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seospicybin · 6 months

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DON'T THEY KNOW IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD?

PART II

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

Chapters: Part I

Synopsis: Making a contact with an ancient object, you meet a demon who takes form of the man you desired and forces you to commit terrible acts to stop the world from ending. (13,1k words)

Author's note: I recommend listening to this track while you're reading this fic. Happy Haloween!

Based on an episode of Black Mirror. Content warnings: Violence, gore, mentions of abuse, assaults and graphic imagery. Reader’s discretion is advised!

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." Michelangelo

Save one or billions?

Minho's number one rule may be to not leave an eyewitness but your number one rule is to not kill innocent people. Clearly, the man is merely there in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and certainly not expecting to meet a sculptor who turns a murderer at night.

You turn around to run away through the front door but Minho stops you.

"No, no, no," he strongly against your plan to flee.

He fiercely looks at you and says, "No witnesses. You have to kill him!"

You shake your head and refuse to do what he told you. All you want to do is run but Minho holds his ground, not allowing you to leave.

"He's seen you. You have to kill him!" He persists and steers your body to come at the man whose face turns pale once he realizes the horror he's about to face.

The man starts throwing you with anything in his reach, a bag of bread, a pack of sliced cheese, a half-empty bottle of soda, a spoon.

"Go away! Get out of my house!" He says while keeps throwing things at you, sending a bag of chips flying around the kitchen.

"Do it! It's him or you!" Minho urges you.

With one hand steadily covering your face from objects being thrown at you, you rummage inside your bag to take out your hammer to use it once more for the night.

Getting a good grip on it, you aim it at him while he keeps maintaining a safe space from you by swaying a chopping board in front of you.

"Get out, please!" He demands.

He then kicks you quite hard on the leg and with the strength a grown man has, it's enough to send you fall onto the ground. You see the hammer is still in your hand but the bad thing is the man is trying to escape through the kitchen door.

You drag yourself and hurriedly stop him from getting to the door by catching him by the legs, sending him crash down onto the floor.

The fight continues on the floor, the two of you struggling to survive. You try to hit him with the hammer while he gently grips your hand by the wrist to not let you hurt him.

You notice that his other hand is groping the floor, reaching for the bread knife lying inches away from his fingertips.

He only needs to get it and there's a big chance that he can easily stab you with it. You decide to drop the hammer and race him to get the bread knife before him.

You can feel the wooden handle of the knife on your fingers and close to gripping it, he flips you over on the floor to get the knife.

Before he can take it from you, you use all of the strength you have left to flip over, sending him farther from the knife and you can get a hold of it.

Relentlessly, he turns over not knowing that you're holding the knife, and stabs himself right onto it. You can feel the knife piercing through the flesh and right into his chest.

With the knife going all the way in, he still manages to crawl to sit and leans his back against the wall. He's groaning as he looks down at the knife impaled his chest.

You can only watch as he holds the knife and tries to take it out of him, despite you knowing that he shouldn't do it, you do nothing to stop him.

"I'm so sorry," you sob as he finally grabs the handle and slowly pulls the knife out.

Blood is gushing from the wound, soaking his sky blue shirt with crimson red color. Painful groans are escaping his parted mouth followed by a blob of thick, sticky blood.

"I'm so–" your choked sob gets in the way.

"Sorry," you finish with a shaky voice.

You get up from the floor and take two steps back, looking at him helplessly trying to stay alive. The man looks at you and you can see in his eyes that life is slowly leaving him.

The silence that takes over is deafening and the hands on your shoulders are putting some senses back into you.

"Come on. Let's go!" Minho whispers, reminding you that it's time to leave, not wanting to risk another person finding you like this.

Taking one last look at the lifeless body sitting against the wall, you gather your senses and eye the bloodied knife, collecting it along with your hammer as you make your way out of the door like you haven't just killed two men.

No matter how long you stand under the shower, the blood is still on your hands.

You sit on the end of the bed in your bathrobe, drops of water dripping from the end of your hair as your head looks down and your hands gripping the edge of the bed frame.

You're in complete shock at what you just did. Killing Tim was the plan, there was no remorse in killing him because you know he deserved it.

But the man, you don't even know his name to begin with, he got killed just because he saw you. You did that.

You look up and Minho is standing right in front of you, "Who was he?"

He sighs before answering your question, "That would be Tim's brother, Kurt."

"What was he like?" You ask, almost inaudible.

He gets quiet and you glare at him to demand an answer, "You know stuff," you say.

You intensely look into the two orbs in his eyes and ask, "Was he a good or bad person?"

He clasped both hands in front of him, "He was... ordinary."

You feel bile rising inside you, feeling sick of yourself for killing an innocent man. You grip the bed frame tighter until your knuckles turn pale.

"I know it's not what you want to hear but..." Minho says, talking in a soft tone and takes a seat next to you on the bed.

"What's done is done and on the plus side, you scored two tonight," he shares, always has a way of looking at the brighter side of evil things you did.

"I think you've done it, look!" He shows you the talisman.

Those two lines should have disappeared since you killed two men tonight which should release you from the binding contract. You feel a little hopeful that maybe you have done it, you have stopped the world from ending.

Minho is just as confused too. He taps the glass as if that would fix it. His face turns sour, realizing that something is wrong.

He holds a finger, at you. "Wait for one– No, two seconds!"

Minho walks over to the landline phone that you only use to call the concierge or to ask for any services available in the building.

He enters 666 on the dialing numbers and presses the phone close to his ear, "It's me, Minho, yep," he speaks to the phone.

"Yeah, uh... I got a talisman circa 1925 but it failed to register one of the sacrifices," He informs while looking closely at the pocket watch.

"Two kills but only one's been recorded," he turns to look at you and flashes you an uneasy smile.

His face tells that he's receiving bad news, "I mean, yeah, but..."

He puts a hand against the wall, needing to hold on to something, "We can't just, ugh... no, I get it, I get it," he says, defeated.

He slams the phone shut and tilts his head up as he lets out a deep sigh. After a while, he turns around to face you and delivers the news, "Tim didn't count."

You feel all hope has exited your body and feel betrayed, "What? Why?"

"He's a murderer. Makes him ineligible. That's what they're saying," he explains with a strained facial expression.

Isn't that the point? You killed him because he was a murderer, he deserved it.

"But we've been picking people who deserve it," you state the only truth you know.

Minho nervously smiles, "Well, you're not supposed to do it that way. It's just..."

He leans against the wall and continues talking, "I thought you'd find it easier that way."

You drop your head and pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to asses everything. You need to process the fact that you need to kill another man.

"I'm sorry," Minho sincerely apologizes.

He then sits next to you, turning his body to face you as he explains, "Look, basically anyone who's already been directly responsible for the death of another human being, they're off limits."

He gets concerned by how you're so quiet and afraid that you would change your mind by the slight changes in the rules of the game.

"As far as my boss is concerned, they're playing for the home team," he reassures you.

Suddenly, you don't see the point of doing it anymore. Kill an innocent has certainly way out of your boundary and you can't find it in you to do another one.

"We're actually lucky, you know. His brother turned up thus made your effort didn't go to waste," he calmly concludes.

Lucky? You wouldn't call killing an innocent man lucky. Tonight, his words don't quite comfort you like they usually do. You feel played and maybe it is his trick just to make you do his evil deeds.

It's like you finally came to your senses, you don't see how it benefits you because it's going to be a win for him either way.

You shot up from the bed and sharply pointed your index finger at him.

"Fuck you!" You curse him.

"Go fuck yourself!" You curse louder.

Minho just sits there and takes it all in like you didn't just spew your thick, hot rage on his face and it pisses you off more.

"This is all right for you, huh?"

He lightly shakes his head, "No, it isn't."

He has it easy because he doesn't need to do the heavy workload, he just needs to be there and keep tabs on you.

"No blood on your hands. You're just watching," you lay out the facts with rage bubbling inside of you.

Minho seems to decide to let you finish talking, knowing that you need to get it all out.

"This is entertainment for you!"

You're the only one doomed in this contract, not to mention, that you accidentally put your blood on the talisman and he forced you to permit entry. It's one sick game that he likes to play.

"If the Apocalypse does come, you'll have one big, fun finale!"

"That would be upending the whole place—"

"Yeah, you failed your initiation and got told off," you easily resolve because you don't see why it's so frowned upon. Shouldn't they be happy that the evil won?

"If I fail my initiation..."

You cut through his sentence again, "Get kicked out of the demon school? How sad!" You mock him with a sinister laugh.

"More like cast out," Minho corrects.

You shrug his words away, "Whatever."

The silence takes over for a moment until Minho speaks and fills the air with his light, whispery voice.

"Cast out into a boundless cosmic void and doomed to spend eternity in a vacuum of infinite nothingness."

You look at him as he stares at the thing he describes in his words flashes right in front of him.

"Absence of matter, time, space, light, and sound. I would endure a profound, palpable, and ever-present lack of existence..."

Hearing that makes you feel cold inside and the way he speaks as if he's been feeling that emptiness already makes you empathize with him.

"Alone in perpetuity, forever more," he finishes with a blank stare at you.

It's something that you can easily relate to. Your whole life you've been alone, living in your head because no one cares for you except for the art you made. You can see why Minho spoke with so much sorrow in his voice.

All these times, his fear has been hiding behind his indifference.

You swallow air, then say, "That sounds like my life..."

He watches as you approach him and sit next to him. He closes his eyes as if what he's about to say next is too painful.

"To be honest, I'm scared," he honestly says.

You take his hand and let him rest his head on your chest, you caressingly cradle his head, protecting him any way you can.

Minho turns his head and looks at you, letting you see everything in his eyes. In that moment, you can see that he's afraid, lost, and lonely, feelings that are way too familiar to you and you find comfort in knowing that you find yourself in him.

You slowly lean in and kiss him, letting him know that he's not the only one living such a life.

Something flickers inside you the second your lips meet his in a kiss that feels like a long time coming, it's ever-consuming, taking over.

Minho returns the kiss passionately, allowing you to let go of the worries that chained you and hold you down.

For tonight, you let yourself free.

FOUR DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

The sliver of sunlight shines through the cracks of the blinds and hits you right in the eyes, waking you from your deep slumber.

You're lying on your side and feel another body next to you, taking a moment before turning your head in the other direction and seeing Minho there.

Sharing the bed with him feels natural. It's as if you've been sleeping with him for years that he belongs there, lying right next to you.

He reaches for the strand of hair falling over your face and endearingly tucks it behind your ear, then places his hand there, holding the side of your face.

"Morning," he softly says.

For a split second, it feels possible to connect to another human being without feeling afraid that you'll be misjudged. He knows you, he knows the darkest thing you ever done that you don't feel the need to hide yourself anymore.

Then the truth hits.

This is not what normal people have. Normal people don't kill, they're following the rules and stay on the safe side.

You inhale air and close your eyes for a second, "So, one more victim then?"

He drags his hand down to your neck. His thumb tenderly rubs your jaw, "Yeah, the only thing for it," he answers.

There's only one thing crossed your head at that moment, "I can't kill another total innocent," you remark.

Minho takes a breath and slides his hand down to your shoulder, "It's just murderers we have to avoid," he reminds you.

"You mean people like me," you sadly say.

You roll over and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling as the truth once again sinks in: You're a murderer.

"My whole life... I never wished harm on anyone," you sigh with so much remorse and guilt.

When you think Minho would do the look-at-the-brighter-side-of-evil-things, he scoffs at your words. You look at him and he is chuckling at you.

You sit on the bed and turn at him, "I-I didn’t," you persist.

Minho also gets up and puts his hands around his knees, smirking.

"Uh..." he scratches the back of his head.

"You couldn't have summoned me for my trial if you hadn't," he says with the smirk still plastered on his face.

You look away and think it over. Were you thinking of hurting someone that night?

"Well, you had to be corruptible not beyond corruption," he further explains.

He then reaches for your hand and holds it, "You know what? You must have had some dark force inside you when you touched the talisman," he says.

That gets you shooting a death glare at him, feeling offended that he takes you as that kind of person.

"There's no shame in it," he assures you with a squeeze on your hand.

That night, you were indeed feeling so much anger and you remember channeling all of that anger on your work. You know exactly what and who happened.

"No, go on," Minho encourages.

He then leans in, not stopping until his head meets yours. With gleaming eyes and whispery voice, he asks, "Who pissed you off?"

"There she is!" Kim exclaims.

"Don't you just stand there!" She gets up from her chair and welcomes you with a hug.

It was supposed to be a celebration dinner that she promised, but you see that she invited the director of the gallery with her.

She hugs you and keeps her hand on your shoulder as she pulls away, "You look..." she pauses as she takes a look up and down at you.

Since she said it would be just her and you, you casually dressed in jeans and a blouse.

Kim leans in and quietly asks, "Did you wash your hair?"

She then peers over at Jeff, the gallery director then looks back at you, "Let's sit!"

The waiter pulls a chair for you and prepares another set of cutlery for you on the table.

"She's nice," Minho appears behind you.

He walks over to Kim's chair and looks down at her, "She's a front runner for the..." he mimics throat slitting with his hand on his neck.

He stands behind her chair and continues talking, "Do you know that she takes a bigger cut on your art sales than the one written on the contract?"

You ignore him by taking the napkin and putting it on your lap, at the same time, Jeff talks to you.

"Kim said you're already working on new sculptures?" He asks.

You nod and take a sip of water before answering. Well, you're busy stopping the apocalypse from coming.

"Yeah, I am," you shortly answer.

"Oh, she loves working. There's no way of stopping her from doing what she loves," Kim says with an extra wide smile and false compliments.

Jeff asks the waiter to refill everyone's glass with more wine even though he can do it himself with the bottle sitting not so far from his grasp.

Minho props a hand against Jeff's chair and points at both Kim and him, "These two just fucked earlier in his office," he shares.

That's not the information you needed to know. You kind of guessed why they're so overly friendly with each other, you just didn't expect that Kim would screw a married man.

You quietly sigh while watching the waiter carefully pour wine into your glass without spilling a drop.

"Thank you," you mutter in gratitude.

"Should we start by making a toast?" Jeff suggests.

Kim enthusiastically agrees to his idea, being the first person to lift her wine glass and you have to follow suit, taking your glass in your hand for the toast.

"To our talented artist," Jeff says as he glances at you, then looks the other way, "And to the hardworking art dealer!"

In which Kim smiles and blushes at his words. The second after everyone clinked the wine glasses together, you take a long gulp of your wine in the hope of washing down the sour taste in your mouth.

Once the food is served on the table, you keep yourself busy by stuffing your mouth with food, not wanting to engage in a conversation with them.

You don't mind that you're now only there as a cover for their affair yet you were wrong to think that's the worst thing that happens tonight.

A waiter comes to your table and pulls the chair next to you for someone else. You turn your head to see who else Kim invited to the dinner.

"I apologize for being late," Nick says, taking off his coat with help from the waiter.

"Oh, please! We're more than pleased to know you're still willing to come and have dinner with us," Kim says with yet another fake, bright smile.

If this is her idea of torturing you, she won big. There's nothing that agonizes you more than sitting with these people at the same table.

"You come just right on time, no worries," Jeff says, also pleased by his presence.

Nick sits on the chair next to yours and looks at you when he says, "Yeah, I came just in time for desserts."

You sip your wine to avoid talking to him but that doesn't stop him from talking to you.

"How are you?"

"Good," you shortly answer.

He nods even though looks dissatisfied by your short answer. He takes a sip of his wine as Jeff starts talking to him.

"Thank you for letting us keep the sculptures until exhibitions end," Jeff says.

He waves him off and puts down his wine glass, "No problem at all."

Kim leans on the table at you, "He's the one who bought all of your sculptures," she informs.

"Really?" You innocently ask.

Kim laughs in response but you sense the scornful in that laugh, "She's still in awe," she puts it politely for everyone to

As an artist, you would love for someone appreciative of your art as the one who bought it, not someone who solely has the power to buy it. You know which one is Nick, worse is, he bought them just to impress you.

"Must be busy campaigning, huh?" Jeff says as he digs into his dessert.

Nick lets out a low chuckle yet not denying it. You've been busy stopping the end of the world from coming and not been keeping up with the news.

"Campaigning for what?" You innocently ask again.

Kim leers at you and places a hand on yours, "Nick is running for congress, honey," she says with a strained smile.

"Ah," you swallow a piece of cake down and your throat feels like closing up.

"Young and smart, oh... anyone would be lucky to be with you, Nick," Kim praises with her eyes oozing with admiration.

She looks at you to seek your agreement, "Amazing, isn't he?"

You don't see what is amazing about that when he uses his family's wealth to back his political campaign but surely, you can't be honest about it.

"Yeah," you half-heartedly answer.

Nick seems to be delighted that you show a tad interest in him a smile rises on his face.

The waiter has taken all the plates away and everyone is draining the wine bottle with more conversation that you're not part of and you don't want to be a part of it anyway.

"Nick's brother and I went to the same private school," Jeff boasts of his connection with Nick's family.

"Oh, really?" Kim asks with her saccharine smile.

"We still play golf together now and then, right Nick?"

"Yes," Nick confirms.

"Fuck me," Minho comments as he sits on the table behind Nick.

Nick thinks that you're looking at him and asks, "I've been meaning to ask you," he says.

You gently put your coffee cup down on the saucer, "yes?"

"Our family has this villa, we're renovating it now and I'm wondering if I can personally request you to make a sculpture or two..."

It's a mystery how you manage to have not puked at this point. These subtle bragging and power moves, they're suffocating you.

"I'm not sure," you vaguely answer.

"She's busy working on her new series," Kim answers for you and you feel thankful that you don't have to reject him.

"But maybe if she manages to finish it sooner, she'll reconsider the offer," she adds, shattering the kind thought you have for her just now.

Jeff pats Nick on the shoulder and says, "I can't wait to hear your big speech at the city hall!"

"Oh, please!" Nick politely smiles and leans back in his seat, "Jeff has been kind enough to lend me his villa as our temporary office."

Jeff laughs while squeezing his shoulder, not sure who they're trying to impress beside Kim.

"Oh, fuck me some more!" Minho groans with a dramatic eye roll.

Even when it's time to leave, Nick and Jeff get into a little argument about who should be paying for dinner tonight and the fight has to happen in front of you and Kim.

You're itching to pull out your credit card just to get it over with but you don't want to make a dent on two grown men's egos.

"Thank you for dinner," Kim says to Nick as the winner of the argument.

You meekly follow suit, "Thank you!"

"It's my pleasure," he says with a smile that showcases his perfect white teeth.

Even Minho has disappeared from the scene, probably fed up with everything.

