave of nostalgia that invades, has her gasping for air.

The ocean she once called home is overrun by rot. She too is infected by the pollution that plugs her gills. In her dreams, she treads through clean oceans, webbed fingers entwined with yours. There is no corrosion here, no death. Just you and her and everything that entails the definition of good. When she wakes up she notices that her gills are falling one by one. Pastel blue glints scattered, floating across her bed like the empty husks of sea stars.

She too is the last of her kind.

She too is destined to perish in agony.

She wonders if you hear her tears. Hear them fall into the abyssal sea. Feel their reverberations as they create rings on the surface. She can't expect such a thing from you. You're in your own world struggling with your own scars. You left her another flower today, nymphoides indica, she doesn't understand what you're trying to tell her.

The pond has started to bleed too. Its decaying scent is pungent from miles away.

has it bled into her?

Is she infected too?

You're there again today, worlds apart yet close enough to touch. Her body stiffens as she kneels next to you. Desperate for your attention, desperate for you to tell her what she is. Maybe, just maybe she can confess her love in time to share a grave with you.

"I used to be so beautiful.." Your voice sounds evasive. A final cry for help before the ocean consumes you. Your reflection in the pond is muddled over. A glitch in reality, something Frankie would have more experience with. "you still are mate…you still are" Her words are earnest, yet she doubts they bring you solace. "If it's any consolation, I'm polluted too..". You laugh so condescending it makes her stomach churn. She rolls the words in her mouth again, tasting them for misunderstandings.

"We're all polluted Lagoona. We always have been."

You're made of one too many pieces, all doused in poison. You rearrange the water lilies on her head. Your fingers feel like home threading through her hair. "The last of our kind." Lagoona giggles, her body is growing dryer, desperate, the moisturizer and hydration station have long since stopped working. Now she awaits the poison to take over fully. You're her memento mori another helpless creature awaiting death.

And yet, to her, you're still as radiant as the first day she met you.

Lagoona's grave will be in the sea. It's a last wish one you decide to honor. You kiss her on the cheek as she turns to you. Body half submerged in her home. She hugs you, with all the longing her frail corpse can muster. It's only too late when you notice that you too are being submerged. Dragged into the eternal depths. Lagoona refuses to part with you. This is her final gift, the last present she will give you. A quick and painless death. One with a comforting presence.

Her father used to tell her strange tales of bizarre men who'd come to their ancestrial home, seeking answers far too advanced for them. She wonders if she's had the answers all along. Maybe she just had to look a little deeper.

It doesn't matter now. For her final breaths, she is at peace. She is content to end like this. With you in her arms.

𓂀𓆣☥Cleo De Nile☥𓆣𓂀

Cleo likes to think she's come a long way from her former self. No longer an autocrat cheerleader with stary eyes and a need to be worshipped.

She likes to think she's filled out the role of queen, of sovereign, of absolute. 

She's done her dynasty proud...

Shattered and transformed herself into the perfect vessel. 

It's not until she catches her rogue reflection in the gleam of your eyes, that she realizes she's still the same. Eons have passed yet Cleo still remains the same frail cowardly daughter bearing the burden of the D'Nile name. 

You look every bit a queen, a sovereign, an absolute. You've grown to fill the role you never knew you had. 

Cleo bleeds gold. She always has. 

Little did she know, you did too. 

You always had.

There's a crushing weight, something that makes her long for entombment. "I wish I were a mere child once more." her tone is sand on sand. So faint you think it nothing more than a mirage of sound. Her head lays on your lap bleeding out her sins as she prays for the sun to melt her. Feeble, unstable thing she is. Hailing from a feeble unstable place.

Maybe it would do you both some good to forgo the past. To embrace a thundering, grotesque future. Maybe it's time to retire the thrones and gold bangles. Maybe it's time to depart. 

she laughs at such a preposterous notion. 

Cleo's Icoffine lays in a pool of shards and wires and golden beads. Her bandaged fingers wrapped tightly around your bicep, tugging you closer until the scent of spices and flora became overbearing. "it's...okay" you lie through the rage bubbling in your throat. Through the tears that sting the corners of your eyes. "It's not-it's...it's never been okay", the words feel like boulders crushing her bones. turning her body and bandages back to dust. 

You've known Cleo to always wear a broken crown. Funny how, after a millennia, the cracks still keep growing. Only now they bleed into her corpse, cut through bandages, and aim for the heart. You want to wipe her tears away. To whisper glory and purpose into her bejeweled ears.

Cleo lies on the golden floor. It's cold, frigid, she doesn't remember gold to be so unwelcoming, so petrifying. You pull her hand to your heart, hovering above her. Watching as she melts and hardens in the same breath. 

"Allow me the pleasure of death once more. Allow me the luxury of being the only monster you ever have to know." Cleo doesn't remember missing her sarcophagi so much. Her lungs fill with broken promises as her eyes sting from mulish obsoletes. "I've been so blind for so long." She confesses, free hand fiddling with the jewels on her blouse. Running them along her nails waiting to see which will scratch first. "As have I, there's no need to-" her voice is harsh as she sits up. The undead rising from its bejeweled grave. Her hands cup your face. She tries to be gentle, to cradle you like a flower petal. "I'm-I-" her breath hitches as her fractured mind screams. "I hate myself all so very much. Yet I love you with every bit of the heart I thought I lost all those millennia ago."

Chaos has a way of squirming through her veins. 

Her dreams are tainted in rubies, seeing you lying in the sand. 

The noise above is defining. She hates that she's not used to it by now. 

It can't be fair. 

The world can't take you from her. 

You're the only lifeline she has left. 

The only hope that remains. 

You tell Cleo you want to die one starless night, she understands the sentiment. You don't know why that makes you cry. Her lips leave phantom kisses across your eyelids. Spilling gold pleated secretes into your skin. Cleo wishes she kept you entombed next to her, rotting away far from every disaster. Yet she knows she can't, not now at least. You've morphed her into her purpose better than her omnipotent father and cruel sister ever could. With you by her side, she's truly become a queen, a sovereign, an absolute. While you rein above her, some all-knowing creature who she can't help but worship. 

Maybe someday, decades from now. 

The love you share will be dethroned

How unlikely such a feat seems.

Taglist: @hadesnewpersephone @feedmestraycats @deathangelraven @itotallysleepenough @yuuka29 @umgatochamadopercyval

#yandere #yandere x reader #yancore #yandere x you #yandere aesthetic #monster high #clawdeen wolf #clawdeen wolf x reader #draculaura #draculaura x reader #yandere draculaura #yandere clawdeen wolf #frankie stein #y2k #frankie stein x reader #yandere frankie stein #lagoona blue #lagoona blue x reader #yandere lagoona blue #monster high x reader #cleo de nile #cleo de nile x reader #yandere cleo de nile #vampier #yandere vampire #yandere werewolf #vampire x reader #werewolf x reader #yandere mermaid #yandere sea monster

[giuliettagaltieri]

Quest for Happiness

Pairing: President!Coriolanus Snow x Capitol!Reader

Synopsis: You got what you wanted. Power over Panem is on your hands. But after fighting in a battle of schemes and ruse, Coriolanus and you face a much more complex adversity. Together, you are a force to reckon with but when the odds seem to not be so much in your favor, will you manage to remain together?

Warning: doubts, man vs self, man vs nature, superstitions, explicit smut, parenting

Disclaimer: The TBOSAS characters belong to their respective owners, reader is female. Skin tone and body type mentions were limited for better reading experience. If any characteristics of y/n bothers you, or if any of the warnings does not agree with you, I advise you not to proceed to read the story.

Chapter Count: 7

Status: Ongoing

Note: This is a tag-along series, more toned down continuation of Hunt for Glory where we can see what takes place after your rise to power. Read HfG first if you have not yet, to understand the plot. Have a great time reading!

Masterlist

i. Dollhouse

ii. One Way Ticket

iii. Cacophony No. 7 in C minor

iv. Against All Odds

v. A Hundred Sleepless Nights

vi. Shower of Gold

vii. Footsteps in the Snow

Wedding Invitation • Wedding Magazine • News Article

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #young coriolanus snow #tbosas #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunt for glory #quest for happiness #masterlist #coriolanus smut #coriolanus series #coriolanus snow #husband coriolanus #dad coriolanus

[inkeyjay]

🫀 Eucharist of the Ravenous 🫀

It started out as a bellyache, guts rumbling after two days of barely eating. An unfinished visage, featureless, fixing the blurry sockets it had for eyes into his soul.

The humble priest dropped his brush onto the cold floor of the chapel and stumbled backwards. The walls, towards the ceiling, all full of still fresh perfect faces framed by golden halos, that he had been carefully painting non stop for days. Faces of dead saints and prophets, long gone, commissioned by the high church as a display of power and opulence in an age of religious and political crisis. And this last saint, the one that still had some loose and tired brushtrokes for it's face. There was something about it that made the priest flinch out of his creative trance. He swore the paint moved, vibrated with anticipation at the touch of the brush.

He laid tired in the center of the chapel, exposed to a hundred pair of eyes that almost felt judgemental, knowing of the priest's internal thoughts. "Why am i doing this" "Why do i have to over exert myself with work to survive while i use pure gold to embellish... You. This" "Why"

And the faces remained still and silent.

"Why all this for long gone martyrs that had the fortune to die for their for their beliefs, or to let their God speak through their lips, bestow miracles through their fingers"

"Why this for a God that let them die at the heretical hands of the non believers. That leaves hundreds if not thousands of people to die of the pestilence outside this golden, rotten, WALLS"

The bottle of turpentine exploded and its contents dripped down the wall, dragging hours of work with them, dissolving like acid false flesh and gold leaf alike. And then blood, through the priest's hand, holding the neck of the bottle. He panicked and kneeled towards the wall, trying to undo the mistake with cloth, only to make a bloody mess. Red running through the gold, ichor like.

The priest cried holding his hand, a deep wound running through his palm, burning because of the chemicals. But the pain was not the cause of his tears.

"A sign" "I just need a sign"

But the faces remained still and silent.

The priest got up, slowly, and turned around towards the door. Why be here then. Why remain hungry, at the mercy of a dying church that kept their riches safe in mausoleums and layers of paint upon gold leaf upon stone, while its believers died in the streets famished and sick. The priest saw it clear now. If God did ever exist, it was long gone, uncaring for its creation. He might as well die outside, with his people. It would be like inviting the sickness into his chest but at least his last breaths wouldn't taste of incense. His steps echoed through the chamber, determined, reaching for the doors.

