#1555 words

[devotedlypinkpeanut]

An Eternal Cycle: Fire, Blood and Venom — The Good King

SUMMARY : In this first life, you attract the attention of King Lee Heeseung, known throughout the kingdom as the good king. Seemingly tender, patient and fair, he is admired for his passion and determination to achieve his goals. But behind this mask hides a man obsessed with you, ready to do anything to have you. His obsession becomes a dangerous game where tricks and manipulations intertwine with a captivating sweetness, plunging you into a whirlwind of emotions. Whether it's seducing you or breaking down any barriers between you, Heeseung is determined to make you his, no matter the cost.

PAIRING : Lee Heeseung x fem!reader 

GENRE : Dark romance, obsession, drama, slow burn, psychological tension, historical romance, reincarnation, fantasy, reverse harem.

WARNING: Reincarnation, obsession, intense psychological manipulation, prolonged emotional abuse, destructive and humiliating power games, betrayal, psychological and physical degradation, toxic relationships, emotional and mental manipulation, cruel and deliberate lies, degrading verbal abuse, suffocating atmosphere of control and isolation, total crushing of individuality, total loss of self-control, possessive and totally controlling behavior, exploitation of vulnerabilities, psychological humiliation, constant pressure, silent terror, degrading mental manipulation, forced submission, brutal and relentless domination, enjoyment of absolute power, physical and psychological suffering, complete abandonment of all personal dignity, sensory deprivation and suffering inflicted to obtain total submission.

Number of words : ~ 32k

A/N: Good evening! I had to split the chapter into two parts, and the second one is barely started (1% written). I was inspired by The Tudors series for this story. Feel free to like, repost or comment if you liked the first part! Happy reading 📖!

I haven't proofread at all, so there are probably spelling mistakes or inconsistencies, I apologize! Enjoy reading!

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AMBOISE, FRANCE — December 1, 1555

It had been almost three years now, three whole years where your life had taken a turn you hadn't seen coming. You and Giselle, your half-sister, had been sent to France by your father, a mission that you had seen as a simple service to render to the court of King Francis I. The king's sister, an influential and powerful woman, had done you the honor of choosing you both as her company ladies. 

The position was honorary, certainly, it offered you a place at the table of the powerful, in the circle of the privileged. It was a chance for the Belmont family, once revered and respected, to regain its lost prestige. But, as is often the case in family intrigues, the truth was hidden under a layer of carefully woven lies. The true purpose of this mission, which your father had barely let you glimpse, was much more sinister: to restore the Belmont name by erasing the indelible stains that had sullied your reputation.

Your name, once synonymous with nobility and honor, had been tarnished. A vile rumor, started against you by those who had nothing to lose and everything to gain, had spread through the halls of the nobility. You had been accused of being a prostitute, a mere object of desire unable to resist the call of the flesh. The whispers grew louder and louder, and soon, anonymous letters and false testimonies were leaked, carefully fabricated to make people believe in the infamy of your name. 

The evidence was so well-arranged that no one dared to doubt it. It mattered little that you had never given in to temptation, that you had never succumbed to those who sought to humiliate you; truth had no place in this game. The rumor grew, and even the most loyal allies of the Belmont family turned away from you. Your dignity, your reputation, and even your engagement to a young aristocratic duke were shattered in one fell swoop. The latter, too sensitive to social pressure and public opinion, abandoned you, leaving you alone, facing your destiny, humiliated and devastated.

Since that day, you had gotten into the habit of distancing yourself from prying eyes, of delving into studies that, while allowing you to escape reality, also offered you a certain power. Princess Karina, sister of Francis I, was a rare woman at court. She was neither a courtesan obsessed with power games, nor a noblewoman lost in her vanities. Karina, brilliant and eager for knowledge, was passionate about philosophy, history and politics. 

At her side, you had found refuge in books that few women of your rank would dare to read: works on gender equality, questioning the established order, freedom and rebellion against the Church, this intransigent power that dictated everything. You knew that these writings were dangerous, that they could cost you your life, but it was your only way to remain yourself, to preserve a part of freedom in this world where the chains were invisible but very present. 

The covers of these books were discreet, almost bland, for fear of attracting the attention of those who would judge and condemn without appeal. But each word, each idea, gave you a little more strength. These books were your silent rebellion, your last refuge from the storm that blew around you.

However, while you were delving into forbidden writings, Giselle, your half-sister, was following a very different path. She had neither the same intellectual concerns nor the same aspirations. Giselle had been born under a more favorable star, or at least, she had always imagined it that way. Despite the disgrace that struck your family, she had always known how to manipulate men with disconcerting ease. The court, with its superficiality and fragile appearance, seemed to be a playground for her. 

And Giselle had no intention of searching for the truth in dusty books. She knew what she wanted: the crown. She knew that the king, Francis I, was a powerful, seductive, and above all impressionable man. That was her ultimate goal: to seduce him, to bewitch him, and to secure a place at his side. Every evening, she went to the king's apartments, slipped into his arms, and offered everything he desired, without qualms, without restraint.

Giselle firmly believed that this game of seduction would take her to the top, that it was only a matter of time before she became queen. She already saw herself crowned, her hair adorned with the royal crown, her name written in history. Every evening, every meeting with the king reinforced this conviction. But you couldn't help but smile bitterly at her naivety. You knew, better than anyone, what the Church and society really thought of women like her. A royal mistress, no matter how beautiful and charismatic, could never become queen. The Church would never allow such a woman, a woman without virtue, to take her place at the king's side. One had to have purity of soul, unquestionable virtue and, to your great regret, Giselle had neither.

The kind smiles the king gave her were only appearances. The crown, like a mirage, eluded her every time she reached out her hand. The king, under the control of the Church, would never go against the wishes of the priests and cardinals. They controlled the kingdom, they controlled her soul, and they would never allow a courtesan to sit in the place of queen. But Giselle did not see this reality. She was blind to this cruel truth. You could barely contain your disgust at her naivety. She deluded herself, believing that a simple smile and a few nights spent with the king would be enough to change her fate. 

And it was one of those nights when the air seemed frozen, when the coldness of winter spread through the castle like a silent beast, penetrating the cold stones and the thick sheets. The candlelight flickered, struggling against the biting wind, each flame flickering, ready to go out at any moment. There was that lingering smell of melted wax, and a faint scent of damp wood rose from the hearth where the embers crackled faintly. The light in the room was dim, almost dying, like the brightness of a glimmer of hope that is fading.

There you were, sitting alone at your desk, immersed in an old book, a text that seemed to you from another era, a moment suspended in a world you did not know, a world you would have liked to escape to. The pages were worn, almost fragile, the words unfolded before you, woven with mysteries and promises, but you could not help but let yourself be distracted by the silence of the room and the solitude that weighed on you, like a blanket too warm that stifles the air.

The noises in the hallway were heard, faint at first, then more and more distinct. It was her. You knew it before you even looked up. The lightness of her gait, that hushed but confident step, that way of invading the room without a sound. Giselle.

You saw her appear in the doorway, her slender and graceful silhouette outlined in the subdued light, like an ethereal apparition. She approached slowly, her golden hair, of a silky texture, falling in perfect waves around her face, capturing the light of the candles like a luminous veil. There was something fascinating in her presence, almost unreal. Her face, delicately sculpted, had that rosy tint that the bite of the winter cold gave it, but she did not seem to suffer from it, not at all. 

She adjusted with a nonchalant gesture her linen nightgown, of a bright white, which hugged her curves with an almost provocative grace, highlighting a skin of incredible softness. Her neckline, subtly suggested, exposed a skin so smooth that it seemed unreal. She came forward again, with an equally assured step, that slow dance she performed so naturally, like a sort of spectacle that you, an involuntary spectator, watched without being able to look away.

You felt a shiver run through you as she leaned over to open a dresser in the corner of the room, a soft creaking sound escaping from the drawer. The sound was strange, almost like a promise of chaos hidden in the tranquility. She grabbed a bottle of perfume, opened it with that elegance so particular to her, and began to spray her neck and wrists with a sweet fragrance, almost too intoxicating. This perfume, you recognized it well, it was sweet, fruity, almost syrupy, a mixture of ripe fruits, citrus, vanilla, an exoticism that she knew how to exploit perfectly.

A cloud of perfume spread across the room, invading your nostrils. It was too strong. Too sweet. A wave of nausea washed over you, but you refrained from reacting, although your nose wrinkled in an involuntary expression of disgust. The pain was there, tangible, in your stomach, in that dull nausea that rose, as if each drop of perfume said more about what she was, what she did. She was ready to sell her soul for a little power, a little recognition in this world of beasts. And you, there, you watched her do it, unable to turn away.

She approached you, a subtle smile playing on her lips. Her eyes shone with apparent mischief, but, looking closer, you could perceive an emptiness in them, as if behind her smile hid an absence or a deep melancholy. She leaned slightly towards you, so close, that you could almost feel the warmth of her body, this warmth that contrasted with the cold air of the room. The smell of perfume assailed you again, stronger, denser, like a leaden weight.

You tried to control the expression on your face, but the grimace that formed on your lips was unavoidable.

“Wish me luck, little sister,” her voice, soft and fluid, rose in the room, tinged with a subtle, almost childish mischief. But there was also this coldness in her eyes, a coldness that was not childish. “And don’t make that face. Remember, you don’t have to envy me.”

Her crystalline laughter rang out then, melodious, but terribly cold. It was a laugh that made entire kingdoms bend, a laugh that had the power to bring an entire empire to its feet without her having to lift a finger. It was innocent and perverse at the same time, a deadly charm that she mastered to perfection. And you, you were no longer fooled. Not this time.

“You’re more than a body, Giselle.�� The words came out more firmly than you expected. Your voice was soft, but it carried a depth you hadn’t anticipated. “Don’t you feel disgusted by all of this, even a little? Don’t you see that you’re more than just a body, more than just a desire, more than a commodity to be traded?”

She froze. For a moment. A heavy silence fell. Her smile faded abruptly, her eyes, which still shone with that innocent mischief, hardened, frozen in an icy coldness. She straightened up, as if your words had hit her where it hurt. She protected herself, instinctively, but the breach was there. The light in her eyes went out almost instantly, and everything that made her beauty shine faded, giving way to a vulnerability that she could not hide. The perfection of her mask was crumbling.

A heavy silence followed, then she answered in a harder, sharper voice, but there was a break, a fracture behind those words. “We are both women, Y/n, born into a world ruled by men. This world gives us no choice but to play the role imposed on us. Our father, our brother, our uncles, even our cousins… They are the ones who dictate to us, since the day we opened our eyes.” Her hands clenched into tight fists, nails digging into the skin of her palms. “And the only thing we have left, the only thing we can offer them, is what they want. Our bodies. Our submission.” She took a deep breath, as if trying to contain an emotion that was too intense. “No, Y/n. I don’t feel disgusted. I just feel alive. Because at least I am fighting to stay here, in this world that wants to erase us.”

She turned on her heel, but before walking away, she gave you one last look, mixing a hint of mockery with the sadness she so skillfully hid. "I know what you think of me, sister. And I hope with all my heart that you never have to face that reality. Because if you did, you would understand what it means to sell yourself to survive."

She turned to the door and opened it. Her body straightened, her mask perfectly in place again. Then, into the darkness, she was gone, leaving behind the weight of her words. The door slammed shut with a heavy breath, and the silence that followed was as oppressive as the air you breathed. Giselle's words echoed through you, painful, permeating every fiber of your being. 

She was right. She was always right. But why did she have to take this path?

You looked down at your book, but the words blurred, elusive. Shadows danced around you again, and once again, you found yourself alone.

AMBOISE, FRANCE — December 23, 1555

A masked ball is being prepared tonight, a grandiose event intended to welcome King Lee Heeseung, undisputed sovereign of the most powerful kingdom: Korea. The news has spread like wildfire in the court, and the excitement that takes over the place is almost palpable. Everywhere, the ladies whisper, their faces lit up with feverish curiosity, while their fans barely hide their overflowing enthusiasm. Their admiration for this man seems almost suffocating to you, but that hasn't stopped you from listening.

As you listened, you learned that Lee Heeseung ascended the throne at the age of only four, a child king crushed by the overwhelming weight of power. Now twenty-two, he has become a figure who inspires as much respect as admiration. His reign is marked by brilliant victories and subtle diplomacy, capable of seducing both his people and foreign nations. He is described as a conquering king, but his nickname, the Good King, is a testament to the universal affection he inspires. His legend transcends borders, and his name is whispered with an almost sacred reverence.

But more than her talents as a strategist or diplomat, it is her appearance that seems to captivate hearts and inflame minds. It is said that her beauty is so dazzling that it defies understanding, almost unreal: a face sculpted with divine precision, perfect features that blend elegance and severity. Her eyes, it is said, are of a disturbing depth, capable of seducing or breaking at will. Every woman at court dreams of being the one who will catch his eye, the one who will pierce his armor and win his favor.

However, a shadow tarnishes this almost idyllic picture. Contrary to what many hope, Lee Heeseung does not seem to be looking for love or desire the company of a soul mate. His preferences are much more down-to-earth, much colder. He rejects all emotional attachment, contenting himself with the ephemeral pleasures of the flesh. For him, women are only a means to satisfy his desires, nothing more. And, as you have so quickly understood, once they cease to interest him, he abandons them without remorse, replacing them with others, like one exchanges a broken toy for a new one.

You can’t help but feel a deep loathing for such a man. Just thinking about his behavior makes you feel a dull anger, a disgust so intense that it tightens your chest. Your fingers involuntarily clench around the book you were holding, until your knuckles turn white. You try to calm the storm brewing inside you, but the images that invade your mind make it impossible. You see him, this man you’ve never met before, an arrogant smile on his lips, feasting on the admiration he receives. You imagine his gestures, the way he could brush against a woman with cruel detachment, reducing her to a mere object of pleasure, without ever granting her an ounce of humanity.

And yet, it’s not just his behavior that sickens you. It’s the blind adoration he inspires, the way everyone, men and women alike, seems willing to turn a blind eye to his failings, just because he’s handsome, because he’s powerful. Such injustice revolts you.

How can someone so selfish, so unscrupulous, be celebrated, praised as a blessing?

Your heart twists with pain and rage. The very idea of ​​such a person walking this earth, of him being not only tolerated but adored, leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. And yet, tonight, you will be there. You will be at the ball, masked, watching from afar this man who embodies everything you despise. Part of you burns with curiosity, eager to confront the image you have created of him. The other part dreads what you might discover, fearing that the reality is even more abject than anything your mind has imagined.

You let out a small, shaky sigh, your breath heavy and hesitant, as you move away from the bustling lounges and into the garden. The cool air of the late afternoon brushes your skin, but it fails to soothe the restlessness that eats away at you from within. You search for Princess Karina, that familiar face, that calming presence that could, perhaps, offer you some comfort in the midst of this foreign and oppressive crowd. The garden is unreal in its beauty, a tangle of colors and scents that seem to want to swallow you up. Blue roses, an almost supernatural hue, mauve lilacs so delicate they seem made of silk, and poppies, a pure and striking red, like bursts of light in the lush greenery.

You stop for a moment, your gaze lost in the magnificence of the place, your breath suspended. You let yourself be carried away by the harmony of the place, as if to forget for a moment the heaviness of your heart. In the distance, you hear the soothing murmur of the fountain. This light, almost singing sound, reaches you like a distant melody, announcing an upcoming transformation. 

In a few hours, this same fountain, initially a source of calm and serenity, would be transformed into a wine fountain, whose streams of a golden and sweet liquid would flow in abundance to celebrate the ball party. The idea squeezes your heart, disgusts you a little. This wine, which could flow in abundance in this same fountain, mixes with your dark thoughts, this image diluting in the anger that boils deep inside you.

Yet you continue to move forward, with a faster step, your feet brushing the damp grass of the garden, your eyes searching for Princess Karina among the flowers. You would like to lose yourself there, to blend into this idyllic world, far from the hustle and bustle and the heavy gazes, but your thoughts are too agitated for you to abandon yourself to the tranquility of this place.

Suddenly, without warning, a figure that is all too familiar appears in the distance. At first it seems distant, blurry, then gradually becomes clearer. It is him. Your father. The Duke of Belmont. Every cell in your body tenses the moment you recognize him. Your heart leaps in your chest, a sharp, painful movement. He moves forward with a light step, as if he does not even realize the shock wave he causes in you. His face radiates a bright smile, a smile that seems completely out of step with what you feel at that moment. 