"Can I give you ladies a ride home?" Nick offers as he fixes the collar of his coat.

"I would love to!" Kim eagerly answers, "But since our homes are on the same way, I'm getting a ride home from Jeff."

She holds her purse by the other hand and pulls you close to her side, "but she'll take the lift home, right babe?"

When Kim says, it has to happen or else it's going to end badly.

Despite that he can afford a chauffeur, Nick drives his own car.

You've been meaning to ask if he knows where you live because you don't enjoy spending more time with him but how to do that without initiating a talk with him.

"You live in the Crystal Palace, right?" Nick asks.

Should you be grateful that he knows where you live or spooked? But one thing you know for sure is that Kim tells him about it.

"Yes," you answer.

"Isn't the owner just passed away a few days ago?"

"Yes."

"My grandfather knew him when he was still working as the company's mailman," he says.

That's news to you because what did a mailman do that led him to own one of the most luxurious apartment buildings in the city?

"Oh, I never knew that," you weakly say.

"I know, right? One day he just... turned wealthy," he says, gobsmacked by the simplest of mysteries.

He puts one hand down and places it on the space between you and him, "Guess, we'll never know," he says.

He stops the car right near the entrance of the apartment building and you quickly gather your bag, don't want to waste time to exit his car.

"Thank you for the lift home," you tell him, your hand pushing open the handle of the car door.

Nick grabs your elbow and stops you from stepping out, he catches you off guard to place a kiss on your cheek.

"I had a great night," he says, then lets you go.

You don't wait for another second to get out of his car and wipe his kiss off your cheek until your cheek is raw by the excessive rubbing you do on the elevator ride up to your floor.

"So, have you decided yet?" Minho reappears in your apartment.

You toss your bag and take off your coat, "What?"

"Are you going to kill Kim or do you have your eyes on someone else?"

Going to your bedroom, you open your laptop and type a name on the search engine. The results come in under a second and you scan every article there is about this person.

"Oh?" Minho lowly gasps from behind you.

You lean back on your chair and stare at Nick's photo on the laptop screen, "What's his future?"

Not getting an answer from Minho, you swivel your chair to face him, "Can you show me his future"

He seems to hesitate when he has no problem showing you everyone else's. After a moment of consideration, he finally answers, "Yeah, but let's not."

You lean forward on the chair and press him, "Show me right now!" You demand.

He takes a step back and puts a space in between, refusing to do what you ask.

You get up from your chair and stand in front of him, "Show me or I'll confess to everyone and then it's over," you threaten him.

Not letting him get away, you place a hand on his shoulder before continuing your words, "And then you're fucked," you enunciated the doom lingers on those words.

Minho clicks his tongue to try to diminish the threat in your words but it falls short on itself. He knows that he has to cooperate with you for this to work.

"Show me!" You pressure him with a squeeze on his shoulder.

He takes your hand away and now putting his hands on your shoulders, steers you back to your chair, then sits you down.

"Alright, I'll show you," he says, turning the chair the other way. He covers your eyes with his hand to show you what you want.

It's like a movie playing in the back of your head and each scene is taken from war, apocalyptic movies. Getting a seat at the congress is just the beginning, from there Nick will climb the power ladder and become the worst of evil.

Minho snaps you out of it and you gasp as if you've been pulled out of water.

"He's a fucking satan!" You say out of spite and that is the first thing that crosses your head.

"No, he's not one of us, not literally," Minho denies.

You turn your chair to see as he sees him sitting at the end of the bed, "They do like him, they're fans of his work, you might say."

When you thought Nick couldn't be more vile, the future Nick is far worse than you imagined. From what you saw through Minho's vision, you're assured of your decision.

"He's got to go. He's next," you remark.

You see Minho's face turns dim as if someone flipped the switch off, "Uh-oh, they're not going to like that."

Not accepting that Minho refuses to get behind your decision, you come up with your own defenses. You walk up to him and stand firm on your ground, "The only rule is to avoid murderers. You said that!"

He licks his lips which are as red as his hair and lets out an exasperated sigh, "Right. But he's responsible for an impressive number of juicy deaths—"

You cut him off with the current fact, "Not yet he isn't."

"But he–he... he likes to assault women," he argues.

You tip your head and come up with a reply, "But hasn't killed one, though, has he?"

"I mean, he killed a dog with a rock when he was 11," he shares information that he doesn't really favor him.

"Animals don't count!" You remind him of that, "That was one of the first things you said."

Minho seems to be struggling to come up with another excuse. It's the right opportunity for you to push him to the edge and give in.

"Is he qualified or not?" You corner him with the important question there is.

"Technically, yeah. But..." He meekly answers with a defeated sigh.

"He's the one. That's that," you end the conversation there.

With or without Minho's approval, you're going to kill Nicholas de Ville and stop the end of the world.

THREE DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

"Miss Kim is in a meeting with Director Lane," The assistant says as you're about to push into Kim's office.

You turn around with your hand still lingers on the handle of the door.

"I know," you calmly reply.

"You don't mind if I wait in her office, right?" You ask the assistant.

Knowing Kim's traits, you're not surprised that she changes her assistant every few months. Must be hard to find someone who can handle her.

She seems to hesitate to let you in. You let go of the door and hold your bag in front of you. The occasion calls to use your power.

"You know who I am, right?"

"Y-yes," she stammers.

You walk up to her table and look her right in the eyes, "Are you?"

She nervously swallows air and gets up from her chair, "I don't think Miss Kim would mind letting you wait in her office," she says.

You maintain the gaze with her then smile, "Right."

Before you push inside, you stand in the doorway and request, "And can I have a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," the assistant replies.

"With cream, no sugar," you add.

"Yes," she answers.

"Why are you still standing there?" You ask with a subtle glare.

She fumbles to get out of her desk, "Right away, Miss!"

The coffee is just an excuse to send her assistant away so you can get on Kim's desk and search for something on her computer.

To cut time, you use the search box and type in what you're looking for. It takes a few seconds until the desired result appears on the screen, and you take a picture of it with your phone.

"Playing spies, aren't we?" Minho asks as he plays with a figurine on Kim's desk.

Hearing footsteps outside, you hurriedly sit on the sofa and pretend to play with your phone.

"Your coffee, Miss!" The assistant says, serving the steaming hot coffee on the glass table.

She holds the tray close to her chest and informs, "Miss Kim is on her way back and will be here in a few minutes."

"Thank you," you mutter.

Right after the assistant left, Kim came into the office, looking like she just ran a whole yard in her exquisite, pencil skirt.

"Oh, you're here!" Kim exclaims as she steadies herself with her hand on the handle of the door.

"That's what you called sex hair!" Minho shares as he sits next to you.

It takes no genius to know that the so-called meeting means so much more than that. The tousled hair, the untucked shirt, and the folded collar of her blazer are enough to explain what happened in the meeting. You lift your coffee cup and blow on it before taking a small, careful sip.

"What's up? How's it going?" She nervously asks, putting her notebook and phone on her desk as she quietly fixes her hair.

You swallow your coffee first before answering, "I came here to return the paperwork," you answer.

You take them out of your bag and place them on the table, "And also to taste the coffee your new assistant made," you add with a smile.

You seem so calm and collected that Kim takes it as unusual. She stops fixing her appearance and leans against her desk, her eyes are scanning you.

"Are you okay, babe?"

You smile at her and coyly answer, "Never been better!"

Your words only worry her instead of the opposite, she's nodding yet her eyes remain suspicious.

"I have to go back and work on my sculpture," you get up from your sofa and take your bag with you.

You walk up to her and look at her, looking at her face that would usually make you feel the slightest bit of distress. However, as you keep looking at her, you realize that there's no need for you to fear her. With or without her, you'll manage to live because she needs you more than you need her.

Kim senses that you're analyzing her in your head and you see that her cool exterior starts to crumble.

"Is something wrong?" She stammers

You smile at her and sling the strap of your bag on your shoulder, "I'm sorry for interrupting your meeting."

She rubs her neck and chuckles, "The meeting was close to finish anyway," she says.

"Jeff must be satisfied, huh?"

She rapidly blinks her eyes, "Pardon?"

"Satisfied with your amazing work," you put a context to your words.

She dryly chuckles and flips her hair to the back, "Yeah, I guess?"

"I'll let you get back to work," you say and make your way to the door.

You stop by the doorway and look at her, you point at her lips to tell her, "You might want to fix your smudged lipstick."

Kim's hand flies to her lips, cluelessly wiping the excess lipstick on her lips. You leave the room with a triumphant smile.

"You make good coffee but I suggest you work for someone else," you tell Kim's assistant on your way out.

After spending most of the day to prepare the technicalities.

You come back to your apartment to create the perfect plan for tomorrow. You lay out the city map in the living room.

With the address of Jeff's villa you stole from Kim's computer, you can look for the right place to execute your plan.

"After Nick finishes his speech at the city hall, he's got to head for Jeff's villa which is here," you mark the place with a marker.

You look at the distance between city hall and Jeff's villa, guessing which way Nick will likely take with his car.

"So... whichever way he goes, he's heading out of the city," you mutter.

A country road means it's less crowded therefore, it's an advantage for you.

"I'm thinking... I wait outside the city hall, then I follow him from there," you look at Minho.

You expect an opinion or two since you should be working together on this but he's too busy worrying about other things, worrying Nick is more like it.

Instead of solving it for you, he asks you another question, "What if he's not alone?"

You stack your hands on the table and look at him, "Is he going to be alone? You tell me," you ask him back.

He acts like he doesn't have the power to know everything, "Well, yeah but..."

You point at the map with the marker, "All I have to do is follow him and intercept him somewhere along—"

"Didn’t you hear me?" Minho suddenly stops you midsentence.

He waits until you look at him before continuing to talk, "They're not going to like it," he says for the umpteenth time.

You have enough of him reminding you of it but you have decided therefore, you will not back out of your decision just because he told you so.

"It's within the rules so they can suck it," you dare him.

Minho runs out of things to defend himself and this will be the last time you let him try to change your mind.

"It's him or no one," you sternly tell him.

With two days left and a plan you created, you don't see why you should back down now. Nick is the perfect target, he needs to be killed.

You sit face him on the floor and urge him to pick a side with the most important question of all, "Do you want to fail your initiation or not?"

Minho knows that he doesn't have much of options, he either helps you with your plan or lets it blow and obliterate everything.

From his silence, you know what the answer is.

TWO DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

It feels right to kill him.

At this point, you can't tell what's right and wrong anymore. But killing Nick feels like the right decision, you'll not only save the world from ending, but you also save the world from a doomed future.

You've been waiting outside the city hall in the used car you bought yesterday and have your eyes on Nick's car that is parked not far from yours.

Your hands are steadily holding the steering wheel, knowing that Nick is going to come out of the city hall soon.

When he does, you grip the steering wheel and your hand is ready to turn the key in the ignition.

You watch as Nick talks to someone else before getting into his car. You turn your car engine a minute after him and drive, trailing not far behind him.

You look to the side, at Minho who has been so quiet sitting on the passenger's side, and give him the one last chance to say something.

"You've changed," he says and you're not sure if he is disappointed or impressed.

Minho is simply running out of things to say to change your mind. What he can do now is go along with the plan.

You wait until you're entering the quieter country road to pick up the speed, getting closer to Nick's car.

You step on the gas and align your car with his, before hitting the back of his car, almost sending his car out of the road.

Aware of what you're trying to do, Nick drives faster and you catch up to him by not letting go of the gas, pushing the car to its limit.

To get momentum, you slow down your car to give you space to hit his car harder. You brace yourself for impact and crash your car with him.

There's a loud banging sound and you hurriedly step on the brake, not risking your life until you know for sure that he's dead.

Your car swerves before the brake stopping the car from hitting the tree even though you ended up hitting your head on the steering wheel.

You look through your rearview mirror, Nick's car is turning over on the side of the road.

"Let's just go!" Minho says.

You shake your head, "I need to make sure that he's dead."

Ignoring Minho who keeps telling you to flee the scene, you get out of your car and check Nick's car. The car is upside down, you have to kneel to see if he's still showing signs of life.

There's only one way to make sure of that. You walk to your car and open the trunk, you retrieve the gallon of kerosene you bought.

"What are you doing?" Minho asks in a panicked voice.

"I'm making sure that he's dead," you answer.

You pour it all over Nick's car and stand a few meters away as you look for the lighter in your jacket pocket. The bursting flame swaying away with your shaky breath you let out through your parted mouth.

"And he doesn't deserve an easy death," you add.

You toss the lighter and the inflammable catches it fast, setting the car on blazing fire. Your eyes are filled with glowing embers, reflecting the hatred you have for him.

The last thing to do is to get rid of the car.

You drive it to the nearest junkyard and have it crushed with the machine by paying the worker there. You fetch a bus from there and throw all of the clothes you're wearing into the bin a block away from your apartment building.

Nothing feels as good as knowing that you've done the worst of things for the greater good of humankind.

You come home to see Minho is already inside, leaning against the back of the sofa with his arms crossed.

"You did it!" He says with disappointment tainted his triumphant smile.

With the adrenaline still pumping, you come up to him and not stopping until your body crashes into him. That's enough of arguing, talking, scheming, plotting, and not enough physical contact.

After everything you've done, you learn that fear is nothing to you but something that's been holding you back. You don't want to let fear dominate you anymore, you want to take back your life into your own hands.

Without hesitating, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him close, close enough that you can land your lips on his.

Something explodes inside of you the second both of your lips collide in a rapturous kiss.

The two of you stayed like that, encased in a moment that slowly set the fuse on your desire.

You gasp as you pull away from the kiss and you look at him, finding comfort in what once was a scary pair of eyes. He looks back at you with his arms locked around you.

Gosh! He's so beautiful, even more beautiful than the one you created in your head. Using your hand, you tenderly touch his face, you run your finger down his sharp nose and remember sculpting it.

And these lips, oh... you remember how hard and cold it felt under your touch but now, it feels warm and soft, like a flower under the sun.

"Just let me—" You let your desire finish your words.

You lean in and kiss him again, tasting his lips that get even sweeter with each kiss and with each kiss, your hand gets curious.

You let them explore his clothed body but that's not enough.

Minho gently pushes you away, breaking the kiss and putting a space between your bodies. For a second you thought he refused to do this and instead of that, he takes all of his clothes off right in front of you, exposing his body that is you eager to explore. It takes you a moment to take everything in.

Minho has to take your hand and put it on his body, letting you know that it's okay to touch him.

"You're beautiful," you breathlessly say, overwhelmed by what you're seeing.

You whimper at how perfect he is, smooth and warm. His muscles are firm yet you touch him with so much tenderness, afraid that you would break him.

"You're ethereal..." you dreamily sigh.

Minho puts his hand around your neck and tilts your head to kiss you. As he puts you in a spell with his kiss, his hands are swiftly removing your clothes and let them fall onto the floor.

Slowly, he draws your body close until your body meets his, skin-to-skin with nothing in between.

It's unclear what has gotten into you but you like it.

You like how confident you are, how carefree yet in control you are. Other than that, you like how Minho looks at you as you sit, straddling him on the bed.

Aligning his cock with your entrance, you slowly lower yourself down his length while letting a long, breathless moan out of your parted open mouth.

You mewl feeling his cock filling you to the hilt, keep mewling as you're adjusting yourself to his size.

Minho places his hand on your chest, right on your beating heart then slowly drags it down, then to the side to hold you by the waist.

Then out of the blue, he chuckles at you.

You open your eyes and place a hand on his chest, "What?" You ask as you look down at him.

He places his other hand on your waist, "I haven't permitted your entry yet," he says.

You break into laughter and lean in, stopping him from laughing with a kiss.

"Say yes, say yes, say yes," you say with each you plant on his face.

Minho is smirking under you, not answering your question just to annoy you.

You catch his lips in yours and bite on his lower lip before you let it go, "You're not going to say yes?"

Still not getting an answer, you place both hands on his chest and slowly, roll your hips in circular motions. You're lowly moaning feeling his whole length inside you.

You look down at Minho and he has his eyes closed, his eyelashes fanning out so beautifully along his eyelids, and his mouth is slightly parted open, you hear him lowly whimpering as you keep rolling your hips with his cock inside you.

Now moving your hips back and forth, Minho is grunting, digging his fingers into the flesh of your thighs. You keep your hips moving and keeping a steady pace.

Driven by the desire, your body is taking over and picking up the pace. You plant your foot on the bed, launching him deeper inside you and earning a groan from him.

Minho grabs you by the waist, trying to slow you down but you don't seem to be the one in control of it, you keep chasing for that high.

You throw your head to the back while keep taking his cock, in and out of you at a quick pace, getting you closer and closer...

"Oh..." you let out a broken moan.

You keep moving despite the immense pleasure that clouds your mind and dulls your senses. Your hands are grasping at nothing but clawing at his warm, smooth skin.

Minho catches you as you collapse into his arms, putting his arms around you with your head resting on his chest. He put all of your hair to the side, allowing him to place a kiss on your neck.

"Yes," he whispers into your ear.

You weakly chuckle at his late response. You look at him and say, "Too late."

Yet he tightens his hold around you and begins to buck his hips from under you, making you moan with your head buried in his neck.

Minho presses his mouth close to your ear and whispers, "I said yes nonetheless."

ONE DAY TO THE END OF THE WORLD

Today is going to be a good day.

You can just tell from the moment you open your eyes. You have to squint for a moment to adjust to the light and see the bright, beautiful day through the window.

You stay lying on the bed while looking at the morning sky and as you gather your senses, the recollections of last night come into your mind. What you touched, you tasted, you kissed... and without you intending to, your hand is wandering to places where he laid his hand on you.

It reminds you of the company you're with and you turn on the bed to see nothing but a crumpled sheet next to you.

You clutch the duvet close to your chest to shield your naked body from the cool, morning air.

"Minho?"

There's no answer but your call that is echoing in your empty apartment. Wrapping yourself with it, you get up from the bed to look for him.

"Minho?"

Still no answer and the first thought that runs through your head is that he's gone. The contract is finished, therefore, there's no need for him to stay.

Tears pool in your eyes as you keep looking for him from room to room, dragging your duvet across the floor wherever you go. You're getting hopeless the more you search and not finding him there.

Fear is spreading inside you, telling you to give up and stop hoping. You return to the living room and finally find him there, standing in the middle of the room.

You rush to come up to him and break into tears as you bury your head in his chest, "Where have you been? I've been looking for you!"

Minho holds you, putting his arms around you, and tangles his hand in your hair. He places a soft kiss on the top of your head.

"I have to make sure of it," he says.

With teary eyes, you look up at him, "Make sure of what?"