But the faces opened their lips. And with a cacophony of voices, each one vibrating with a torrent of beating wings, It spoke. No.

It sang.

Super happy to finally be able to show you this illustration i made for Tome of Pacts, a zine about warlocks, patrons and their pacts! There's a leftover sale going on right now! This is Pantheon, a shapeshifting entity that impersonates long absent gods and feeds on the faith of their followers, always hungry for more. But it's not for me to tell you.

! First of all, credits to @/gothhoblin, the writer of our team, for helping shape out this Patron "...and it spoke with a cacophony of voices, each one vibrating with a torrent of beating wings, a thousand or more." Is a marvelous line of her creation.

Tome of pacts has 11 more patrons and 24 warlocks for your enjoyment, all beautifully depicted by teams of artists and writers. Im super proud to have been able to participate in this project 💛

This short story is about an original character i created after the patron, just as an appetizer, pun intended. You get it right??

Hungry for a copy?

#dnd #tome of pacts #great old one #illustration #dungeons and dragons #magic the gathering #eldritch #patron #warlock #fantasy #dark fantasy #church

[rxzennia]

thrice shall the bell toll

– tales of the voracity pathstrider

✎𓂃 expands on 2.2 leaks, dark content towards the end, character death (everyone dies), heavy angst(?), not proofread. totally did not die a little inside when i wrote this, no. thank you all for 100+ followers! gold and gears, achievement grinding are driving me nuts and seeing everyone else get him makes me want to quit the game altogether. perhaps it’s time i focus more on other things. 

“never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

the musicians begin to play with rigor as the symphony enters crescendo, building up to its climax as the orchestral music increases in intensity and irregularity. the choir sings, paving the way for the descent of an aeon, of justice; their harmony announcing the impending doom of the sinner, promising his demise, promising him eternal rest.

you arrive at the central plaza, just in time for the closing act.

you meet sunday’s eyes, the bastard head of the oak family, the mastermind conducting this cacophony of noises and disturbances. he has the gall to smirk, to flash you a smirk, as if he’s daring you to do anything.

“aventurine, ambassador of the interastral peace corporation.” sunday stalks around the man bound in shackles, like predator circling prey, hands behind his back as he looks down at him with contempt. “you are hereby found… guilty.”

the baton descends – with it, the melody dramatically tips over its climax into decrescendo. 

people often say that death has no place in a dream of prosperity and privilege. 

but when the distinction between dream and reality blurs as the very dimension crumbles, who’s to say that to die is to wake, and who’s to say that death is not still death?

in his last moments of consciousness, aventurine sees you reach for your scarf with an expression he had never seen before. acceptance, perhaps? or disappointment? regardless, you have still chosen to surprise him at his last moment. must you continue to exceed his expectations even at his execution? but both you and he know that it is already too late, and his final solace is that you are present to witness the final chapter of his story.

that he is not left behind again.

the golden hands come full circle, palms closing as the strings lift their bows in unison, leaving only the winds to continue playing. the conductor drops their baton as the inevitable quickly encroaches upon the center stage, as the music ceases until only a sole trumpet remains sounding –

he closes his eyes with a last smile for you; aventurine has finally won, at the cost of losing everything.

once shall the bell toll, for the blessed prisoner condemned to a life of deceit and insincerity.

in a split second, the sky darkens; what used to be perpetually golden and bright has been eclipsed without a trace. the artificial sun goes out, street lamps are extinguished, a veil of darkness envelops the golden hour. what was once paradise becomes the abyss, and lament stands where joy once stood. 

your scarf flutters to the ground as you give it a strong tug, undoing its loops around your neck as you let it fall. you are half-expecting a gasp followed by a waterfall of words, but it never comes.

because there is no source. aventurine isn’t here anymore. 

there’s no more of your boss staring at you with the most awestruck expression as you reveal your face anymore. there’s no more of your boss’s endless pestering anymore.

there’s no more of aventurine opening up to you, getting you to open up, or him tentatively trusting you with fragments of his past anymore.

for the first time, you experience anger. a wrath so intense that it is enough to set even the heavens alight.

it’s about time someone ripped up this disgusting dream woven with fabric made of lies. this facade of extravagant luxury built upon a decaying foundation and the desperation of the masses’ escapism, a nightmare delicately packaged into fantasy that had stripped countless people of their ambitions and futures, it’s about time someone demolished it all.

the dreamchasers who voluntarily surrendered their realities for a temporary escape, the family members who could only obey, the heads of families who put together a ploy like this, and the harmonious strings who composed such a chaotic melody…

none of them matter. 

all that matters is that aventurine is executed, publicly, in utmost humiliation.

your scarf disintegrates into tiny specks of dust. brilliantly platinum scales extend from your fingertips to your jaw, threatening to stretch along your face, too. as if answering your call, serpents emerge from all corners of your shadow, slithering off towards all directions as they respond to your will.

in the sky that is pitch black, even darker shadows rear their heads; they fly, circle around the plane of the masterfully crafted illusion, around penacony itself. they await your orders, they await your next command. 

“eat up, my darlings.”

twice shall the bell toll, for the manufactured illusion of utopia drowning in the afterglow of opulence.

there is a reason why oroboros the voracity has kept to themselves in an unseen corner of the universe – they are not titled the unsatisfied devourer without reason.

with each corner you take for your own sustenance, you feel the universe tilt. the scales are tipping, the balance is tipping. with each piece of reality you consume, the boundary between subconscious and conscious blurs, falsehoods bleed into truth, and you feast upon them all the same.

in your rage, you are not merely tearing lives and environments apart. you are tearing religions apart, tearing peoples apart. worshippers and monuments of xipe the harmony, their symbols and their emanators, the hard-built resort destination called the dreamscape, and the plainly unremarkable penacony in reality, you are tearing it all apart.

you know you have upset the balance, and you know the consequences. you can hear the crystalline chime of the arbiter’s footsteps approaching you, you can almost see the blinding white light of the operating theater.

as the planet of festivities begin to fall out of orbit, so too do the serpents begin to decompose into glittering ashes. 

people scream as gravity somersaults, some swallowed by the caving ground, some swallowed by the gaping maws of the faceless serpents, and some dying by the hand of their kin as they struggle for survival.

you watch impassively as mortals scramble to prolong their lives, and you watch impassively as your serpents are lost, one by one, to the hands of an aeon.

if the mere handwave of an arrogant upholder of justice and a simple declaration are justification enough for an execution, for what reason should you not return the gesture?

if people would simply watch as someone is served the death penalty, what reason do you have to act as they become feed one after another?

and what reason do you have to cling onto mortal sentiments, now that your anchor to mortality is gone?

the man they killed is aventurine. your sometimes-too-annoying boss that you would not trade for anything in the world. your anchor; your dear, dear friend.

you see no reason to rein in your instincts anymore. the primal urge to consume overwhelms you, and all you want to do is to devour, devour, until there is nothing left.

voracity. oroboros’s will.

eat up while you still can, fill your metaphorical stomach with the blood of implicit killers, and tear into the flesh of the perpetrators of this grave transgression.

make them pay. before your judgement rains upon you, before the trumpeters herald your doom, before the star radiating false light meets its end in a supernova, make them pay.

their surgery is swift and painless – precise incision; two, three motions of the scalpel; complete excision.

at long last, the curtains fall. theatrics reach its conclusion, and when you look – there is no one left in the audience. 

thrice shall the bell toll, for the leviathan whose fury burned brighter than the ordinance of equilibrium.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #aventurine #aventurine x reader #ares's voracity pathstrider tales

[adore-laur]

DEVOTION

— please enjoy harry & sawyer getting freaky in miami (inspired by this ask)💃

——

MIAMI, 1993

People are packed into the arena like sardines. August humidity suffuses the air, a cacophony of chatter overlaps, and an infectious energy pulses in the room as everyone waits for Sade to hit the stage in all their sensational glory.

In the general admission area, Harry stands behind Sawyer with his arms protectively draped over her shoulders. Her footing shifts occasionally as she fiddles with his rings. He can sense her anticipation—she's been looking forward to this concert for months. When he gifted her the tickets on her birthday, she wept and kissed him with a hunger he had never experienced from her before. As much as he spoils her, she goes the extra mile to show him her appreciation.

Once the lights go out, Harry can't wait to see her vivacious eyes and dazzling smile.

Sawyer looks ravishing tonight. Her black cropped tank top has a variety of enticing little cutouts—no bra underneath, he might add—and she's wearing low-waisted denim shorts which hug her ass most temptingly. There's a reason he opted to stand behind her—two, actually. One, he doesn't want any dudes getting a sneak peek of his girl. And two, he doesn't need anyone seeing his hardness through his leather pants.

She curled her hair with natural-looking spirals and teased it with spray. Her long, wavy mane has always been a hassle to manage in the summertime, so she cut it collarbone-length. Her front bangs are tightly clipped back, and she wears gold hoop earrings. She’s truly a stunner.

Prior to leaving, Harry watched her as she got ready for the concert. They live together in a swanky Orlando penthouse, where the simple things like her clothes hanging in the closet and makeup supplies cluttering the bathroom sink make him unbelievably happy. While he gently reminded Sawyer that they needed to leave soon for the three-and-a-half-hour drive to Miami, she applied her mascara and teased him by showing her cleavage while bent over the vanity. Despite his provocative urges, he managed to resist giving in.

When Sawyer turns to look at him now, the room reduces to just her. Lucious lips stained with pomegranate-red gloss. Skin glowing with moisture. Dark eyes filled with warmth. It’s breathtaking to behold the sheer beauty of her features. Time and time again, she hypnotizes him. He's beginning to think she can cast spells on his lovesick soul.

Sawyer taps his bicep before standing on her tiptoes to reach his ear. In an instinctive move, Harry touches her hip and leans down to better hear her.

Fanning herself, she says, "It's muggy in here. I'm going to buy a water bottle and braid my hair in the bathroom."

"I'll go with you."

"But you have to save our spot," she reminds him.

Though he nearly protests, he reluctantly nods and caresses the slick skin of her bare middle back. "Fine. You have your phone?"

"In my purse. I'll be fast."

Harry kisses the spot between her eyebrows before letting her go, keeping her locked in his gaze until she disappears past the lower seating sections. In crowds, regardless of size, he doesn’t like losing her. During baseball games, it’s less worrying since she always sits in the same section in her reserved seat, but in Miami, he's extra cautious because it's an unfamiliar city. Sawyer can stand up for herself since sass and stubbornness are intertwined in her Aries DNA, but Harry remains fiercely protective of her. She's a certified sweetheart, conspicuously beautiful, and also quite gullible to a fault—if anyone attempts to take advantage of that, they'll have to answer to him.