Every step he takes towards you seems to tighten the grip on your chest a little more. The sunlight falling on him makes him shine, but to you, he is more than ever the embodiment of icy indifference and betrayal. The distance between you is closing inexorably, and with it, your unease is becoming more and more oppressive. It's as if every movement of his body, every flash of his smile, is hitting you full force, shaking everything you thought you had buried deep inside you.

Since your arrival in France, since the day he sent you here with Giselle, you have had no news, no letters, no visits from him. He simply sent you to this distant country, as if you were just a piece moved on a chessboard, without any real importance. No words, no sign of affection, not even a gesture of curiosity. He forgot you. And, worse still, he erased you from his mind, as if you had never existed. 

In his eyes, everything you represent is just a mistake that he got rid of by entrusting you to other hands. The void he left in your life is heavier than all the chains in the world. Even more unbearable than his pure and simple absence. He has become a specter that haunts your days, wandering around you, reminding you at every moment that you are only a ghost in his memory. A weight that you cannot bear.

But there, in front of you, he is very real. He comes closer, his smile almost frozen on his face, like a rehearsed scene that he plays over and over again. He knows nothing of what you feel, he does not perceive the waves of anger and pain that overwhelm you, nor the bitterness that twists your insides with each passing second. 

He walks towards you, with that ease that he has always had, with that certainty of being above everything, as if his actions had no consequences. You hate him for that, for that innate arrogance, for that ability to move forward without a backward glance, without worrying about the impact he has had on your life. As if he had erased you with a simple gesture, as if you were just a simple step taken, without emotion or consequence. 

Your heart races, but it's not excitement or anticipation that's coursing through you. No, it's anger, pain, and humiliation that are boiling inside you, too strong for you to ignore. There he is, in front of you, his smile wide and bright, so sincere in its appearance that you almost come to doubt. 

How can he be so insensitive? How can he smile like that, when he's left you in oblivion, in this imposed solitude, in total indifference? 

You want to turn on your heel, run away from him, but something pins you to the spot. An invisible force, perhaps fear, or perhaps this bitter resignation, paralyzes you. You stand there, frozen, your body tense, your hands clenched around the book you're still holding, the bile of disgust rising slowly in your throat, threatening to invade your entire being.

He finally stops in front of you, and in his eyes, you see a glint of pride, as if he were offering you something, a favor that he feels deserved by staring at you like that. But to you, this look is that of a man who still believes himself to be in control of everything, a man who ignores the gaping cracks he has left in his wake, flaws he refuses to see.

“Father.” The word escapes your lips like poison, sweet and sugary, an illusion of respect you try hard to maintain. But your eyes betray you. They betray the disgust you feel every time he addresses you in this way, as if you were nothing more than a thing to be manipulated, to be controlled.

He looks at you, a slightly smug smile, as if your mere presence brings him a gratification he has been waiting for, with that icy condescension he reserves only for his daughters. His gaze envelops you, cold and distant, making you feel as if your existence is but an extension of his empire, a possession he can move around at will. His lips curl into a smile, almost a smirk, but it is not the warmth of a loving father that greets you. No, it is the satisfaction of a man who knows that everything, even you, will eventually bend under his control. 

“My sweet Y/n, you have not changed…” He seems to savor each word, articulating them slowly, as if this compliment, if it can be called that, is a delight he has already tasted a thousand times. And you, in his mind, are nothing more than a simple object in this great game of manipulation, a piece he can move around at will.

His gaze becomes more piercing, more insistent, and you feel this heaviness settle on your chest, like an invisible hand that prevents you from breathing. You respond with a small smile, but it is icy, almost mechanical, a blade hidden under an apparent gentleness. "Thank you, Father." The words slide through the air, hollow and devoid of any real warmth. Each syllable you pronounce is fragile, ready to break under the pressure. And your face, although rigid, controlled beyond measure, is only a mask, a bulwark that you wear every day to not let the storm that rages inside you burst.

He takes a step forward, approaching slowly, but his gait is calculated, methodical, like that of a predator taking its time, savoring every moment of this dance. He doesn't need to hurry, because he knows, better than anyone, that you're already caught in the cruel trap he's woven around you. His eyes, icy as the abyss, don't leave yours. "Do you know why I'm here, Y/n?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, but it's so loaded with implications that you feel like each word resonates heavily in the air, like an invisible weight tightening your chest, making it suddenly heavy and suffocating.

You hesitate for a moment, your breath hanging, as if every movement, every breath, could betray the slightest of your flaws. You look for an escape, a way to flee this situation without showing the slightest weakness, but your words remain measured, almost icy. "No. No one warned me of your presence, father." You feel your heart beating wildly, too hard, too loud. Yet, you refuse to give him the slightest victory, to offer him an ounce of this anxiety rising within you. You try to mask the storm raging beneath the surface.

He tilts his head slightly, like a wild animal watching its prey, scrutinizing your every move, trying to pierce the mask you're trying to maintain. "It's better this way," he says with a light sigh, almost distracted, as if he were doing you a favor. But you know, deep down, that this silence, heavy with unsaid things, is his way of enclosing you, of locking you in this game that he controls with disconcerting ease.

Your stomach tightens painfully. His words crash down on you, slowly, inevitably, an oppressive pressure that almost makes you falter. “What’s going on, Father?” Your voice remains calm, but behind this seemingly simple question, there is a visceral anxiety, a whirlwind of emotions that you struggle to contain. You want to look away, to flee from this piercing gaze, but you know that at this precise moment, the slightest hesitation, the slightest movement, would be seen as weakness. And you don’t have that luxury. Not here. Not now.

He finally stops, standing in front of you. The air seems to be charged with a palpable, electrified energy, as if the world around you is about to explode under the tension. His eyes remain riveted to yours, and you feel the heaviness of his gaze weighing on you, more oppressive than ever. 

"Giselle... She is no longer in the king's favor." The sentence falls like a clap of thunder, an unfathomable brutality that tears through the silence already heavy with unsaid things. The shock is such that the air around you seems to freeze for a moment, as if time had suspended its flight.

For a moment, the world seems to stop around you. Everything becomes blurry, indistinct, as if you were floating outside of time. You feel yourself swaying, a feeling of dizziness taking you by surprise, but you force yourself to keep your feet firmly planted in this terrifying reality. 

“Poor Giselle,” you whisper, and even you can hear that hint of bitterness piercing your voice. But deep down, a part of you rejoices. You knew this moment would come eventually. Your sister’s weaknesses have never been a secret, and you’ve always seen this inevitable end looming on the horizon. Yet with every word you speak, something inside you twists. A strangeness settles in, something darker. A cruel reality that eludes you, that leaves you with only a bitter feeling of emptiness.

Your father stares at you, his face frozen in an icy expression. His gaze darkens, a flash of emotion you hadn’t anticipated, a crack in his impassive façade. As if this situation, this defeat, was much more serious than he had let on. 

“Poor us,” he whispers hoarsely, as if every word burns him. These are not just the words of a father disappointed in his daughter. They are the words of a man cornered, desperate at the loss of his power, of everything he thought he had acquired. “As long as she was the king’s lover, our name, our reputation, our fortune… everything was secure. But now, it can all fall apart.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with threat, calculation, despair. And yet, you know deep down that Giselle doesn’t really interest him. It’s not her he’s mourning. It’s you. It’s you, Y/n, and what you can do to save the legacy he believes he deserves, to repair what he considers an irreparable loss.

You stare at him, frozen, your gaze fixed on him, unable to utter a single word. The silence settles in, heavy, oppressive, almost suffocating. An invisible pressure seems to surround you, to compress you. Each breath becomes a burden, each thought an unbearable weight. The simple idea of ​​what he expects of you gives birth to a wave of disgust, a disgust that is not limited to what he asks of you, but to everything he represents. You see him there, in front of you, your own father, the one who should be your protector, reducing you to a simple instrument of transaction.

But he also knows. He knows there is no escape. He waits, like a patient predator, for you to submit, for you to agree to play this role he imposes on you, the one he believes you will eventually take on.

The shiver that runs through you isn’t just the biting cold of the garden. No, it’s the heaviness of his expectations that makes you shudder. And then he speaks again, his voice lower, slower, like a spider’s whisper slowly weaving its web around you. “Unless…” His words slip through the air, insidious, worming their way into every fiber of your being, imbuing your soul with a dull echo that resonates deep within you. “Unless you can attract the attention of the King of Korea.”

That sentence, those few words, are invisible chains closing in on you. You feel them wrapping around your body, tightening, slowly but surely. The noose tightens around your heart, each beat a cruel reminder that your life, your entire being, are nothing more than means to his ambition. The world seems to shrink to this simple reality: what you are, what you are becoming, none of that matters to him anymore. He sees you as nothing more than a piece on his chessboard.

The garden, the trees, the sky above you… everything disappears in a vaporous blur. Your father’s words echo in your mind with icy sharpness. The King of Korea. This man, this living legend, whose divine beauty seems unalterable, but whose implacable harshness terrifies you. His name alone makes you shiver, a cold, painful fear runs through your body. He is both a myth and a monster, a creature whose aura of power and seduction leaves no room for innocence. And you, you are supposed to attract him, to hold him. The idea breaks you from the inside, a burst of despair that tears at your soul.

Your heart clenches, painfully, crushed under the weight of reality. You don't have the strength to answer right away. The silence, this silence that floats around you, becomes both your refuge and your prison. The truth of what he expects of you hits you like a sledgehammer, makes you falter. But you know that there is no question of giving in. In this world, in this life, weakness is a luxury that you cannot afford. Not now. Not with what you know about your father, and even less with what he expects of you.

You look away, but he sees everything. He knows everything. Your mask is perfect, but your eyes can't lie. You know he reads them like an open book. "What if... if I had him, Father, and he got tired of me, what would you do?" The question escapes you slowly, almost involuntarily, like a last breath of hope. You try to break this vicious circle, to find a crack in his facade, an escape. But the very moment you ask the question, you know he already has an answer, a terribly simple answer: you will succumb, sooner or later, to what he expects of you.

His smile grows wider, more predatory. You know that this smile is that of the man who no longer needs convincing, the one who has already won. He doesn't need to say more. His eyes shine with a light that makes you shiver. "Maybe he would get tired, Y/n, but maybe you would also know how to hold him back." He lets his words stretch out, slow, calculated, like invisible threads that weave themselves around you. "Maybe... you would know how to awaken something in him that no one else could."

His words, like an icy mist, invade your mind. At that moment, he approaches even closer, and each step he takes towards you gives birth to a silent fear, like a sudden wave of cold that passes through your entire body. He is very close now, within reach, and you feel the aura of domination that he gives off. With a gesture, he brushes your cheek with the tips of his fingers. 

The contact is icy, cold as the life he imposes on you. An electric shock runs through you, but it is not a pleasant shiver. It is a shiver of fear, a shiver of revolt. His fingers slide slowly over your skin, as if he wanted to mark your face with his possession. "There is something inside you, Y/n." Your father's voice becomes softer, more intimate, but the threat is palpable in each syllable. "Something that could upset kingdoms."

His eyes bore into yours, a glimmer of certainty, arrogance even, shining in their depths. And you see that certainty, you feel it, you know he believes in you in a strange, dangerous way. He believes you're capable of anything. But you hate that belief he has in you. He believes you're capable of manipulating, seducing, conquering… He believes you're capable of imprisoning the soul of the king himself. But you, deep down, know what that means. He's shaping you, changing you, like one shapes a weapon. And you hate him for it.

A heavy silence falls between you, a silence that weighs, that crushes, before you break the calm with a broken voice. "I will do my best, father." Your voice wavers, weak, and even you hear the weariness that runs through it. The weight of abandonment, of submission, hits you full force. But in your voice, there is also something else. A smirk, a flash of defiance that struggles to pierce your resignation.

Your father smiles even more, a bright, victorious smile. He leans towards you, brushing your cheek one last time with a gesture that is too gentle, too reassuring. But beneath this gentleness, you know that there is the promise of a return, of an even heavier weight to bear. "I knew I could count on you, Y/n." His words are a burden, an icy hug, an embrace that leaves you powerless. Then he slowly withdraws, without another word, but his eyes fix you one last time, full of promises and silent threats.

And you stand there, frozen, petrified, your heart pounding. Your breath is short, as if the pressure of his words has stolen all the air around you. He has left his mark on you. His expectations are eating away at you. And even as you stand there, still standing, you know the game has begun. You have no choice. Not now. Not in this world where every gesture, every word is a weapon. Not when you know that your life, and perhaps your sister's, depend on your ability to play this role.

AMBOISE, FRANCE — Night of December 23, 1555

For the ball, you have chosen a dress of incredible sophistication, a masterpiece of couture that seems to perfectly embrace the nobility of your rank while instilling a wind of subtle rebellion. Your dress, of an intense midnight blue, captures the light of each candle, creating fascinating shadows and flashes that dance with each of your movements. The fabric, a heavy and slightly shiny velvet, unfolds around your legs with each step, like a calm but deep sea, each fold undulating delicately, adding an elegant fluidity to your gestures. The intensity of the color echoes the depth of your gaze, a mysterious and unfathomable hue that hides as much as it reveals.

The dress is beautifully cinched at your waist by a silk corset embroidered with gold and silver threads, which tightens your silhouette in a vice that is both soft and imperious. Each gold thread seems to breathe with you, sculpting your body in a way that recalls the most precious statues of the court. The corset, worked with incomparable finesse, ends in delicate patterns that intertwine in subtle arabesques, as if the very history of royalty and ancestral magic were woven into the fabric.

The sleeves, long and fitted, follow the shape of your arms with a precision that borders on obsession. They are covered in intricate embroidery, each pattern telling a secret story, sinuous arabesques that slowly climb up to your wrists. The embroidery, of a bright gold, mixes with the silver threads like a fusion of shadow and light, creating almost living patterns. At the end of your wrists, black satin ribbons, of a discreet opulence, are tied with a precision that catches the eye, adding a touch of refinement, a vulnerability hidden behind this perfect calculation.

The skirt, vast and imposing, is formed of multiple layers of superimposed fabric, each carefully selected for its majestic drape and incomparable fluidity. With each movement, it comes to life, spreading around you, like a calm and deep sea ready to swallow everything in its path. The edges are delicately decorated with fine lace and discreet pearls, which quiver in contact with the light. 

At the back, a light train unfolds, brushing the ground with infinite softness, like a promise of silent, hidden power, just waiting to be revealed. The slight shiver of the material under your feet, almost invisible, gives you an aura of grandeur, a silent majesty that surrounds you. You are no longer simply a young woman, but a presence, a spectral vision. The dress seems to transport you out of time, each step echoing the legacy of queens and ladies of the court, but also a mystery hidden beneath your apparent grace.

And then there's your mask.

It is just as sublime as the rest of your outfit, a masterpiece forged in finely crafted metal, a silver hue that blends perfectly with the golden tones of the dress. The mask covers the upper part of your face, hugging the contours of your nose, cheeks, and eyes, but leaves your lips free. These, full and tender, are exposed to the light of the assembly, ready to capture the gaze of all who dare to cross your path. 

The metal is smooth and cold to the touch, but incredibly light, almost airy, as if each gold filigree embedded in the structure of the mask was there only to accentuate the calculated coldness of your gaze. The sapphires, embedded at strategic points, shine like stars under the dim candlelight, their brilliance eclipsing everything around you. Each stone seems like a memory, a fragment of an ancient world, captured in a suspended moment.

Black and silver feathers, carefully sewn, border the mask, adding texture and movement to your appearance. Each feather, though soft, has the firmness of a weapon, a symbol of your freedom, of your refusal to be dominated. They float, almost unreal, in the air around your face, like a mist of mystery that barely dissipates.

Beneath that mask, your eyes shine with an unfathomable, calculated, almost piercing light. Although your face is partly hidden, your gaze is that of a queen, of a creature prey to her own torments and desires. There is a certain distance in that gaze, a calculated coldness, but also a deep passion that hides behind every flutter of your eyelashes, every furtive movement. When you meet the gaze of the guests, your gaze pierces their souls, their deepest thoughts, terrifying them in an almost imperceptible way.

And the veil hanging beneath your mask adds an extra layer of mystery, almost brushing your skin, swaying delicately with every movement of your head. It spreads in a perfect arc, like an invisible wave, brushing your neck and décolleté in a way that is both sensual and distant. The edges of the veil, adorned with black roses embroidered with silver thread, are a subtle but powerful touch, a discreet tribute to your rebellion, to your indomitable character. These black roses, in their macabre perfection, are a reminder of your spirit, your inner strength and your will to never be possessed. They seem to bloom under the glow of the candles, drawing the eye to your neck, your skin, your soul hidden behind this appearance of impenetrable elegance.