He takes something from the inside pocket of his black coat, it's the pocket watch and he opens it to show that the line hasn't gone yet.

Another kind of fear spreads all over your body and you feel cold all of a sudden. You slowly let go of him and take the pocket watch from him, looking at it in disbelief.

"But I–I killed him..." your voice breaks at the end of the sentence.

Minho turns his head to the side and magically turns on the TV. It's a broadcast of the morning news with the anchor in the middle of reading breaking news.

"...running for congress, Nicholas de Ville of the de Ville family got into a fatal accident on his way to a private residence where his campaign base is located. The car was on fire when the emergency service came and luckily managed to pull him out a moment before it exploded. Nicholas de Ville is now getting intensive medical care at the Unity Hospital. It is announced that he suffers from third-degree burn and a broken—"

You stop listening to the news and look at Minho, "Why—"

A moment ago, everything was so perfect, so right, and now... you're at a loss for words. You should have checked thoroughly, you should have stayed there and made sure he was dead.

"I have to finish it," you remark with your eyes still prickled with both tears and fear.

Minho sighs and puts his hands on your shoulders, "Just let it go," he says.

You take a step back, sending his hands to slide off of you and drop to his sides.

"Nick has to die," you persist.

Before Minho can try to change your mind again. You go back to your room and toss the duvet, you get dressed as quickly as you can.

Minho is trailing behind you as you make your way out of your apartment "We gave today to find someone else—"

You shut the door closed to stop him from talking. You should have taken him out with your own hands and that's what you're going to do today.

This time, you're going to do it right.

The studio looks like an abandoned place when you haven't visited it for a few days.

You came here to retrieve something. You make your way to carving tools and you remember throwing away the one you used to kill Tim into the river, along with the bread knife.

You have a selection of hammers but the sight of the sharp end of the chisel catches the light and reflects it to your eyes.

Your hand is reaching for it but before you get a hold of it, the doorbell rings.

No one visited your studio except for Kim but she wouldn't come this early, not on a Friday morning. You check through the window and see a man standing outside your gate.

"He's a police," Minho informs.

The police may catch up to something at this point but to your surprise, you don't feel scared at all. Maybe the scariest thing for you at the moment is letting Nick live and giving him the chance to rule the world to only stir it into its doom.

It's either now or later. You calm yourself down and put on your game face before opening the gate.

"I'm Detective Leon from the police department," he says, showing you his badge, "I'm just making some routine inquiries."

You keep the door open just enough to show yourself that you're unarmed.

"Do you mind if I have a word?" He asks.

"Yeah," you answer.

Then you realize that you're saying the wrong thing, "I mean, no, I don't mind," you correct yourself and put on a courteous smile.

He nods and asks, "Inside?"

You don't want to let him inside, not when he can see that you have all your carving tools on display.

"Invite him and kill him," Minho comments from the back of the door.

Not letting him in would only add suspicion, you open the door wider to let him in, "Yeah. Please, come in!"

With his salt-and-pepper hair and beer belly, Detective Leon looks too old to be a police detective, he should be retired already.

He walks around your studio and now is observing your far-from-finished sculpture.

"Would you like something to drink?" You offer as you make your way to the kitchen.

He is now standing close to the table full of your carving tools, "Oh, no. I won't keep you," he kindly refuses.

"Like I said, it's just a routine," he adds with an unsettling smile.

"Okay."

Yet you proceed to try to make a cup of tea as to seem you're going on about your day like normal people.

"Were you at the bar on the Monday night?" He asks.

You open your drawer and see the knife blinking at you, tempting you to pick it up.

"It'll be an easy kill. He was gonna have a heart attack next year anyway," Minho encourages you to take the chance.

You almost forget the question and retract yourself back, "Yes, I was," you honestly answer.

"Regular, are you?" He asks.

You put your hand inside the drawer and take a spoon instead, turning to face him so as to not be seen as rude.

"Nah. I wouldn't say that," you reply.

"How often are you in there?"

You lean against the kitchen counter with your hand ready at the handle of the drawer

"It's not like he has any family. No one is going to miss him," Minho whispers from behind you.

You close your eyes to remain composed, "To be honest, that night was the first time."

"First time?" He asks in disbelief.

He stands next to a block of stone and lowly chuckles, "Isn't it just around the corner?"

You don't see why it's something unbelievable? It may sound suspicious but you tell him the truth.

"Well, I don't drink. Not usually," you tell him and that is also the truth.

"But you did that night," he points out and the one corner of his mouth curls into a subtle smirk.

You quietly exhale air to maintain your composure, "I was busy working on my sculpture and I'm not meant to drink. I was... having a creative block, you might say," you're eyeing the unfinished sculpture standing close to him.

Detective Leons also looks at it, touching the rough edges of it.

"I don't have alcohol in the studio or anything, but... I needed it that night," you lie. You needed the courage that night and that's why you drank.

Detective Leon walks and stands in the middle of the room "Well, we all need to let off steam every now and then," he says.

He shows sympathy just so he can earn your trust, to allow him to dig deeper until something slips out of your mouth. You catch his eyes and hold his gaze for a moment, not long enough to see the anxiety stirring inside you.

"Thank you," you mutter.

You dare to look at him and casually ask, "What's this about anyway?"

It's been a while yet you only asked about his intention to come here just now.

"Well, you've probably heard about Tim and Kurt Shaw," he answers.

Now that you know which murder he linked you to, you get more cautious with everything you say to him.

"Who?" You play innocent.

He walks up to you and leans against the end of the kitchen counter, "Tim and Kurt Shaw."

It's no use to play dumb, detective Leon probably knows by now that you went to the same school with Tim.

"I know Tim Shaw but Kurt... I don't know him," you lie.

You're well aware he's analyzing every gesture and word you said and he gets quiet after getting an answer from you. After a moment, he talks again, "Tim Shaw was there at the bar that night, did you see him?"

"Yes," you shortly answer, stalling would only make you seem suspicious.

"I wasn't sure it was him at first and when I did, I came to greet him, you know as a friend from art school," you further explain with a thin smile at the end.

"Did you see him after that?" He asks, getting more specific with his questions as if he has decided that you're the one he's looking for.

"No," you coyly answer, "I went back here and continued working on my sculpture.

He gets closer to you yet maintains a respectful space in between, "So you didn't see him after?"

"No," you tell him without showing flinching and blinking your eyes.

This time, he looks right into your eyes and you can't avoid it, or else he knows you're hiding something.

You walk him back to the gate and open the gate for him, "So sorry, I wasn't much of a help," you tell him.

He stands in the doorway and gives you his card, "Well, if you recall anything, please let us know."

You take it from him and smile, "Have a lovely day!"

Detective Leon takes one last look at you and exits the gate, you're more than glad to slam it closed.

"Well, one good liar, aren't you?" Minho comments from the top of the stairs.

"I'm impressed," he adds as you walk past him to get back inside the studio.

"He didn't buy it though," Minho informs.

You make your way to grab a chisel and put it inside your coat pocket, "Better hurry then!"

You hail a taxi the moment you're out of the gate and get into the back while clutching your chest, feeling the cold chisel inside your coat pocket.

"The cop is following us," Minho says.

You can worry about the police later. You have an urgent task and you have to get it done as fast as you can.

You look away from Minho and tell the taxi driver where to go, "Unity Hospital, please!"

Taking a look at the map of the hospital, you guide yourself through the hallways of the hospital.

"It's not too late to find someone else," Minho urges you to change your mind.

"Oh, shut up!" You snap at him, it's his fault to talk at such a dire time.

You take a turn to the right that leads you to where you're heading and there it is. It's not hard to find where he is, a rich family like him would be staying in the VIP room.

The hardest part of it is to enter it, you have to sneak your way in.

Seeing that you hit a dead-end, Minho takes this as his last endeavor to turn it all around, "I'm just saying it'd be much easier for me if you found someone else," he explains.

Minho seems to not get it yet that it's not about stopping the end of the world anymore. It would be pointless if Nick is still alive, he has to die no matter what.

You turn your head at him and intensely stare into his eyes, "If you're not going to help, then piss off!"

He looks at you, doubting that you dismiss him.

"I mean it," you tell him, feeling fed up with everything and you don't need him to keep interrupting you.

He sees it now that you want him to go, "Fine!"

With a snap of his fingers, he disappears right in front of you, leaving a cloud of black smoke behind him.

You manage to grab a medical mask from the nurse station and put it on, pretending as a mere relative of a patient.

Looking around the hall and making sure the coast is clear, you let yourself into the room with his name written outside the door.

There he is, lying on the bed with his body wrapped in gauze. You get closer to see his face, the burned skin around his eyes that is now closed, you guess he must be heavily sedated.

You hate to give him the easy way out but this is your chance to end everything for good.

You stand close to his unconscious body and take the chisel out of your coat pocket, pressing the sharp end to his neck.

This is not the good time to hesitate but you can feel your determination shrinks in each passing second, ultimately because Minho isn't here.

You take a deep breath and press the chisel deep into his neck. All it takes is one good stab at it, poke it real hard, and make a hole in his throat.

You lift your chisel and decide to aim it at his heart, taking one long breath, you put all of your strength into—

"Stop!" Someone shouts with the door wide open.

Your head snaps to see Detective Leon aiming his gun at you and taking cautious steps toward you.

The time is closing in and if you get caught now, you won't get another chance. You make another attempt but Detective Leon takes another step toward you, taking a good aim of his gun at you.

"I said stop!" He orders you.

You put away the chisel but keep holding it, gripping it tight until your knuckles turn pale and cold.

"I have to do it," your voice is quivering as your anxiety rises inside you.

"It's not right!" Detective Leon says, taking another careful step to get close to you.

You point your chisel at Nick's body and desperately say, "If I don't do this by midnight..." A choked sob gets in the middle of your sentence.

Standing right across from you, Detective Leon pushes his gun right at your face. He stares straight into your eyes that were filled with suspicion now filled with a slight terror and repulsion.

"Put it down!" He orders you

You quickly wipe away the tears rolling down your cheek with your hand, "There'll be fire... everywhere," you continue your words.

For the umpteenth time, he urges you with his gun steadily pointed at you, "Put it down!"

Giving in means that you've given up on everything and wasted away all of your endeavors but at the same time, you just want it to end.

"I... I can't!" You resist with your heart filled with despair.

As your eyes get blurry with tears, you wipe them away only to get caught off guard. Detective Leon successfully got ahold of you.

You keep crying as you get pushed to the wall and he puts your arms together behind your back, putting you in handcuffs.

"Minho, I'm sorry..." you mutter even though you know he's not there.

After hours of being locked in the interrogation room and refusing to talk without the presence of a lawyer like Kim ordered you through the phone, they let you go.

It feels good to let go of the cold of metal handcuffs around your wrists, but it's not yet the time to let out a breath of relief.

Kim sits you down on the dining table while she sits next to the lawyer, drilling you with questions about everything you've done.

You're too busy looking at the clock, seeing that it's getting closer and closer to the end. You turn your head and realize that the lawyer asked you a question, but you're too distracted to hear him.

"Pardon?"

He fixes his sitting position and clears his throat "You have to kill three people?"

You've been holding your glass of water with both hands on the table, watching the droplets of condensation dripping down the back of your hands.

"Yes," you weakly answer.

"You're saying you were only targetting people who have done something wrong?"

"Yes," you answer, "Except for Tim's brother."

You take a moment to recall his name, "Uhm... Kurt?"

The lawyer is fiddling with the stack of papers as he further asks you more questions.

"And each time you sacrificed someone, it got registered on the talisman? Is that right?"

You nod again, "Yes, but they said Tim didn't count."

The lawyer clears his throat again, but this time, he does it while glancing at Kim. He then takes a ziploc bag of your things that got confiscated when you were at the police department.

He takes the pocket watch out of the bag and slides it across the table, "Is this the talisman?"

You let go of the glass of water to take the pocket watch, opening it to find the watch is dead and the glass cracked. It appears to people that it's just an old pocket watch and nothing more.

"Before, it had numbers on it and that sort of changed when you looked at it..." your words are trailing off the second you realize how crazy you sound.

The lawyer stacks his hands on the table, "And the demon who told you to do all this?"

"Yes."

"And what did he look like?"

"A monster at first, then he turned into the man of one of my sculptures," you shortly answer.

"He looked like the man you carved? Like your sculpture you made?"

You nod.

A moment passes in silence as the lawyer exchanges a look with Kim.

"So the demon..."

"His name is Minho," you keep holding the pocket watch, hoping that it'll summon him and assure you that it is all real.

You can hear the lawyer letting out a big sigh before asking the next question, "And if you don't do what he told you..."

He sighs again as he writes something on his note, "It'll be the end of the world?"

Instead of answering it verbally, you nod.

"He didn't just tell me," You say.

You hold the pocket watch inside the palm of your hand and put all of your fingers on it, "He showed me what it would be like."

The vision Minho made you see is still vivid and you can see it replaying in the back of your head, "I felt the flames. I smelled people burning..."

The lawyer seems to have given up trying to get something that would help you avoid getting sentenced to life for what you did.

He turns to Kim and quietly whispers, "Her mind's gone, that's for sure."

It's Kim's turn to draw a big sigh and sits straighter on the chair, "You may leave now. It's late, we can continue this tomorrow," she says to him.

The lawyer collects his papers and pens, putting them into his briefcase, looking impatient to get out of here.

Kim has been eerily quiet. She comes back after sending off the lawyer, she then drinks her glass of water just so she can fill the glass with liquor next.

"I tried to stop it, Kim," you tell her.

She looks at you as she drains her first drink and refills it with more liquor.

"Honest I did," you assure her, feeling like a failure that you let down everyone, billions of them.

"Enough!" Kim snaps, throwing the glass she's holding at the wall and it's breaking into pieces, glimmering under the fluorescent light.

"You have to trust me. You have—"

Kim slams her hands down on the table, "Enough with this nonsense!"

You understand that it's a lot to take in, not to mention that she's upset and tired. You try again even though you know it's going to be another fruitless effort, "I know that you think I'm crazy, Kim, listen to me..."

"No!" She cuts you off with another slam of hands on the table.

"I told you to take your medicine!" She screams at you until her voice is strained.

You admit that you haven't taken your medicine the last few days but that doesn't mean you made everything up. You remember taking them and still seeing Minho which doesn't prove that you made it all up.

Then it hits you that the reason why she always reminds you to take your meds is not because she cares, it's because she thinks you are crazy.

"You're just like everyone else..." you meekly say.

You didn't know you're crying until you touch your cheeks and they are wet with tears, "You think I'm crazy..."

Kim doesn't say anything but goes to your room and returns with your bottle of pills in her hand. She uncaps the bottle and lets the contents spill onto the table.

"If you had taken all of these pills..." she says, letting the empty bottle roll across the dining table, "All of these wouldn't have happened!"

You take the bottle and see your name written on it, seeing all the pills scattered on the table, you realize how many days you have gone without them.

This is when your reality starts to distort. You don't what's real or not anymore. Did you make it all up? And if it's real then where's Minho?

"I—" You look around for any signs of him, of his figure, or the sight of his red hair.

"I'm not..." you pause to wipe the tears pooling in your eyes, "...not lying."

The only way to prove everything is by showing Kim that you have only a few minutes left until the world is burning and comes to an end.

You look at the clock on the wall and the time shows that you only have less than two minutes to midnight, "Not long now," you mutter.

You look at Kim and tell her, "Know that I tried to stop it."

Kim grips the edge of the table and lets out a long sing, having enough of all of it, "Just... stop," she says through her gritted teeth.

"It's coming..."

You clasp your hands together in front of you and push it close to your mouth, nothing prepares you for what's coming. You close your eyes as you keep listening to the ticking of the clock that intensifies with each passing second.

Tick, tick, tick...

THE END OF THE WORLD

It's midnight and you open your eyes to look at the clock to make sure of it.

The needle has ticked past midnight and you look around to see that nothing happens. You hesitate to get up from your chair and look through the window to see that the world looks exactly how it usually looks like.

A single tear escapes the corner of your eyes and rolls down your cheek, you feel faint all of a sudden. Other than that, you feel like questioning everything you know.

Are you crazy just like everyone said you are? You ask yourself.

Your legs are wobbling, you collapse onto the chair as the answer hits you.

Maybe you are crazy.

Kim turns away, possibly holding herself back from screaming at you and telling you how right she was all along.

When she turns around to face you again, she looks frustrated by you and the whole situation, but mostly by you to the point that she can't look at your face anymore.

She walks to the sofa to retrieve her handbag and then stands at the end of the dining table, "I'll... see you tomorrow," she says.

She then heads to the door and the sound of her closing the door echoes in the big space, leaving you to process everything on your own.

A moment later, you get up from your chair and walk over to the window, looking at the world that seems so small to you from up here.

And tonight, the view makes you feel smaller than you already are.

Then you hear sirens blaring in the distance. You turn around and see him there, sitting on the chair you sat on earlier with his hands on the table.

"Hey..." Minho says with an apparent sadness in his eyes.

It doesn't matter anymore whether people think you're crazy or not, now that the world is ending, you're just glad that he's there with you.

"I failed," you can hear your heart breaking inside your chest as you said it.

He inhales air and then lets it out, "Yeah, well... me too so that's that," he says.

He turns the chair to face you and puts his leg over the other, "Just got word that they're casting me out."

Minho doesn't look like he's delivering bad news with a smirk dancing on his face, "so... eternal oblivion it is," he finishes.

To say that you're disappointed with yourself would be an understatement, you are devastated. Not only that you failed the billions of people from raging flames, but also Minho.

"I'm so sorry," you sincerely tell him.

Minho gets quiet. He then gets up from his chair and walks up to you. He looks at your face and stares deeply into your eyes, he seems to have something to say to you.

You look back at him and patiently wait for him to say whatever he wants to say to you.

"Do you want to come with me?" He asks.

"What?" You ask in utter confusion.

"That's where I've been, checking the small print," he says, placing his hands on each side of his waists, "The rules don't cover it."

He takes a step closer toward you and continues speaking, "There's another loophole, apparently."

He looks at the view outside as the world slowly stirs into chaos with the sounds of sirens blaring everywhere, exactly like he showed you that night.

"They don't say anything about a human companion," he explains, then slyly smiles before talking again, "So, I mean... you could come with."

The offer comes so sudden and you remember how he talks about this place that he tried so hard to not fail his initiation.

"To eternal oblivion?" You ask for confirmation.

He scrunches his nose, "It's much worse than that," he says.

The sheer enthusiasm you have fades away with his answer, perhaps it would be bearable when you have him with you, wherever it is.

"It's with me," Minho adds with a playful smirk.