While she's gone, Harry observes the venue. There are people from all walks of life surrounding him. The staggered seating sections flanking the floor are filling quickly, and it's reminiscent of playing at Tinker Field, where he would watch fans fill the bleachers from the dugout.

In a few weeks, the minor league season will conclude, and Harry is looking forward to taking a much-needed break from pitching and traveling. He's thankful he didn’t have a game scheduled today, which gave him and Sawyer the chance to step out for a date. It aches to know she's missed him a little more after such a long season. Due to her full-time job, she can’t always travel across America with him or attend home games, but they’re able to make it work by cherishing their time together. Next month, they plan to celebrate their second anniversary in Seville, Spain. They'll sunbathe on the scenic beaches, relish a couples massage, and take romantic strolls through the city's idyllic parks.

And, if Harry doesn't chicken out, he'll ask her to marry him.

Fondly smiling at the thought, he watches two girls strut toward him, parting the crowd like the Red Sea. They're wearing variations of the same outfit—metallic miniskirts, frilly halter tops, and chunky heels. Based on their strikingly similar features, they must be twins. Twin One holds a Canon camera, while Twin Two laughs into her hands.

Harry waves politely before shoving his hands in his pockets. The moment a fan recognizes him, he knows it. There’s a strange shift in the atmosphere when he temporarily loses his shield of privacy. It's unavoidable when fifteen thousand people are gathered in a Miami venue. It comes with the territory of being a famous Florida sports figure.

"Are you Harry Styles?"

Here we go.

Feeling abnormal but pushing past it, he says, "In the flesh. How's it going, ladies?"

"Oh my gosh, we love you," Twin One gushes. "You're hella cute. You play for the Sun Rays, right?"

"Sort of. Our team name got changed recently. We're now the Orlando Cubs."

"Oh, cool," she says distractedly. "Anyway, we want a picture with you."

With a sharp inhale, Harry nods once. “Sure, no problem."

It doesn't bother him to take pictures or sign autographs. Most people are respectful and genuinely honored to meet him. Rarely, however, do people demand things from him, like right now. Then he feels prickles of discomfort. It makes him feel as though he's being exploited. It makes him feel fictitious.

As the girls swarm around him and touch him like he's a wax figure with no boundaries, Sawyer nudges her way through the crowd, water bottle in hand. As she processes the situation, her movements slow and her shoulders drop slightly. She has her hair in two messy braids, with the shorter layers springing loose. She looks effortless and... annoyed. Yeah, Harry is all too familiar with that look. He has been on the receiving end of those slanted eyebrows, those gritted teeth, and those assessing eyes. How will this play out?

When she sees Sawyer, Twin Two strokes his arm suggestively. Thankfully, they see her as a mere stranger rather than his girlfriend. His mind flashes back to past discussions about keeping their relationship as private as possible, and he decides not to sacrifice that for such a measly moment. No chance.

"Can you take a photo of us?" It was wise of her to ask, rather than demand. Otherwise, Harry's friendly mask would have definitely slipped.

Sawyer purses her lips as she meets Harry's gaze. "Do you mind?" he asks, his expression hinting at a secret message.

By taking Twin One's camera, she recognizes his unspoken signal and cleverly leaps into her role. God, he's thankful for her. He knows it's challenging to deal with these bizarre occurrences that pop their bubble, but she handles them all so gracefully. When they get home, he’ll shower her with affection.

Sawyer raises the camera to her eye and says, "I'll take a few."

Harry straightens his posture and awkwardly places his hands on both girls' upper arms. His muscles tense uncomfortably as their hands slither around his waist and linger near his stomach. Amid three flashes, he’s suffocated by the pungent smell of perfume and spearmint gum.

“There you go,” Sawyer says, giving the camera back and forcing a smile.

They browse the pictures before staring at Harry with a sickening amount of adoration. "It was awesome meeting you," Twin Two says, biting her lip. "We'll see you around at the next Sun Rays game."

"Cubs," Sawyer mumbles around a fake cough. Only Harry catches it, and he restrains himself from grinning proudly and kissing her senselessly.

"Nice to meet you both," he says, briefly touching his heart. "Enjoy the concert, yeah?"

They nod, blush, and giggle simultaneously before walking off, staring back at him a couple of times before fading into the sea of strangers. Harry releases a breath he didn't know he was holding and concentrates on Sawyer drinking from her water bottle. He's about to apologize for the unnatural situation, but the venue goes dark, and the audience erupts with deafening cheers.

The joy he expected to see in Sawyer's eyes isn't there. Silently, she crosses her arms and faces the stage with a blank expression. Harry curses at himself—he knows it isn't his fault and that it's just how Sawyer is. She takes things to heart and lets them stew until her skeptical thoughts overflow without a lid. The fact that she didn’t witness the entire interaction has made her understandably upset. Harry regrets not saying no to the fans.

First on the setlist is "The Sweetest Taboo"—sonically sensual, intoxicatingly groovy, and a fantastic way to open their show. Everybody dances to the exquisite beat and sings along to the lyrics. The energy in the room soars to an unimaginable level. It's contagious.

Harry grips Sawyer's hand so the crowd doesn't swallow her whole. She turns and smiles softly, finally bobbing her head to the music. Slowly, she loosens up, unfurling the passionate girl he knows lives within her. The one who loves to dance.

She looks resplendent as indigo lights glide across her face. Her body begins to move—the shape of her swaying hips and the pinch of her waist are irresistible. Harry settles behind her and follows her smooth movements, grinding against her backside. The warmth of his hands rests on her ribcage, and they dance, getting lost in the ecstasy of experiencing live music.

With each song, they forget about the world outside and fall more in love with each other.

——

Harry and Sawyer leave the arena on a high after being captivated by Sade's sultry voice and entrancing stage presence for over an hour. The parking lots are already congested with people trying to beat traffic, so they decide to wait until it calms down.

As soon as they get into the car, Harry starts the engine and turns on the air conditioning before reclining the driver's seat. With exhaustion swimming through his bones, he sighs contently. It was a magical concert, but he's not looking forward to driving back to Orlando. He'll need to stop by 7/11 for an energy drink and some snacks. Fortunately, tomorrow is Sunday, so they can both sleep in and laze around the whole day.

Sawyer unbraids her hair and removes the clips, then shakes her head cutely to let her wild curls loose. She looks tired as well. They danced the night away together, not caring who saw them. He told her to climb on his back a few times so she could get a better view of the stage. During the romantic slow-tempo songs, she hugged and kissed him sweetly, and he swears he almost got down on one knee right then and there.

"I love you, baby," Harry says, watching her take off her Doc Martens. "Tonight was divine."

A smile spreads across Sawyer's face. "I love you too. Hey, listen..." She reaches over to caress his cheek and thumb the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry about my buzzkill attitude at the beginning."

Shaking his head, he kisses her palm. “You don't have to apologize. I appreciate how you handled those girls."

He hopes to forget about what happened. Honestly, as soon as the concert started, he forgot all about them. There was only one thing on his mind: Sawyer and the mesmerizing way she moved.

"I just... I got jealous," Sawyer confesses sheepishly.

Harry frowns in astonishment. Jealousy is a rare emotion for Sawyer. They’ve been dating for almost two years, and he can count on one hand the number of times she has been outwardly jealous. Since he only has eyes for her, there's no rhyme or reason for her to feel this way.

What a new and fun development, Harry thinks to himself. He loves how their relationship continues to surprise him.

Harry, however, has been caught having jealous fits many times before. Like that instance when Sawyer was invited to lunch by her so-called "cubicle neighbor." Harry is her forever lunch date, not anyone else. Even when he can't be there in person, he'll call her office fax number and keep her company while she munches her cucumber salad. Harry's jealousy grew when he discovered some guy was trying to steal that from him, so he ordered an impressive bouquet to be delivered to her desk the following day. It didn't take long for everyone to get the hint. Then there was that time when they were watching The Bodyguard, and Sawyer kept squealing girlishly over Kevin Costner's character. Okay, so he literally took a bullet for the woman he loved. Big deal! Harry smothered his jealousy by obnoxiously pretending to be Sawyer's bodyguard while exiting the movie theater and then proceeding to sing "I Have Nothing" off-key the entire way home. She just laughed, which was his goal in the first place.

"Why'd you get jealous?" Harry asks.

Sawyer's brow quirks. "Well, when I'm subjected to taking pictures of two pretty girls who are all over my boyfriend, it doesn't necessarily feel good."

"I know," he says, frustrated with himself. "I should've refused them. They kind of trapped me."

She pouts sympathetically before climbing over the console and straddling his thighs. "My sweet sunray. You're too nice."

Harry pulls her closer by hooking his fingers through her belt loops and tugging. "I'm sorry you were jealous."

"I shouldn't have been. You know why?"

"Tell me." Reaching around her, he turns up the volume of the radio to drown out the sounds of cars honking at each other. The cassette tape they listened to on the drive to Miami is still playing on loop. "Paradise" by Sade sets the mood.

"Because you're mine," Sawyer says with conviction.

Spreading his legs on the seat, he smirks. "Say that again, angel."

"You're mine. No one else's."

"Ditto," he replies, rubbing his palms along her suntanned thighs. "You've got my devotion."

His bodacious girl bites his bottom lip until it stings, then says, "Prove it."

"Good fuckin' lord," Harry murmurs against her mouth before diving in. He kisses her ravenously while fumbling to unbutton her shorts, eventually helping her shimmy out of them. Sawyer shoves her hand down his pants and grasps his bulge, stroking it purposefully. He gasps and slides his pants down halfway, revealing his tented boxers.

"Are you mine?" she asks, sitting right on his cock and sending shockwaves of sex drive down his spine. Her body heat is addictive.

"Yes," he says breathlessly, kissing along her flushed neck. "I'm your man."

"Then act like it. Show me who you belong to."

A shocked laugh escapes as he greedily grabs a handful of her ass. "Sawyer Alejandra, what has Miami done to you? Ay, Dios mío!"

She smiles seductively. "It's Sade's fault."