The grand ballroom, lit by hundreds of candles, seemed to transform into an ocean of flickering light. The reflections danced on the stone walls, mingling with the laughter and hushed murmurs of the guests, creating an unreal, almost magical atmosphere. But in the middle of this sea of ​​elegance and splendor, Heeseung was elsewhere, out of time, out of everything that surrounded him. His gaze, carried away by a force greater than him, did not leave your silhouette.

There you were, in the center of the room, a mystery embodied in your midnight blue velvet dress. It hugged your curves with an almost unreal fluidity, every movement you made seemed suspended in time. The dress, delicately adorned with gold and silver threads, sparkled under the candlelight, like a sea of ​​sapphires, and every step you took caused a wave of admiration among the guests. But it wasn't just the beauty of your outfit that captivated Heeseung. It was you, the shine hidden behind your mask, the discreet glow of your eyes that barely reflected under the veil. It was that look, that look that seemed to carry everything in its path, like a calm sea hiding raging waves beneath.

He no longer heard the voices around him, not even King Francis I speaking in his ear, his words becoming indistinct whispers in the back of his mind. Francis, in the middle of a speech about politics and possible alliances, had no idea that Heeseung was completely elsewhere. He was absorbed, captive to a moment, a single moment: you. The conversations were reduced to background noise. There was only this palpable tension, this electrification of the air between you, and everything around him seemed to distort and dissolve into a light mist.

Heeseung was hanging on your every move. Shadows danced around you, shards of light playing here and there, intensifying the depth of your face barely revealed under the veil. His gaze, captivated by the curve of your neck, slid slowly over your face, following the perfect line of your features to finally stop on your eyes. Those eyes… they were everything. That was where the mystery and the truth he ardently desired to uncover lay. Behind that mask, behind that veil that concealed almost everything, he guessed that you carried something precious, rare, inaccessible. And that, more than anything, troubled him deeply.

He was there, in that sea of ​​light and laughter, but there was nothing left but you and him. Nothing else. Nothing else mattered.

Francis, completely unaware of the seductive power of the scene, continued his speech. He spoke of strategy, alliances, lands to annex and potential marriages. He spoke, spoke endlessly. But all this was lost in the void for Heeseung, who, while keeping Francis in his field of vision, could not take his eyes off you. He heard the king's words, but did not listen to them. They had become empty, futile. Heeseung felt alien to this world of politics and plots, like a spectator trapped in a dream from which he was desperately trying to awaken.

When Francis finally caught sight of Heeseung's intense fixation, he understood. A slight mocking smile played on his lips. He approached him, like a predator ready to savor its prey, and murmured in a low, amused voice, almost invisible amidst the bursts of laughter and surrounding conversations: "So, Heeseung, you seem particularly absorbed by one of the Belmont sisters, don't you?" His tone betrayed an amusement that was in no way sincere. A slippery amusement, more cruel than benevolent, all the while knowing the effect it could have on him.

Heeseung, in spite of himself, felt his heart racing, an intense heat invaded his chest. He briefly looked away, staring at Francis for a moment, but immediately, his attention turned back to you. It was no longer a question of will. He could no longer take his eyes off you. The simple thought of leaving this moment, of moving away from you, filled him with a sort of palpable anguish. He wanted to know everything. Understand everything. He felt his soul contract under the intensity of the desire he felt, an irrepressible need to approach this mystery.

He cleared his throat, trying to regain control of himself, but the question escaped him before he could even stop it.

“Who… Who is she?” His voice, trembling despite himself, betrayed the depth of the desire he felt. It wasn’t just a superficial curiosity. No, it was a visceral need. An urgency to know everything, to understand everything. To discover who you really were.

Francis, of course, noticed the vulnerability in her voice. It only made his smile grow wider. He stepped closer, leaning in with measured slowness, as if savoring every word, every moment he would have the power to delve a little deeper into Heeseung's silent suffering.

“Ah, Y/n Belmont…” The king sighed, and the sigh sounded almost nostalgic, as if the young woman’s name evoked an old story, a distant and elusive romance. “She is… different, you know. A solitary soul, lost in her books, far from worldly distractions. She finds more pleasure in the solitude of her library than in the arms of men. But…” Francis let a silence settle, a smile that was far from innocent spreading across his lips. “Her sister, Giselle, she… She loves the court, the attention, the glory. I have…” The king paused, weighing his words. “I rode her, many times, once upon a time. An effervescent passion, but without mystery. I called her my ‘French mare’.”

Heeseung absorbed every word Francis said about you. He tried to understand why you obsessed him, why every sentence Francis said seemed to chain him further to this inexorable desire to know you, to possess you. An inner storm he couldn't control consumed him. He tried to look away from Francis, who seemed to be savoring the situation with obvious pleasure. But when his gaze caught sight of you again in the crowd, a shiver ran down his spine.

Without even a glance at Francis, without paying attention to the other guests who turned to watch his departure, he put down his glass with a sudden movement, leaving a trace of wine flowing onto the tablecloth. He stood up, his body guided by a force he did not understand, a force greater than himself. He crossed the room with a quiet determination, an obvious and irrevocable goal. His heart was beating at a frantic pace, but there was no more room for fear or hesitation. He was heading straight for you.

And all around him, the air seemed to thicken. The murmurs of the guests, the bursts of laughter and the looks of lust, all of it was nothing more than a rough sea that seemed far away, almost nonexistent. In his mind, there was only you. Just you.

Heeseung moved through the ballroom with a slow, calculated pace, like a shadow slipping through the bright light of the chandeliers. Every movement of his body seemed weighed, measured, but the energy around him was anything but controlled. He was a magnetic presence, a whirlwind of raw attraction that, without a word, made the crowd around him part. The light seemed to slip away beneath his feet, absorbed by the darkness of his gaze, and the air itself vibrated under the weight of his influence. The music, once joyous and light, seemed muffled, as if the entire universe were slowing down to match its rhythm.

The whispers, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—everything around him was fading, swallowed up by an invisible pressure that silenced the entire world. Faces around him were blurring, distorting, as if a veil of warmth and mystery were covering everything. And at the center of that swirl was you. Him and you. A perfect juxtaposition of presence and silence, attraction and reserve. A suspended moment, where all he could see was you.

He only had eyes for you.

He takes another step toward you, instinctively, as if an invisible and irresistible force were pulling him in your direction. A shiver runs down his spine, his senses on alert, every fiber of his being tense in inexplicable expectation. An energy he doesn't recognize takes hold of him. It's as if the room itself is closing in around him, isolating him, focusing him only on you, on the silhouette that you are. 

Every movement you make, no matter how subtle, seems to amplify this attraction. He's seen women, thousands of women, but none of them have ever been able to destabilize him in this way. None have ever had such power over him. Why you? What do you have that others don't? This question haunts him constantly, but he can't answer it. And the closer he gets, the more he loses himself in a whirlwind of confusion, desire, and frustration.

But before he can close the distance between you, he feels a firm grip on his arm. He freezes instantly, a dull anger rising within him at the sight of the intruder who dares to interrupt his quest. He turns his head, his jaw clenched, and finds himself face to face with Yang Jungwon, his trusted advisor, always able to read his every thought. A mixture of annoyance and curiosity reads on Jungwon's face, as if he knows exactly what's going on in his king's mind. His eyes shine with a subtly mocking glint, but he doesn't let it show.

“Your Majesty,” Jungwon said in a calm, almost tranquil tone, “I’ve never seen you in such a state. You seem… captivated.”

The words ring like a bell in Heeseung’s head. He clenches his jaw, aware that he’s been caught up in the moment, that he’s let his emotions rule him in a way he’s never allowed before. His eyes, however, keep returning to you, despite his efforts to focus on something else. He can’t seem to escape you. You’re there, obsessing him, haunting him. The temptation to come closer again, to unravel this mystery, is stronger than ever.

Jungwon, impassive, follows his gaze and, when he sees your silhouette in the crowd, a spark of intelligence crosses his eyes. He smiles slightly, as if he understands completely what is happening here, without needing to say it explicitly. He then murmurs, in a tone that borders on amusement: “She has an undeniable presence, I grant you that. Even from afar, she is difficult to ignore.”

Jungwon’s words hit Heeseung like a whiplash, shaking his control further. He stares at him intently, and in his eyes, you can read all the possessiveness, all the agitation he feels. What Jungwon doesn’t know is that every word, every syllable, fuels the already burning flame inside him. He feels anger bubbling under his skin, a mix of envy and frustration that he struggles to contain. He slowly turns his head to his advisor, his gaze turning icy, almost menacing. The air between them grows heavier, more tense.

“Put away your eyes, Jungwon,” he growls, his voice low and rumbling, a thinly veiled threat in his words.

Jungwon, still implacable, tilts his head slightly, but he doesn't seem afraid. On the contrary, a glint of amusement lingers in his eyes, an almost imperceptible light that he doesn't completely hide. "You know very well that I would never do something so reckless, Majesty," he says calmly. "But if I may say so... Be careful. Women like her, as fascinating as they are, can be more dangerous than an armed enemy."

Jungwon’s words, spoken in a neutral tone, seep into Heeseung’s mind like poison. They echo in his head, but he shakes them away with an imperceptible movement of his head. That’s not what he needs. He can’t help but want to understand you, to solve this mystery. Yet the tension Jungwon reminds him of is there. He knows it. He feels it. But nothing will stop him.

“I don’t need your warnings,” Heeseung retorts, his voice firm, without trembling. “What I want are answers.”

Jungwon watches his king in silence, infinite patience in his gaze. Then, slowly, he nods, his features regaining a new seriousness. “Very well, Your Majesty. I will take care of it immediately.”

As his advisor disappears into the crowd, Heeseung stands there, motionless. A palpable tension emanates from him. He stands like a wild animal ready to pounce, every muscle tense, his mind in torment he has never known. His eyes scan the room, searching for your silhouette in every corner, but the crowd has become a labyrinth, and you have vanished, like a ghost erased by the light. Doubt seizes him. Was it real? A mirage? An illusion born of his desires? He can't help but chase the thought away. No, it can't be. What you left him, this feeling, this attraction, is too real to be fleeting.

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm the turmoil inside him. But even in the darkness of his closed eyelids, your image persists. Your eyes, your silhouette, the mystery that emanates from you… All of it pursues him, obsesses him. He has never been one to let himself be guided by his emotions, but you have made him waver. He hates this vulnerability he feels, but at the same time, it attracts him. He is a prisoner of this fascination.

There is no room for doubt anymore. You are his obsession, and he will find you, no matter what it takes. He must understand you, possess you, solve this puzzle that is you. Because at this moment, he knows one thing: this is not a game. This is a war. A war where he is willing to sacrifice everything he has for… you.

The noise of the party had died down, leaving the garden plunged into an eerie, almost eerie quiet. Shadows danced beneath the trees as the moon shyly lit the stone paths, creating an atmosphere that was both unsettling and inviting. Heeseung, his gaze fixed on you, felt a confusing mix of excitement and frustration. From the first moment he had seen you, you had become the object of all his thoughts, a silent obsession that consumed him from the inside. Every glance he had been able to cast upon you, every mention of your name only fanned the fire that was growing within him.

He stopped at a distance, watching you move with a carefree grace, almost cruel in the way you ignored his presence. You stood by the fountain, your fingers absently brushing the petals of a nocturnal flower. Your allure was a captivating mix of modesty and provocation. The midnight blue velvet of your dress hugged every curve of your body, accentuating the sensuality of your movements without ever falling into excess. The neckline, although sober, revealed just enough skin to arouse the imagination of anyone who dared to gaze at you.

Heeseung bit the inside of his cheek, struggling to maintain a facade of calm. In reality, he was consumed by desire. He had isolated himself from the party for one reason only: to be with you, alone, away from prying eyes and silent judgments. His usually sharp mind was now clouded by thoughts he could no longer control.

He took a deep breath before walking towards you, each step echoing lightly on the gravel of the path. The sound of his footsteps, soft but distinct, broke the heavy silence. You turned around slowly at the sound, your eyes meeting his in a second that seemed to stretch out forever. A sudden warmth invaded Heeseung, his stomach twisting under the intensity of the look you gave him. There, in the shadows, the air between you was saturated with electricity, heavy with silent promises. There was something indescribable in the atmosphere, a palpable, almost suffocating tension that tightened his chest, as if each movement, each breath risked breaking the fragile balance that had settled between you.

He stopped a few steps away from you, his breath short, and scrutinized you for a moment, unable to look away. The darkness around you seemed to isolate you from the world, imprisoning you in a bubble where time dilated, as if suspended. He was a king, certainly, but in this moment, he was nothing more than a man, trapped by his intense desire for a woman he could no longer banish from his thoughts, a woman who haunted and obsessed his mind.

“Lady Y/n Belmont?” His voice, low and hoarse, betrayed the inner storm that was devouring him. The question, although useless, was only a pretext to break this oppressive silence, this unbearable tension that enveloped you.

Your gaze didn't waver, but a flicker of questioning pierced your eyes. "That's right," you answered in a soft but perfectly controlled voice, which slid between you like an invisible caress. You didn't take your eyes off him, trying to decipher his intentions behind his piercing eyes. "Who do I have the honor of speaking to?" you continued, with impeccable politeness, although one could guess a hint of subtle curiosity, which Heeseung caught without difficulty.

He gave a slight smile, a glimmer of satisfaction crossing his features. “Lee Heeseung,” he answered in a deep voice, but his name wasn’t enough to contain everything he felt at that moment. He stepped closer, each movement filled with silent determination, and slowly reached out his hand toward you. Without thinking, as if guided by an unconscious reflex, you offered it to him, the gesture almost automatic, dictated by years of social conventions, but carried by a palpable tension, a quiver of an unspoken promise.

But what followed was anything but conventional. His fingers slowly closed around your hand, his warm palms hugging the coolness of your skin. He tilted his head, his gaze still fixed on you, and, with an almost unbearable slowness, placed his lips on the back of your hand. The kiss lasted a second too long, a second that seemed to suspend time, transforming this seemingly innocent gesture into something much more intimate, much more threatening. The air between you grew heavy, charged with this unbearable tension, as if this simple contact opened the door to much darker and unacknowledged desires.

You shuddered slightly, and the tiny movement didn't escape him. He removed his lips from your skin, but didn't immediately let go of your hand. He held it for a few more moments, his fingers gently brushing yours, as if to prolong the contact, before slowly releasing them. This gesture, this prolonged contact, this hesitation to let you go, expressed his desire far more intensely than any words.

You tried to hide your confusion, but he saw a glint of embarrassment in your eyes, and it awakened a feeling of power in him, a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time. Still, you quickly pulled yourself together, trying to bow to him, but he abruptly placed his hand on your shoulder, stopping you from continuing your gesture.

“No need for formalities…” he murmured, his voice deeper, hoarse, as if he were struggling to contain the storm brewing inside him. “Let’s just be a man and a woman, here and now.”

You looked up at him slowly, surprised by the intimacy of his words. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest, and the warmth of his hand could be felt through the fabric of your dress. It was a burning touch, heavy with unspoken promises, and you couldn't help but shudder under the subtle but persistent pressure. He dominated you without saying a word, and this domination, although silent, imposed itself on you, seeping into your breath, into every fiber of your being.

“A man and a woman…” you repeated weakly, your words trembling with uncertainty. “I don’t think a woman of my rank has the right to consider you a man like any other.”

Your breath was short, and you felt your desire awaken against your will, a dull heat invading your belly. The proximity of his body, the depth of his gaze, everything about him awakened a part of you that you had long repressed, a part that rebelled against your reason.

He smiled, a smile heavy with meaning, almost carnivorous. "Remember that I am first and foremost a man, before being king." His fingers slid slowly from your shoulder to your chin, in a meticulously calculated, almost possessive gesture. He gently forced you to raise your head, and in that movement, something broke between you. The distance disappeared instantly. His fingers brushed the fragile fabric of your veil, and he felt it slide, almost sensually, against his skin.

“I could have been born a commoner,” he murmured, his lips almost brushing yours, a palpable heat between you. “But God had other plans. Yet what I want right now is not the king who desires you. It is the man.” His voice, so low and intimate that you had to strain to hear it, vibrated through the air, penetrating your senses. Each word seemed to force its way into your soul, awakening buried desires within you, desires you had long ignored, or left in the shadows.