Well, the choice is here or there, but you can't have him here. You look at the world then at him.

"I'll give it a go," you say with a smile.

A smile rises on his face too, a smile that shines brighter than the fire that is about to engulf the whole world. He takes another step, closing in the gap between your bodies.

At the same time, an explosion occurred at the end of the horizon and it's so bright it's blinding you.

Now you know that it's the end of the world from how everything falls into place and in the end, nothing matters anymore. It doesn't matter that they choose not to trust you and think you're crazy.

What matters now is the one that sticks with you to the very end.

Minho takes your hand and intertwines it with yours, "It's going to be alright now."

You look at him and hold his hand back, everywhere it is, you can't wait to spend eternity with him.

Together, you're walking hand-in-hand, leaving the world as it goes up in flames and into the oblivion you go, forever more.

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#stray kids smut #skz smut #lee know smut #lee know x reader #skz x reader #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #skz fanfics #skz fics #kpop smut #kpop fics #kpop fanfics #seospicy smut

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the-black-manor · 10 months

Text

The Little Moments

Summary: You enjoy a good fucking in the tub with your master.

Warnings: Cervix fucking, unprotected sex, cnc.

Kinks: Vampire, oversized cock, excessive cum, cum inflation, breeding, shower/bath, master/pet, dom/sub.

Characters: You and your loving Master.

Words: 2,632

More writing on Patreon.

Soft classical music draws you subconsciously to your master's bedroom, where you pad silently on bare feet across the dark wood floor to the bathroom door. You don't bother knocking before you turn the brass knob and step inside. Within the dimly lit room sits your master in a large, black claw-foot tub, whose golden accents have worn and faded through the many years it's belonged to him. If you didn't know any better, you might think that your master was sleeping. His pale skin seemed almost to glow as the moonlight filtered in through the tall window opposite you to light upon his face. He looked like a statue, chiseled expertly from marble by the deft hands of a master sculptor.

You were suddenly very aware of your own presence in the room and how much of a blemish you seemed to be amidst this picturesque scene. For the briefest moment, you wanted to sneak out of the bathroom without your master knowing you were ever there. But you stayed. He already knew you were there. He always knew when you were there.

"Master?" you called quietly.

He didn't respond, only lifted his hand out of the water and held it out toward you. He liked to wear gloves, your master, and while no one else knew why, you did. His hands bore the sign of his age. They were a roadmap through the many centuries he had been alive. Deep lines crossed his wide palms like canyons, and his fingers were thick and long, tipped with crimson nails. You padded forward and rested your hand in his. His skin was gray, almost translucent here, thin, and pulled too tightly over pronounced tendons and bone, like a corpse. He is a corpse. You knew this, and yet, despite the lack of a heartbeat, the absence of breath in his lungs, and the cool of his skin, he always seemed so very alive to you. Warm, despite no blood to flow through his veins, with bright eyes and a smile that could bring gods to their knees. Alive, dead, undead, it didn't matter. These were just words to you; they held no weight. He was perfect.

His fingers curled around yours, firmly, but not tightly. Pink peonies floated on the surface of the water, and the faint aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and other warm spices drifted into the air, carried by the steam. He liked to use oils in his baths to keep his skin from becoming leathery, and this one was one of your favorites. The water was so still, it looked like glass, and didn't obscure any of what your master had to offer. Long legs with strong thighs, a thin waist and stomach with just the barest definition of abs partially hidden by dark hair leading down to his crotch, where his cock rested, always semi-firm, between his legs. His chest was covered in the same dark hair as his belly, strong and toned, and he had muscular arms that he, unfortunately, liked to keep hidden beneath dress shirts made of expensive fabrics.

Your gaze wandered toward his, where he peeked at you through one half-open eye, a smirk on his delicate lips. Your face heat up in embarrassment, and you looked away. He only chuckled, a deep reverberation through the room akin to the first rumbles of thunder that precede a storm.

"Are you going to get in, or not?" he asked, and your heart skipped a beat. His voice was music.

He gave your hand a squeeze and you looked back at him. No matter how many times you had slept together, how many times he had touched you, how many times he had looked at you with those pale green eyes, it always felt like the first time, and you felt how David must have felt when he stood before Goliath. You were so small in comparison to this man, this creature, that stood taller than life.

All the same, you nodded, then lifted a foot over the edge of the tub. Your master took very hot baths, but a dip of your toe confirmed that it had cooled enough for you to enjoy the water comfortably.

"Can I sit on your cock?' you asked sheepishly, like a child asking for a second cookie.

"Of course," he smiled, and sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight.

He knew you would ask. You always do.

He scooted back to make room for you and helped you keep your balance as you stepped into the tub. You settled between his legs. The water reached well past your chest, and you could feel the weight of his manhood on your lower back. You knew he would need a moment to get himself ready, so you sat upright, making sure not to obstruct his access to himself. His fingers brushed against you, sending a chill up your spine, as he curled them around his cock. The stillness of the water was broken as he began to stroke himself, creating little waves, one of which carried a fluffy peony right to you. You cupped the flower gently in your hands, and lifted it to your nose, where you breathed deeply, picking its scent out from the rest. You closed your eyes, enjoying the heat of the water and the soft melody drifting through the air.

Your master groaned behind you, and his legs tensed around yours. It never took him long to get ready. You imagined it wouldn't take you long either, if you were always ready to breed someone like he was. Sometimes you wished you had the ability to have sex for hours on end and still be aroused when the session was over. Other times, you saw the look on his face, and knew that he was only barely winning the fight with his instincts. You saw how he would shift throughout the day to try and get comfortable, how he would squeeze his legs together to try and give his greedy cock some friction. In those times, you pitied him. You wished you could give him more of what he needed. You'd told him that you would never say no to him, that he could do whatever he wanted to you, but still he held back. If he didn't, he would break you, and so he was never truly satisfied.

You felt his cock throb against your back, and your own legs clenched in response.

"You can sit in my lap now," he said.

You set the flower back in the water, then used both sides of the tub to lift yourself up just enough for him to position himself beneath you. His hands found your hips and he pulled you backward. Your arms shook as you held your position, waiting for him to line up. His cockhead found its way between your folds and prodded at your entrance. He wiggled, only ever so slightly, but his knee collided with your leg, and you lost your grip on the tub.

You collapsed onto him with your full weight, and his cock slid inside without warning. You cried out and tried to stand, but his arms snaked around your torso like prison bars. He laid back and pulled you with him, holding you firmly against his chest. Your eyes watered and you clenched around him in pain. He rested his chin on your shoulder, and gently rubbed your stomach.

"Hush, love, hush. Stay still. The pain will pass."

You relaxed as best you could and let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. Almost instantly, the pain began to subside. Your master insisted over and over that whatever magic or powers he had weren't for healing, but you knew that his touch could relieve pain at the very least. You had experienced it more than once.

You whined and turned your head to nuzzle into the crook of his neck. His soft beard, neatly trimmed and shaped, brushed against your forehead.

"There, that's it," he purred.

One of his hands traveled up your body to play with your nipples, pinching and rolling them around between his fingers, while his other hand found its way between your legs and gave your clit the same attention. Just when you began to think that you were getting used to the size of him, you were reminded just how big he really was. His cock alone made you feel full. He stretched you well, and even while his cockhead was pressed hard against your cervix, he wasn't completely inside of you. You could feel the thick vein beneath his girth massaging your g-spot as he adjusted to get comfortable.

You hummed and closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into him, to give yourself to him fully. You were limp in his arms, a toy to be played with, nothing more, and he took full advantage of that. His nails were more akin to claws, but he kept them filed down for you, and you were silently grateful for it as he worked your clit. He moved his fingers just right, and the pleasure that traveled up your spine was like lightning, causing your back to arch involuntarily..

You whined as he pulled you back down with a strong arm and a chuckle.

"Already so sensitive to my touch, and I've only just begun."

You knew he was grinning without needing to see it. He liked to tease you, and he was very good at it, and you had come to know exactly how he responded to certain things. In this case, a grin was predictable. You only wished you could see it, see those fangs that he cared so diligently for.

You buried your face further into the crook of his neck, breathing him in as he rubbed your stomach, massaged your clit, and began moving gently in and out of you. Pain came first, as it always did, but quickly gave way to pleasure as his cockhead kissed your cervix with each thrust, and the girth of his cock filled you deliciously. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head and nuzzled against you with a content hum. When you finally managed to contain your squirming to the occasional buck of hips and tensing of abs, he released his hold around you and brought his hand up to card his fingers through your hair. He took a fistful and pulled gently, and you moaned in reply.

He found a comfortable pace for you and settled into it, moving quickly, but gently, providing just the right amount of friction inside of you. Paired with the slow, almost lazy attention to your clit, it took no time at all for the embers of arousal to ignite in your core, burning low, but hot.

You closed your eyes and released a small whine, to which he responded with a groan of pleasure.

“You always feel so good… You hold me just right, pet.”

“Master…” you breathed as your walls clenched around him tightly. “I’m close… Please fill me. Please, Master.”

He pressed his lips to your temple and you felt him smirk as he placed a gentle kiss there. Wordlessly, he picked up the pace, and water splashed over the edge of the tub. Strong waves carried the peonies over as well, until it was just you and your master in the tub, with him thrusting into you hard. Your breathing picked up as the coil in your stomach tightened and tightened ready to spring. Your master groaned again, and his cock was hot inside of you. With each growl he let past his teeth, your climax came closer and closer, with each moan and whine, the spring tightened, until he was panting in your ear as he fucked you and you were milking his cock with your walls.

“Oh god… Master… I’m gonna cum. Please can I cum?”

“Fuck, yes…” he breathed. “Cum for me sweetheart. Milk me.”

His breath was hot on the shell of your ear, and you cried out as your climax tore through your body. You tried to arch your back, but his arms were wound tightly around you, holding you fast.

“Fuck… fuck,” you swore as you felt him still, pushing hard against your cervix.

Pleasure clouded your vision as he thrust farther inside, forcing his cockhead to open your cervix and push into your womb. The edges of your vision darkened as his cock throbbed, unloading thick ribbons of hot cum directly into your thirsty uterus. He growled loudly as his climax overtook him, and he held you so tightly you almost couldn’t breathe. Still you came, waves of pleasure washing over you in time with the throbbing of his thick cock.

You could feel it moving inside of you, pulsing, and the warmth of his cum seemed almost hotter than the water around you. You squeezed your eyes shut to stop the room from spinning and rested a hand over your stomach. It began to grow beneath your palm as your womb filled with his seed, stretching to accommodate as he filled you with more and more, until you were bulging and braindead. All you could think was “Yes, Daddy, yes!” as your stomach swelled like a balloon, spurring your orgasm on.

After what seemed like ages, your master let out a whine and sucked in a deep breath. He relaxed back and you fell, limp, on top of him. Your hand slid from your stomach, which was so large, the top of it sat well above water-level. One of his strong hands replaced your own, and he rubbed soft, comforting circles over your swollen belly, soothing the taut skin there and bringing you down from your orgasm.

You couldn’t move, and as you gasped for air, you became very aware of his cock still nestled firmly inside of your cervix.

“M-master…” you whined.

“Hush, darling.”

A moan escaped your lips when he shifted to get more comfortable, and he chuckled.

“I know, darling. Doesn’t it feel nice?”

You nodded. “Mmm… feels nice…”

“Good, we’re going to stay here for a while, okay?”

You nodded again and he kissed your temple once more.

“My good pet. My sweet little cum-hungry toy,” he purred. “You and I are firmly knotted together, aren’t we?” he mused. “Well, that’s no trouble to me. It looks like we’re just going to have to stay here until I soften enough to pull out of you.”

You whined.

“B-but..”

“But I’m never soft?” he smirked. “Yes, I suppose that could be a problem… for you.”

He settled in, holding you and stroking your big belly with a smile on his red lips as you clenched around him. Each movement he made was a mix of agony and ecstasy, and you couldn’t stop your walls from reacting in kind. It wasn’t long until he was hard again, filling you full with his cock, stretching you wonderfully. He was inside of you fully, every last inch of him, and he used this rare opportunity to his advantage, rutting into you gently.

While your eyes drooped and sleep tugged at the back of your mind, he used your body to pleasure himself. You didn’t complain. He felt amazing, and the spring in your core was tightening again. You would do anything for your master, including remaining thoroughly stuck on him so that he could use and fill you as he pleased. You sighed and relaxed back. There was no fight in you, not that you wanted to fight it anyway. You smiled as he moved inside of you. It was your purpose in life to please him. You were, after all, his good pet.

His sweet little cum-hungry toy.

#my writing #vampire kink #oversized cock #excessive seed kink #impreg kink #consensual noncon #terato #monster kink #monsterfucker #knotting kink #dom/sub #master/pet #wealth kink

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whatlovelybones-if · 4 months

Text

ragged breaths pour out of you as you scrub your hands clean of the crimson liquid which stains your hands and your very soul. it was brutal and beautiful—the colour and how the red strands swirled around as it united before falling down the sink pipe.

you blink and clench your hands. the very hands which so effortlessly carved up the heart from inside the man laying on your rough ‘operating table’. you are terrible, yes. there was no other word to describe you. a vigilante, maybe? but did it even matter when there is a part of you which feels the thrill of the killings and torture that you so cunningly come up with no mercy?

no, actually, there are other words to describe you. heartless, being one of them. the irony of that when you quite literally removed someone’s heart recently is not lost on you.

rotten. sadistic. torturous. depraved. murderer.

it was how you revelled in the pain you caused others; how you can’t stop the excitement spreading across your body when you see the utter terror in their eyes; how you sometimes let them have a moment of freedom, just to tear it all away at once and see as hopelessness encompasses every cell of their body. the scalpel that you used in carving the man’s heart probably possessed more sympathy than you did.

you are not the same, the voice taunts you. you are not the same person who cried over the dead raven for night’s on end. you can’t even recognise yourself. you are twisted and depraved and oh-so sick in the head. you are broken in ways you don’t even know.

you try to deny it at first, try to resist with every shaky breath that you do this for the greater good. but you know, deep down, you know that this is what you are: a monster masquerading as a human. you have as much heart as the corpse on your operating table with the empty chest.

you try to find some semblance of yourself on the broken pieces of the vanity mirror scattered around you. but you can truly see your twisted visage on the abnormal reflections. it was as if a sculptor had chipped away at you to add all the cruelty of the world and none of its gentleness.

you were made of jagged edges and sharp thorns. made to admire, not to love.

#damn MC is going through it #chapter 3 sneak peek from my notes hehe 👀#let’s just say that they need to be locked up in a psych ward ASAP #also shoutout to my NPC victim (don’t have a name for him yet) for just chilling on the ‘operating table’ while MC has a mental crisis #appreciate his undying patience fr #what lovely bones #ch: the killer #interactive fiction #interactive story #progress update #kind of?

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ashiristic · 5 months

Text

SNIPPET 16:

Warning;: Mentions of blood

The hero and villain challenge each other on who'll last longer in a kiss. Chaos ensues.

It was just a kiss, the hero's final thought before the villain's lips met his. Soft and intoxicating like poisoned red wine. This kiss wasn't filled with passion and hunger but was a fight for dignity and pride.

The hero's eyes remained open, occasionally biting and chewing on the villain's lips, just as his nemesis did. Their hands roamed each other's bodies, searching for something to hold onto in this battle. The hero's fist harshly gripped the villain's hair, pulling it downward, drowning in his nemesis' low grunts.

He always told himself the villain was ethereal beyond recognition. A siren luring him to the sea, making him lose control like a sculptor molding him anew. But he'd never admit it.

They eventually fell onto the mattress, staining the white sheets with congealed blood from their previous battle. Before all of this began, the villain struggled, breathing heavily as his chest lifted up and down. He wished to see the villain's debauched state, but he couldn't lose. Not yet.

It seemed the villain had a different idea. He hissed, feeling the villain's nails dig deeper into his wrist, drawing blood. The hero attempted to pull away, but the villain chased him, biting his reddened lips severely.

"Fuck," the hero muttered under his breath, catching a smirk from the villain.

The villain parted away from the hero, a string of saliva connecting them. He wiped his lips with his white long-sleeves, lolling his head a little on his shoulder. His bangs fell in place to cover his eyes, yet his debauched lips still displayed that irritating smirk.

"Funny," the villain said, taking advantage of the hero's trance state, pushing him away. "Can you even win against me—"

"You're the one who pulled away," the hero suddenly said, huffing a breath, trying to steady his rapid pulse.

The villain paused for a second, blinking his eyes. After a long ponder, he suddenly blushed, a profound crimson color dancing on his cheeks. His grip loosened on the hero's wrist, but an odd smile crept on his face, followed by a chuckle. He was certainly amused. On what? Then, he raised both of his hands in defeat.

"Right, I did," the villain stood up, walking towards the small white lamp in the corner of the room. He grabbed a candy randomly placed on the table, twisting it between his fingers. "And I admit defeat."

Odd. One word to describe it. He knew the villain was a person who would never admit defeat and would try to find a loophole. But today, he didn't do that. The hero wrapped his hand on his wounded lips, trying to wrap his head around the villain's action. Maybe he looked like a monstrous, sexually frustrated guy after he pulled away from him. That must be it (it's not).

"All of a sudden?" the hero leaned against the headboard, running his hand through his sweaty hair. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't confused. So, he asked, "Why?"

The villain halted before the open window. He bathed in silence, turning his head a little to the hero. "Why? What stupid question is that?"

And he continued unbuttoning his shirt with no care regarding the well-being of the person behind him. The sun had already set, but the warm light engraved on the dawn remained, embroidering the villain's skin with gold. Mesmerizing and otherworldly. That is what he is.

"Can't I be curious?"

"You wouldn't like it. You would be embarrassed if I told you," the villain shrugged, shaking his head a little.

The hero rolled his eyes, darting his gaze on the bookshelves, crossing his arms. He sat still for a few minutes, but his impatience lingered as he tapped his fingers against the side of the wooden cabinet beside the bed. And don't add the drowning sense of not knowing what to say to the villain once he finally breaks the silence. He should think of one now, for emergencies.

"It is because I pity you," the villain suddenly said, and smirked, before placing the candy on his tongue, savoring the sweetness. "You are such a bad kisser."

The audacity.

"Ten out of ten. Bravo joke."

"Oh, thank you," he placed his finger on his lips, laughing to himself. It was red with a fine line of deep rose on the middle of his bottom lip.

The hero watched the villain caressing his own lips before he froze and stopped, slapping his cheeks a little. What was wrong with him? And the villain veered towards the hero, fixing the collar of his shirt.

The villain grinned, "I have to go now—"

"We should do this again," he interrupted, blankly staring at the villain as he spoke. "You liked it, didn't you?"