"Is that right?" Harry cranks the volume up even more before allusively sliding his hand under her top and cupping the swell of her breast. It fits perfectly, and when he teases her peaked nipple with his thumb, Sawyer's palm slaps against the window as she grinds against him. The glass is fogging with the A/C running, sweat drips down his back, and the song's driving bass line pulsates loudly through the speakers. It's filthy what they're doing, considering potential onlookers surround them. It's a good thing the car has tinted windows.

The thrill of their sexual escapade pulses through Harry's body. As he kisses Sawyer's heaving breasts through her top's cutouts, the pleasure becomes borderline intolerable. His lips search for any sliver of skin, and in response, she tugs his hair and whimpers softly. Her skimpy lace underwear is damp, and he switches his attention to her clit. He rubs it with his knuckle, causing Sawyer's hips to momentarily stutter before she leans into the movement and stamps sloppy kisses all over his face, her cherry-flavored lip gloss transferring to his cheeks, nose, and jaw. They're as sweet as sugar.

"Almost there," Sawyer whispers, running her hand across his broad chest. Her fingers grip the material of his bejeweled sleeveless top to keep herself balanced, and Harry would let her rip it apart if he hadn't spent several hours meticulously hot gluing rhinestones onto it.

After kissing down her stomach and blowing air onto her belly button ring, he teases two fingers past her wet entrance, and it's all she needs to unravel completely. As she orgasms, she leaves love bites on his neck and moans. Her body language is desperate, the arch of her back and the tightening of her thighs against his own helping her through her release.

"Nice and easy, baby," Harry murmurs, squeezing her waist. "Take your time."

From the gratifying pain she inflicts on the tender flesh of his neck, Harry comes in his boxers, his pelvis jerking as goosebumps rise over his skin in transient tidal waves. It feels equally divine and unholy what they just did. Tiredness kicks in as they both breathe heavily. Gradually, the condensation on the windows disappears. Sawyer's handprint is the last thing to vanish, and the sight will undeniably haunt his memory in the most marvelous way.

Harry opens the glovebox and finds the stash of napkins. After cleaning Sawyer and himself, he pulls his pants back up, shuts the radio off, and says, "I've made up my mind."

"About what?" Sawyer asks, sitting sideways on his lap so she can stretch her legs. In just her cropped top, underwear, and adorable ruffle socks, she's a masterpiece. And all his.

"I'm gonna marry you one day," he says. It's something he's known for a long time. He hopes that easing her into the topic will make him more confident about proposing next month.

Sawyer pinches his earlobe. "Don't say dreamy things like that."

"Oh, that’s bogus," he retorts. "You say heart-stopping things to me all the time without even realizing. Especially after sex."

"Not marriage-related things!"

"Does that mean you don't want to marry me?" he asks, fishing for a reaction.

When she goes quiet and stares contemplatively at him, Harry's stomach swoops. He knows her exceptionally well, which means he knows she tends to shy away from substantial conversations regarding their future when they're sprung upon her by his spontaneous nature. Perhaps it's too early to propose a lifelong commitment, but hasn't she imagined sharing a life with him before? The moment he kissed her for the first time, he fantasized about settling down, buying a house away from the city, tying the knot, and having curly-haired babies.

Eventually, Sawyer says, "I would marry you in this parking lot right now if you asked me to."

Harry feels an internal splash of relief and plays it cool by saying, "Please raise your standards."

"Are you saying you wouldn't want to marry me in a parking lot, lover boy?" She tosses her version of his question back to him with a frisky smile.

"I'd find you and marry you in every lifetime. How's that for an answer?"

She’s speechless for five full seconds before lurching forward to hug him, her heart hammering. "You're crazy. I love you so, so much."

"I adore you," Harry whispers. He reaches for the 'S' pendant hiding under his top's neckline and pulls it out. "I'm forever yours."

Sawyer kisses him repeatedly and says, "Forever."

During the journey home, she falls asleep with her head in his lap, holding his hand while he drives. His thumb absentmindedly strokes her ring finger, and he feels a surge of emotion and excitement knowing he will get to spend the years to come by her side.

Years filled with being deeply devoted to her.

——

#harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x oc #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles #adore-laur #harry and sawyer #southpaw series

[aheathen-conceivably]

A new year began with fresh crops sown into the dry ground of Strangerville. After months of irrigation and soil monitoring, Zelda had expected this harvest to spring to life much more easily than the first. Only compared to the dark ground of England, which had always seemed to come back to life after the spring rain, life here seemed utterly unwilling to offer any help to the people struggling to get by, even as their next batch of crops sprung tenuously from the ground.

As she worked on them day after day, Zelda tried to listen for her father’s voice as she once did, only the cacophony coming from her own mind just kept growing louder. It’s barren. The soil is barren. Just stop trying, there’s no point. Just give up. But she couldn’t. Not for herself or Gio or her family. She had to keep tilling, even if every movement was heavier than the last. Each month as the small plants struggled to grow again, the voice grew louder, until it was hard to remember what all this work was for or that she had succeeded once before.

Zelda bent down into the compacted sand, reaching for a weed as she tried to throw herself into the work and quiet her mind. But the dry brown leaves were so unlike the verdant green stems of months before that the voice in her mind grew even more desperate. Just because it happened once doesn’t mean it’s going to happen again. Sometimes that’s all it has to give. Sometimes there’s nothing left. Just give up.

A voice calling her name somewhere from the driveway tried to break through her reveries, but she was lost in the rocky soil as it ran through her fingers back over the dry plants, Just give up. Isn’t she enough? He loves her. You love her. Just give up, be happy. 

“Zelda!” She lifted her eyes to see Gio at the fence, a large smile on his face as he waved his hands excitedly. She stood and brushed the soil from her hands but not the thoughts from her mind as she moved to follow him across the yard.

His steps were filled with purpose and vigor as he walked through the farmyard, calling out to Jo as he passed the house. She emerged with tired, disinterested eyes just as he reached the bed of his truck, lifting up a wooden box he had there and parading it through the farmyard proudly.

Under the watchful eyes of two exhausted woman, he set the crate down onto the ground as though it were more precious than gold. Moments later two hens walked out into the orange sand, their white feathers gleaming against it brightly. Zelda gasped and clapped her hands, the sheer sight of hope quieting her mind temporarily. But from the shadowed safety of the porch, Jo looked down at their devilish eyes and murderous claws with disdain, “A chicken, Gio? Where in the hell did that come from?”

Gio was seemingly unaffected by her aversion, “Chickens, Jo, chickens! I mean hell, we’ve lucked out now, you know that? I was down at the feed store, when I got to talking to a family who’s about to head West on the route. They were worried about takin’ them since they couldn’t feed ‘em but it’s not like killin’ them woulda done any good either. Then I remembered all those jars and preserves the both of you made…”

As he went on it about how he had negotiated both of the chickens in exchange for bushels of dried corn and jarred peppers, it became clearer to Jo what a victory this was not only for them, but for him. He had brought this home like a prize won for them, a small contribution to give their lives ease. She felt her hatred of the hideous creatures begin to shift in favor of love for him, only for him to look back at Zelda and then at her, “But none of it would have been possible without either of you and all your work.”

What was left of her desire to walk away and ignore the sight before her melted at the gratitude in his voice, and she finally left the recess of the porch to walk to him. For a moment she looked up at him, forgetting that Zelda was there as she let him wait for some form of praise from her. Then a small smirk broke through her unreadable expression and she pointed over his shoulder, “I do adore them, so long as I’m not the one to tend to their beady little eyes.”

Gio responded with a wide smile, and for a moment Zelda was distracted by the way they looked at one another as they laughed, so familiar and laden with meaning that it made her wistful; but then the glimmer of white feathers caught her eye yet again. The chickens pecking at the dry ground didn’t look like prehistoric horrors to her. They looked like hope, like her mother’s prized flock or mornings without hunger. Maybe even birthday cakes for her daughter.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Violette herself, who stormed out of the house like a tornado at the first whiff of novel hubbub outside her window. She saw the chickens walking in the sand and gasped, excited by their quick movements and new presence. “Are they ours, Momma? Can I play with them?”

Before Zelda could say a word Violette ran forward, as unafraid as any farm child but without any of the knowledge that Zelda and her siblings had possessed in their youth. Zelda felt the paralyzing wave of anxiety that she always did when she was meant to discipline Violette. She needed to tell her to stop, to show her how to handle the chickens properly and not to be so dangerously brash. Only she couldn’t seem to find the words, and part of her knew that even if she did, Violette would ignore them anyway.

But before she could even take a step, Jo was in Violette’s path. Whatever aversion she had for the small creatures moments before was now gone as she stepped between them and the brash child threatening to pick them up and be scratched bloody by their overexcited claws. Violette looked around her aunt’s legs wondering if she could make a run for it, but Josephine’s stern glare was enough to stop her from even trying.

Zelda watched them as Jo shut down all of Violette’s attempts to bargain with her, the same coy looks and innocent smiles that worked on her father and she didn’t even bother using on her mother. Finally, defeated, Violette let Josephine grab her hand to guide her after the chickens to watch them from a distance. Before they walked away, Josephine looked back to Zelda as though to say, I’ve got her. Don’t worry.

Zelda returned her wordless reassurance with a grateful smile, one less fear on her mind as the lifeless soil called. Because she had to keep trying, just as much for herself as everyone else. Only it was a bit easier now knowing that Jo was there, that she wasn’t alone in raising Violette and that both of them were in this life trying in their own way. Even if they didn’t fully understand exactly what the other was struggling toward, at least they had that.

#1933 #sims 4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #ts4 historical #sims 4 decades challenge #the darlingtons #sims 4 legacy #ts4 legacy #sims 4 story #ts4 story #1930s #Zelda darlington #Josephine Duplanchier #Giorgio Mistretta #Violette darlington

[hoshifighting]

heyyyy! i wanted to ask, if you could write a fluff one shot typa of thing, where wonwoo is a medium class guy, and then he is in love with a rich girl

also, I rlly like your posts, thank youu!! HOSHI FIGHTINGGGGGGG

Love don't cost a thing

Synopsis: In the bustling cityscape, Y/N, a 'Rich Girl,' and Wonwoo, a guy from the middle class, discover a love that defies societal norms. Faced with parental pressures, they decide to escape to a new city, selling luxuries to build a life of authenticity.

Word count: 1.3K

Rich girl! Reader X Middle class! Wonwoo

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of unsupportive, absent and greedy parents, making out, wonwoo is such a cute and supportive boyfriend, urban noises & aspects, etc.