Heeseung leaned in slowly, each movement deliberate, precise, like a predator savoring the prey it was about to capture. The air around you seemed to thicken as it closed the distance, until there was only a thin invisible border between the two of you, a space as fragile as mist, but with a palpable tension. His eyes, deep black, anchored themselves in yours, as if he were trying to penetrate your soul, to probe every part of your being, every thought hidden behind the facade you were trying to maintain. He was there, scrutinizing you, probing you without a word, but each fraction of a second seemed to weigh an eternity, making the air unbreathable, heavy, almost suffocating.

With every inch he gained, the atmosphere grew heavier, denser, charged with an unbearable tension. You could feel the heat of his body spreading slowly, like an invisible wave breaking against your body. The breath he let out brushed your skin, barely a contact, but with an intimacy that froze you in place. This simple proximity took your breath away, each breath becoming more difficult, as if the air itself had become rarefied. The feeling of suffocation grew, and yet, you were not ready to move, as if an invisible force was holding you there.

Your muscles were tense to the limit, like steel wires ready to give way under the pressure, but no part of your body seemed ready to take a step back. Your feet were anchored in the gravel of the garden, the hard, cold ground like an anchor, but it was the moment that held you there, as if you were becoming a part of this suspended moment. The thought of fleeing brushed your mind, but it clashed with another sensation, more poignant, more burning—the irresistible pull he exerted on you. You felt torn, caught between the will to escape and the call of a desire you could neither understand nor control.

He finally stopped, just at the edge of what seemed like intimacy, a breath away from you. So close, so terribly close, that you could almost feel every variation of his breath against your skin, every exhalation like a secret whisper. The scent of his skin, warm, spicy, overwhelming, mingled with the cool night air, but you couldn’t focus on anything else anymore. All that existed in that moment was him—his presence, his warmth, the way he seemed to engulf you without even touching you, like a magnetic force you couldn’t ignore. He was there, closer than ever, but you didn’t dare move, petrified under his gaze.

Your gaze locked with his, your mind suddenly drawn into the depths of his eyes. It wasn’t just a look, it was a silent invitation, a challenge, a promise. There was something inherently wild in that dark, burning glow, incredibly sensual, and yet terrifyingly authoritarian. It was a look that didn’t demand, but imposed, a look that soaked into you like a sweet poison. It unsettled you, forced you to observe him, to lose yourself in the abysses of his thoughts, in the darkness of his desire—or perhaps in a hidden fragility that you could only touch.

His jaw was clenched, the muscles in his face tense, and yet he stood there, terrifyingly in control, as if fighting deeper, more brutal desires. The tension between you was palpable, an invisible line you longed to cross, each testing the other’s limits, almost perversely. He seemed harder than stone, more imposing than any figure you’d ever met, and yet in that gaze, in that heavy silence, there was a hint of uncertainty, a fragility ready to reveal itself—but only to you.

Your entire body was boiling. You could feel every movement of your breath, every beat of your heart echoing in your ears. He was pulling you in, inexorably, like a calm sea before a storm. You wanted to pull back, to break the tension, but it was as if you were no longer able to control your own body. A shiver ran through your skin, not from the cold, but from an unbearable heat that devoured you from the inside. The heat of his body was everywhere, pouring into every fiber of your being, wrapping around it, submitting you to his will without him even moving.

He leaned in a little closer, just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath slipping over your ear, brushing your skin, like a caress that was both burning and icy. His lips were so close to your skin that you could almost feel them, brushing your neck without ever really touching, but there was a raw, wild desire in that promise. And yet, you didn't dare move. You stayed there, frozen, your eyes fixed on his lips, so full, so perfect, and you knew, deep down, that you couldn't back down.

He slowly raised his hand, hesitant at first, as if waiting for a sign from you, each gesture seeming like a test. His fingers brushed your cheek, so softly that you could barely feel them, but that caress, that simple touch, was more intimate than anything you had ever experienced. A shiver shook you, and your breathing quickened, too loud in the oppressive silence. He kept staring at you, and in his eyes shone a glimmer of triumph, a certainty that he already possessed you, even if you had not yet made a move.

“You shouldn’t…” you whispered, your voice cracking, trembling. But even you knew your words held no weight. They were weak, almost useless against the force of the moment.

A thin, predatory smile touched his lips, a smile that was anything but tender. “And yet I do it,” he replied, his voice deep and sharply sweet, like a sharp knife sliding through silk.

Your heart clenched in your chest. He knew. He knew everything, he knew how you felt, and yet he moved forward, imperceptibly, slowly, each movement a promise, a warning, an invitation. The space between you narrowed, and narrowed, until there was nothing left but this shared breath, this palpable heat, this inevitable collision of desire and reason.

The distance between your lips was now tiny, almost nonexistent, but just before everything shattered, a thought hit you like lightning: you couldn't. Not here, not now. Not like this.

You turned your head away slightly, an instinctive gesture, breaking the trajectory of his kiss. His lips brushed your cheek, so lightly that it was almost unreal, but the effect was devastating, electrocuting you to your very core. The heat of his breath, the softness of this barely perceptible contact, invaded you with a desire so brutal that you almost lost your footing.

“We can’t do this…” you whispered, your voice almost inaudible, drowned out by the tumult of your thoughts and emotions.

Time seemed to stand still as he stood there, frozen, his fingers millimeters from your face, never touching you, like a silent promise that in an instant, everything could change. His gaze never left your face, scrutinizing every nuance of your expressions, every breath you let out. The pressure of his presence was overwhelming, as dense and opaque as a mist, enveloping you entirely. Every movement he made seemed calculated, measured, but with a purpose you could not yet grasp, destabilizing your entire being.

The air between you was thick with palpable tension, a space where desire, confusion, and frustration danced in silence, locked in an unbearable embrace. His unfathomably black eyes stared at you with an intensity that threatened to make you lose control. It was as if every fiber of your being was exposed, vulnerable, ready to give in. His silence was heavy, more deafening than any words. And yet, everything about his posture, about the closeness he maintained between you, told you that he was waiting for something, that he was pushing you to react, to give in.

“Why?” His voice finally broke the silence, but it wasn’t an innocent question. It was a challenge, an invitation, an almost imperceptible reproach, but palpable. He seemed to be waiting for an answer, a justification, a word that would explain everything he felt, what he hoped for. In his eyes, you could see impatience, the shadow of a frustration that he didn’t even try to hide anymore.

Your body jerked back, reacting as if in shock, your heart pounding. Every movement felt too sudden, too desperate. Uncontrollable tremors shook your body, but there was nothing you could do about it. “Because I promised my virginity to my future husband, Your Majesty,” you whispered, your voice breaking under the weight of the confession. The words weighed heavily on you, a burden you could no longer bear, but had to say, to defend yourself, to get away from him, to not give in to the growing temptation.

Heeseung didn’t react immediately, but his eyes darkened, as if your words were a blow he hadn’t anticipated. He was still staring at you with that burning intensity, but something inside him snapped slightly. A furtive gesture, an almost imperceptible contraction of his jaw. You could almost feel the struggle playing out inside him, an inner war he had no intention of losing. He didn’t want to lose you. Not like this.

Yet he remained still, frozen in his posture, his fingers millimeters from your face, hesitant to cross that invisible boundary. He didn't move, but his eyes remained fixed on you, as if every expression on your face, every movement of your body, was a message he had to decipher.

“And I don’t know who he’ll be, but he’ll be the only one who’ll have it,” you continued, your voice growing firmer, but still trembling with the electricity of tension. It was a statement, but it was also your way of setting a limit, of imposing a boundary he wouldn’t dare cross. At least, you hoped so. But as he remained silent, he turned his head slightly away, as if to avoid responding to what you had just said, as if he wanted to dodge the idea that your words had any power over him.

This gesture, almost imperceptible, hit you like a blow. It was neither anger nor rejection, but something more painful, more destabilizing. It was as if he was protecting himself from a truth he was not ready to face. And this distance he put between you, this subtle avoidance of his eyes, was more than indifference. It was a silent rejection, a distancing that made you waver.

A mixture of anger and pain erupted within you then. “Because I know what happens otherwise!” you blurted out, your voice cracking on the words, each syllable vibrating with frustration and pent-up rage. “My reputation has already been sullied once. I will not let it happen again.” The weight of those words washed over you, evoking that part of you that you had always protected, that past that haunted you relentlessly. A dull anguish took hold of you, an inner pain that devoured you at every moment, leaving you vulnerable and almost broken.

But it was the mention of Giselle, your sister, that made you falter. "And my sister Giselle... She's called the great whore by everyone." Each word tore you further apart, and even though you wanted to hold back these revelations, they escaped you. Shame washed over you, icy, a wave of coldness that made you falter, but there was no turning back.

He looked at you then, his dark eyes deeply anchored in yours, and for the first time since his arrival, you perceived the intensity of his emotions. It was neither indifferent nor cold, but something much more complex: a mixture of incomprehension, rejection, and yet, also defiance. His gaze was sharp as a blade, but he did not look away. He stared at you as if you were nothing more than an obstacle to overcome, as if your words only fueled his desire to break the mask you wore.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he finally whispered, but his voice held no compassion. It was distant, icy, a desperate attempt to regain control, to cover up the crack that had just opened. And yet, despite his words, he still hadn’t moved an inch, and his fingers hung in the air, as close to you as they had ever been.

Then, slowly, he turned away, and the sound of his footsteps faded into the night. Before he completely disappeared into the darkness, a heaviness settled in the air, as if a part of you wanted to call out to him, to scream his name, but you remained frozen, plunged into a crushing silence. “Your Majesty!” you called, your voice broken by a despair you couldn’t explain, but he didn’t turn around.

He disappeared, and you were left there, alone, your heart pounding, your throat tight with conflicting emotions. A breath of relief briefly crossed your mind, but before you could even appreciate it, a familiar figure emerged from the darkness. Your father. His gaze was as cold as iron, as implacable as a final judgment. He stared at you for a long time, and shame, more crushing than anything, washed over you. You felt torn, caught between the burning heat of this forbidden desire and the icy coldness of family expectations.

AMBOISE, FRANCE — Night of December 24, 1555

The golden light of the setting sun bathed the room in a deceptive softness. The rays, filtered through the tall windows decorated with stained glass, spread like a stream of honey, casting bright shards that danced on the walls, tapestries and luxurious furniture. Yet this luminous warmth contrasted cruelly with the icy atmosphere that permeated every corner of the room. The walls, richly decorated with carved moldings and heavy velvet drapes, seemed to close in, as if the space itself were bending under the weight of an oppressive silence.

The wooden floor, its shine and warmth enhanced by the twilight light, seemed almost unreal. The soft warmth of the air, at first comforting, gradually faded as one approached the center of the room, where an icy coldness seemed to emanate from Heeseung's imposing silhouette. Motionless, frozen in a pose of extreme calm, he looked like a marble statue, his arms crossed over his chest. For long minutes, he had not uttered a word. It was as if time itself had frozen, subjugated by his imposing and almost supernatural presence.

His silhouette was silhouetted between shadow and light, contrasting with the golden flashes that seemed to engulf him. Tall and athletic, he stood straight, every line of his posture betraying absolute control. The subtle tension in his shoulders and the stillness of his back gave him an almost superhuman aura. Absorbed in silent contemplation, his gaze remained fixed on the horizon through the window, searching for something beyond the visible landscape, something intangible. The setting sun bathed his eyes in a golden light, accentuating their darkness and their unearthly brilliance, like a heavy sky before a storm. Deep and unfathomable, they seemed to probe the confines of his soul, radiating a silent menace that struck anyone who dared to cross them.

Yet despite an outward appearance of perfect control, one detail betrayed his inner turmoil, a discreet crack in the façade of calm he was trying to maintain. His fingers, tense but feverish, rested on the windowsill, tapping the wood with an irregular rhythm, almost imperceptible, but loaded with meaning. Each hesitant beat seemed to mark the passage of the seconds, one by one, in a growing tension that he struggled to contain. This tiny, almost insignificant gesture nevertheless resonated like a dull echo in the minds of those who observed it, like the oppressive ticking of an invisible clock, announcing the moment when everything would change. This drumming, both discreet and insistent, betrayed a latent impatience, a ferocity contained under an apparent mastery, ready to burst forth at any moment.

Jungwon, standing a few paces behind, watched the scene with painful acuity. Every detail of Heeseung’s attitude, every tiny change in his posture or gaze, seemed to carry a coded message, a clue in a game whose rules escaped him. He had seen men of power before—generals, princes—but none wielded such an aura. Heeseung did not need to raise his voice or make a threatening gesture to impose his will. His silence, this implacable calm, was enough to trigger an irrational anxiety, a tangible oppression that seemed to compress Jungwon’s chest. The air itself seemed to grow heavier, each second that passed tightening the space around him further, like an invisible hand closing on his throat.

Jungwon stood there, facing a king whose power he had yet to fully appreciate. Accustomed to maneuvering among men of power, balancing flattery and truth, he knew how to decode the subtleties of court games. But with Heeseung, there was no courtesy or easy exchanges. Only the crushing weight of silence and the dull threat of his gaze, like a sword hanging over his head. It was not the man who inspired such terror in him, but the implacable certainty that no word or gesture could escape a silent, deep, and inescapable anger, surpassing anything he had ever faced.

The silence was heavy, oppressive, almost palpable. A weapon. Every second Heeseung remained still, every moment no words crossed his lips, amplified the pressure. Jungwon tensed further, aware that the initiative was his. The slightest sign of hesitation would be a condemnation. This oppressive silence left no escape. The inevitable was approaching. He had to speak before this silence crushed him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Jungwon took a deep breath, his breath short, as if he had just emerged from a long dive underwater. This simple act, yet vital, seemed an ordeal in itself. The air around him seemed to have thickened, laden with an oppressive heaviness that weighed on his lungs. Each breath became an effort, a silent fight to maintain his calm, to resist the panic that threatened to invade him. His heart beat violently in his chest, a frantic rhythm, like the beating of a drum announcing an imminent end, the inevitable conclusion that was approaching.

“Your Majesty…” he finally whispered, his voice so weak it seemed to dissolve into the air heavy with tension. It trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly, but enough to betray the torment boiling inside him.

Heeseung didn't answer. He stood perfectly still, like a marble statue frozen in time. Yet a tiny, almost imperceptible change occurred. His fingers, which had been drumming softly against the windowsill, suddenly stilled, and his shoulders, already tense, stiffened even more. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, but the atmosphere around him changed. It was as if time itself had stood still, frozen by the tension of this oppressive silence.

The silence continued to weigh, relentless. There was no turning back. Jungwon knew he had to speak, that he had to pierce the veil of invisibility that shrouded the truth he carried. Each word would be another step into an abyss from which he could not return. But he had no choice.

“The rumors about that family… seem to be confirmed,” he finally breathed. His words were not simply a confession, but stones thrown in a deceptive calm, revelations heavy with consequences.

Immediately, a new tension invaded the space. Heeseung turned his head slowly, almost disdainfully, as if accepting this information was an effort he did not want to make. The slowness of his movement made each second even more oppressive. The look he gave Jungwon expressed no benevolence. It was piercing, icy, like a sting ready to pierce the air.

“Speak clearly,” Heeseung ordered, his voice low, but so strong that it seemed effortless. Each word carried the threat of a dull pressure, an unspoken invitation to say more. “What do you mean by ‘confirmed’?”

Jungwon swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. Every breath felt like an ordeal, as if the air itself had thickened, making the atmosphere unbearably heavy. His hands were shaking slightly, but he couldn't let himself look at them, as his eyes were already glued to the ground, avoiding Heeseung's piercing gaze. Heeseung, still motionless, was scrutinizing him with an almost supernatural intensity, as if he could tear Jungwon's soul apart and probe every thought buried deep within. There was no respite, no escape from the pressure emanating from him.

“It seems like… prostitution is a tradition in this lineage,” Jungwon muttered, his voice hesitant, each word weighing on his tongue like poison, difficult to spit out, but unavoidable.

His words, weak and shaky, were lost in the heavy air of the room, but they couldn’t dispel the growing shadow that enveloped Heeseung. He didn’t move, but a palpable tension began to crystallize around him. He stood like a statue, frozen in icy calm, but every muscle in his body seemed tense, as hard as a wire ready to snap. 

Jungwon’s gaze sank deeper and deeper into the ground, as if he hoped the earth would swallow him up. But he couldn’t stop. He knew, deep down, that the words that followed would seal his fate. He inhaled deeply, the cool evening air hitting his skin, but the stifling heat of the situation wrapped around him, making him almost nauseous. He cleared his throat, a futile gesture to ease the growing anxiety.