The hero would lie to himself if he said that he didn't love it. Plus he was willing to sacrifice a few of his dignity to admit it. But the villain only smiled, his eyes not revealing anything on what he was thinking. The hero's heart plummeted in his chest, its hope bursting out of his chest cavity as he covered it with a smile.

"If you say so,"

Then he left. And the hero never felt happier.

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voidpetrova · 8 months

Text

art deco — damon salvatore x reader

☄. *. ⋆

content warnings and genre: blood, violence — angst(ish) (?)

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

synopsis: art was as long as life was short, something you and damon knew entirely too well.

✧.*

in the dimly lit, abandoned museum, the air hung heavy with the scent of history and dust. faint moonlight filtered through cracked windows, casting ethereal glimmers upon forgotten canvases and sculptures. every corner of the place breathed with the remnants of bygone elegance, a silent testament to a world long past. amongst this solitude, you stood, a figure of timeless grace dressed in an opulent gown that whispered of old money. the art in this decaying sanctuary spoke to you in ways only a fellow aficionado could comprehend. the cracked masterpieces adorned the walls, their colors faded yet their stories vivid. each stroke of the brush or chisel seemed to echo through the ages, a symphony of artistic expression transcending time itself.

as you moved from one masterpiece to another, your fingers brushed lightly against the gilded frames, tracing the intricate carvings that held the essence of centuries. your eyes, pools of liquid appreciation, gazed upon the paintings with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. the strokes of genius laid bare before you – from the haunting chiaroscuro of a renaissance masterpiece to the avant-garde chaos of abstract modernism – all whispered secrets to your heart.

but amidst this silent communion with art, you couldn't help but feel a presence, a shadow that moved with grace and purpose. you turned your head, and there he stood—damon salvatore, a man of another era, his eyes a deep well of secrets. his attire, tailored to perfection, exuded the same timeless charm that you cherished in art.

he smiled, a slow and enigmatic curve of his lips that hinted at a world of knowledge hidden behind his captivating exterior. “you have exquisite taste,” he murmured, his voice a velvet melody that danced through the gallery. you inclined your head, acknowledging the compliment. “and so do you,” you replied, your eyes returning to the artwork that surrounded you.

for a while, the two of you stood there, side by side but lost in your own worlds. the art, the sculptures, the remnants of human creativity encapsulated you both, weaving an unspoken connection stronger than words could convey.

it was as if the museum itself had come alive, the masterpieces breathing, sighing, and pulsating with the essence of creativity. damon, seemingly enthralled by your presence, broke the silence. “you know,” he began, his tone almost wistful, “art isn't just what's on the canvas. It's the stories, the emotions, the beauty found in unexpected places.” you turned to him, curiosity dancing in your eyes, “elaborate.”

with a mischievous glint in his eye, damon extended his hand toward a forgotten statue tucked away in the corner. it was a fragment of antiquity, a delicate hand emerging from a block of marble, frozen in time. "this," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, “this is a masterpiece of its own. a testament to a sculptor's skill, yes, but also a tribute to the endurance of beauty. this hand, emerging from the stone, tells a story of transformation, of potential realized.”

you studied the sculpture anew, seeing it through his eyes. it was as if he'd breathed life into the lifeless, giving you a glimpse into the world beyond the surface.

as the night wore on, you and damon continued to traverse the labyrinthine corridors of art. each piece held its own unique charm, and damon, with his profound insights, revealed hidden dimensions to you. it was a dance of minds amidst a symphony of aesthetics, and you were enchanted.

but the final masterpiece of the night was yet to be unveiled, and it was not on the canvas or in the cold embrace of marble. it was the crimson masterpiece that damon had been crafting, a composition that was dark, brutal, and utterly enthralling.

in a secluded corner of the museum, far from prying eyes, the two of you stood together, surrounded by darkness and the echoes of history. damon's eyes bore into yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. you were not unaware of the darkness within him, the primal force that lurked beneath his charming exterior, but in this moment, it only added to the allure.

he leaned in, his lips dangerously close to your ear, his voice a seductive whisper. “art is subjective, my dear. and this, this is my masterpiece.”

before you could react, his lips met the tender skin of your neck, and the world exploded in a symphony of sensations. pain and pleasure intertwined, a chaotic dance that defied reason. as his fangs pierced your skin, you gasped, your vision blurring as a rush of ecstasy washed over you. the world around you dimmed as your senses heightened. you could hear the rhythm of your own heartbeat, the whisper of blood flowing through your veins. the metallic taste of your own life filled your mouth, and it was both repulsive and intoxicating.

damon's grip on you tightened as he drank, his movements possessive and primal. in that agonizingly beautiful moment, you realized the true essence of art – the collision of beauty and brutality, creation and destruction, life and death.

as the last vestiges of your humanity slipped away, you became a part of his masterpiece, a work of art in your own right. the abandoned museum, with its forgotten treasures, had witnessed another chapter in its history, a tale of immortal passion and boundless darkness. and in that timeless night, surrounded by the relics of a bygone era, you and damon salvatore became a living testament to the endless possibilities of art, where boundaries blurred and beauty was redefined in shades of red.

art, indeed, was subjective, and in the world of vampires, it was a canvas that knew no limits.

#tvd #tvdu #the originals #legacies #damon salvatore #damon x reader #damon salvatore x reader #damon salvatore angst #damon salvatore smut #damon salvatore fluff

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rowaelinsdaughter · 6 months

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𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖎 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 (𝖗𝖍𝖞𝖘 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗)

Rhys fanfic is here!!!! ENJOY IT!!!! WARNINGS: FLUFF

15 minutes after arriving at your room, you were still locked in the bathroom. The reason? Rhysand, your secret love. The best athlete in the entire University, the best student, the most handsome, charismatic and kind to everyone. And he was on the other side of the door waiting for you to go to sleep, or so you think.

After 2 hours of traveling on the bus, your class had arrived at the town where you were going to spend the week. The rooms were chosen by lottery... to your bad (or good) luck you and Rhys got the only one-bed room. At that moment you didn't know if you wanted to die of shame or happiness at being with Rhys.

You splash water on your face and finish putting on your pajamas. You open the door and stand in place. Rhys sleeps without a shirt. Even though it was winter and 3 degrees, apparently his body gave off too much heat to be wearing a shirt.Shit, shit, shit.Lying on the bed, you look at his tattooed pecs and arms. Glasses make his already attractive face look like it was sculpted by the best sculptor. Rhys looks up from the book he's reading and watches you with a small smile.

“You're not thinking about sleeping standing up there, are you?”

You come out of your stupor, a crimson coloring your cheeks. You roll your eyes and with a courage that you don't know where you got it from, you smile back.

"Of course not"

You go to the bed and lie down at a respectable distance so as not to bother him... or so as not to die of a heart attack if you touch him. Already under the covers, you turn so that your back is turned to him and you look at the moon through the window.

“You can come closer to me, I'm not going to bite you.”

“I'm fine, don't worry”

"Sure?"

“Yes, good night Rhys.”

But you couldn't sleep. It was 3 in the morning and you were still awake. After tossing and turning, you finally decide to lie on your back, staring at the ceiling. You notice the bed move next to you and you hear Rhys's voice, nothing more than a whisper in the darkness.

"You can not sleep?"

You sigh and rub your eyes with your hands and then rest them on your stomach. “No, I can't sleep.”

"Me neither"

“I thought you fell asleep after reading.”

“No, the truth is that it has left me thinking”

“How deep was the book?”

A low laugh escapes his lips. “It was rather romantic.”

You turn to look at him and find his violet eyes already looking at you.

“I didn't take you for a romantic, Rhysand.”

He turns to face you.

“No, I wasn't romantic, but a girl made me change. A beautiful and smart girl, kind to everyone, and almost always has a dreamy look that makes her more magnificent. She has the most perfect laugh there can be, delicate hands like the wings of a swan, and her body drives me crazy every time I see it.” He reaches out and caresses your cheek. “She's perfect.”

Your heart stops. It can't be happening, he can't be talking about you. But that caress...

“She seems to be a good girl, doesn't she?” You swallow.

He moves closer to you, his thumb caressing your lower lip and your stomach explodes into thousands of butterflies. So many, that you think they will come out of your mouth if you open it. When only millimeters separate you, he whispers: “Yes it is. And I have it right where I want.”

His mouth caresses yours gently, not wanting to scare you. You slowly close your eyes and follow the kiss. With a hand trembling with nerves, you stroke the hair on his neck and marvel at the softness of his black hair. His hand pulls you around your waist and your arms hug his shoulders. The kiss is perfect, soft and delicate, unhurried, savoring the moment.

You separate and hide your face in his neck out of embarrassment, you hear his laughter and his hand caresses your hair gently while he places a kiss on your hair.

“You're adorable, I can't believe I have you all to myself.”

tags: @danikamariewrites @throneofsapphics @shadowdaddies

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ashleyfableblack · 1 month

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Queen Chrysalis Sparkle reclined on her satin perch, lifting a jewel-encrusted goblet in her magic. Once more Twilight had requested her bughorse wife to privately model for her latest attempt at artistry. Chrysalis was only too happy to comply. She took well to the job of a model, her wife's muse. Being the Queen-mother of her entire species she was quite accustomed to being the center of attention. As she desired no creatures attention on Equus more than her little pony wife's this was truly the perfect way to spend a quiet afternoon for the queen.

She slowly lifted a long chitinous hind-leg, widening her lap in a seductive and inviting manner. very unladylike yet very fitting for the couple. A soft purr rumbled in her long neck as she tucked a hoof to her barrel, adding a hint of coquettish playfulness to her posture.

She almost lost her balance as Twilight smacked an angry hoof against the sculptor's stage and barked out a shrill squawk. Chrysalis stifled a chuckle behind her pitted hoof. She was unaware that Twilight had learned how to swear in Griffonese. Twilight muttered in frustration at the uncooperative wet grey lump, grumbling out whispered threats and slander to its place as a mineral resource. Thus far her adversary resisted her every attempt to ply her fledgling techniques. To be fair her work-in-progress might be mistaken for Chrysalis, that is assuming it was viewed in passing by a near-sighted mole through several mugs of quality cider and perhaps the changeling queen had taken the form of a wad of chewed bubblegum.

Chrysalis touched the goblet to her lips. The dark crimson liquid sipped smoothly through her sabre-like fangs, cool and robust. The changeling queen considered the scene in loving silence. "Why do you struggle so with this new obsession, beloved? You've tried grasping my form with several mediums- charcoal, graphite, paint and now clay. To what end? To capture my likeness? To release your hidden tensions? Perhaps to gift me with your creation of love?" She narrowed her eyes. "Am I to believe you'd go to such lengths simply to try your hoof at new hobbies?" She pursed her lips, dismissing the notion. "No, surely not." Her wings softly buzzed as her forked tongue flickered at the air, tasting her wife's passion. "All artists have their need to create, my love. It consumes them. Why do you...?"

#my art #mlp au #mlp fim #twisalis #queen chrysalis #twilight sparkle #lgbtq #love #lesbian #mlp g4 #romance #mlp au art #clay sculpting #eternal courtship #ashleyfableblack #traditional art #pencil drawing #graphite pencil drawing #art

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sculptorofcrimson · 14 days

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Smokefields

Synopsis: Valdor bathes his lord

Relationships: Valdor x female Emperor Shard

Warnings: Bathroom sex, minorly dubious consent, vaginal fingering, nsfw

Wordcount: 3057 Possible continuation of Snowfields! Had another free 20 minutes to write, enjoy!

It wasn’t a calculated move.

Valdor had carried her into the baths, she still clinging onto him, bleary and half-conscious and half-asleep from the drugs the medicae had given her. Curiously, she seemed to have taken no damage from the lightning at all. Most of the damage inflicted had been sustained while recovering her. She had no doubt Valdor had already laid waste to all that upon that mission, if there were any other than himself, but she no longer found it in herself to despair.

It was simply a rite of Valdor. The price for ruling the world, if it may even be called that.

He had settled her into the warm water with the carefulness of a man caretaking a particularly fragile piece of china, gently lowering her inch by inch, and prying off her hands. She hadn’t even realized when he had stripped her, or if he had ever done so. Valdor seemed to have no concept of shame, humiliation or dishonor, none that he could fathom in any clearly defined way anyways. He was simply here to clean the blood from her frame, there was nothing else in that broken, ironclad mind of his.

She had startled when he had approached her, even while she was lying limply in that bath, head cocked to one side. The Custodian knelt down, soapy sponge in hand, gently reaching out to grasp one of her arms. His grip had tightened when she tried to yank it away. Rhythmically, he had begun to scrub at the skin, firm but gentle. She had watched him continue for a few moments, until he moved lower, until he was working at her stomach, and then her abdomen, and then her thighs. And that was when she had moved.

Valdor had lifted one of her thighs - gently of course - and began to scrub over the skin. The water was warm, his movements swift, and the scent of soap soft and light. He passed over her limbs without even a hint of recognizing this as anything more than a habitual practice, a way of cleaning the filth off a precious piece of jewelry perhaps. She had caught his hand when he tried to move away, and pressed it against her. Something had come undone, something vicious and broken and keening. Something that howled so pitifully out into the encroaching dark, begging for someone, anyone, to listen to her, even if they were her jailer, and his love just as cold as his wrath.

“Constantin.” she had rasped. Her voice was shaky. She didn’t remember what words he had spoken then. Perhaps one more of his habitual declarations of loyalty as he had tilted his head, and waited for her command.

“Yes, my lord?”

Her command was as curt as it was direct. “Bed me.” Something had broken inside of her, alright. Something that had once cared, and was now charred to ashes. Ashes, what an ugly word. It was almost as ugly as “immortal”.

Valdor's reply didn't even change his usual cadence. "Absolutely not, my lord. Your current state-”

She no longer cared enough to fear the consequences of interrupting him. “Surely you know alternatives. Your fingers.” she nodded at him. “I command you to, Constantin.”

He could not resist a direct command. For a moment, Valdor was silent, the sponge held in one loose grip. Then he gave a nod, and set it down, turning to face her entirely.

“Do you remember the first time you had me, my lord?” his question was stated more like a declaration than an actual question. His gaze was eerie. For one, he didn’t seem to be in need of blinking. For another, she felt as if this was an interrogation, even if he had smiled - surprisingly genuine - when he had asked it. It was not a gloating smile, but there was triumph in it anyways, a bitter, victorious smile of a madman that had finally been vindicated in his delusions.

She didn’t know what came over her then. What spiteful, ancient entity had latched onto her limbs and forced open her mouth.

“Constantin.” she spoke. Her voice resonated dully, and instinctively she felt herself raising her chin, straightening her spine, looking him dead in the eye even if her stomach coiled itself into knots at the mere thought of looking into that dreaded, insane gaze.

Valdor was staring back at her with the same fervour of a man that had grovelled in the icefields for centuries, who had finally seen the flame, and was now willing to burn for it. “Yes, my lord?”

She didn’t know what possessed her then, what cruel, vengeful part had snapped out to command him. “Be quiet.” she hissed.

Valdor stalled. He looked at her, as if gauging the seriousness of her command. She spoke nothing, simply calmly held his gaze with one of her own, and impatiently bucked her hips. She had no intentions of hearing him. She would enjoy herself, even if this was the only way she would accept it.

“Be quiet.” she repeated. Then, she grasped his hand, and pressed it against her, and impatiently waved at him to continue.

Valdor simply gave a short nod to show he understood and slipped a finger into her, slow and gentle and without rush.

She inhaled sharply, arching her back as his fingers found her bud and flicked at it. Valdor’s strokes slowed, as if calculating how to approach a particularly complex problem, his grip tightening and pressing down upon her hip until she grumbled in frustration and leaned back down.

He only waited until her movements slowed, then leaned forwards with that maddening grace, as delicate as a dancer performing a pirouette. Valdor lapped gentle kisses against her neck, whispering half-audible words of loyalty she no longer cared for as he freely and gently teased against the wetness of her folds.

“More.” she whispered, gasping. Her shoulders - so thin compared to his bulk - shook in the warm water. Desperately wanting to feel full, desperately wanting to feel loved, to forget the weight of the storm and the snow. Valdor obeys with only a cold smile, something close to satisfaction igniting in his gaze as he traces her entrance with a light touch, brushing against her folds.

A finger, calloused from weaponry and thicker than any mortal man’s digit, gently probes against her one last time, slipping inside with a gentle pressure, curling just to hit the spot that made her mewl and hiss. He strokes her with a slow, wave-like rhythm, holding her against him with a gentle, almost lazy touch. She clenches, feeling Valdor shift with her movements, and rocks her hips back against him.

She was mewling, hissing, clawing at him now. Water splashed around her, droplets sinking into the finery of his robe as she dragged at him, never seeming to make a single difference against his silk. Here he would be, perfect, elegant, without flaw, without even a droplet of water upon his immaculate features. She dragged at him, pulling him closer until she could tilt her head up and kiss him.

The angle was wrong. He was too tall, too large, and he was holding her too tightly to allow for any proper manuveering. Stubbornly, she persists, mouthing against his jawline and dragging at him until he returns it. There was no passion from him, no corresponding joy as he reciprocates. It was as if she had been kissing a corpse. No. Worse. Even corpses can be loved. It was as if she was kissing a statue, one without a heart and without a mind to care.

There was no passion in this. No love. Simply the movements of a primal dance He had beaten out of Valdor long ago, the emotions behind it lost forever, but the movements still remain. He was as utterly obedient as a machine would be, without complaint, and without even resistance. It was, in some horrible, twisted way, submission.

His free hand was no longer wandering through her hair. It had instead braced itself against her hip to steady her. She exalted softly as he slipped another finger inside of her, the movement so damnably gentle. Valdor was a large man, and yet he always took such care in bed. Growling, she reached for him again, seeking to kiss him again. Again, his lips on hers. Cold, mechanical, without passion. He simply opened his lips and let her explore as she wished, he let her taste the taste of incense and parchment and gold and blood upon his tongue, he let her trace his insides without protest. He simply hummed around her tongue, hunching over so that he could reach her, letting her explore the sharp tips of his canines carefully. He pulled away first, right at the edge when she was about to run out of air. He was still there, resolute, his chest barely even moving as she gasped and writhed as his fingers curled up to hit just the right spot. When he felt her relax around him again, he resumed his moments.

She cried out as his fingers found her clit, pumping slowly, gently, yet with that dreaded assurance. The pleasure was almost too much to handle. He wasn’t smiling, not quite, but there was that careful, attentive zeal in those eyes again, dark and calculating as he wrung cry after moan from her, his fingers moving with the same efficiency and grace he had displayed in combat. One moment rubbing against her inner walls, another moving against her clit in a hypnotic pattern.