Y/N, a vivacious soul with a heart as rich as her spirit, embodied the essence of a "Rich Girl." I, Wonwoo, a simple guy from the middle class, found myself captivated by her warmth and genuine nature. Y/N, adorned in the trappings of wealth, moved through the world with a grace that caught everyone's attention. Her life was a whirlwind of privilege, yet beneath the facade of affluence, she yearned for something more profound—an authentic connection that transcended the materialistic veil.

On the other side of the spectrum, my life unfolded in the embrace of a modest existence. I, a guy with dreams bigger than my bank account, found myself navigating the complexities of love in a world where status often dictated relationships. As I reflected on our journey, it dawned on me that Y/N, with the world at her feet, could have chosen anyone with wealth and prestige. Yet, she chose me — a simple guy from Uichan gu.

Our paths crossed one serendipitous day, and the magnetic pull of Y/N's charisma drew me in. In the vibrant chaos of the city, we discovered a connection that surpassed the superficial boundaries of social class. She showed me that her love didn't come with a price tag. Our dates weren't lavish affairs in high-end establishments but were instead simple and filled with laughter. It was in the stolen moments, shared glances, and heartfelt conversations that our love story truly thrived.

Despite the challenges posed by societal expectations, we stood resilient, holding onto the belief that love should be measured by the depth of connection rather than the thickness of wallets. Y/N, with a heart of gold, embraced our love with sincerity, choosing authenticity over the illusion of social status. She echoed the sentiment, affirming that material wealth was inconsequential in the face of love. Our love story became a testament to the idea that true richness lay in the intangible moments of joy, understanding, and unwavering support we shared.

As the city continued its relentless rhythm, our love soared above the cacophony, proving that in a world obsessed with status and wealth, the most valuable currency was the love we freely gave to each other. Our love story was a celebration of authenticity, transcending the boundaries of social class and echoing the refrain that, indeed, love don't cost a thing. 

As Y/N and I faced the storm unleashed by her parents' expectations, it became clear that the walls closing in on us were not made of bricks but of societal norms and familial pressures. Her parents, eager to secure a future steeped in societal approval, wanted her to marry a CEO's son — an alliance forged in the glittering halls of affluence. Yet, Y/N chose a different path, one paved with the bricks of love and authenticity. Our love story, born in the vibrant heartbeat of the city, faced its greatest test. She, who had discovered the wealth of love beyond material bounds, decided to run away with me, a guy from the middle class who had filled the voids left by her absent parents.

As we sat on the sidewalk, the city bustling around us, Y/N and I shared a moment of simplicity that transcended the grandeur of our past lives. The aroma of street food and the distant hum of the city formed the backdrop to our date. In our hands, cheap plastic cups held the most precious concoction — the essence of togetherness. She looked at me with eyes filled with both vulnerability. The time had come for her to share a secret she had been carrying — the sacrifices she had made for our love. "Wonwoo," she began, her voice a gentle melody against the city's cacophony, "I sold my apartment, and my car. We're going to escape to another city." tears glistening in her eyes. The luxuries she once called her own — her opulent car and the grand apartment where she lived alone — were now just relics of a life she was willing to leave behind. 

As the words hung in the air, I found myself caught between surprise and gratitude. The realization that she had let go of the luxuries she once held dear for the sake of our love stirred a profound sense of connection. It wasn't about the grand gestures or the lavish lifestyle; it was about the choice to build a life defined by love rather than societal expectations. In that moment, I reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "Y/N, it doesn't matter where we go or what we have. As long as we're together, that's home for me," I confessed, my heart swelling with love.

[…]

As I drove through the unfamiliar streets of our new city, anticipation bubbled within me. The small apartment we had chosen held the promise of a fresh start, a canvas on which we could paint the chapters of our shared life. The city lights sparkled in the distance, welcoming us to this new chapter.Upon arrival, our small but charming apartment unfolded before us — a cozy haven with a view that stretched into the heart of the city. As the delivery truck unloaded our essentials, I couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. The fridge, the microwave, and a mattress — elements of a life we were building together.

Together, we set about turning the bare space into a home. Y/N's eyes lit up with enthusiasm as we hung curtains and placed cushions on the floor. The city lights outside became our backdrop, casting a warm glow on our shared endeavor. It wasn't about the grandeur of our possessions but the love we poured into every detail.

As night fell, our first night in the new apartment arrived. With a smile, we unrolled the mattress onto the floor, a symbol of the simplicity we craved. Covered by a duvet, we lay side by side, gazing at the city lights that now belonged to us. In the quietude of our shared space, Y/N spoke words that resonated with newfound freedom. "Wonwoo, for the first time in my life, I feel free. And I'm sharing this experience with you."

Her honesty tugged at my heartstrings. I turned to her "Y/N, I promise you, I'll make the possible and impossible to make you happy. This is our beginning, and every step we take, we take together."

The city lights shimmered outside, a silent witness to our vows. In the simplicity of that moment —t he mattress on the floor, the city lights as our ceiling, and the warmth of Y/N's presence — I found a profound sense of contentment. Our love, now woven into the fabric of our new life, was the foundation upon which we would build our shared dreams.

In the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window, our lips met in a gentle kiss — a celebration of the love that had brought us to this moment. The simplicity of our surroundings faded away, leaving only the warmth of our connection.

As the kiss deepened, an electric charge pulsed through the air, weaving a narrative of passion and longing. In the quietude of our new apartment, the world outside ceased to exist. My hands run trough her body, whimpers leaving from her mouth while her hands pulled my hair, just as the intensity of the moment reached its peak, an unexpected interruption echoed through the room — the familiar sound of our instant ramen, signaling its readiness from the microwave.

The spell was broken, and we pulled away from each other with laughter dancing in our eyes. The aroma of the instant ramen filled the air, a reminder that even in the midst of our shared romance, the practicalities of daily life still beckoned. “Ah, this fucking microwave!” I cursed the home appliance. 

“Don't talk about him like that! He will serve our meals at least this entire week!” With a chuckle, Y/N rose from the mattress on the floor, her fingers brushing against mine as she made her way to the microwave. As she retrieved the steaming noodles, our eyes met, and we shared a knowing smile. The interruption only added to the charm of the evening—a playful reminder that love could be found in the mundane as well as the extraordinary.

#seventeen headcanons #seventeen imagines #seventeen reactions #seventeen smut #seventeen x reader #svt smut #svt imagines #wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x you #wonwoo x oc #wonwoo x y/n #wonwoo smut #wonwoo scenarios #seventeen fluff #seventeen scenarios #seventeen #hoshifighting writes

[0v3rcast]

Gnaw: Grudge Match

For the first time, the Archon War and its ending are subject to a second opinion.

(And that opinion is yours.)

Osial banks across the stormy sky, feathers of his right wing dipping into the clouds above, water and wind forming beads against his wingtips that follow him as he dips back down. You lend him your energy, and Electro arcs across the vast plumage of his wings and pools inside the beads.

He flaps his wing. A single storm bead rockets down from the sky.

Fishing boats and trading ships are reduced to soaked splinters and fractured metal. The remains of sails, now naught but tatters, writhe in the wind before falling into the sea.

Those who do not die from the sheer enormity of the impact drown in the harbor, bleed out from shrapnel of their own ships, or meet their end at the hands of your contributed Electro energy.

Within fifteen seconds, the harbor has been reduced to a graveyard, the ruined husks of an entire fleet now skeletons lying in deathless slumber on the seabed.

Osial laughs, wild and untamed, just this side of lost to mania, and he dives, his wings glimmering with Anemo.

The Golden House didn't really stand much of a chance.

Electrically-charged Mora are funneled en masse into the vortex above, glinting gold with lightning tails flowing up into the sky in chaotic patterns. Some magnetize against each other, some fly alone, others ricochet into the sea or embed themselves into the land.

Several unlucky souls are punched cleanly through by the symbol of their nation's prosperity, leaving gaping holes in their flesh and ruined bones.

Their screams, warped by the wind and rain and the song of thunder, are a beautiful chorus to you. A performance to welcome you home and give warning to those who foolishly stand against you.

Thunder roars, deafening, and lightning falls, piercing Millelith members. Rain weighs them down, wind steals their breath, and the wind chill robs even the most hale and hearty of a steady aim.

Osial flicks out another storm bead. Several buildings are blasted apart, their rubble crushing their neighbors, metal and stone and wood making a cacophony of ruin.

Entire lives are being uprooted. Centuries of tradition are vanishing under the onslaught. The work of thousands of human lives simply vanishes as it topples into the bay, the waves hungrily lapping at the base of the city and greedily swallowing all that cannot escape.

A small smile stretches over your face.

They deserve this.

With a flick of your wrist, the remaining Mora cluster together into a single massive ball, and you will it towards the wreckage of the city with a little mental exertion.

It crashes down into the heart of the city, right where Rex Lapis once died, and it then erupts as all the force keeping it together simply ceases to do so.

Golden coins and human gore scatter in every direction as fleeing civilians are reduced to mulch by this world's most ostentatious fragmentation explosive.

Osial howls in glee, currents of vicious wind tearing humans from the streets and into his waiting maw as he dives again and again.

In the distance, there is a roar.

The earth shakes to its foundations as immense stone pillars rip free, aimed for Osial, their normally flat tops ground to geometrically perfect diamond spearpoints.

"Morax," Osial sneers. "Come to watch your miserable excuse for a city die under my wings?"

The being that appears then is not Zhongli, or even Rex Lapis. It is Morax. An ancient dragon, Archon of Geo. The God of Contracts and War. This is no simple serpent, no puppet meant to be majestic and awe-inspiring - this is the war-form. The true face of a draconic god, plated in metals hewn from the heart of the world, innards glowing with yellow-orange energy.

This Morax is the face of death.

Morax roars in wordless fury at his old foe... but then his eyes catch sight of you.

The roar becomes deafening, full of such hatred and vitriol that Osial briefly forgets to fly from surprise, leading him to dive instead.

On some cruel instinct, you give Morax the smuggest, most shit-eating grin you can conjure, and you mouth 'where were you when they needed you?'

If looks could kill, Morax would have just reduced you to subatomic particles.

You gesture to Osial, your gift helping to subtly translate, and he launches up into the storm and the highest points of the atmosphere.

Morax follows, howling threats in a language you don't know.

(The elements lean forward in their seats. You've just invited them to the best fight this eon. Bets are already being made. Geo and Anemo both grin at the other, eager to see whose champion is superior.)

Meteors fall, carved apart by wind.

Voices carry for thousands of miles, roaring in pain and glee and fury.