“The late Duchess, mother of Lady Y/n… was said to have been a brothel girl before marrying Duke Belmont.” Those words, heavy with innuendo, resonated in the air like a whiplash, marking the moment with absolute gravity. They seemed to float, suspended, in space, ready to cause the atmosphere to implode. Heeseung, though motionless, seemed to absorb each syllable, his face impassive like a calm sea just before sinking. But Jungwon knew, deep in his soul, that beneath that calm surface, a storm was brewing.

Heeseung turned away slowly, but it wasn't an escape or a gesture of relaxation. It was a calculated, measured movement that carried much more than the simple action of moving. Every inch he gained seemed suspended in time, like a predator about to strike. Heeseung's fists, hanging at his sides, suddenly clenched. The golden light that filtered through the windows hit his hands in a particular way, revealing white knuckles under the extreme pressure he was exerting. Jungwon felt a shiver of terror run down his spine, his breathing becoming more difficult with each passing moment.

Heeseung didn’t speak immediately, but his silence was an invisible threat, a pressure that squeezed every fiber of the air. This silence, heavy and suffocating, demanded more than words; it demanded revelations. “Continue,” he finally ordered, his voice so low and sharp it seemed to cut the space in two. It resonated like a knife, an invitation to reveal himself, but also a warning: say too much and it would all be over. Each of Jungwon’s words hung like a tight thread, too fragile not to give way under the intensity of Heeseung’s gaze.

Jungwon tried to keep his composure, but his hands were shaking like leaves in the wind. Every word he spoke seemed to bring him closer to the abyss. He knew that the slightest misstep could trigger a reaction he couldn’t control. He took a deep breath, every fiber of his being aware that everything, absolutely everything, was riding on this moment. “As for his older sister, Giselle… she was said to have had relationships with several influential men in France, including King Francis I.” He paused, hoping that this revelation would be enough to ease the growing tension. But deep down, he knew that this was only the beginning.

The king’s name seemed to echo through the room like a clap of thunder. The air around him thickened, each vibration of the sound hitting the ground like an earthquake beneath the surface. Heeseung, still frozen, didn’t move an inch, but something in the atmosphere shifted, becoming even heavier, more threatening. Jungwon felt his hands grow clammy, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. He wanted to run away, to make himself small, but he couldn’t. Not now. He continued, his voice almost inaudible, a whisper that seemed to blend into the shadows of the room, “And Lady Y/n…”

The words he was about to say were the harshest, the most impactful, the ones that would put an end to all illusion, all restraint. “Lady Y/n… would have had her engagement broken… because of her reputation. It is said that she would be incapable of preserving… her honor.” At that moment, the silence became abysmal, so deep that it seemed to swallow the entire world. Jungwon’s breath became short, almost inhuman. He could no longer breathe freely; the air around him had become an unbearable weight. His heart was beating so hard that he felt the pressure in his temples, in his arms, in his entire being.

Heeseung still didn't move, but his gaze, cold and piercing, seemed to fix on an invisible point, right in front of him. Rage burned in his eyes, an icy anger, implacable, ready to burst into devastating bursts. The muscles of his cheeks tensed, his jaw clenched, and his fists clenched until they became blocks of stone, threatening to shatter under the force he imposed on them. The silence, now a leaden weight, created an unbearable tension, both insidious and crushing. 

Finally, Heeseung broke the silence, but his words fell like a hammer blow. “Enough.”

His voice snapped, sharp as metal. It wasn’t just an order, but the release of a chaos he’d held back for too long. He turned abruptly, icy slow, like a predator ready to strike. Every movement, every muscle in his body seemed to vibrate with a restrained power, an anger he controlled with terrifying efficiency.

Jungwon stood there, trembling, like a helpless spectator in the theater of his own devastation. He knew that what he had just revealed, every word, every confession, would bring about consequences he could never change again. Heeseung was calm, too calm, but that calm was more terrifying than the most violent of angers. The king stood there, frozen in a deathly silence that boded nothing good.

The silence in the room was almost unbearable, an invisible pressure that crushed every thought, every movement. Jungwon raised himself slightly, like a man preparing to face the inevitable, his body tensed almost exaggeratedly, a rigid posture marked by fear. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to flee, to escape by running, but he had no right to. 

He knew that this moment would mark a turning point, that the words that would come out of his mouth would not come back. Yet, with each breath, the feeling of suffocation strengthened. His heart pounded in his chest at a frantic pace, each beat resonating like a hammer blow striking his temples. Heeseung's gaze, cold and implacable, weighed on him like a sledgehammer. Here he was, facing a man who could crush him with a simple gesture, and yet, he could no longer afford to back down.

He gathered his strength, forcing himself to speak, to not let the terror that paralyzed him overwhelm him. His voice trembled slightly, betraying the uncertainty he could not hide. "This is verified information, Your Majesty, from reliable sources." The words were pressed to his lips, but he would have preferred to hold them back. The feeling of betrayal mixed with a consuming anxiety. Who was he to deliver this information to Heeseung, to break a silence as fragile and uncertain as the one that reigned between them? He felt like a puppet, manipulated by invisible threads woven by politics and lies.

He dared to look up, searching for a reaction from Heeseung. But the latter, implacable, did not move. His dark eyes shone with an icy coldness, as if the inner storm he felt was imprisoned behind that gaze. And yet, even without a word, Jungwon knew that a volcano was rumbling inside him. The palpable tension in the air, charged with this contained anger, seemed to make the room smaller, the atmosphere denser. Jungwon felt crushed, his chest compressed by the intensity of the atmosphere, as if the slightest movement risked causing an explosion.

“Reliable sources?” Heeseung repeated, his voice sharp, like a cleaver. Each word fell with surgical precision, a latent menace that weighed down the air. The steel in his tone pierced Jungwon, who felt like an insect under a microscope. His gaze grew sharper, more menacing. He took a step forward, and the space between them seemed to narrow almost supernaturally. 

Each movement of Heeseung’s exuded raw energy, an overwhelming authority, annihilating any attempt at resistance. He was no longer simply a king, but a man embodied in anger, an almost supernatural being in his ability to dominate the space around him. “Since when have we been peddling gossip and slander like market women?” His words slammed into the air, each syllable amplified by the violence of his voice. It was a verbal slap, a deep disdain that disfigured everything it touched.

Jungwon immediately felt overwhelmed, an icy heat invading his body as Heeseung's gaze bored into his. That gaze didn't just scan, it pierced his soul. He felt like a trapped animal, unable to escape. His breath hitched, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to answer, but the words got lost in his throat. Heeseung's pressure on him, invisible but very real, prevented him from finding a way out. Every thought was blurred. He wanted to explain, to justify himself, but the force of that gaze, of that anger emanating from the man before him, cut him off from any possibility of expressing himself.

He opened his mouth again, trying to regain control, to salvage what he could from this conversation. "Your Majesty, I'm just..." But he didn't even have time to finish his sentence. He didn't have the opportunity to defend himself, to try to explain. Heeseung suddenly raised his hand, and this clear and authoritative gesture was enough to silence him. There was no room for discussion, no room for interpretation. 

“Enough!” Heeseung shouted, the sound resonating like thunder, vibrating with anger and pain. The room shook with the intensity of the shout, and Jungwon froze, a dizzy feeling washing over him, as if the ground had just disappeared beneath his feet. He felt his body stripped away, his mind reeling under the weight of this pure, burning anger.

Heeseung stepped closer, his gaze a sharp blade, and her next words hit him like a punch. “Lady Y/n is not that kind of woman!” The statement rang out heavily, laden with all the passion and emotion that was boiling inside him. It was as if each syllable was tearing a piece of himself out, as if the man he was was breaking, torn apart by the mere mention of your name. 

His fists clenched with such force that his knuckles instantly turned white, and his nails dug into the skin of his palms, but he didn’t even seem to notice. His muscles tensed, an animalistic, desperate rage contorting his face. He no longer seemed to be the calm, measured king he had been until then. He was the very embodiment of anger, a raw, uncontrollable force. 

How dare they tarnish your name with such accusations? Heeseung wondered inwardly, the growing hatred against those who had tarnished your honor consuming him completely. His thoughts were now besieged by waves of anger, frustration, and confusion.

And yet, deep inside him, an even more troubling truth was beginning to emerge. It was a truth that tore at his heart, that paralyzed him with the weight of uncertainty. He felt connected to you in a way he didn’t understand. The more he fought against it, the more it seemed to intensify, and the more impossible it became to ignore. His desire, his fascination with you, was now intertwined with this new revelation that was warping his perception of you. He was no longer simply the king in this situation; he was a man trapped by his own feelings, his desires, and the lies that surrounded him.

He turned abruptly on his heel, unable to bear this tension, this anger, this inner tearing any longer. Before Jungwon could formulate a response or a retort, Heeseung was already at the door. With a sharp gesture, he turned the handle and escaped, slamming the door with such violence that the noise resonated like a cleaver in Jungwon's mind. This dry and definitive sound filled the enclosed space of the room, marking the end of the exchange and the beginning of an irreversible change.

Jungwon stood there alone, frozen, his head spinning with the built-up tension. The silence, heavier than ever, fell upon him. He slumped against a wall, his knees wobbling with the effort. His hands were shaking more and more, and his heart was beating in his chest like an insistent drum. He knew that what he had just said would change the course of things, but he couldn't know if it would be for better or for worse. He was caught in a whirlwind he hadn't chosen, and the consequences of his words, at that moment, seemed as uncertain as his own future.

AMBOISE, FRANCE — Night of December December 25, 1555

Heeseung had sent you a letter through a chamberlain, inviting you to join him in his room. The very idea of ​​this invitation, as sudden as it was relentless, invaded your mind, lighting a flame of anticipation mixed with apprehension. Your heart was pounding, resonating in your chest with an intensity that seemed to grow with each beat. Each step you took towards his room sounded like a distant echo, a dull, heavy sound that drowned in the oppressive silence that surrounded you. 

The closer you got to that door, the more the tension mounted, gripping you, almost paralyzing you. The pressure was unbearable, as if the air itself was tightening around you. The silence, heavy and relentless, had no other effect than to amplify the feeling of menace that hung in the air, making each movement more difficult than the last. It wasn't just the fear of coming face to face with him, but the fear of what you would feel, of the unknown, of what might happen once you crossed that threshold.

You finally stopped in front of the door. No sentry in sight, no guard. This absence of observers was unsettling, as if you were already under surveillance, but in an invisible, omnipresent way. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment, letting the fresh air caress your skin, trying to calm the inner turmoil that shook your body. Then, suddenly, a decision imposed itself on your mind. There was no turning back. You had to move forward. You would not back down. Not this time. Not after everything you had been through to get to this point.

With carefully measured slowness, you slid the solid wood door open. A slight creak broke the silence of the room, an almost imperceptible sound but one that resonated like a warning. You crossed the threshold, and the wood of the door closed behind you with a subtle click, like an invisible prison that locked you in this suspended moment. 

The darkness that reigned in the room made you shiver, an almost palpable coolness that contrasted with the stifling heat of your body. Only the dim glow of the candle on the table cast flickering shadows on the walls, creating a strange, unreal atmosphere, as if time itself had suspended its course. And then, you saw it.

There he was, motionless, an imposing figure in the gloom. Sitting on a black velvet chair, his back perfectly straight, he exuded a paradoxical grace, a subtle elegance that contrasted with the heaviness of his presence. A glass of red wine, almost whole, rested between his slender fingers, glistening faintly in the flickering light of the candles. He stared at the window, his eyes lost in the darkness outside, an icy coldness in his gaze, as if everything around him no longer existed. His features were frozen, hard, like an invisible wall erected around him, enclosing him in his own torments.

In front of him, you suddenly felt tiny, almost insignificant. The atmosphere between you two was electric, palpable, and yet, an irresistible force seemed to draw you towards him, like a cruel magnetism. A raw energy, an almost tangible presence, invaded you little by little, seizing you without you being able to escape it.

You watched him for a moment, stopping yourself from making any noise, but you knew he already knew you were there. He was waiting for something. He was waiting for you. And you had no control over what was going to happen. You stepped closer, and when your voice came out, it was quieter than you wanted it to be, but there was no trace of doubt or fear in your words. No room for that.

“Majesty,” you murmured, each syllable seeming to weigh heavily, as if you were crossing a threshold, an irreversible commitment. You let yourself go into a fluid, graceful bow, your head bowed in respect, but your heart was beating too fast. Your hands were shaking imperceptibly. Not enough for him to notice, but enough for you to feel them, that slight tremor betraying the tension that ran through your entire being.

A slight shudder passed through the air. He didn't move immediately, but you felt his gaze sharpen, an invisible heat burning your skin. Then, finally, he released his grip on the glass, a sigh escaping his lips, heavy with weariness. He delicately placed the glass on the windowsill before standing up, slowly and calculatedly, like a shadow sliding through the room, implacable, threatening.

He approached you, his heavy footsteps echoing like a burden, an almost palpable weight that you could feel in the air. With each passing second, the distance between you two was closing in, leaving you as if caught in an invisible vice, a trap from which you could not escape. His eyes did not detach themselves from yours. 

But in their depth, there was not only a fixation, there was an analysis, a meticulous examination of each of your gestures, of each thought that could cross your mind. It was as if he was breaking you down, measuring you, calculating every aspect of you with icy precision. His gaze was sharp, sharp, capable of cutting the air around you. A part of you, more instinctive, wanted to flee, to escape this hold he had on you. But another part, darker, remained there, motionless, ready to face this moment, ready to face him. He left you no choice.

“Lady Y/n Belmont,” he said, his deep, icy voice echoing through the room like a cleaver. His words, harsh and precise, cut through the air with an implacable coldness, but there was something eerily captivating in that coldness, like a snake ready to strike, savoring every second before the attack. He spoke your name with such authority that your heart stopped for a moment, but you forced yourself to stand straight, not to betray the slightest weakness. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, shone with an indecipherable light, as if he were trying to tear the veil of your soul. “You lied to me about your supposed virginity. But it was all just a pretext, a lie to push me away, to distance me from you.”

The words struck like whiplashes, sinking straight into your heart. How dare he attack you like this, reduce you to a mere lie, an illusion? How could he judge your soul, your truth, based on rumors and assumptions? Every syllable he uttered hit you with an unsuspected violence. Everything inside you shook, a sudden wave of anger surging through your being, but that rage was quickly swallowed up by a deeper pain, an unbearable humiliation that tightened your throat.

You staggered slightly, but you quickly caught yourself. Yet the dizziness did not go away. It was too intense, too oppressive. You felt its power, its domination in the air, like an invisible force invading you. It grabbed you, reduced you to helplessness. You no longer had any control over the situation, or even over yourself. Yet you knew that you had to fight. You had to respond, resist, even if every fiber of your being pushed you to give in.

“H… How dare you!” Your voice, though broken by emotion, remained sharp, laden with a mixture of anger and pain. You straightened up, straighter, a silent defiance in your eyes. “You barely know me, but you dare judge me on what? On rumors? Speculations that have reached you?” The pain in your voice made no attempt to hide itself. It pierced the air like a silent scream, bursting with truth. It was as if your soul was being torn in two, exposed and vulnerable before him, but you would not back down. You stared straight into his eyes, your gaze filled with a burning rage, a deep pain that mixed with that anger. “You know nothing about me, nothing about what I feel, what I experience.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, a laugh that was both painful and heartbreaking. It was a laugh without joy, a laugh heavy with everything that had been broken inside you. Then, the tears, hot and unstoppable, began to flow. You felt them slide down your cheeks, like traces of shame that you couldn't hold back. With a sudden movement, you wiped them away angrily, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you broken, while turning away from him, your heart beating faster in your chest.

But, without warning, he approached you, moving even closer, his chest pressing against your back. Before you could even react, his hand grabbed your arm with such force that you didn't have time to flee. A warm breath brushed your skin, and although his words seemed tinged with gentleness, an icy insistence pierced his voice. "I apologize... Don't cry anymore." This gentleness, at this moment, was not a comfort. It was a subtle manipulation, a calculated gesture to erase the distance between you, to disarm you. 

He tightened his hold on you, his chest against your back, and you could smell the intoxicating scent of wine mixed with that of the leather of his clothes. The air became heavy, suffocating, almost intoxicating. He wrapped your hands in his with unsettling gentleness, then, without warning, abruptly turned you towards him, forcing you to face him.