His hands. Carefully manicured nails, surprisingly slender and graceful fingers, calloused from years of weaponary but still gentle. Those hands. He had killed a man with those hands. Slit his throat and watched him die. She couldn’t divorce the image from her mind, even as she keened and squirmed and danced beneath his grip. His fingers kept their quick rhythm in and out of her cunt, making no other sound except for the skin against skin as he honed in with brutal efficiency upon that spot that made her tremble. She keened at a particularly sharp thrust of his hand, sharper than his normal movements, but not enough to hurt her. His fingers were much thicker than a mortal’s man’s, but so infinitely gentle, even as he relentlessly targeted the spot that made her scream.

She bucked against his grip, sobbing out moans of lust and overwhelming emotion combined, knowing she was in his grasp, knowing he had his free hand holding her down. Smelling that incense, feeling his terrible, murderous presence, and knowing she couldn’t escape as her weeping cunt was fucked with that slow, gentle, yet ruthless pace.

He could have her moaning in minutes. His fingertip, teasingly this time, curls against that sensitive spot. Desperately, she clamps down, rolling her hips as she chases the high. Water splashes from around her as she grasps onto his shoulders, clawing at his robes, trying to find something - anything - to grab onto.

His finger curls against that spot again. She growled a groan of pure lust as he resumes pumping, rubbing against her walls, and her breath was stolen away in a sharp pitched whine. He had been so perfectly trained, so calm and collected even as his grip shifts to rub against her clit. He had been so utterly built to satisfy any purpose, it was inconceivable how he could fail. Hungrily, she clenched around his hand, accepting the only touch he would offer her. Still obedient from her earlier command, Valdor purrs, and moves close. Uncaring of the water now soaking into his robes, he gently spreads her thighs so his hands could have greater room to work. His strokes were faster now, tracing against her walls, leaving her a squirming, writhing mess, the pleasure rising and ebbing like a wave. That sight of him, his hands fisted around a dying man’s neck, was all but forgotten now, beneath that ache, the lust building and rearing until it was nearly unbearable. She squirms, her hips pumping and buckling against him, even as he lets her move as she desires, never letting go nor forcing her still, simply silent and obedient and somehow mechanical. It’s cold, it’s freezing and passionless and heartless, but it’s perfect , as if he had been trained to every cell of her body, programmed to please every inch of her.

“Con…Constantin!” she gasps. The sound was nearly lost over the sloshing of water, and the rhythm of his fingers through her cunt.

He was not yet commanded to speak. Instead, Valdor only tilts his head, like a curious dog listening in. He knows. Of course. He could smell weakness like blood on the water. The movements of his fingers are faster now, her walls clenching and unclenching around him, working her with a simple, brutal efficiency.

Her hands had tangled against his back, tracking small handprints of water. In the places where the water touched, fabric hung dark over his tall frame, draping over lean muscle and perfectly gene-carved tissue. Valdor still holds himself with that perfect, immaculate, dancer's grace, even half-hunched over, his face without even a trace of expression as he works at her, without pause and without hesitation, his eyes occasionally roaming over her flesh as if to verify she was still there, and not a creation of bone or metal. She shudders, and closes her eyes, and loses herself in the mechanical sensation of his fingers. She could feel herself nearing, her walls clenching around his fingers, so close to the edge, hips pumping up and down against him as his movements never pause, guiding her over it with the same, insistent gentleness he had always shown.

She cries out when she comes, the waves both intense and shattering. It crashes over her, raw and brutal like a wave of frost, shockwaves reverberating through her core and her abdomen. For a moment the world dissolves, the scent of incense fading, as her mind fades to nothing but sobs and screams. Valdor works her throughout, strokes slowing down so as not to overstimulate her.

She returns slowly, through blurry eyes, hips still dully rocking as she rides his fingers, waiting for the aftershocks of her orgasm to fade. Valdor’s hand had slowed, free hand now petting her thigh, as if waiting for her to appraise his performance.

Just another dance for him, just another dance. She comes back to herself in pieces, surfacing from the afterglow with a sensation almost like dread as the world refocuses itself with jarring clarity. She could feel the weight of the laurel on her head, the scent of incense from his robes, and the mechanical way he was waiting at rest. She was still clinging to him, her hands having tracked trails of droplets over his robes.

She shudders, and turns away from him. She retreats back into the water, the hot waves lapping gently at her shoulders as she sinks down, facing away from him. He was holding the sponge again, carefully reaching over to bathe her hair, continuing on as if nothing had changed.

Mutely, Valdor tilts his head. He did not have many expressions, and there was nothing except the usual neutral expression he wore while caring for her, as if this was no more important than a routine inspection of a machine for him. He was questioning her, she gathered. Waiting desperately for her approval, or her dissatisfaction.

She closes her eyes, and sinks into the warmth of the bath. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed at all, utterly nothing at all. She was still under his grasp, except she felt so tired, as if the weight of the world had crushed her down and shattered what remained of her.

Valdor’s fingers were brushing past her face now. He held her gently, yet with insistence, waiting for her to open her eyes. When she did, he was staring back at her, sponge held in one perfectly maintained hand.

“Was that satisfactory, my lord?” He brushes her hair with an air of careful reverence, before stepping back and waiting for her response. Streaks of wetness were already drying on his robe, leaving not even the semblance of a blemish nor scar against him. He was immortal, wasn’t he? Immortal, and utterly without change.

She resisted the urge to snort a laugh. Instead, she smiled, tired and exhausted and having all the fight broken out of her.

“Yes, Constantin.”

Valdor smiles coldly, as if those were the words he had scripted beforehand, as if this was a performance, and he had taken a bow after a particularly trying dance. There was nothing behind that smile, nothing but a mind that did not know how to love.

“Thank you, my lord.”

When Valdor returned to his ministrations as if nothing had changed, she closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear to gaze upon him, or to feel his cold, appraising gaze upon hers. And she was tired.

So tired. So utterly tired. The water was warm around her naked form, Valdor’s movements slow and soothing as he continued the bath, but she was cold. So utterly cold, and so utterly tired, as if the heart beating inside of her had burst and revealed nothing but gold inside. For a moment she understood what the Thunder Warrior Primarch must have felt, feeling the lifeforce bleed from him but not even bothering to stem the blood dripping from his slit throat, no longer having the strength to fight but still helm turned up, still snarling at an empty sky, mouth twisted into a fading growl. He hadn’t died then, not yet, but the years he spent in purgatory after the betrayal must have been no better. Waiting, seething, decaying in his own misery and loss, nothing but shadow now, nothing but decaying, waiting, and watching, simply waiting to die. A prisoner just hoping his gallows could be constructed even a day earlier. A corpse. That’s what they both were. They were the dead, taking part in the future only as handfuls of ash and splinters of bone.

She was already dead, even the ship knew it, even the world itself knew it, even she herself knew it, it was only Valdor who refused to confess to that.

Pinglist: @nonus-secundus @badbobdooley @bleedingichorhearts @starfrost740 @katie-faye1 @sigtamds @troylovesdoomguy @the-pure-angel @metronix36-blog @krynnmeridia @distantmoonbeam @futuristicchaospoetry @liar-anubiass-blog @subtle-like-a-brick-to-the-face @squishyowl @slaanesh @absent-still @sharenadraculea @idonotknowhowtochoosenames @kit-williams

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #sculptor of crimson #constantin valdor #Yandere Constantin Valdor #adeptus custodes #warhammer #wh40k writing prompts #constantin valdor x reader #valdor x oc #yandere adeptus custodes #male yandere #I am terrible at tags #unhealthy relationships

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brabblesblog · 1 month

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Astarion (Spawn/Pre-Cazador Mission) x Tav

As if the gods made you to ruin me. - Inspired by the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. First person POV. A sculptor confronts a piece of marble, and Astarion is their masterpiece.

To be loved - Fix-it fic for the scene with Halsin and the twins in Sharess' Caress. Smut.

Sounds like a plan - Angst with a happy ending. What if Tav wasn't exactly happy about being manipulated at the start of the romance?

In time - Fluff with smut. Astarion catches you during some solo time. Set in act II after his confession scene.

They will never be you - Angst with a happy ending. Astarion's not the only insecure one in the relationship. Set in act III after the end of Astarion's personal quest

A reason to beat again - Fluff, could be canon-compliant or not. What if vampire hearts beat again when they fall in love?

Worth it. - Fluff. A small drabble about that line in the epilogue with Spawn!Astarion.

I hope you die screaming - Angst with a happy ending. After you refuse to help Astarion ascend, he leaves you with a venomous goodbye. Unfortunately the vampire has to come back to get his things.

Goodnight Moon Series

Series about the events that happened within the time span of the game. Canon-compliant, angst with a happy ending. No smut.

This series was my first foray into writing fanfic, so this might be a little rough on the edges.

1. Goodnight Moon

2. Jealousy

3. A Gift

4. Crimson Eyes

5. Fear

6. Safety

7. Hope

8. Feeding

9. Even with all these complications

10. Content

11. Yes.

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definegodliness · 3 months

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Parisian street lights

Before me, The ornamental arch Of her silken arms, where, atop, With shimmering rings, And painted fingernails, Svelte fingers interlace.

That, I witness, captivated.

And so it is, my wandering Eyes Have made Her ivory arch, A triumphal gateway, As antecedently, so, Invited, my glances toward Her bosom, blushing, and pearl-adorned, Have — and, so, prolongating — lingered; Welcomed To be more than visitors.

So, I am now held captive; Mesmerized by this image Of an arch of arms and interlaced fingers, Where, atop, by master sculptor chiseled, Perches an angelic face; Her unenigmatic Gaze Deeply penetrating my eyes, Leaving the lastly remaining Mysteries To her Crimson smile.

Her smile, that victoriously unveils, Yet therein, surreptitiously, betrays Only That her mind Has taken me Away from this bistro Table; wandering off to Places; situations, Of which, Before today, I had never dared dream, But tonight — tonight! — she Stares, They will all Become Real.

#poetry #poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #writing #romanticism #romantic poem #romantic poetry #creative writing #spilled thoughts #poets on tumblr #tumblr poetry #love poem #love poetry #prose poem #alt lit

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marithlizard · 1 year

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I liked “Exes and Ohs” much better than “Seeing Stars”, even though I have a few complaints about the plot; it feels like season two is starting to hit its stride. We needed to put Stolas and his relationship with Blitzo on the back burner for a bit and get some time with the imps.

Live reaction-notes:

- The backgrounds of the IMP office raise so many questions. Blitzo why did you make a transphobic horse OC? How did you get a bust of yourself made?

(Immediate theory: A sinner who was a sculptor in life offered to make it as part of their payment. It makes sense that IMP would accept barter because sinners don't always have a lot of cash, especially when they're new. That would explain why we see new art around the office all the time.)

- Moxxie. My dude. MOXXIE. Loona does not think you are fat. She just knows it upsets you. There is no way you can logically disprove her bullying. Do not let her stress you into an eating disorder or keep you from enjoying food.

- Millie WTF? Did a human beat you in combat? That hasn't happened since back in episode 1. I want to know what has you so mad but I'm also now invested in the relationship drama going on over on that whiteboard. King Slut is going to get what's coming to him and Blue Cheese needs better taste in side hoes.

- Wouldn't it be funny if Millie's ex was - Nahhhh.

- What are those photos spilling out of the filing cabinet? Does IMP have a sideline in PI-style snooping? Is that...normal for furry cosplay sex?

-Oh, it's just Blitzo's porn stash. I'm sure Stolas would be into using those costumes and quite possibly they have, but I don't really wanna imagine it. But I do want to imagine M&M trying to alphabetize the collection.

- As most of us guessed, IMP was a regular hell-side hitman outfit before they got the book. It's interesting that Blitzo doesn't seem interested in taking local jobs anymore. Surely they could use the money.

- C for Crimson on the driver's cap, but no recognition on Moxxie's face yet. And we're goin' back to the Greed ring! (Moxxie said he was raised in Wrath, though, I thought. So he lies about his past.)

- Blitzo is still obsessing about M&M, but he's gone several episodes now without a single abusive rant at Moxxie. He is seriously trying to do better after "Truth Seekers".

- Loona really doesn't belong at this company, does she. Nobody acknowledged her existence except Moxxie this whole episode. I hope we see her find a place that suits her better soon.

- "Elevator Hangar 03". So even flights between Rings take the elevators. That suggests helicopters are what gets used, rather than planes that can't hover.

- Fizzarolli's adult clown look was modeled after Mammon, wasn't it?

- Uhh..is that demonstrative violence, or is it actually pretty hard to permanently kill an imp? Hmmmmmmm.

- You might wanna ask questions when the guy who was raised here has an immediate panic attack and starts yelling "No no no" as soon as you arrive, guys? Blitzo, how have you lived this long being this vulnerable to flattery and this unable to recognize danger signals?

- All the trophies on the walls reminding us of the murder family. (Are those little hearts between the succubus wings the ends of their tails?) Blitzo's "please do not ask me details about my lucrative circus career" expression.

- WHAT? CALLED IT I CALLED IT OMG wow he's an idiot he's just stepped in the door and I want him dead already. Did you just say "two big sex reunions"? Excuse me those claws do not look practical even if most demons are into pain play. If you were really a sex god you’d have a couple of them trimmed all the way down.

- Blitzo erupting in jealousy. Yes, there's someone who's fucked both of them and it was not you. At least you haven't also slept with Chaz (although I am putting that down to chance and not any kind of good taste on your part).

- Huge-eyed baby Moxxie! Mom in shadow, what is she holding? flowers? Blitzo how can you possibly be this slow on the uptake?

- I am distracted from the cute grenade moment by the aesthetic atrocity that is Chaz's tail. What. How do you put on pants. It does seem to have been an actual relationship, though, or at least a fling. Moxxie get that nostalgic smile off your face oh my GOD that wasn't nostalgia.

- "Draw me like one of your French imps", huh? oh. Oh dear. Millie is 1000% better than this dirtbag in every possible way, why are you regretting him at all?

- HI BLITZO! Huh, they let him keep his boots in jail. Loona surely does not have a babysitter. Was he that overprotective? Or was he bullshitting? If so, it worked, you can see Moxxie’s face change at the idea of this guy as a loving dad. (Which he is! It just...works better if people imagine Loona is a young kid.)

- I thought that might be what Moxxie sees in Blitzo. Someone who gave him a way out of his old life, someone who's proven trustworthy despite his flaws. Not quite sure how to interpret Blitzo's expression on hearing this. A mixture of touched and regretful?

- Yeah, you fuck him up, MillWHOA that is a level of rage I did not expect. What did Chaz do to HER?

- PFFT Blitzo reverses it because "horseless friendfucker" is what Chaz is as far as he's concerned.

- Is Blitzo thinking: I don't talk about my dick like that. Do I? Please tell me I'm not this fucking obnoxious. Oh god keep this guy FAR away from Stolas.

- What the FUCK, Crimson. Homophobia, contempt, abuse, you're clearly the whole package, but you redecorated with neon dicks to insult your son?

- At least someone's happy.

- We're consistently not seeing mom's face and it is weirding me out. ohno. Not hard to tell where this is going. oh NO.

- Moxxie's tenderheartedness in "Murder Family" isn't so funny anymore is it. Burn the fucking mansion down, Moxxie. Millie will help and I doubt Blitzo will be opposed. I didn't see them confiscate your phones, so text them.

- Chaz you are making Blitzo look modest and tasteful.

- I completely forgot we hadn't had a musical number yet. Can we - can we skip it this once?

- BLITZO

- Did he just say "chill the fuck out?" Is he not having fun over there because I really hope he is not. I hope this is the worst lay of your life, Blitzo.

- Well, he doesn't look like he had fun. At all. Was this a ploy? No, he’s just an opportunistic chaos gremlin.

- Uh. Moxxie I admire your spine here, but not your brains. How are you going to keep him from cutting bits off Millie until you give in? I certainly hope you did something useful with that phone earlier. (Spoiler: He did not.)

- Oh! Blitzo's feet are just shaped like heeled boots. Wacky.

- Now THAT'S more the musical number I wanted.

- Millie. 10/10 no notes. Perfection. I'm not even gonna ask how they had enough time to repaint the banner and retrieve Blitzo's clothes (you know he'll be back in his own coat next episode).

#helluva boss #helluva boss spoilers #helluva boss s2e3

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smallgodseries · 2 years

Photo

[image description: A serious Black woman in a crimson cape (over a white shirt, crimson skirt, dark grey jacket, and red tie) holds the gold image-border in her left hand, and gestures over her shoulder with her right. Visible behind her, sculptures of ’No Escape’ Claus, Splunge, Elvis Parsley, Über Allium, Eschercargo, Galloping Gertie, Hedjet, and Beyoncé. Text reads, “130, Aestha Titian ~ Small God of Graven Images”]

• • • • •

Some people say that she shouldn’t be a god at all.

Some people say that she’s a demigod at best, and much more probably a muse of some sort, divine, yes, but not worthy of the admirations of godhood.

Aestha knows better. She inspires nothing. Her gifts are more prosaic ones. Her faithful are by nature polytheistic: they go to other gods for inspiration, dally with demigods, marry muses. They find their creations in other hands, and then they come to her with heads full of images and hands full of needing, and no idea how to put the two together.

She is a historian, of sorts, for in her name, sculptors call forth deities, pin them down in substance so that they may be seen and understood and yes, remembered. Her hand guides the brush of our faithful illuminator, allowing him to set the images of her fellows—and even herself—down in line and color. She stands with sculptors, shapes the clay of potters, even guides the needles in the hands of felt artists. As long as the end result is an image of one of her kin and kind, her hand is there, and her need for worship is appeased.

Among all the gods of the arts, she is one of the least known, and the least appreciated. The artist provides the talent and skill: neither of them come from her. The gods themselves provide the inspiration: that is not her doing. What she brings is the motivation to combine the two in the correct order, the ability to stand the completed work before the world and say “look, see? This is my creation, behold.”

We are reasonably sure that our illuminator is her most loyal follower remaining in the modern world, outside of the eight dozen people doing illustrated retellings of Hades of Persephone. But those are large gods, and large gods have less need of loyalty than the smaller kind.

The gods love her. Her faithful loves her. And for her, focused as she is upon the next statue for her garden, that has always been enough.

Medusa does not love her.

But that is a story for another scripture.