Bones shatter, scales are torn apart, wounds ooze blood in quantities enough to bathe Liyue in a red rain... and Gods war.

On the ground, the storm has only increased in strength, now that so much more energy is being poured into the area.

Not helping is the hail of immense stone pieces.

Where godly blood lands, life is burnt away by the acidic touch of divinity.

Those who did not flee before can flee no longer without risking swift, painful death.

(Ganyu weeps, the work of thousands of years falling apart in less than five hours. What use were her labors?)

(Ningguang vanishes into a bunker beneath the stone, where she can wait out this chaos. She will build herself back up. This is simply a setback.)

(Hu Tao watches from a distant field as her home is utterly destroyed.

...some morbid little part of her gleefully remarks that business is about to be skyrocketing.)

(Shenhe is unaware of this happening, having been spirited away into Cloud Retainer's realm the moment said Adeptus realized just who had been given a burial at sea.)

(Yanfei is luckily out of the country right now, instead in Fontaine to deal with a reappearing case she'd long thought solved.)

(Xinyan assists in evacuation efforts, her flames burning away godsblood and rain to shelter those nearby.)

(Chongyun and Xingqiu barely manage to stem the tide of raging Hilichurls that are dead set on killing the escaping civilians.)

(Kequing lies in the collapsed rubble of a multi-story building, her Vision repeatedly shocking her as Electro takes the moment to be immensely petty.)

(Xiao drowns in his Karmic Debt, feathers trying to force their way through his skin as his more animalistic instincts refuse to obey.)

(Baizhu has already fled, knowing that he neither can be nor wishes to be of use in this fight. His work is not yet done.)

(Yaoyao stands guard over the population who have made it to her home village.)

(Yun Jin helps to gather scattered families back together amongst the crowds of refugees. Xiangling and her father work to feed the masses while they are all displaced.)

(Beidou watches the storm from the far horizon on the deck of the Alcor. Going in would be suicide, but not helping is just as unthinkable. She must choose, but the sheer weight of the choice is paralyzing. The fleet follows behind her, whether that is into certain death or into retreat.)

(Qiqi stands in the heaviest torrents of the storm. Where the blood of gods stains her skin, life is breathed back into dead flesh.))

Far above in the heavens, Osial and Zhongli are tangled, claws gouging into the new Anemo Archon's innards as coils attempt to shatter the Geo Archon's ancient spine.

There is a deafening crack as Morax's spine bends in a way it was never supposed to.

Ribbons of intestine hang from the massive wound in Osial's underbelly.

Both of them begin to fall to the face of Teyvat tens of thousands of miles below, and you are along for the ride.

Osial lets out a wheezy cackle as he tightens his grip on Morax, drowning in his own blood.

Morax writhes, wings unresponsive.

You hug yourself against Osial. Impact comes far sooner than you expected.

There is darkness.

When you wake, you are in the shallows of an immense crater, exactly where Liyue Harbor should have been. The moon glows pale white above you.

Shattered pillars and ruined buildings jut from the not-quite-bay.

Sitting next to you is a not-very-undead Qiqi. She gives you a relieved look when she sees you're alive. You offer her a thumbs up, as though that will solve the issue.

She accepts it with as much grace as anyone in her situation can and returns the thumbs up, smiling at you faintly.

Beneath you is Osial, dying from mortal wounds but still very alive. Somewhere in the distance is a similarly wounded Morax.

You climb down from your dying companion and come to face him.

"Ah... good. You still live. I did not fail you," Osial gurgles. "Thank you... for helping me settle the score, my maker."

You tell him to hold on. You're sure there's something you can do to heal him. He lets out an amused huff.

"Your kindness is touching, but I know my end is coming. I can feel the Abyss."

You refuse. Osial is yours, damn it. Your friend. Your first Archon. Your protector.

A feeling wells up inside of you.

He will not die. You won't allow it.

Your eyes burn as tears stream down your face. You rest a hand against his scaly face, and ask him to trust you one more time.

"Of course. Always."

You let your power flow. The world erupts into starlight as a new constellation is born, sky adorned with a new pattern of stars: Serpens Fidelis.

The loyal serpent.

Where once laid your dying companion is now a male of mortal human size, who sits up, obviously quite discombobulated. He manages to find his feet, though repeatedly stumbles as he takes his first steps.

Scarred tan skin faintly reflects the moonlight, bathing him in an ethereal glow. Silver locks of hair with deep blue accents seem to drink in the moonlight.

He turns to you, finally, and grins, canine teeth closer to fangs than human, Cherenkov blue eyes glimmering with undeniable joy.

"Thank you, my maker. This new form is far less damaged."

From his right hip dangles a Hydro vision. The Anemo Gnosis is in your hands instead. It appears the cost for his life was you reclaiming the archonhood you bestowed upon him.

He is otherwise entirely nude and doesn't particularly seem to notice this. Maybe that's because he's never had to wear clothes before.

You kindly point this out to him, more than a little embarrassed on his behalf, your hands over Qiqi's eyes so she doesn't see.

Holy shit, was he always that built?

He grins at you, shooting you a salacious wink. "Yes, yes. Get an eyeful of my statuesque physique. I worked for many years on it."

You ask how he managed that as best you can while dying of embarrassment.

"You become quite proficient at lifting weights and swimming at the same time while trying to struggle free of stone javelins pinning you to the seafloor," he says mildly.

He manipulates the water and stormclouds into a set of luxurious robes. A sash at his waist now holds the Hydro vision.

On his back rests a fragment of the Jade Chamber carved into a massive greatsword.

"Shall we gloat over our dying adversary together, my maker?"

Yes, this sounds like a phenomenal idea.

You let Qiqi go, now that Osial is not running a one-hydra nudist colony, and she follows behind the two of you like a lost puppy.

Morax has returned to the form of Zhongli by the time you get to him.

The Vortex Vanquisher lies shattered at his side, and hundreds of rips and tears in his clothes display his grievous wounds.

Osial confidently struts over.

"Why hello, hated enemy mine~"

Zhongli weakly snarls up at him, and also at you, his fists curling feebly at his sides.

"Damn you both. May the Creator strike you both down into the depths of the Abyss."

Osial lets out a small 'snrk', begins to lowly chuckle, and slowly escalates to peals of howling, gleeful laughter. Zhongli just looks offended while Osial laughs himself nearly sick.

"By the maker, you have no idea who you're talking to right now, do you?" He wheezes, tears in his eyes, clutching at his sides.

"The destroyer of my people and an abomination wearing the skin of the Creator of All." Zhongli fires back, indignant. "Are you blind?"

"Go ahead and pray for our maker to save you. See what happens," Osial says, grinning cruelly.

Zhongli murmurs a prayer for protection from evil.

A faint glimmer of magical energy escapes his lips and swirls just above your hands. You cringe at it and wave it away like it's smoke.

Zhongli goes ghost-white, his eyes becoming impossibly wide.

"Creator?"

Tears bead at the corners of his eyes as his actions finally begin to play back in his mind.

"Please, my maker, forgive m-"

Osial cuts off his head.

"What an asshole," he snickers, some blood now on his cheek, a massive grin on his face. "I'm glad he's dead."

You just look at him like he's crazy. Which he probably is.

"Oooooooooohhhh, that's who you are." Qiqi says from behind you, having caught on to your true identity.

Another massive hydra erupts from the ocean in the distance and lets out a sound akin to whalesong.

"HI, HONEY!" Osial yells in her direction before immediately bolting towards her.

You let out a distressed sigh. Exactly what kind of mess have you just gotten into?

(Taglist:

@the-dumber-scaramouche @thatdeadaquarius @ssak-i @imyme20 @fried-lotud @acacla @itz-luna @iruiji @crierofirony @itsredactedlove @sweetsthetik @leafanonsforest @oxyotl @kkazuyass @featuredtofu @resident-cryptid @d4y-dr3am3r @crimson-ashes @red1sg0n3 @the-real-fandom-person @code-roevember @yourlocalsourwolf @rhoswen-drake @minimari415 @reversearrowhead @call-me-shroom @evqnescents @valeriele3 @mochicurls21 @sinnful-darling @fleshdotmp4 @ash1 @chilling-on-the-moon @fluffy-koalala @extremelytoastybread @euphoricaldemise

This should probably be all of you.))

#genshin sagau #sagau gnaw #sagau cult au #genshin angst #hopefully one of you likes this #WOOO FIRST DEATH #of non you people i mean #im a little late but whatever #osial is a stud and you cant convince me otherwise #totally has the anime pretty boy muscles

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Trunk or Treat with the Student Council

Based Off This Post About These OCs and a continuation from yesterday Happy Halloween to those who celebrate 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

The muffled sounds of the cheering student body and the themed music filled the small room. It was a small place with no windows, a single door, and walls as small as a public cubicle. It was an uncomfortable comparison but you were feeling just that. Shoved by none other than the pushy June you were put in a padded chair dressed to look like a golden throne adorned with jewels and pearls. 

You guessed it did match your costume. With a wine-red top that stopped just below your ribs and a matching pair of exercise shorts. Both were covered with fake golden chains or you at least you hoped they were fake. They were a little heavy on your chest but it was minor compared to the weight on your head. Per your dragon-ghost character you were given horns also adorned with golden chains and various necklaces. 

Surely it made it easier to shove you around when your attention was on not simply crumpling to the ground. It came as a surprise to you considering this was the first time you were officially allowed to wear it, let alone see the finished product.Not too long after Gill ushered you into the dark underground of the stage, June was waiting there rattling incessantly about something you could barely follow. He must have meant for it to be that way because without getting a word in edge-wise he pushed you into this chair. 

“Here you are! For your own safety you probably shouldn’t get up anymore so I’m just going to–”

CLICK

“There you are we’ll see you later! So stay put, puddin’!” 

“June w-w-wait–”

No time at all the door was shut and you were practically enveloped in darkness. Other than a small hole of light bleeding in from the outside you had nothing but your thoughts. Instead straining to hear what you could from outside. 

“---kingdom with our lovely and dead King!”

The cacophony of an adoring kingdom rang out.

“---followed by our powerful queen–”

A roar of applause.

“--ruling alongside our ghouly duke and duchess.”

Some whistles this time.

“--our oh so talented dungeon master–”

Were those toy-clackers?

“--And me your lovely lovely advisor.”

Another bout of adoring praise. 

“My outspoken advisor of the dead–”

You recognized that as Lucoa. The crowd sounded dead silent.

“--you’ve done well to introduce our court but you seemed to have forgotten the most proud and prided treasure of our ghostly court.”