Your breath hitched. He was so close, his face so close to yours that you could almost feel the heat of his skin, hear the beating of his heart. Yet there was no real heat in his eyes. Not yet. “I…” He hesitated for a moment, as if the words were escaping him. “My words overtook my thoughts. I believe in your purity. You are different from the other ladies of the court.” His hands rested gently on your cheeks, unexpectedly tender, wiping away your tears with a gentleness you hadn’t anticipated. The feeling of his skin against yours made you jump, a shiver running down your body.

You gasped, surprised by the gentle gesture, yet charged with unresolved tension. Your eyes closed briefly, unable to grasp this sudden turn on his part. The warmth of his hands on your face made you shiver, and a wave of confusion washed over you. What did all this mean? Why this change in behavior, after his accusations and his coldness?

Under his touch, it became impossible to distinguish what was reality and what was just a clever game of manipulation. And that was Heeseung's power: he had this disturbing gift of erasing your bearings, of blurring your emotions until you lost yourself in an inner turmoil where he embodied both the merciless executioner and the unattainable savior.

The silence that has settled between you is dense, oppressive. It spreads, grows heavier, like a thick fog that gradually engulfs the room, until the slightest sound seems muffled. Heeseung finally breaks this silence, but his words carry a weight that you had not anticipated. "I have to be able to trust you, Y/n." His voice, deep and calm, slides over your skin with an almost tactile slowness, like a warm breath that brushes your soul. He pronounces your name with such authority, such certainty, that it makes you shiver, reducing you to a sensitivity that you did not dare to reveal. 

His lips brush yours in a contact as brief as it is intense, like a suspended whisper, and you feel the breath of his words mingle with yours, a shared breath that seems to capture every thought, every heartbeat. The moment lasts a fraction of a second, but it imprints itself on you with brutal force, every cell in your body vibrating with the presence of this man who stands so close to you, almost within reach of your breath. The outside world disappears then, as if swallowed up in darkness, giving way to this moment suspended between you, where time seems to expand, ready to give way under the mounting pressure.

You've never felt such pressure, and yet, deep down, a part of you knows that nothing here is simple. He's not just talking about trust in its most banal sense, he's talking about a silent submission, a total opening of the soul, a fragility that he expects you to reveal to him without beating around the bush. And that terrifies you. 

“You’re saying that to me?” Your voice is weaker than you’d like, but you can’t make it any firmer. The words hang in the air, uncertain, as you struggle to maintain that defiant, resistant posture. Your eyes first land on his lips, still marked by the touch he gave you, then slowly rise to his eyes. They stare at you intensely, deep and unfathomable, as if every movement of your thought, every beat of your heart, is readable in his gaze.

There is no distrust or doubt in his eyes. There is only waiting. A relentless waiting.

Your arms tighten at his sides as he slides his hands around your waist. His skin against yours is hot, but there’s no gentleness in the touch, only the relentless pressure of his fingers digging into your back. Slowly, inexorably, he presses you closer to him, closing the last of the spaces between you, as if to coax you into giving in to the heat rising between you. His body is a solid mass, an imposing presence against yours, and you feel completely at his mercy, even if you do everything you can not to show it.

He leans in a little closer, and you feel his breath on your face, each exhale brushing your skin like an almost violent caress. “With your hatred of marriage, your sanguine temperament, and your aversion to heretics, why should I trust you?” You articulate your words with a harshness that barely masks the fragility beneath, but everything in you knows that each syllable is but a last stand. A stand you erect against what he represents.

There, in the darkness of the room, you know those words are the most sincere you can say. Heeseung is everything you hate in this world: the powerful man, the one you can't control, the one who has no place in your world of propriety and calculation. And yet, something, deep inside you, wants him more than anything. You look away, trying to escape the unfathomable depth of his gaze, but it's already too late.

He smiled slightly, a fleeting glint lighting up in his eyes, before his face returned to its mask of calculated coldness.

“You can’t.” His voice, a barely audible whisper, pierces you like a sharp arrow, a raw, unforgiving truth that freezes in the air between you, as sharp as it is inescapable.

His lips moisten slowly, then his hand rises, brushing your hair with maddening slowness, each movement calculated, almost ritualized, like a danse macabre. The touch of his hand in your hair is soft, an infinitely controlled tenderness, as if each gesture is meant to remind you that he has complete control of the situation. His fingers then slide to your chin, brushing your skin in a way that triggers an icy shiver, slowly rising through your body, impregnating every inch of your skin with a burning coldness.

Then, without a sound, he whispers against your lips, “May I?”

The words are simple, almost innocent, but you know he's not really expecting a response. It's an invitation. An invitation to give in, to give him what he wants, to abandon all your principles and let yourself be swallowed up by the desire he's awakened in you.

Your heart races, but you don't dare move. You try to control your breathing, but it betrays your will, becoming more erratic, faster, carried away by the rising tension that squeezes your stomach. Every fiber of your being screams to answer him, to give in to this irresistible call, but you force yourself to shake your head, to break this fragile connection that he seeks to weave.

“No.” The word escapes your mouth, sharper and more abrupt than you had imagined, and you perceive a furtive, almost amused glint in his eyes. Yet, behind this apparent coldness, a palpable frustration emanates from him. He did not want to hear this word. He did not want to suffer this rejection, and you watch the muscle of his jaw tense imperceptibly, a barely concealed tension. But he does not back down. On the contrary, his presence becomes even more oppressive, more imposing, like a silent force seeking to crush all resistance, to subjugate every part of you that still fights against it.

“Don’t resist.” He says the words like a promise, a threat, a challenge, all at once. His voice, deeper, almost a whisper, a total control hidden behind each syllable. His eyes don’t leave you, they anchor to yours, insistent, piercing, as if their intensity were meant to annihilate you, to swallow you up. Each word he utters seems to weigh down the air between you, creating a pressure that intensifies, grips you, engulfs you, leaving you feeling an invisible but terribly palpable force.

You force yourself not to bend, not to give in to the overwhelming authority he exudes. 

“No, for so many reasons.” Your voice, weaker than you wanted, trembles with a fear you never wanted to admit, but that rumbles inside you, uncontrollable. Yet your decision remains anchored in your mind, firm, stubborn. You take a step back, your heart pounding, desperately seeking a little space, a little air, but every movement seems futile. He is everywhere. He catches you with every breath, with every shiver his gaze triggers.

Then he takes a step toward you, his gaze intensifying, more penetrating, more haunting. "I can't think of any valid reason not to kiss you." The words fall heavily, like an implacable verdict. Your chest tightens under the weight of his declaration, each syllable compressing you, squeezing you. Everything about him urges you to give in, to bend. Every movement of his body, every nuance in his voice, seeks to convince you, to force you to accept, to submit to what he is offering you without embellishment, without any possible return.

You want to back away, to escape, but deep down, you know that it no longer makes sense. He is there, present, each breath seems to pull you deeper into the grip of his power. Yet you try one last time to escape him, to push back his hold. 

"But that's not what we're talking about, is it?" Your voice, lower, more uncertain, betrays a fragility that you dared not admit. It is a last gasp, a desperate act of resistance. You feel the weight of his gaze, intense, penetrating, destabilize you, but you force yourself to hold on. You still struggle to keep your head up, to not let yourself be swallowed up by what he represents.

He leans in then, and his voice grows softer, an unexpected depth and palpable sincerity vibrating in each syllable. “I want you.” He says the words with a disconcerting simplicity, but with such utter certainty that they resonate in your mind, in every fiber of your body, like a wave that passes through you. His fingers reach for your hand, seek to seize it, but you are already moving away, even though you know it is futile.

“Yes… I know.” The word barely escapes, a whisper, almost a confession. Your eyes close for a moment, abandoning yourself to the intensity of the moment. You force yourself to exhale slowly, desperately trying to cling to a reality that escapes you, to remind yourself that you are not yet lost, not yet swallowed up by this whirlwind. 

But deep inside you, a truth imposes itself with a dull heaviness: each step you take to get away from him encloses you a little more in his web, each movement only brings you closer to his grip, and you know that there is no more room to flee. What awaits you, you already feel it, implacable and inevitable.

BELMONT RESIDENCE — SEOUL, KOREA — December 31, 1555

For eight days, you had returned to the Belmont residence, desperately fleeing Heeseung and the suffocating hold he had over you. This choice had not been made lightly, but it had a cost. Your father had expressed his anger in a scathing manner, calling your departure an ill-considered whim. To him, Heeseung represented much more than just a man: he was a pillar of power, a precious alliance that your family could not afford to lose. His words still echoed in your memory: “Do you think you can escape someone like him? You are deluding yourself, Y/n.”

But it was not an illusion. It was a necessity.

Staying close to Heeseung would have been far more perilous than any consequences your father could conjure up. You had seen that fire in his eyes, felt that overwhelming intensity in his words, and you knew he wouldn’t stop. Every look he gave you seemed capable of stripping you of all your certainties, every word spoken in that deep, controlled voice made something vibrate inside you that you didn’t dare name. Getting away, leaving before it was too late, was the only way to protect yourself—to protect what was left of you.

The Belmont residence, with its vast, shadowy corridors and almost solemn silence, should have been a sanctuary. But it had become a prison, where every corner seemed to whisper his name. Heeseung wasn't there, but his absence was more oppressive than his presence. You woke up every morning with the unpleasant feeling that he was watching you, that he was everywhere and nowhere at once.

He hadn't forgotten you. And he reminded you of it every day with calculated insistence.

The gifts arrived like a well-oiled clock. Jewels encrusted with precious stones, fabrics so delicate they seemed unreal, exotic perfumes with intoxicating notes. Each gift was a testament to his exquisite taste, but also to his stubbornness. They arrived in luxurious boxes, carefully wrapped, as if they carried within them a promise or a challenge. You had them systematically sent back, your strict orders leaving no room for interpretation. But this gesture, although necessary, always left you with a bitter taste. You knew he would not be discouraged—on the contrary, it would only strengthen his desire to reach you.

And then there were the letters.

These carefully written missives, sealed with his seal, carried with them something intimate, almost dangerous. The paper, of exceptional quality, sometimes bore a slight trace of his perfume, a subtle note of smoked wood and spices. Each morning, a new letter was deposited, and each morning, you observed it with apprehension mixed with a shiver that you dared not recognize.

You had tried to ignore them. You really had. But your will had given way after the first one, and now you couldn’t stop reading them. His words were a trap. They seduced you, taunted you, playing with your emotions like a master on a violin. Sometimes tender, sometimes burning with barely contained passion, they always left you breathless, your hands shaking. These sentences, skillfully constructed, seemed to reveal a part of him, a part you weren’t sure you wanted to know—or could handle.

That morning, nothing was different, and yet everything seemed even more unbearable.

The chamberlain entered without knocking, as was his custom. His stern silhouette stood out in the shadows of the room. He looked at you with a calm, almost indifferent eye, but you immediately felt that the message he brought would be heavier than anything he had transmitted to you until then. Without a word, he stepped forward. With almost ceremonious precision, he placed a small lacquered wooden chest on the coffee table in front of you.

He bowed slightly, and before he had even closed the door behind him, your gaze had already settled on the object. This chest, strange and intimate, seemed charged with a meaning that you could not ignore. You did not need to open it to guess that it bore the trace of Heeseung. It was another way, subtle but inevitable, of binding you to him. A rope stretched between you, that you had nevertheless sworn to cut.

You hesitated for a split second. What else could he bring you, you who had rejected all his attempts at communication? But this hesitation, although brief, gradually transformed into an irrepressible curiosity. Curiosity for this object of which you knew nothing, but which seemed to call you in an insidious way. Your trembling fingers slowly reached out towards the chest, hesitating between rejection and the desire to discover what it contained. The moment seemed suspended, frozen in time, when, with an almost solemn slowness, you lifted the lid. The light creaking of the wood mingled with the air in the room, breaking the silence with a dry sound, like a tear in the heart of your apparent calm.

Inside, a necklace. Disconcertingly simple. A thin silver chain, smooth and shiny, rested delicately on black velvet. Nothing superfluous, nothing extravagant, but the beauty of this jewel lay in its purity, in this almost painful simplicity, which seemed to contain a thousand unspoken meanings. At the end of the chain hung a pendant in the shape of a small medal, finely engraved. The “H” on it was no accident. It was the “H” of his name. The first letter of his first name. And that simple “H” hit you like an invisible punch. You knew what it meant. The shockwave that went through you was immediate, dazzling. It wasn’t just a jewel. It was a mark, an imprint left on you, an indelible sign that he was asking for you again and again.

You took the necklace, slowly, as if by touching it you accepted everything it represented. The hold it had on you, the silent force of its desire, the certainty that it would not let go. A shiver ran through you, sweet and painful at the same time. The cold metal against your skin seemed warmer than ever. Each link of the chain was like a silent caress, a gentle but inescapable pressure. You held it between your fingers and suddenly, the room seemed to close in on you. The air became thicker, heavier, like an invisible weight.

The weight of that jewel, of that gesture, brutally reminded you of the words he had sent you. You had done everything to ignore them, to push away his letters, his gifts, his almost palpable obsession. But today, with that necklace, it all came back to you. You felt the pressure of his invisible gaze on you, his silent hold catching up with you, inevitably. It wasn’t just a gift. It was a promise, an implicit declaration that you had no choice. Whether you liked it or not, it was there, in every fiber of your being, in every breath you took. And you, you were unable to get rid of it.

You let the necklace slowly slip from your fingers and set it back on the bed. A sigh escaped your lips. A sigh you couldn't quite identify. Was it frustration, anger, or simple relief? What you knew was that this moment marked the end of your refusal. Not because you wanted to give in, but because at some point, he had gotten to you again. And there was no going back.

Your gaze then turned to the letter. It lay there, carefully sealed. The royal seal, which you knew so well, seemed heavier than ever today. The image of the red wax, of the seal melting under the pressure of your fingers, gripped you like a warning. You knew that breaking this seal was breaking something inside you. But you could no longer back down. The fate of this letter, of this message, was now in your hands. And you knew that reading it would change everything. Once again.

The wax gave way under the pressure of your fingers. The snap of the seal breaking echoed through the room, resonating like the end of your isolation. The scent of ink, spicy and woody, invaded your nostrils. It was a scent you knew too well, a scent that took you back to moments, to memories you had tried to erase. But it was all coming back now. Everything.

You unfolded the letter, each movement feeling heavier than the last, each breath shorter. And your eyes fell on the first few lines. He was there, in every word, every sentence. His words. His emotions. His desires.

“ My star,

I never told you what you deserved to hear. Maybe I was afraid, or maybe I lied to myself. But today, it's too late to hide behind silences or unspoken words. The pain of your absence devours me. Eight days. Eight days without you, and already I'm broken.

I wake up every morning, haunted by a single question: what have I done? Why did you push me away like that? Why did you leave me in the shadows, to lose myself in the uncertainty of your silence? I see my faults well. I know that my mistakes hurt you, that I destroyed what we had without even realizing it. And I regret it more than you can imagine.

But I can no longer bear this emptiness. This silence. This lack that tears me apart every moment, like a blade that cuts me in two. Every word you write to me breaks me, but it's all I have left of you. A word, a breath, a memory. And yet, every letter, every word, I welcome them as a final bond, as painful as it may be. It's all I have to keep you close to me, to keep me from collapsing into this solitude that I can no longer bear.

I know I have no right to ask you this. I know I've lost you and that you no longer trust me. But I beg you, don't abandon me. Don't close the door forever. Give me a chance, however small, to repair what I've broken. I know, deep down, that you still feel something. That all is not lost, despite the pain. And even if you refuse to admit it, I am willing to wait. To suffer in silence, to follow you in the shadows, until you accept the light of my presence again.

I will come back, no matter the time, no matter the obstacles, no matter how many times you push me away. I will come back, again and again, because I will always love you. Always, no matter what. Because no distance, no coldness, will be able to extinguish this fire that burns inside me.

With all that I am, Heeseung. ”

Those words… Those words hit your soul like a devastating wave. A desperate plea, a plea, a promise. He had left you a part of himself in each letter, and now he was offering you a part of his soul. Pain and hope were mixed in those words, and you felt each letter touch you deeply. But it was especially those three words, those three words that he had finally confessed to you, “I love you,” that pierced you. He had said them for the first time, and yet they resonated like a declaration that he had always carried within him, but that he had wanted to hide, offering them to you now in a fragility that almost made you falter.

You had never believed he could say them, those words that seemed too heavy for him, too imbued with his pride and his will to control. But there, in this letter, they were there, simple and striking. And yet, reading them, you didn't know if it was a relief or an additional weight that invaded you. Maybe both. A short breath, a poignant pain took hold of you, and a part of you wanted to erase them, ignore them, convince yourself that he hadn't really said what he had written. But another part of you, the one that terrified you, couldn't help but welcome them, to feel them in every fiber of your being.