• • • • •

Join Lee Moyer (Icon) and Seanan McGuire (Story) Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many small deities who manage our modern world:

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries

Instagram: https://instagram.com/smallgodseries/

Homepage: http://smallgodseries.com

#Small Gods #smallgodseries #Seanan McGuire #Lee Moyer #icons and stories

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yomogi-mogi-mochi · 1 year

Text

Pygmalion (II)

Pairings: Rook/ (Pygmalion) MC // Idia/MC (Platonic)

Summary: You were frequently told that your career as a renowned sculptor did not match your dull and less than colorful personality. With your cybernetic hands, you carve the lives and deaths of those long gone‒ producing pieces which have been held in both technical and emotional high regard, dubbing you with the title “Pygm.AI.lion” despite your human heart and brain. When you accidentally still the usually flamboyant archer into silence after he comes across you working in your atelier‒ you find that you’ve become a victim to one of his ceaseless stalkings. Though, you’ve been prey long enough to know how hunt the huntsman himself.

Notes: Formatting shit on Tumblr literally makes me want to blow my brains out :)

Anyways here's another chapter, explaining some backstory as well as more interactions and a more internal look into Rook's thoughts. I appreciate the kudos‒ please leave your comments, I love reading and responding to them! I’m very chatty online lol don’t be shy

CW: Slight mentions of self harm in this one? And human experimentation and implied grooming.

Part 1 // Part 2 (Here) // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6

AO3 Link Here.

Masterlist

——————————————————

You were back in your old atelier, the one back in your homeland‒ the City of Flowers, before it was given such a name. Head in your hands, you pulled on the root of your hair to put this pain somewhere, anywhere, besides your fragile, human heart.

She‒ now a quiet statue‒ lay still, her face delicately graced with silent death. You transferred your iron grip onto her wrist, shaking, feeling its stillness, the cold, hardened stone. There was no warmth that kissed your flesh, soaking into your body like before‒ when she was moving, alive. You had brought her alive before, why couldn't you bring her alive again? What use did your magic have if it could not sustain life, merely create it? In a fit of violence‒ you threw her body down, watching her through blurry eyes as her form crumbled into a million pieces. You staggered down with it, your fists shaking on the floor. What use did these hands have?

From the corner of your vision, you caught a glimpse of your hammer. Reaching towards it, you steadied your other hand on the floor, feeling the shattered pieces of her digging into your arm like a thousand needles. Hot coppery blood pounded in your eardrums‒ a slow drumming that rumbled louder and louder and louder‒ you were sure it would explode if you didn’t do something, anything‒ to rid yourself of useless parts, dead flesh in your eyes. These hands, once deemed a blessing by many, were now a curse. You didn't ask for it, you didn't ask for any of this.

You swung with all of your mortal might.

"My, my. What a bad child you are, using such tools of creation for destruction." A strong hand snaked around your own, pausing the hammer right above your hand. You glowered through your tangled hair at the figure.

There stood a slender, pale man, leaning against a shepherd's staff decorated with a ram's head, his lips twisted into an impish smile, reaching to his pointed ears. The narrow slits on his face, pushed up by the raised corners of his mouth, bore into you like two crimson crescent moons. His indigo curls bounced as he leaned forward in slurry movements, coiling his fingers up from your arm, into your hand, twisting the hammer out of your grasp. He carelessly threw it behind him, before searching his hip for something. When he found it, he rammed it into the ground, cracking the old wood of the atelier.

"If you're going to dismember your hands, you'd better do so with a knife." He raised himself with the help of his staff, turning away to walk the other direction. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

You blankly stared at Kopis knife*, wedged between the hard wood, barely missing your finger. Briefly, you imagined it slicing skin, tearing muscle, cutting through to the marrow of your bone. Perhaps it's burn would be less painful than the one smothering your heart. But all you could do was stare, squeezing and gasping air into your lungs.

Pausing his feet, he turned his head upwards, and towards you, his sharp teeth gleaming in the lantern light. You caught the scent of his cloak, smelling of bleach and sterile death as he swiveled his feet and crouched down at your level once more. With a sharp smile, he grabbed the knife and intertwined your trembling fingers around the handle. “Here, allow me to help you, my sweet child.”

The knife shook in your hands, as he drew the blade closer and closer to your wrist which he held in his fierce hands with an iron grip. Your skin pursed open at the slight contact of the sharp metal, dripping hot blood onto the floor covered in her remains. The man’s raspy voice rang in your ears. “Go on, or,” He brought his leathery palm up to your cheek, caressing your jaw to bring you closer into his crimson hues. “Shall I do it for you?”

You swallowed thickly, with it the rising bile burning your throat. The bitterness still lurched in your chest, coming out as gasping breaths as he drew the knife closer, and closer into you. Flickering your eyes into his gaze, you were momentarily stuck with a force of pandemonium which roared in your blood, before you ripped your eyes from him and caught glimpse of her head, rolling on the floor with cracked marble falling from her neck. You pushed the man back, stifling your clamoring nausea with a frantic hand over your mouth, mixing cold sweat with coppery saliva.

“I-I merely‒ I c-couldn’t‒ I-I didn’t‒“ you said between shaking fingers, gulping in air with such fervor you were beginning to see purple dots in your vision‒ suddenly‒ clarity within your hoarse voice, “I didn’t ask to be this way.”

The man molded a saccharine smile onto his lips. “No one asks for a curse, child. But,” he cupped his rough hands around your feverish face. “You can certainly ask to be forgiven for it.” He pushed himself up with his horned cane, lifting himself into the moon glow that cast a halo around his sturdy figure.

“Come with me, young one.”

You're still not sure if you regret following Dr.Krios that night, but it was certain that you had replaced a human part of you with something else, something artificial, when something dragged your body up, and walked behind him. He smothered you in his grasp, forming a dark womb in which you emerged when he crouched down to your figure, sinking the sharpness of his eyes into you.

“Your old name is not your god, my child. I rename you‒ our everything. Welcome, (Name) Jupiter.”

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒

Your eyes fluttered open, finding yourself to be surrounded by the liquid in your charging pod. The liquid slowly drained, letting out a gust of air from the pressurized container when it's glass doors opened. You had these dreams now and then, it was strange, since your systems had an abolishment protocol to conserve energy during sleep. There was a bit of time before classes were to begin‒ maybe it was time to visit your dorm leader, who had been entrusted with your maintenance as stated in Dr.Krios’ will. It had been so long since you had seen him, you now stood at his door, wondering what he looked like now. Undoubtedly a lot older, though, you were sure Ortho hadn’t changed. Rapping your metal knuckles against the smoothed surface, you hoped it wasn’t too early to intrude.

“Mn…It’s too early in the morning for this…” A disheveled mass of flaming cyan hair framed the tired face of Idia Shroud, who widened his eyes when they focused on your form.

“Who is it, big brother?” Ortho’s voice called behind him.

“It’s nice to see you again, Master Idia, Master Ortho.” A rare smile creeped up on your lips, nodding your head forward in a small, respectful bow.

“(Name)!” The younger Shroud brother leaped into your arms, clinging his mechanical arms to your neck as you spun him around, attempting to displace the force in which he threw his body into yours. The elder stood, face frozen in stunned silence.

“(N-Name)…But, S.T.Y.X…”

“You didn’t really think they could keep the likes of me in that lab forever, did you?” A playful tone bubbling in your voice. You noticed Idia was a lot taller, hair a lot longer since the last time you saw him during his adolescence before the Jupiter Family took you away for their affairs.

“…shut up…don’t call me that name weirdo, we’re friends.” He said with a bashful smile on his lips, covering it poorly with a slender hand. “It’s strange seeing you here of all places…” The door was held open for you, Ortho took your hand excitedly, pulling you inside.

“A carriage arrived after Dr.Krios died, and now I’m here. Honestly I’m just as surprised with the late enrollment as you are.” Idia offered you a seat at his desk, which you took. “But fate, as always, is a sly bastard. I’m just glad you two remember me.” In the face of eternity, you had forgotten what it felt like to leave an imprint on humans, but then again, your relationship with the Shroud brothers was a bit special, resulting from your time with Dr.Krios at the S.T.Y.X labs. A small smile appeared on your face, glad that you were able to revisit a friendship before time had taken them away as it always had.

“Of course we do. You were the only interesting person in that lab after all.” Idia mumbled. “Everyone else was either a weirdo or couldn’t keep up with my speed.” A crooked smile twisted onto his lips, just as you remembered.

——————————————

You trailed behind Dr.Krios, who parted the employees of S.T.Y.X swimming in the hallways with his crippled, but still imposing presence. Though his aging body kept him from his lively energy like when you had first begun to work with him, he still held himself with sprightly footsteps, aided by his bionic organs and enhancements he had implemented centuries ago. Used to the curious glances and whispers directed at your cybernetic forms, you kept your dried gaze forward, boring into the doctor’s white lab coat. Finally reaching the lab you usually reserved, you stood in silence as your superior peaked into the window, groaning a bit when he realized there was a figure already inside.

“I thought I reserved this lab…” He grumbled. “Stay put. I’ll be quick.” The door opened with a swoosh, leaving you outside the hall with nothing to do. You closed your eyes, hoping to conserve some energy for the tests today.

A quiet moment passed, before you felt a tug on your canvas apron. Trailing your eyes to the perpetrator, you were slightly amused at the sight of two children, each with their own set of flaming, cyan hair, their golden eyes looking at you with curiosity. Ah, must be a new addition to the Shroud family, you thought, observing the dancing fire. But even with centuries of observing humans passing through various developmental stages, dealing with children was not one of your fortes. As times changed, so did their interests, you never knew what the latest “thing” was enough to converse with them.

“What are you?” The taller one asked, poking the exposed metallic skeleton of your arm.

“I am a sculptor.” You answered simply.

The younger copied who you assumed was his brother, looking into your eyes with ones gleaming with boyish joy. “Are you a robot sculptor??”

“No Ortho, they’re an A.I. Robots can only do what they’re told, A.I’s replicate the human brain.”

“Eh..? But big brother, they totally look like one of those robots in Rebel Spacefighter…”

“I am not a robot, or an A.I.” The taller one huffs in frustration of your stony tone, the flame on his head flaring slightly in a sunny hue. Hm, cute, you decide.

“Then what are you?”

“I am a cyborg. The most advanced one yet. But I am a sculptor first and foremost.”

“Hm…” The older one inspected your arm with a skeptical gaze. “Prove it. Prove that you’re the most advanced cyborg!”

You paused, thinking, before nodding. “Okay.”

Taking your hand out of his grasp, you raised it to the base of your opposite arm. Getting a good grip on it, you focused all of your energy into that hand. With a deep breath in, your felt your hand burst with energy, digging into your shoulder and tearing your arm off, bits of metal sprinkling the floor below you. You turned slowly to the children, eyes and mouths gaping wide open, before dropping it onto the floor with a heavy thud. Their enlarged eyes followed the severed arm to the floor, which spurt viscous black liquid, twitching slightly with energy. When glassy eyes snapped back at you, the dullness in your eyes blew up into panic.

“I…I-I didn’t..” The elder one spurted, his mouth trembling a bit as he struggled to form a sentence.

“A-ah‒ wait‒ no, no, no. L-look!” You picked up your arm, bringing it back to the nub on your shoulder. The black liquid began to form around it, mending the gap with dark webs. It melted into the metal of your skeleton, leaving the same smoothed surface as before. You chuckled nervously, bringing your arms up and palms forward in a jovial manner to reassure them. “The Orpheus* system is the most advanced bionic program at this current time‒ s-see? Good as new.”

The children let out a sniffle, the taller one carefully examining the surface of your arm. The liquid of his eyes never dried, which worried you, especially since these were children of the Shroud family. No doubt you would be turned to scrap metal if the current head found out, no matter how much Dr.Krios would likely try to convince the esteemed family that this was all for them. There was truth in that statement, you had exchanged the possibility of extinguishing your unique magic, your curse‒ for the advancement of research in blot infused cybernetics to rid the family of their own curse. However, with the encounters you had in the past with the current head of the family, no matter how young, you couldn't shake off the same ravenous glint in his eyes that reminded you of your doctor's crimson hues. You were panicking internally, you weren't allowed any of your materials before the tests were done for the day, so you didn't have any small carvings of anything on hand that you could marvel them with. Oh gods, what do children like again? What do they do for fun? Create wax figures? Go down to the quarry and find the finest marble?? No, that's definitely not it. Maybe you should just start asking random questions adults had always asked you when you were a child. You searched back in your memories centuries before, during your apprenticeship with your master in the city of flowers.

"Ah…so. What…what do you want to be when you grow up?" You punched yourself mentally. How was that supposed to calm them?? That question never ceased to tick you off as a child, toiling long, hard hours at the studio. Such frivolous, wonderful things like dreams had no space within a life you had struggled to survive at first. Even now, you weren’t really sure what you wanted, or if you wanted anything‒ your purpose was chosen at all points of your life‒ apprentice, sculptor, and now a project for Jupiter Enterprises and S.T.Y.X. Did people even have dreams anymore??? Oh gods, help thy stupid soul, you prayed

You let out a relieved sigh when the tears of the younger dried quickly, as he began to shuffle through his clothes for something. The elder seemed a little stunned by your question, before looking at his feet. Ortho revealed a crumpled up drawing, proudly spreading in front of your face as he pointed to two of the figures crudely scribbled onto the worn paper.

"Big brother and I are going to be heroes‒ like in Rebel Spacefighter! Look, like here, big brother is going to make a bunch of robots because he's a genius! And here's the cool armor he made me so I can protect him!"

Your chest tightened, the reminder that most humans begin like this‒ naive, fragile, brimming with the secret colors and beauty of the world‒ solidifying in your chest. It's been so long since you've touched humanity so closely, so purely‒ and it welled a fresh feeling inside you that you dared to delight in. Swallowing the heaviness down, you took the paper preciously into your hands, examining it with a ghostly smile. “Is this true? You’re a genius like your brother claims?“ You looked down at the elder.

He hid his bashful smile behind his sleeve. "I guess…" He mumbled. "...but I won't be able to be a hero like Ortho said."

"Oh?"

"Father says I have to run the company since I'm the eldest. So…I won't be able to be a hero." His solemn, but knowing tone made you raise that pressure in your chest into the creases that formed in your eyes, wincing from the heartache. You leveled your eyes with his.

"No." You took his hands, so, so small, you noted‒ folding the drawing into them. Even without your synthetic skin, you felt a tiny pulse vibrate within small hands, beating into your metallic skeleton, making you yield in his flushed gaze. "You are a human. Death comes quicker than you can ever fathom…keep what’s important to you in your heart. Don’t let people guide your desires, your dreams‒ or you’ll end up living and dying a life that isn’t even your own.” You wove your heavy hand into the flames flickering on his head, giving it a loving ruffle. “You’ll become a hero if you want to, you’re a genius, are you not?”

He beamed, leaning into your touch. “Of course I am!”

“Hm. You must see to it to prove it to me one day.”

The flames on his head arose a bit, as he tipped his head up with a prideful grin. “You’ll see. I’ll even build a better model than you are!”

“I don’t doubt that one bit. Ask Dr.Krios and he’ll probably let you even take a look inside me.”

“Won’t it hurt? To be taken apart like that?” Ortho jumped in, concern adorning his face.

“Being opened up is nothing. I’d be glad to support your brother’s research.”

Idia circled around you in excitement. “You don’t feel pain? You don’t seem to have synthetic skin…hm…”

“No little flame, I am not a robot and I still have my heart and brain‒ so I do still feel pain." You opened the compartment in your chest, revealing your human heart encased in glass, pumping synthetic blood throughout your body. "And the pain of a human heart is greater than anything in this world.”

The door from the lab swiftly opened, revealing Dr.Krios, and another figure that you recognized which made you immediately snap your chest cavity closed. Despite missing the organs to properly feel nausea, you felt yourself spin under his scrutinizing gaze, fearing that you might be devoured by it.

“Father!” Ortho clung onto his knees, stuffing his face in the fabric of his father’s tunic.

“Ah, children.” He briefly flickered his gaze towards the youngest, patting him on the back before returning his spiraling hues on you. “I hope Dr.Krios’ toy here has kept you company?”

“Yeah!” Their father hummed in response.

Dr.Krios spoke up, a crescent moon grin stretching his lips. “You’ll have to excuse us, young masters. The tests are about to begin.”

“Sorry, little flame. You can take me apart another day.”

Idia, you later learned was his name, waved his hand as the door shut behind you. You waved back, hoping to see them again.

——————————————

"Well, you are weird though, no doubt about that." Idia says with a fond smile as he clicks through your body's program. "Traumatizing innocent children by dismembering yourself‒ imagine if our parents found out. I thought I was going to die.”

"I'd reckon I would be taken apart and put back together again, but this time with a smarter, metal brain that didn't go around scaring little flaming children to death."

Ortho chuckled fondly at your words. "I'm so glad you're here though, (Name)."

"Yeah. It's nice to see you out of that lab finally. And without that creepy old doctor stalking you like a hawk."

"I agree." You nodded. "Though, it does seem like I have a stalker here already…" Rook's face appeared in your mind, reminding you of the strange events that happened yesterday, and the fact that you had to see him today. “How is the maintenance coming along?”

Idia’s eyes didn’t leave the computer, as he wore a bored expression on his face that juxtaposed the rapid movements of his fingers gliding across the keyboard. “Huh? Oh yeah‒ this is low level stuff, especially cause I based some of Ortho’s coding from yours. But you know, obviously I made it better.” A lazy grin appeared on his face. “Alright. Ephesius* protocol is active again. It should be alright but it’s a fickle since it’s connected through carbon neuron implants in your brain, so let me know if I need to tweak it again.”

You hummed in agreement. “The implants are an older model, so that might be why. But thank you.”

“I can give you ones with better stats if you’d like…” Idia let out a yawn, clearly not accustomed to waking up so early in the morning.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, little flame,” you ruffled his mess of cyan inferno, not used to his tall height despite the slouch in his seated form. “But I think I’m getting a bit too old to be taken apart and put back together so often now.”

Idia’s eyes twitched a bit, remembering the tests done back at the S.T.YX lab, before contorting into false annoyance.“U-ugh you’re such an old geezer. It’s a miracle you’re not crumbling to dust as we speak with that clumsy handiwork by that creepy doctor.”

You shrugged. “It’s more of a hassle trying to implant all my human parts back into another body. Besides,” you remembered the months preceding your meeting with Dr.Krios when you had begun to replace parts of your human body. “Transferring the human soul is painful and takes a lot of energy.” You huffed, exhausted by the mere thought of experiencing that again.

“Ugh you artists are too poetic…” The older rolled his eyes, while his younger brother laughed.

“(Name), it’s almost time for class, we should get going soon.” Ortho mentioned. You glanced at the clock.