“My King you’re correct as you are always. And on this day, the one day of this year that our court allows the common ghosts to behold our grandest wealth.”

The ground beneath you began to lightly move upward. Suddenly the sweat accumulated from the stuffy room turned cold as a glaze of self-consciousness came over you. Nonetheless, you ascended as a triumphant theme began to play. As the roof opened up you shut your eyes at the brightness of orange lighting. 

“Here’s our lovely, show-stopping, stunning, all-commanding, all-demanding ghostly dragon!!!”

Looking at the crowd was the first thing you did, nervously searching for any sign of disapproval finding that it was very difficult with all the lighting directed at you. You instead looked around yourself to find yourself surrounded by an abundance of fake piles of gold on a painted foam castle. 

Just beyond your elevated stature, you looked to the sides of the stage to see the members of the student council. Each stands in front of their settings–the ones you worked to paint and create before, illuminated by single spotlights. They all looked at you as Lucoa went to speak.

“Now our ghostly people, don’t be afraid! For our beloved kings and leaders of our ghostly kingdom will tame them!”

With a stronger spotlight on him, Lucoa made his way toward your tower. Calmly climbing a set of stairs that led up to your place. The crowd began to whistle and holler in a hushed tone; no doubt whispering of the illusive Council President making his way to you.

His blue hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, flaring out under the crown he had on. Along with the red and gold of a typical king costume, there was a transparent golden veil draped over his face. Matching the golden shackle binds on his wrists and ankles clink with broken golden chains. 

As he got closer you could make out the smile on his face grow as he came closer to you. The typical silver piercing on his lip was replaced by a gold one. The same could be said for his ear cuff.

“I’m starting to think you just wanted an excuse to dress up in something gold.”

“Really? Is that all I wanted?” 

The teasing tone of his had you rolling your eyes. Despite being so far away from the crowd you both kept your conversation to a whisper. 

“Seems like it. That and humiliating me.”

He trailed his hands along your arm, doing it lightly and quick enough to be written off by you. Resting his hand on your shoulder he brought his hands to the hanging golden bangles on your horns, pulling them over your shoulder as he lay it over and around your back. Bending down he whispered into your ear. 

“I’d prefer we call it, showing you off.”

You turned your head to ask him more but were stopped by his hands squeezing your cheeks. Forcefully turning your head back to the crowd he kept his grip on your cheeks firm as he signals Roman with a look.

“The King is the expert at taming them but as your beloved Council we will do everything together!”

Wanting to ask what he was talking about you tried to move your mouth, finding he was refusing to let your jaw open let alone turn your head as you heard the other members of the Student Council come up to your platform. 

“Ugh even if it’s not a real dress; the transparent veil over the harem pants is too much for me!”

“Awww don’t be such a sourpuss, Spencer! Once you get in one you’ll never want to go back~!”

“So you’ve said.” 

“June looks lovely in dresses.”

“Of course, you’d say that Gill.”

“I bet (Y/n) would too.”

“I-I-I say it’s a missed chance then.”

June was the first to approach skipping over to you, smiling smugly in your face. He hopped onto your lap laying his legs across both of yours, nuzzling into your chest. Keeping eye contact with you he traced his fingers along the skin he could reach from beneath the golden features of your costumes. You tried to squirm away from his touch, stopping when the hands on your jaw forced you to look up. 

A single look was all you needed before you stopped your attempts. Annoyed with your attention being changed, June slipped his hand under the golden accessories around your chest, playing with the hem of the red crop top you fought to wear underneath. Any normal person would have doubts that anything was there at all but for someone whose boyfriend drew the designs himself—it was an easy target. 

“Probably but I’m in no way disappointed with this at all.”

Feeling the cold touch of lips touching your left hand, you turned your attention–the best you could–to Gill who had stationed himself there. Kneeling on the side of your chair he gingerly held your hand occasionally kissing it tenderly. Subtly trying to pull your arm away wasn’t working as June got more daring and Gill refused to release your hand.

“I am glad. I too thought this would be more desirable. Especially with June already in a dress.”

“Aw you tease~”

“O-o-oh don’t m-misunderstand,” Min spoke up. Dressed in some arbitrarily skimpy dungeon master costume he came close kneeling in front of you. “I-i-i-i’m very happy with the accessibility in this design.”

His hands were smaller, very nimble, and oh so cold. You couldn’t help the involuntary hitch in your throat as he held your leg letting his fingers get to the underside of your thigh. Feeling the vibrations of laughter Lucoa’s voice made your cheeks burn. 

“Sensitive, huh?”

Looking away from him the best you could, you gauged the others' reactions. Gill and June shot Min a glare, whereas the man in question was blushing intensely. The treasurer let his hand lightly squeeze at the meat of your thigh letting out a noise when you bit your lip to stop yourself from saying anything more. With an apologetic look, he moved himself down gingerly caressing your ankle as he eyed the closed-toed sandals you chose. 

“I think…m-m-maybe next time we’ll have you wear something m-more open! B-b-but this is a gift nonetheless. ”

Placing a passionate kiss on your ankle instead, he kept his hands on your leg, occasionally rubbing his reddened cheek against your knee. If that wasn’t enough June was getting annoyed changing his focus to the hem of your shorts. Smiling at you when you sent a look of warning. Taking your mind off it, Spencer came to your side lightly bending down as he offered a hopeful smile. 

“Well if it’s worth anything…you are the prettiest ghost dragon I’ve ever seen.”

You sent him a thankful look and opened your hand when he politely prodded with his fingers. Opening your hand, you let him clutch your hand intertwining his fingers with yours as he leaned against the chair. His happy smile was enough to distract you as the final member of the student council trudged up. 

“And finally folks your dearest advisor will properly finish taming this beast!” 

He turns to cutely wink at you, giving a final address to the audience who were still whispering amongst each other. 

“Finally a final call from our be-loved King!”

Still holding the microphone Roman turned to you. He moved to sit on your lap, curling a lip in disgust when he saw June’s legs across the other leg. June mockingly smiled at him, expecting him to sit beside Min who was happily on the floor. Roman shot him a look and shoved his legs off, causing June to lightly yelp while he repositioned himself on his half of your lap. 

Not even flinching at Gill’s glare he leaned his head on your unoccupied shoulder as he held the microphone up for Lucoa. 

“I encourage all of you to look this Halloween but don’t touch.”

At that, Roman tucked away the microphone playing with the the gold around your chest. The audience on the other hand let out a mighty roar. A ghoulish obsessive yowl that was only illuminated by the constant flashes of high-grade cameras and cell phone video. 

No one name could be pinpointed that the crowd was calling for. 

But among those names were a few familiar syllables that had you questioning. 

But what remained clear was the power and confidence of the Student Council. 

To have you on a stage for all to see. 

Now that…was creepy.

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere harem #yandere student council #yandere student council president #yandere student council vice president #yandere student council treasury #yandere student council secretary #yandere student council ocs #yandere ocs x reader #yandere ocs #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x you #yandere oc #yandere student council historian #yandere student council sergeant of arms

[ohnococo]

brumalis | hades!sukuna x persephone!reader

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

It’s an odd thing, to feel so full and yet so empty at the same time.

Even when you retreat to the space your husband has created for you, and your ears are no longer subjected to the endless cacophony of screaming souls begging to be sent back up the river from whence they came, the emptiness remains.

Even when Sukuna fills your chambers with feasts of fruit and honey-hued silks to alleviate the unending cold that permeates this realm, the emptiness remains.

Even when those who fail to pay tribute to your name as they have to his are doomed to an eternity of his cold indifference, the emptiness remains.

Though your chalice is filled, for a moment, when he comes to your bed, holding you in his arms, breathing your name into the churning ether of life itself. When he gazes up at you with the thousands of years of devotion others had poured into his likenesses. Promising you death, promising you decay, in your name as his wife - his Goddess. But for you it is also a promise of mourning, of an end you can’t help dreading year after year. You swallow it, with a lump in your throat, because it is all he has to give, and it is his everything.

Still, he reminds you that you are his everything now too, and if it is life that you want, it is life you will have, because you remind him that creation comes from all hands, even his which have only ever presided over the death which was meant to be his from the start.

So he tries his hand at it, at things he had long ago thought were only meant for others, because he would challenge all the Gods in this world and the next on your behalf, so creation should not be such a hurdle if it were to result in the light he craved, pouring from you eyes, your smile, and right into him.

He kneels at your feet, the only time his knees would bless the ground, kissing at your hands, kissing at your thighs, whispers between them lost as his worship is conveyed directly to silken folds with his tongue. He prays between those sacred thighs, faced lovingly with his own paradise - soft and wet and gracious enough to cradle his face and and bless it with a nectar he would never tire of.

You pray as well, for more of him, all of him, which he gives without hesitation. It’s the only time he would be above you in his own mind, tasked to have you falling to the most precious pieces beneath him as he splits you open and fills you with his love. Time is endless like this, until, for the first time, he is the one to put an end to it. Not because he has had enough - for you have been assured again and again that such a time will never come - but because he has something more for you.

When he lifts you from his bed, you can see the pride welling up within him for what he has made. As it is unveiled, in a room meant just for you, it is so like your old home, but so like him as well.

Roses, not climbing, not raised high to the sun, but clinging to what you had thought to be barren soil. Port-wine hued with speckles of gold at their centres, cushioned in deep green leaves that sprawl out beneath, a carpet of barely wrought life - but life nonetheless.

In all your time above this place you’ve never known roses to grow without sun, without nutrients, without the warmth of summer and spring - but these are different from the soft petals and prickling thorns of the meadows above. They are changed by Sukuna’s hand, as he has been changed by yours. A testament to his devotion, to you, and to the life you bring.

They were made for you, as you were made for him, as he was made for you too. A cycle that he reminds you of with every hushed prayer at your feet.

Reminding you that you are not a passive role in this world. You fill him with a life he never thought necessary, you take his death and build a world anew. This thorny patch is a testament to that.

In time cries of anguish turn to choruses of praise. The chill of death becomes the warm embrace of suffering’s end. Your light takes its place in his realm, where he is convinced it was always meant to be. The world is a better place for your love, he is a better man for it as well.