You wanted to run away, to ignore, to push it all away. But every beat of your heart, every breath you took, betrayed you. You knew that today, you couldn't remain indifferent. Those words, like a sweet poison, were spreading through you, and you knew that they would haunt you, haunt you until you had to face them, no matter where it led you.

You closed your eyes, your body shaking with the intensity of the moment as you clutched the letter to your chest. In the oppressive silence, you understood that no matter what you did, he had already won. You were no longer free.

BELMONT RESIDENCE — SEOUL, KOREA — January 2, 1556

Heeseung's footsteps echo heavily on the large wooden staircase, each echo striking the heavy air of silence that reigns in the manor. Each noise seems to amplify the palpable tension that grips you like a vice. He approaches slowly, but he doesn't need to hurry. Time, suspended, expands under the weight of waiting. You know he's there, that each step he takes brings him a little closer to you, to this inevitable confrontation that frightens you as much as it fascinates you. Your heart beats faster, each pulse pulling you a little closer to an outcome that you dread and desire at the same time. A shiver runs down your neck, and you almost run out of breath at the thought of what he wants, what he expects from you. He's only a few steps away, and already, you feel his presence invading you.

A heavy silence precedes his voice, which suddenly comes, sharp but imbued with a kind of forced calm. “I need to talk to you.” The words, simple, hit the air with such intensity that they almost seem physical to you. There’s an urgency in his voice, something you can’t ignore, a pressure that pushes you to listen to him, to let him take up all the space. It’s not anger. Not yet. But the intensity in his gaze, the quiet strength of his posture, the determination that emanates from each syllable, everything about him screams that this moment is crucial. And it makes you shiver, a shiver that mixes terror and desire.

You force yourself to stay still, to show no weakness, no crack in this mask you have forged for yourself. But inside, a whirlwind of sensations overwhelms you. Your heart pounds in your chest, hitting your ribs like a trapped bird, beating with a violence that threatens to destroy everything. You feel his words in the air, floating around you, permeating every corner of the house. And yet, you have no right to falter. You close your eyes for a moment, forcing yourself to breathe deeply, seeking that inner calm that will allow you to face the approaching storm. When you open them again, he is there, right in the middle of the steps. His gaze is a black, unfathomable sea, an abyss into which you feel you could sink if you linger too long.

You take a deep breath, trying to regain control. Your voice comes out softer than you would have liked, broken, hesitant, but you force it to remain firm. “There is nothing to say.” The words seem foreign to you, as if you hadn’t spoken them. The softness of your voice betrays the inner tension that is eating away at you. You want to look away, to escape, but your feet seem nailed to the ground, frozen in the stillness of this scene. You fear breaking down, letting him see the slightest flaw, losing everything if you let go of this fragile facade. If you let yourself be overwhelmed, you know that Heeseung won’t give you a chance to get out of this. And yet, somewhere, a small voice in your mind whispers to you that you have never been so close to losing everything.

He finally stops at the top of the stairs, and you feel his eyes fall on you with such intensity that it almost takes your breath away. Those black, unfathomable eyes, filled with an icy determination, scrutinize every part of your being. They leave you no escape. You want to look down, but it's as if his gaze is chaining you, preventing you from looking away. You swallow hard, trying to regain control of your emotions, but it's no use. You know he's devouring you with his gaze, analyzing every movement of your body, every breath, every tiny reaction that could betray what you're feeling. He doesn't take his eyes off you, and in this intensity, you feel very small, vulnerable. You look down, unable to hold his gaze any longer, but it's too late. You know he's seen it.

“I wrote you letters. Lots of letters.” Heeseung’s words are heavy, almost loaded with reproach. He slowly approaches, each step he takes feeling like another burden on your shoulders. His voice, initially icy, trembles slightly, and the fragility hidden behind his words affects you more than you want to admit. He stops a few steps away from you, and you see his fists clench, knuckles turning white under the pressure. He’s in control, and yet you can tell he’s fighting something, a feeling he can’t quite control. There’s pain in his eyes, a deep frustration he tries to hide behind his apparent calm. Each word seems to cost him, and you see him withdraw into himself with each syllable he utters.

You feel a strange warmth rising in your stomach, but you immediately push it away, refusing to give in to it. You try to strengthen yourself, to remember why you can't give him what he wants from you. "And I answered you," you say, your voice quieter this time, but you know you can no longer hide the fragility that has crept in. Your fingers are shaking slightly, but you squeeze them in your palms so as not to let your fear take over. And you feel yourself slowly losing yourself. But you can't give in. Not now. Not in front of him. You have to stay strong. This is your only chance.

Heeseung comes closer again, and the sound of his footsteps seems to reverberate in your head, like a drum beating to the rhythm of your own heart. His presence, imposing, overwhelms you, invades every space around you. He is so close that you feel his warmth, his breath almost brushing your skin, and yet, you cannot move. You want to back away, to escape, but you feel paralyzed, prisoner of this moment. He stares at you, his eyes piercing your soul, searching for a truth hidden in your pupils. 

“In my last letter, I told you that I loved you. I thought you loved me too.” His words, so simple, resonate in you like a clap of thunder, and you stagger under the weight of this confession. His eyes shine with a deep, almost painful emotion, and you see him close his eyes for a moment, as if he was having trouble dealing with what he feels, as if he were fighting against himself to not lose control.

Your heart tightens. Love? That word resonates within you with an unsuspected force. It's so simple, so direct, and yet, everything inside you screams that it's not that, that it's not that way. But, in a corner of your mind, a little voice whispers that maybe, just maybe, he's right. Maybe you love him too. But no. Not like this. Not in this cage he's trying to impose on you. Not in this relationship where every gesture, every word, every breath seems to want to possess you, to destroy you a little more.

No. This is not love. Not under these conditions. Not with him.

The atmosphere in the room grows heavier and heavier, almost palpable. Every breath you take feels like a burden, as if the air is thickening around you, slowly tightening. Your chest rises with difficulty, each beat of your heart echoing in your ears, a dull pulse that makes you lose track of time. Everything around you compresses, space shrinks, and every breath becomes an ordeal, every movement a struggle against the invisible vice that grips you. 

You feel as if your body, your very soul, is going to burst under the pressure of this oppressive silence. But you refuse, steadfastly, to give in, to let the panic bubbling inside you show. You want to stay in control, to persist in believing that once again, you can master the situation, that you can break the stranglehold without letting yourself be swallowed up. But deep down, something is twisting, tearing inside you, a cacophony of contradictory emotions, of irrepressible desires, of dull terror.

“It’s not enough.” The words leave your lips like a sentence. They seem almost foreign, as if your own body is rejecting what he’s just said. And yet, immediately, you feel the impact: a stab to the heart, a dull but very real pain that invades you. It’s a shock, an explosion, as if those words had been the detonation of a bomb you had armed yourself. They are not just protests, but a desperate attempt to set boundaries, an attempt to stem the tide of pressure that is sweeping you away. But you know, deep down, that this gesture is futile, that you have no power here, that everything you do is only a temporary reprieve.

A cold laugh escapes his lips, almost amused, but there is nothing light in this sound. It is a hard laugh, acerbic, almost cruel, a cold anger that hides there. It is not mockery that strikes you, but the control, the precision of the violence contained in this laugh. It is not an unleashed rage, but an icy anger, measured, like a poison that diffuses slowly in the air. 

“Isn’t that enough for Y/n Belmont?” The sentence hits you like a slap. It pins you to the spot, knocks you down under its weight. Each syllable resonates within you like a condemnation, a warning that there is no turning back. He wants to break you, again and again, until you give in. And the thought freezes you, makes you waver. 

How do you escape a trap when you yourself are the one who set it?

He takes a step toward you, then another, and with each movement, you feel yourself shrinking further into yourself. Instinctively, you try to escape, but there is nowhere to run. The distance between you narrows dangerously, and your body tenses, a feeling of horror mixed with desire passing through you like an icy shiver. You want to back away, but each step back pushes you deeper into his web, each inch gained seems to lose you a little more. The wall behind you hits you brutally, a physical shock that takes your breath away and prevents you from fleeing. He is there, very close, and you are trapped, caught in his presence, in this electric tension that unites you. There is no escape.

You want to ask him if, for him, this is enough, but the words remain stuck in your throat. Your voice trembles, breaks, but you can't even get them out. Everything inside you screams, screams for him to move away, to let you breathe, but you remain frozen, unable to move. He devours you with his gaze, scrutinizing every corner of your being. Each second under his burning gaze seems like an eternity, an endless torment. A part of you feels vulnerable, naked, exposed like never before. His gaze seems to penetrate beyond your skin, to seek out what you hide, what you don't even dare to admit.

Heeseung finally stops, too close, so close that you can feel the warmth of his breath caressing your face, each shiver of his body against yours unsettles you further. He is there, right against you, and you know he is waiting for something. An answer. But even if you know he is dangerous, that he could break you with a single word, you cannot push away this attraction, this magnetic force that he gives off. It is an overwhelming, implacable presence, a power that invades you effortlessly. A part of you wants to push him away, to defend yourself, but another part wants to succumb, to let itself be engulfed by the wave of desire that he deploys around you. These two forces fight inside you, pulling in opposite directions, each trying to take over.

His voice, almost a whisper, breaks the silence. "What should I do then? Tell me, and I will do it... I don't want to be ignored by you anymore. My heart hurts." There is a plea in his words, a palpable pain that makes a tremor grow deep in your stomach. You see his weakness, you see that he is suffering in a way that you could not even imagine. But at the same time, you feel that this suffering, he wants to make you bear it. He gets closer, too close, and the proximity becomes unbearable, but you can no longer move, prisoner of this suspended moment.

“Then… marry me.” Your words, though spoken with palpable determination, echo in the air like a desperate cry from the heart, a challenge thrown to the wind, a plea whispered in the icy intimacy of the room. The sentence is heavy with meaning: with renunciation, desire, and rebellion. “I don’t want to be your mistress, nor one of those women without a future. I refuse that.” Your voice, usually firm and controlled, trembles slightly, betraying an emotion much deeper than you would have wanted to let show. It reveals a fragility hidden beneath the facade of coldness that you have patiently built up over the years. It is a breakup, a laying bare, an ultimatum from which there is no escape.

You feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of your dress, as your hand rests on his chest, trying to push him away. But you know that this gesture is futile, that it has no impact on Heeseung. He, much more powerful, much more anchored in this moment, controls the situation much more than you. He captures your hand with disarming ease, wraps it in his with a merciless firmness, as if to tell you that you will not escape what he desires. 

The touch is gentle, but the pressure of his grip on your hand is at once an anchor, almost painful, a marking, an admission of possession. Each beat of his heart against your palm is a brutal reminder that what you feel for him, however hard you try to ignore it, can no longer be denied. You can no longer run away, not in your thoughts, not in your actions.

He squeezes your hand gently against him, his fingers brushing the skin of your wrist with calculated tenderness, before slowly bringing it to his lips, with an infuriating, almost cruel slowness. He places a light, almost furtive kiss on the back of your hand, a touch as delicate as a breeze brushing the surface of water. But this softness is laden with unspoken promises, with desires hanging in the air between you. 

The warmth of his lips against your skin makes you shiver, a shiver that starts in your belly and spreads in waves, permeating every fiber of your being. His eyes, of an unfathomable intensity, do not leave yours, capturing you in an implacable, almost hypnotic gaze. You feel this strange heat, this raw energy, this mixture of desire and domination that emanates from him, passing through you, destabilizing you, sucking you into a spiral of contradictory sensations.

Every movement he makes seems perfectly measured, calculated, but you know that beneath this apparent mastery, the vice of his desire is slowly tightening around you, implacable. An animal, almost bestial energy emanates from him, palpable, vibrant, and you feel reduced to prey, quivering under the pressure of this look, this kiss, this contact. You waver, torn between the desire to back away and the irresistible urge to abandon yourself to the intensity of this moment, to the call of this force that overwhelms you.

“And I will always love you.” Heeseung whispers these words in a deeper, hoarse voice, like a promise whispered in the breath between two silences, a confession made in the intimacy of a suspended moment. The whisper brushes your skin, light as a caress, but charged with such intensity that it takes your breath away, as if each word were striking directly into your soul. It is a word heavy with meaning, a silent commitment that is imprinted on you. And the last kiss, more insistent this time, lands on your ring finger, a gesture that envelops you and makes you shiver from head to toe. Your heart races, your breath stops, and the room seems to shrink into one single thing: this moment between you two, suspended in the air, suspended in time, like a promise that nothing can break.

BELMONT RESIDENCE — SEOUL, KOREA — Night of January 2, 1556

“Well… The king is very much in love with you, my daughter.” Your father’s voice breaks the oppressive silence of the room, soft in appearance, but beneath this softness hides an insidious coldness, an icy, almost threatening undertone. His words float in the air, heavy with meaning, and you feel a shiver slide down your spine, like a wave of dread. The timbre of his voice, calm but authoritative, invades the space with implacable precision. Each word seems to weigh a ton, marking the beginning of a decisive moment.

He walks with a measured, almost ceremonious step, his boots echoing on the cold marble slabs with a dry sound, part of a perfect symphony of silence. His steps seem to slow down time, as if the room itself were holding its breath. You don't dare look up to see him, but you know he's getting closer, slowly, inexorably. The light of the twilight, filtered and gilded by the imposing stained glass windows, reflects on his face, accentuating the rigid lines of his forehead and the hardness of his features, as if carved in stone. A flash of light highlights his icy eyes, those eyes that have never shown you the slightest tenderness, only expectation, disappointment at every misstep, dismay at your silent rebellion.

Your heart tightens in your chest. The slightest movement seems to betray you. You feel trapped, frozen, like prey caught in the light of his reproaches. Your feet suddenly feel heavy, as if each marble slab beneath you is an impossible mountain to climb. You try to focus on something, anything, other than the intensity of this scene. Your eyes instinctively fall on the richly decorated carpet beneath your feet, the delicate patterns that cross and intertwine like invisible threads, imprisoning you, enclosing you even more.

Your hands, clasped in front of you, tremble slightly. You clench them unconsciously, fingers clenching so tightly that you feel a dull ache. A flash of white crosses your knuckles as you struggle to control the fear that knots your insides. You knew this conversation would come one day, but the truth of the moment hits you like an icy slap. No words could express the depth of this wait, the chasm between what you are and what he wants from you. It’s not just about what he wants for you. No, it’s about what he wants from you, what you’re willing to sacrifice under his merciless eyes.

“And what do you think of your task, my child?” His voice rises again, deeper, this time tinged with an authority that sends shivers down your bones. Each syllable is a blow directly to your being, an obvious question in the tone, but a silent demand in the space between the words. He doesn’t wait for a sincere answer. He waits for the one he wants to hear. The answer that will somehow justify his choices, his willingness to shape you, to bend you to an image he drew for you long before you were born.

Your gaze slowly rises, in spite of yourself, as if an invisible force were forcing you to face him. It's not that you want to meet his gaze. No, that gaze is a weapon. But you know that it's the only way to try to control the chaos that rumbles inside you, to keep a fraction of control over this situation.

His eyes bore into yours, icy, piercing, as if he were trying to probe your soul, to decipher what you hide behind your silences, your reluctance. He doesn't need words to make you understand that he expects more than words. He expects you to bow, to show him the deference he demands. The pressure of his gaze is unbearable. You feel like your mind is being swallowed up by his will, that your thoughts are dissipating under the weight of his waiting.

An unpleasant shiver runs down your spine, your heart racing. A ball of apprehension forms in your stomach, then grows, invading every corner of your being. You feel so vulnerable under his gaze. Every word that crosses your lips will be an affront, a betrayal against your own truth. But you have no choice. You know what he expects.

You take a deep breath, trying to control the trembling that shakes your entire body. Your voice comes out faintly, but there is this imperceptible tremor in your words, this fracture in the air around you. “Well… to tell you the truth… I admit… I wasn’t very enthusiastic before.” The words seem to tear themselves away from you. They are bitter, sharp, and yet so vulnerable. It is as if, in speaking these words, you are betraying yourself, as if you are selling a part of your soul to preserve the appearance of obedience.

Silence falls. It is heavy, so heavy that each second seems to stretch out to infinity. Your father does not move, but you feel the weight of his gaze become even more oppressive, more incisive. His gaze does not weaken, and you feel yourself fainting under this pressure. The air becomes thicker, as if everything around you is compressing, leaving you barely room to breathe. He waits. He expects more from you, a confession perhaps, a promise of surrender. A validation of his will, which he has so hoped to obtain.