“Ah, time flies in good company.” Brushing off the creases in your uniform, you stood. “Idia? You’re not joining us?”

“Less stress taking classes online.” He leaned back in his chair.

“The privileges of being a natural-born genius I guess…”

“Says yourself.” The brothers said in unison. A ghostly smile appeared on your lips. It really was good to see them again.

——��——————————-

Rook flipped his body over in the bed once more, his satin sheets a mess from turning and twisting himself in his fruitless attempts to drift into blissful sleep. Vil’s voice rang in his head, warning him of the demerits caused by sleep deprivation‒ but how could he, after he had seen that carving of yours? Glancing at the clock reading 6:12, he let out a stifled groan, turning his body again to inspect his wall decorated with photographs of your statues he had taken in various galleries and museums. How different the grand marble and gleaming ivory statues were from that formless, disembodied, fleshy mass he saw last night.

His gaze turned upward, to the various postcards of paintings he had on his wall. He particularly favored Vermeer, for his early prototype of the camera that could be felt in the delicately proportioned composition and detached precision of his paintings. Dutch Golden age painters were his favorite in this way‒ you could clearly observe, touch the beauty through various observable rules like color theory, composition, and form. Rook often delighted in the sensory pleasures and decadence he could taste on his tongue and feel between his fingers upon looking at these paintings‒ it was playful, tricky, exciting in the pleasures of life‒ similar to himself. It could be said with certainty that the meticulous formulation of the paintings not only shined with beauty in their formal qualities, but the time, skill, and passion that could be felt within each invisible brushstroke. Truth, to him, was beauty‒ and this was the truth of life at its finest, full of charm and vigor that catches the eye instantly.

This was the core, the truth to his way of living‒ and to stray from this principle of beauty felt like he was submitting parts of himself that he desperately kept together with practiced spontaneity and comfortable distance. To hunt was his nature, through his narrow, hungry gaze that greedily ravished his prey. He sought to do that with you, carving you open and devouring you until his teeth fell on soft marrow‒ leaving to track the next beautiful creature when his fickle mind smelled the scent of a greater, more inspiring hunt. But for the very first time in his life, he felt like he was the one being hunted. He felt it was unacceptable, even more so when he cherished that feeling in his chest, rolling it around his flesh like a rough pearl, gleaming with unknown colors. He felt bewitched by that ugly beast you had molded into existence, feeling something inside him, which he could hold, but could not truly touch. The feeling was eating away into his mind, like you had released an infestation into his soul that replaced his certainty‒ his truth‒ with something much too grotesque, but shimmered splendidly with all of the colors of the world.

Rook truly didn’t know what he felt, but he felt it deeply. An easier feeling, anger‒ greed perhaps‒ simmered his thrashing blood, trying with all of his might to recluse into the clear picture of beauty he had been painting for the years he had lived dedicated to beauty. He faced the ceiling now, boring his eyes tiredly to the dark wall. The phone on his bedside table vibrated, letting him know it was time to begin his morning routine. He sighed, feeling the heaviness of his body with slight irritation, before walking to his dresser to tidy up. Vil would surely scold him for the bags under his eyes.

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You caught up with most of your classes with ease, thanking that your years of living had finally given you a tangible advantage. You lived through the history of magic, have seen mighty sages in action, and science was basically potion making‒ you had never had an issue picking things up quickly, so classes shouldn’t impede on your studio time. Though, it did seem like you were getting quite the attention not only as a honor student, but as Pygm.AI.lion‒ you ignored any calls of students directing that name towards you, differentiating yourself from the version of yourself that had been fabricated into emptiness by the Jupiter businessmen and scientists. Not my name, not my problem, you thought boredly, heading to the art studio for your next class.

When you opened the heavyset doors, you were greeted with stares and whispers‒ nothing unusual, but nonetheless annoying. The teacher looked up from their desk, their face sprouting with excitement when you gazed back with dull eyes. “Ah! Mx.(Name)! Please, have a seat, we’re honored to have the esteemed Pygm.AI.lion in this humble class!” You silently leaned into an empty seat, a bit perturbed to find Rook sitting across from you, sending you a wave with a fox-like grin. Gazing far out the window, you rested your head on your hand, only half listening to the teacher’s instructions for today.

“Since we have such a special guest joining us for their first day‒ I thought I’d propose a critique at the end of class after today’s prompt!” On the board in chalk, the prompt was spelled out in round handwriting: ‘Depict your perception of the world!’

With a huff, you headed towards the corner of the room with marble situated in it. No wax, or plaster in sight‒ you decided you wouldn't be needing it this time. Taking a slab of marble into your hands, you let the charcoal between your fingers glide across the glossy stone‒ entering your body into a deep trance as you traced the divine image in your mind. In practiced movements, your body began to chip away at the stone, carving the vision which descended down to you with musical movements. The splintering by cold metal into the pearly boulder rang like a thundering heartbeat between your metallic hands. Time passed quickly this way, even more so than usual in the face of eternity.

The teacher eventually began to gather the students near a wall, with it their artworks with a label on each. There were a cluster of various paintings, sculptures, photography, and pencil drawings with white title cards on each of them. Your thoughts were interrupted by two claps that echoed from the teacher’s hands, announcing the critique was about to begin. Sitting on a stool near the side of the classroom, you noticed people parted where you stood, giving you a conscious amount of space between themselves and your body‒ better than weird business men and reporters grabbing and prodding your body without your consent, you thought.

“So, let’s begin with our photography pieces.” A hand was pointed towards the top most photo.

Silence ran throughout the room, an invisible pressure staring into your unrelenting gaze shifting to the floor.

“Perhaps our very own Pygm.AI.lion would like to give an example?” That question seemed more like a twist of your hand, which you accepted with an exasperated raise of your eyebrows. How long has it been since you’ve participated in a group critique like this? You gazed at the photo he pointed to‒ slightly amused to find a photo of one of your sculptures‒ a baroque Venus you had carved centuries ago, towards the end of your master’s life when he entrusted you with his studio. The focus was softened to an angelic glow, with splotches of washed out color seeping into the thin material in an airy manner‒ it made you feel like your shoulders were being lifted into their sky like clouds, a floating feeling at the bottom of your feet. However, you grounded yourself with a pointed gaze.

“Though I find the choice in subject…interesting, to say the least‒ I can’t say it’s within the theme of the prompt. Casting someone else’s image as your own is part of photography, but I can’t help to feel a disconnect between the intended essence of this photo, and what I’m seeing in front of me. I’m not versed in the delicate balancing act that is photography, however, I find this angle and effect a little redundant.”

“A-ah. We try to stay as civil and neutral as we can with our critiques in this classroom.”

You made a face. “I am. I am merely stating what I am seeing.”

“Maybe your sensors are a bit too sensitive to the formal intricacies of the photo?” He suggested, opening his palms to gather the agreement of the rest of the class. Some nodded, some looked away. "Try looking it through a more human eye."

“I am." I am human. A pause. "My sensors are still connected to my human brain. Would you like to see?” You would tear yourself apart in a blurry mess right now to prove that your statements are true. His throat bobbed with thick movement. “Besides, how does one stay neutral with a portrait of the artist’s face staring into you when you observe their work? I would love an explanation of how objectivity seems to work in this studio.”

“…Maybe we should just ask the artist for their opinion.” He turned to a feathered head. “Rook?”

A smile bent onto Rook’s lips. “I can’t say I’m disappointed in hearing my work is…redundant. But I take that as inspiration for my next work." A beat of silence. "Thank you."

You nodded. "It is however," the words were paused on your lips, your eyes gazing far beyond the photo. "rather, delightfully human. There's a grotesque beauty in that. Perhaps it's better your way."

Rook felt a ghostly color bloom onto his cheeks. It was as if you were looking right into him with a crystallized gaze, reaching into his heart and squeezing it. He had tried to capture something enchanting on the school grounds today, but his tired mind still gravitated towards the dismembered statue of yours, fogging the usual sharpness of his mind and steady hand. While looking through his portfolio hoping for the divine inspiration that you seemed to bask in, his eyes trailed to that magnificent baroque Venus displayed in a retrospective gallery for you a few years ago. He tried to avoid using any of his photos taken of your sculptures, intending to push that feeling away with his fickle mind‒ but his eyes wandered back to that portrait of your vision. You were, much to his current dismay, a part of the clear picture of beauty he painted in his mind. He felt the glossy paper between his fingers, and he sought to reveal something within it.

Some noise came out of your mouth, but he was too distant to hear. "Pardon?" He asked.

"You used different chemicals when you developed the picture?"

"Ah, no, I used a potion to reverse the development process, then added the effects after it with different chemicals." The smile returned to his lips. "We Pomefiore students pride ourselves in our talents in potion making."

"Hm. Interesting, I've learned something new."

Pride swelled in his chest at that, moistening his palms with salty sweet sweat, erupting into a chuckle that came from deep inside his stomach. "I'm glad." He echoes the voice in his heart, rather than his chest.

The rest of the critique went smoothly, perhaps attributed to the teacher's reluctance to initiate your keen sensibility once more. The last sculpture remained, none other than your own. Clocks of every size, gathered together like a hive to form one larger clock‒ the back of the sculpture revealing intricately carved gears and screws, all made of hard marble. It hung like a lonely chandelier above the wooden studio floors.

"This requires something from me." You pulled the glove between your teeth, infusing your touch into the stone. The clocks began to move in sync. However, a few seconds passed, a few slowed, ticking off beat. "My Aphrodite's Kiss allows me to animate my carvings. The larger the structure, the more time it has."

The professor looked down at his clipboard, through some notes he had been taking during class. "I thought your unique magic allowed you to bring your work to life?"

You watched as the smaller clocks begin to yield to their limits, eventually stopping after a few lethargic ticks at the end. "Something which gives cold flesh purpose is not life?”

“W-well‒ “ The man lowered his clipboard in defeat. "...I'm having trouble interpreting the 'essence' of your sculpture as you criticized Rook for. Can you explain a bit about this work?"

"We all project ourselves onto others and their work when we view them. Interpret however you want."

“But could you explain‒ “

“Art is not knowledge. It’s not as flimsy as that.” You felt like spitting those words out into the teacher's face, eye twitching when you barely withheld from it. “You feel it. Feel it, as it feels you.”

Slowly, quiet claps rang around the room‒ you could hear the hollowness in them, just like the ones ringing in the spacious galleries. Your ears were accustomed to the slight ache that followed after hearing it, clenching it with your porcelain teeth with nearly invisible movement. Though the eyes of many were on you‒ you felt them look through you, onto a reflection of themselves projected onto your metallic body that was more grand, more beautiful than what they were. In all the years you’ve lived, producing such lifeless creations, no one truly loved you for it, or what you made. They just loved the version of themselves that did‒ clapping, crying, hyperventilating at the sight of themselves in you when you clasped their hand back in a diplomatic handshake. The striking of their hand onto their own was truly only for themselves, you were just hearing the echoes of the sound which rang inside their hollow bodies. You yielded to the numbness that ended the feeling‒ closing that feeling inside a tender fist.

However, from the corner of your blurred gaze‒ you caught glimpse of Rook, sitting still with his lips resting delicately on his slender fingers in deep thought while he observed the last ticks on the large clock. Though his green eyes were not on you, you felt his gaze, taking in your words with a welcome embrace, inspecting them with great care. You quickly averted your eyes, a shaky breath squeezing its way out of your lungs. Had you been holding your breath? It felt heavy, deep in the synthetic flesh that trailed from your stomach, deep inside your throat, to the back of your eyes.

"Magnifique. My interpretation of it is only its beauty." He turned his whole body to you, you soaked your eyes in his entire color. "With my human eyes, that's all I can see." Though you had no iron clad blood left in your body, you felt hot blood reach to the metallic taste in your tongue, seeping out from the teeth that bit into it. The class was dismissed a bit early that day, allowing yourself to snake your way out of your classroom, away from the warmth of his eyes.

—————————————-

Notes:

Hey when I promise slowburn I'm going to give you guys slowburn

Designated the City of Flowers (which is likely referring to Paris since it's where Nobel Bell College is, which is based off of the Hunchback of Notre Dame that takes place in Paris) as the reader's hometown since it has a strong connection to Carolingian dynasty which has its roots on Charlemagne, which has its roots on the Roman Empire (Charlemagne), which caused the fall of Ancient Greece. I imagine reader's master fled ancient Greece before it fell and infiltrated into Rome in order to succeed as a carver, passing down both Roman and Greek sculpting techniques. Or I'm overthinking the lore per usual lmao

Heavily implied that Krios is part fae and a descendant close to the Shroud family‒ hence his pointed ears and indigo hair. He also carries a shepherding staff as a self proclaimed symbol of his divine leadership (also reflective of his desire to play god)

I wanted to explore Idia’s and your relationship since I think it’s vital to your connection with STYX and why you were “reborn” into a cyborg in the first place. Definitely just making stuff up as I go lol (also younger Shroud siblings are cute, even when you’re traumatizing them lmao)

Uhh huge disclaimer I have no idea truly if any of the cybernetic information is correct. I did a bit of research but I’m an Art History major and gay lol I am actually genetically incapable of doing math or sciences

Kopis is a ritual slaughter/sacrificial knife from Ancient Greece‒ usually for cutting meat (considered a low-status/impure trade), or for animal sacrifice. Also sort of connects with the whole ram imagery since rams/lambs/goats were often sacrificed in at least Jesus times, I think maybe also in Greek times. Also, would make sense if Krios thought of himself as a god to carry it around since the whole Abraham almost sacrificing his son thing before Christian God was like just like jk lmao! Just kill a ram for me instead. He's twisting that tale of divine sacrifice into one which reclaims power by playing God

The Orpheus system obviously named after Orpheus, who was a renowned poet who was torn to pieces for not honoring Dionysius as a god. However even in his death, his head still sung mournful songs, drifting down the river of Hebrus into the sea, funnily enough to the island of Lesbos. Orphic cult/mysteries also center their rituals around dismemberment and rebirth (as it is connected to Dionysus who originally had a lot of connections to rebirth in his early Mycenaean characterization predating the pantheon we all know that's from the hellenistic period), so I thought it was perfect for a system which could continuously but its body back together, especially for an artist type that carves the lives and deaths of others. Also, I just have an obsession with Dionysus and the cults surrounding his characterization lol

Extra bonus‒ Orpheus also traveled with Jason and the Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece‒ the rams of which have a connection to Ancient Greek’s interpretation of Aries‒ so another cool connection with Dr.Krios since he symbolizes/named after a ram. Wow I really hit the symbolic jackpot with this one

Ephesius (also known as Artemidorus) is an Ancient Greek diviner who wrote about dream interpretation in 2nd century A.D. I originally had the idea of calling it the Baku protocol since Baku is a creature I am familiar with that eats dreams‒ but I decided to keep the Ancient Greek theme since the in game lore does too lol. But if you know an Ancient Greek creature who eats dreams please infodump

I think Rook's perspective of beauty is interesting. The “truth of beauty” for him is something he can see, something he can touch. He seems like someone who systematically disassembles what he considers beautiful (which is why I think he is moving towards the field of archaeologist‒ they're uncovering the truths of civilizations and artifacts) viewing its aesthetics with an objective eye‒ I feel that in his art courses, he’s extremely mathematic with his color theory, composition, and form, and thus I think artists like Vermeer, and any other Dutch Golden Age artists fit him well, especially as the era emphasizes the idea of “looking” and sight, sensory pleasures that can be felt on the tongue, nose, and eyes much more than something that can be felt in your heart. It’s playful, and it delights in the delectable pleasures of life‒ much like how I imagine Rook does (I mean his favorite food is liver pate), and I think that’s very beautiful in it’s own way. But above all it attempts to create truth‒ a lot of sensory components (especially sight) are needed to "evidence" beauty (he probably wouldn't like movements like Dada or Abstract Expressionism). Granted most art does this, however I believe during the Dutch Golden Age it becomes a fixation as the power of the merchant class rises, and people begin to discuss sight and science above Christian/Catholic truth, taking truth into their own hands. The Dutch were also Protestants, which allowed them to dissect human bodies (see The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp by Rembrandt), which furthered scientific pursuits leading into the Enlightenment, the art of the period focusing on technical skill showing the wonders of technology and human achievement much like the Dutch Golden Age. Artists like Vermeer and Rembrandt and other still life artists also valued very technical aspects such as the ability to replicate color and texture, the balance of light, compositional melody, which pulls from the Renaissance and its precision in balance, perspective, etc. I think in a similar way to Rook complimenting the RSA students on the passion he felt during their performance, he would praise artists like Vermeer and Rembrandt for their own passion because of the observable technical skill for them. Passion and love for him breeches on obsession, on perfection. So I do think he may have a hard time understanding movements like say les nabis and Tachisme, which are a lot more abstract and rely on an imperfect, unfinished, or generally distorted and aesthetically “ugly” but are there to elicit a very strong emotional and vestibular response.

In the same sense I also think he’s very good at deciphering observable behavior with his sharp eye, but has trouble identifying internal affairs. He almost reads neurodivergent to me this way?? But maybe I’m projecting lol but I feel like his eccentricity + sharp observation skills (pattern recognition) + trouble identifying internal thoughts and emotions of himself and others + need for spontaneity/stimulation makes sense for some type of neurodivergent (which I’m sure the Pomefiore dorm is full of)

The Pearl bit was inspired by our lord and savior Mitski (once again)

I’m actually so fucking bad at understanding photography on its own. I think photography in the contemporary context sometimes makes us exclusively consume reality through it but I think it can be touching?? Like I understand it's doesn't really "capture reality" rather presents a perfected version of someone's perception of the world just like painting but god it's so hard for me to consider when it's not within a political or sociological context please info dump if you're knowledgeable lol

Your sculpture is based off of Felix Gonzales-Torres' "Untitled" (perfect lovers). Though the sculpture I described depicts a clock made of clocks, which is vastly different from the two analog clocks featured in Gonzales-Torres' installation‒ it came from a similar inspiration. The artist's gay lover had been dying of AIDS when he made this artwork‒ and he had to watch his lover whither away into nothingness as he stood helpless‒ reflected in the fact that eventually, the clocks will fall out of sync (because they are human made) causing one to stop before the other without proper maintenance, alluding to the political as well as physical/personal ramifications of homophobia during the AIDS crisis. I liked this idea of "falling out of sync", eventually realizing you are on a different speed, different point on the timeline of demise despite being made of the same thing. Also though clocks are mechanical (a robot basically, designed to do a task with given instruction), they are a product of a human made concept (time) also another interesting parallel boy am I on a roll

Sorry for the super long notes! Hopefully I can crank this next chapter out quicker

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