#reminder minors and ageless blogs get blocked #my writing #vday event #sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader

[pocketjoong]

☾₊‧⁺˖⋆noctem⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ 〘act 1, chapter 1〙

〘Synopsis〙『Your hatred of dragons is a hate born of witnessing their flames consume your village, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. The worst of all is the beast that haunts your dreams, the very dragon whose memory fuels a burning desire for revenge within you. But life has a way of unsettling even the most steadfast convictions. And when you stumble upon a truth that shatters the boundaries of your understanding, you begin to question the very essence of the world you live in.』

〘Pairing〙『Night Fury!Seonghwa x afab!Reader』

〘Genre〙『FANTASY, ACTION, SMUT』

〘Word Count〙『2.1k』

〘Chapter-specific Warnings〙『Based on How To Train Your Dragon. Canon-compliant violence. Mention of injuries. Mentions of dragons attacking the mc's village. MDNI.』

〘Banner Credits〙『@playmetheclassics』

please note: there will be NO taglist for this series

With your heart pounding in your throat, you duck beneath the low-hanging arch of a weathered stone walkway, pressing yourself against the rough surface. Jagged rocks dig into your spine, but the momentary discomfort is nothing compared to the fire raining down from above. Bright orange flames dance in the sky, casting eerie shadows on the cobbled streets of your town.

Pulling the collar of your cloak closer, you try to shield yourself from the fiery onslaught, but even that is not enough to entirely dodge the few sparks that rain down on you, singeing the tips of your hair. At least it’s better than becoming a human shish-kebab, you think wryly.

In the distance, urgent shouts pierced through the roar of the conflagration, and you feel the tendrils of dread coil around your heart. You dare to peek out from your hiding place, only to see children and the villagers who are not fighting the creatures, scrambling to put out the fire that has engulfed the roof of one of the buildings. They pour buckets upon buckets of water to douse the flames, sending a few droplets raining down on you. You welcome the cold relief brought by the icy liquid amidst the heated air, thanks to the fires raging as far as the eye can see.

It’s not a new sight, definitely not one that scares you anymore; it merely sharpens your senses and steels your determination. But in your heart, you worry for the safety of your fellow villagers. The fortnightly attacks by dragons have been a grim routine, much like the twinkling stars in the night sky that had guided your ancestors to the beautiful land of Amberdale. It was named after the waters that would turn the colour of liquid gold every sunrise and sunset, a place where serenity met grandeur. But dark legends whispered only in secret tell of a day that the waters would turn red and spell your village’s doom. 

Amberdale is a sanctuary of sorts, surrounded by water on three sides and imposing mountains on the other. It is a haven, a space safe from the threat of other clans, a paradise marred only by the fire-breathing pests that have made life a living hell for the occupants of the town for centuries.

From the corner of your eye, you spot a shadow descending from the sky, signalling the arrival of another winged menace. Realising that no one is around to help, you take a deep breath as your fingers tighten around the trigger of the meticulously laid dragon trap. The mechanism springs to life, and the air crackles as a net shoots towards the beast. The colossal creature crashes to the ground under the crushing weight of the entangling mesh.

As some villagers haul the ensnared dragon away, your gaze locks with the eyes of the dragon. The intelligence in its eyes and the silent plea for help send a shiver down your spine. Shakily, you look away, not wanting to think about the creature anymore.

“Move to the upper defences. We’ll counteract their attacks with the catapults!” Your brother’s command cuts through the cacophony of battle as he rallies the warriors to their positions. He appears beside you under the arch, eyes mirroring the tempest swirling within. The storm in his gaze briefly yields to surprise and concern when he meets your eyes. It’s clear that he wasn’t expecting you to be outside during an attack.

He scans you from head to toe, his sweaty and soot-stained face softening in relief when he sees that you’re unhurt. “Why are you outside? Did something happen at the infirmary?”

“We ran out of supplies, so I had to run all the way across the village to restock,” you inform him grimly, pointing at the bag dangling from your shoulder that is filled to the brim with supplies. “We really should move the warehouse closer to the infirmary, Yunho. Or better yet, expand the infirmary itself to accommodate the supplies. Not only will it save the healers from making unnecessary trips when the village is under attack, but it will also keep the medical supplies safer since the sick bay is the only fireproof building in the entire village.”

“I truly am sorry, Y/N,” your brother dips his head in a gesture of genuine regret, but you catch the weight of responsibility etched on his face. “I know you’ve raised this issue multiple times throughout the years, and I promise you it has been on our to-do list for a while, but…” he trails off with a sigh, shrugging helplessly.

You understand the cause of the delay; you truly do. There are more important things to do, like rebuilding structures destroyed in the attacks, preparing for storm week that arrives every three months, ensuring the safety of everyone during the attacks, forging more weapons and installing catapults around the cliffs, training people how to fight dragons and conducting research on the various species of the beasts that haunt your existence. There is so much to do, leaving little room to address the nagging issue of relocating a warehouse or expanding the infirmary.

“I understand we have more pressing matters to attend to,” you offer him an impish grin, taking the opportunity to nudge your brother’s shoulder with your own playfully. But the joke on your tongue dies down when a whistle-like sound you’ve come to associate with danger pierces the night sky. Instinctively, your gaze darts upward as you try to spot the source of the sound. 

Objectively, you know that you should find cover to escape the inevitable attack that is to follow. Still, your fascination with this particular beast outweighs any and all sense of self-preservation. Your eyes scan the skies, hunting for any sign of the approaching peril, but, as usual, there’s nothing. There’s no telltale movement, not even a blur, that would allow you to pinpoint the location of the elusive beast.

“Night Fury,” the whisper leaves your lips at the same time as a pair of strong arms wrap around your shoulders before the person tugs you to bring you into a crouch. The abrupt movement sends a jolt through you, and you come crashing down on your knees.

“Duck!” Wooyoung’s urgent shout tears through the chaos, piercing through the clamour of battle. He shields you with his body just as a ball of fire collides with the catapult installed on the cliffs looming above you. The impact shatters the contraception and sends a cascade of stone and wood raining down upon all of you. 

After what feels like an eternity, the onslaught finally stops, and you cautiously sit up, eyes scanning the debris-strewn landscape. Your first instinct is to fuss over Wooyoung since he had covered you with his body to shield you from the debris. The ringing in your ears and the reverberations of your pounding heart are momentarily drowned out by your concern for his well-being.

“Your stitches,” you frown at the red-haired male, reaching out towards where towards him. However, the male is quick to intercept your hands with his own, covering them protectively as he shakes his head.

“I’m fine. I took care to protect my injured side,” he assures you, a smile playing on his lips. His words ease some of the panic coursing through you. The moment you turn to check on Yunho, you find him already crawling closer.

“Are you two okay?” He asks, concern etched across his features as he gazes at the two of you.

“Dandy,” you mutter darkly, brushing off the debris from your cloak and cursing the blasted dragons under your breath. Now that you’re sure both males are relatively unhurt, you turn to Wooyoung with a grateful smile. “Thanks for that, Woo.”

He shakes his head, rolling his eyes good-naturedly, “Someone has to look out for you when you're not paying attention to your surroundings. We can’t afford to have our best healer getting hurt, now, can we?”

Yunho grins at his friend’s words but shifts his attention to you as you prepare to resume your journey back to the sick bay. “Do you need an escort to the infirmary?”

“Yunho, they’ll probably need you at the ballista. The other dragons we can deal with, but that menace is what we need to hunt down as soon as possible,” Wooyoung tells the taller male, regarding him with pleading eyes. Now that the Night Fury has appeared, every hunter is a crucial asset, and your brother happens to be the best in the entire village.

Yunho, caught in the dilemma of divided priorities, purses his lips. The familiar struggle between his duty to protect the village versus the instinct to ensure your safety is evident on his face. You know your brother well enough to recognise that he would drop everything in a heartbeat to ensure your safety first and foremost.

“I’ll escort her if that makes you feel better,” sensing the conflict on Yunho’s face, Wooyoung steps in to break the silence that hangs heavy between the three of you. 

“No, it’s okay,” you say, sighing when both of them stare at you with concerned expressions that cause a pang in your heart. “The two of you are the most gifted warriors we have, and there’s no point in either of you sticking around to escort me to a building that's practically a stone’s throw away from here.”

“But—”

You shut Yunho down with a firm look, your voice cutting through any protest. “I’ll be fine, Yun. I’ve done this hundreds of times. Just promise me you won’t come back injured. If there is one thing I can’t bear, it’s you getting hurt.”

Yunho’s tough exterior softens at your words, and he nods in agreement, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be careful.”

Convinced, you turn to narrow your eyes at Wooyoung, catching him off guard. He gulps at your sudden change in expression. “And you. Don’t you dare reopen those stitches, young man. It took me an hour to do these, and I will not be gentle if you mess them up. You’re almost healed, and redoing the stitches will unnecessarily delay your healing.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Wooyoung responds with a salute, straightening his posture to stand at his full height. “I promise to be careful as well.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with me leaving?” Your brother tightens his grip on the handle of the sword that’s strapped to his side. “Wooyoung can escort you. He’s not fully healed anyways, and no one would mind him sitting out of the battle for once.”

“I’d feel much better if I knew the two of you are together,” you confess, averting your gaze from both of them to take in the chaotic scene unfolding around you. Despite your efforts to seem nonchalant, you can feel both males regarding your features with probing scrutiny and worry.

Wooyoung opens his mouth to say something, but a familiar, piercing whistle cuts through the air—the unmistakable herald of the Night Fury’s return. The dragon has circled back around the mountain peak to descend upon the village once more. The noise snaps you into action, and you shove both males towards the path that leads to the cliffs. “Go.”

Yunho releases a sigh, his shoulders slumping in a resigned acceptance, and he nods. Before he and Wooyoung dash toward the mounted ballista—the only weapon that would give the village a shot against the looming beast—Yunho's hand finds yours, offering a reassuring squeeze. YOu nod back at him and watch them run towards the ballista.

“Your sister is downright terrifying when she wants to be!” Wooyoung’s voice carries back to you.  His whiny tone is met with an involuntary laugh from you, mingling with Yunho’s echoing laughter, which is followed by more whining from the other male that you can’t make sense of now that they’re much farther away.

Before you step into the infirmary to prepare for the inevitable influx of injured villagers, you’re unable to resist the urge to scan the skies once more. Your gaze lingers on the moonless sky as you search for the elusive Night Fury, the dragon that no one has ever seen. 

You hope that Yunho and Wooyoung can hunt it down, for even though the Night Fury doesn’t pillage like its brethren, it acts as a guardian to the other dragons. It is always there to help them to attack the village and steal livestock and supplies. Removing the dragon from the equation would undoubtedly make the task of defending your village much easier.

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