You swallow, the taste of defeat bitter in your throat, as if you had just swallowed broken glass. You will never dare to tell him the truth. Not this way. Not in front of him. You lower your head, unable to hold his gaze any longer. A sudden warmth fills your eyes, and you feel tears threatening to flood, like a dam breaking. But you refuse to cry. Not in front of him. Not in this moment where your fragility would be a victory for him.

“But today…” You force yourself to continue, but the words no longer come. They remain stuck in your throat, like a knot too tight, a weight too heavy. You want to scream, to shout, but nothing comes out. Silence becomes your enemy. You lower your head even lower, staring at the ground as if you could find an escape there. Your eyes are misty, but you close them. No, you will not cry. Not here. Not now.

Your father inhales deeply, but it’s not just a breath. It’s a sigh heavy with meaning, a hushed sound that slips through the air like an icy mist, brushing your skin before settling in your lungs. It escapes his lips without a sound, but the pressure that accompanies it is palpable, so intense that you can feel it spreading through the room, invading every corner. It’s not the kind of sigh you let out out of weariness or frustration. No, it’s a calculated breath, laden with a much heavier weight. No lightness, no sign of impatience, just a silent threat hidden beneath an icy façade.

To anyone outside, watching without knowing, that breath might seem innocuous, a simple breath of a man caught up in the moment. But you know him. It’s not an involuntary gesture. It’s not a reflex. Each inflection of his breath is measured, carefully measured to let you know that he’s getting ready, that something is brewing behind his closed lips. That sigh hangs in the air, like a warning of an impending storm.

In the stifling stillness of the room, you feel the seconds ticking away like drops of water falling into a bottomless pit. The air becomes heavier and heavier, more oppressive, as the silence settles. The slightest vibration, the slightest breath seems to expand, plunging you into a deeper feeling of claustrophobia. You don't even dare to breathe normally. The air is too dense, too suffocating, compressing you with each breath. You feel trapped. Space seems to close in around you, each breath becoming a provocation, each movement, however small, betraying you. You know he sees everything. And he waits.

Your shoulders tense involuntarily. An imperceptible contraction, as if your body, instinctively, knew that it had to prepare to take it. But there is nothing to take yet. No blows, no screams. Just this silence, heavy and threatening. But this silence is a minefield. Every word he could say, every gesture, could be a detonation. And you know that he will not give you an easy way out. He controls time. And you are only a grain of sand caught in the storm he has already unleashed.

His lips finally part, slowly, like a predator ready to bite. “My child,” he says, his voice low and vibrant. He lets his words hang in the air, rolling them slowly, like invisible chains. Each syllable seems to slip under your skin, sink into your insides. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t need to scream. That voice, soft but relentless, is a sound wave that seeps into every corner of your being. An icy, relentless vibration that seizes you right in the heart. The apparent softness of his voice is an illusion. Behind those words, you immediately perceive the steel of his authority, the ruthless determination that guides each syllable, each breath he lets cross his lips.

Your mind disconnects. You try to find an answer, something to say to break this heavy silence, but no words find their place. Your throat tightens, your breath catches under the invisible pressure he imposes, and you know he expects nothing from you. Only submission. The silence stretches, interminable. Then, before you can even react, a hand appears from nowhere. A cold hand, firm, fast. A hand that grabs your chin with an almost imperceptible brutality.

The touch is icy, like marble. His fingers dig into your skin with terrifying precision, not forcing, but enough to nail you to the spot. A feeling of numbness spreads across your face, down your neck, as if you no longer have control over anything. His fingers are too cold, and the sensation of his touch invades your mind, numbing every thought, every desire to resist. A wave of cold runs down your spine, but you don't dare do anything, say anything. The air around you becomes heavy, like a stifling blanket that you can't remove.

He tilts your head back slightly, a subtle but relentless movement, a gesture without permission, without regard. The pressure on your chin is gentle, but it leaves an indelible imprint on your soul. He subdues you without noise, without physical pain, but with a force far greater, far more crushing. He does not seek to make you suffer. No, what he wants is to make you understand that you have no power here. He wants you to realize, in this moment, that everything around you, everything you are, belongs to him. Everything.

He stares into your eyes. No compassion. No empathy. Just an icy, merciless coldness. His gaze searches your soul, seeks out the slightest trace of resistance, of rebellion, and clings to it like a sharp claw. He leaves you no escape. His eyes are steel balls, implacable, inhuman, probing your deepest thoughts, tracking down the slightest flaw. It's as if he had decided to tear from you any form of freedom, of independence. And you, you don't dare look away. You know that every movement, even the smallest, would be perceived as an attempt to escape, a defiance.

He whispers, his voice sliding through the air like an icy caress, “Believe me, it would be wiser not to let yourself be fooled by your own charade.”

The words, carried by a deceptive sweetness, hit you like stones. Each syllable is a slap, a furtive but relentless blow. They slip under your skin, sneak into your mind, swirl through your thoughts like an insidious poison. You try to fight, but it is futile. His words have planted a seed of doubt, a seed of terror, and they germinate in you, spread in your heart like a slow, irreversible poison.

Your face tense, your gaze avoids his, unable to bear the truth he pours on you. Each word he speaks tears a little more the fragile veil of your stubbornness, the illusion of a freedom that he has already reduced to ashes. He knows. He knows you, and he hates you for this part of you that he has never been able to dominate. Humiliation invades you, deep and dark, like an oil tide that swallows up your last hopes. You feel broken, vulnerable, so much so that even the air seems to weigh heavier, each breath an effort to keep control of your body which, however, trembles in spite of you.

You have no voice or body, only this hold, this cold and cruel grip that tightens with each second, each moment seeming to last an eternity. You feel asphyxiated, and yet, nothing in his attitude suggests the slightest emotion. Your father dominates you, he breaks you, but he remains there, implacable and serene in his power. Time blurs. There is only him, his hand, and your heart beating faster and faster with each second. This gesture, of an almost indifferent simplicity, this palm on your chin, makes you feel like an insect caught in a web, fragile and insignificant. The veins in your neck beat frantically, reminding you that you are still alive, still aware of the war that is being played out at this precise moment. You are nothing more than a shadow of what you were before he entered your life.

Then, suddenly, without warning, he releases you. Not gently. Not mercifully. His gesture is sharp, cutting, like a gust of icy wind. The loss of his grip hits you hard. The absence of his hold is almost more violent than his presence itself. The air, a fraction of a second lighter, suddenly becomes heavy, oppressive, as if you were lacking oxygen. It is a shock, a void, a chasm that opens up inside you when you lose this contact. You feel like you are collapsing, not because the gesture was too violent, but because you know that this is not the end. It is just a pause in a dance that he leads alone, a pause before returning to the charge. You lower your head, unable to support this piercing gaze any longer, this constant pressure that threatens to melt you under his weight.

Your father takes a step back, reestablishing a physical distance that does nothing to diminish the emotional gap between you. His gaze remains fixed on you. He studies you, assesses every inch of your face, every shred of doubt, every fragment of resistance. You want to resist him, scream at him that you are not the docile creature he thinks you are, but your words dissipate in your throat, trapped in an ocean of terror and revolt. There is no more room for rebellion. Submission has become a cruel self-evident fact. His hands cross behind his back, the image of a judge ready to render his verdict, without compassion, without regard for what you might feel. He embodies law, order, what he considers the only path to the family's survival. And you are only a pawn, a tool among others to accomplish this mission.

“Love, my daughter…” His cold, implacable voice cuts through the air. It’s a sentence, a final judgment. Each word, sharp as a blade, cuts through everything you thought you knew. “…is nothing but a weakness. A ridiculous illusion. A flickering flame, bright for a moment before going out, often when you need it most.”

The shock of his words hits you hard. Each word resonates in your head, heavy as the sound of a bell that emits a dull echo, a painful noise that will haunt you. There is no room for ambiguity, for nuance. Love, for your father, is a weakness, something to be swept away in order to focus on what really matters. These words, which should slide off you like water on marble, are imprinted on you like a burn. An invisible mark that you will never be able to erase. You feel helpless, as if an essential pillar of your vision of the world has just collapsed. Love, this feeling that you thought was at the heart of your humanity, becomes a poison for him. He has never known it, and it is as if he reproaches you for this naivety, this failure.

Your father looks away briefly, but it's not a comforting gesture. He settles on the hearth, where the flames crackle quietly. Their orange dance casts eerie shadows on his face, making him even colder, more distant. He seems to withdraw into his thoughts, but you know that this moment of withdrawal is only an illusion. Each second that passes is measured, each word he speaks is a weapon, carefully sharpened in the shadows. Then, slowly, he comes back to you. His icy eyes fix on yours, and you shudder under his gaze. A gaze that forgives nothing, that scrutinizes you as if you were nothing but a worthless thing, an inferior being. You feel dispossessed of your own body, like an object in his hands, a lost soul.

“It’s a fleeting feeling,” your father continues, his voice softer now, but just as relentless. “A luxury we can’t afford. Not you. Not now.”

The world around you tightens, each word compressing you further, bringing you to your knees. You can't breathe. There's no room for feelings. No room for your heart. No room for you. You're just a function in this grand plan he's plotted, a puppet whose strings he's pulling. He moves closer to you, and your legs, suddenly weak, betray you. You take a half-step back, but all you feel is the increasing pressure of his dominance. The physical distance shrinks further, and you feel more and more vulnerable, trapped in this space where he leaves you no escape.

“You must understand,” his tone grows harsher, each word hitting like a hammer. “Your duty transcends your feelings. You are not here to lose yourself in romantic illusions. Your existence, your position, your choices… All of it must serve a greater purpose.”

His words resonate like a clap of thunder. They strike your heart like a fist. You want to fight back, scream that you are not this instrument, that you are not a mere pawn in his game, but all you can do is stand there, frozen, completely unable to free yourself. The air around you is so heavy that it prevents you from breathing. A wave of frustration, of revolt, but also of terror, invades you. You are his captive, at the mercy of this man who sees in you only a simple means to an end.

He walks away, but it’s not a release. No. It’s as if the room is closing in on you, each step he takes deepening the emptiness that’s engulfing you. The sound of his shoes on the marble floor reverberates through the space, resonating like a succession of hammer blows striking your soul, a dull echo that sinks you into an icy solitude, a stifling feeling of isolation. You watch him fade into the shadows, but as he disappears, all that’s left is this coldness that settles in your mind, a chasm of silence and nothingness where nothing else has a place. The weight of his departure brings you no relief. It only deepens the emptiness that overwhelms you.

He didn't leave you alone, no. His departure is like a last icy breath, a treacherous breeze that still embraces you. Every word he spoke, every order he imposed on you, resonates in you, unalterable, a silent bell that crushes you. And you know that there is no escape. No way out. He has planted his ideas, his imperatives, in you, and they have become indelible. Like a poison that slowly seeps under your skin, his words slip into every corner of your mind, stifling the illusion of independence that you still believed was yours. What he did to you, what he stole from you, all of this is now an insurmountable barrier, a painful, frozen truth, condemning you to immobility.

You feel frozen, every movement seems too heavy, every breath becomes almost unbearable. Your heart beats at a frantic pace, trying to escape the cage of your chest, as if it wanted to escape the oppression, this invisible suffocation. Each beat seems to knock against your ribs, like a brutal reminder of what you have become: a shadow of yourself. A shadow of what you were before. Before it locked you in its whirlwind of power and submission. Before everything dissolved into this void.

You feel tiny, insignificant, almost invisible. What you thought you were, your desires, your hopes, all of that is swept away in one go, swallowed up by the immensity of what overwhelms you. The room, once full of life, seems to close in around you, shrinking the space, transforming it into a stifling abyss of emptiness. What was once your refuge suddenly becomes a silent mausoleum where you lose yourself, forgotten. There, in the shadow of everything you could not be, you find yourself alone, alone with what remains of your reality, broken.

And then, the tear falls. It slides slowly down your cheek, tracing a cold line on your taut skin. It is heavy, like a weight, carrying all the pain you have not been able to express, all that you have held back, prisoner of this imposed silence. The warmth of the tear contrasts with the cold that invades you, but it brings you no comfort. It is silent, discreet, but it is there, present. It is an echo of your suffering, a persistent trace of the dignity that you believe you have lost. A tear among many others, but this one is yours. The only thing that remains to you. The only thing that still bears witness to the person you were before everything collapsed. It is fragile, almost imperceptible, but it means everything. Everything you have not been able to say, everything you have not been able to show, everything you have not been able to be.

HWASEONG FORTRESS — SEOUL, KOREA — January 4, 1556

Heeseung stood motionless in front of the fireplace, frozen like a marble statue, an imposing and almost unreal figure in the faint flickering light of the flames. The heat of the fire, which should have warmed the atmosphere, seemed to evaporate around him, pushed back by the cold and distant aura that emanated from his presence. The black velvet cape, heavily draped over his shoulders, fell in perfect folds, hugging the shape of his body with a royal and inaccessible rigidity. The fabric, capturing the golden flashes of the flames, sent them back in a thousand shards, sparkling like stars, contrasting with the depth of the darkness that surrounded him.

His fingers, clasped behind his back, were clenched until they hurt, the tension in the muscles of his hands evident in the glow of the flames. At times, a slight tremor ran through his knuckles, a fleeting shudder that betrayed the nervousness hidden beneath the mask of control he was trying to maintain. For a moment, he looked away from the flames to stare at his reflection in the smooth glass of the fireplace. The intensity of his own gaze, a reflection of an inner storm he was trying to control, made him look away almost immediately. His thoughts swirled, fast, like a torrent he was trying to contain.

The door creaked open, echoing through the empty room. Jungwon stepped inside, his measured steps echoing against the wooden floor, as if he were weighing every move. He knew that anything he did would risk irritating or accelerating the tension saturating the air. He slipped into the room with an almost palpable caution, each gesture carefully calculated. The door closed behind him in an almost sacred silence, the echo of the turn of the handle fading into the depths of the room. The contrast between the simplicity of such an ordinary gesture and the oppressive atmosphere seemed unreal, as if the world outside had vanished. Only the crackling of the fire broke the silence, adding a touch of life to an otherwise frozen scene.

As he approached Heeseung, Jungwon felt his heart beat faster, each pulse resonating like a heavy blow in his chest. A cold sweat beaded at the base of his neck. He knew what was coming next, he knew the gravity of the words he was about to say, and yet, anxiety mixed with concentration. He finally stopped, straightening to face Heeseung, respect palpable in his posture, though his nervousness showed in the slight tension of his gestures. He bowed deeply, placing his left hand on the hip of his sword, an instinctive gesture to keep his balance.

“Your Majesty,” he said in a low but measured voice, an underlying firmness trembling in the precision of each word. He felt that each syllable spoken would shift the balance of the room, and he tried to keep his composure, not to let himself be carried away by the intensity of the moment.

Heeseung, still motionless, didn't react. He didn't even turn his head, as if Jungwon's presence was of no importance, an insignificant detail in the immensity of his existence. His posture remained rigid, like that of a sovereign who was simply waiting for information he already knew, but was not yet ready to face. The silence settled heavily between them, thickening with each second. Then, Heeseung's voice, low but clear, broke the stillness: "Speak, Jungwon." The icy invitation, which was in reality only a disguised order, exerted an invisible pressure, capable of stifling any hesitation.

Jungwon slowly straightened up, fully aware of the heavy responsibility that weighed on him. He felt his legs tremble slightly beneath him, an unpleasant sensation that he chased away with an effort of will. Each word he was about to speak risked transforming the room, releasing a force capable of changing everything. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, but everything seemed blurry around him. The heat of the fire, the flickering glow of the flames, everything seemed distorted, like a reality altered by an unbearable tension.

“A letter arrived this morning from Rome,” he began, his voice choked by the magnitude of the announcement. An involuntary shudder shook his hands, but he let nothing show. His eyes remained fixed on the spot where he could make out Heeseung’s silhouette, as if he feared that everything would collapse if his eyes looked away. “It bears the signature of the Pope himself.”

The words fell into the room like a clap of thunder, and although Heeseung remained frozen, an imperceptible shudder shook his figure. The gaze he fixed on Jungwon, without turning, seemed to analyze every part of her being. The silence thickened, threatening, like a spider's web ready to close around them.

Heeseung slowly turned his head, his movement seeming almost supernatural, suspended in time. His face, barely lit by the flames, was frozen in an expression of icy concentration. His dark, piercing eyes bore into Jungwon's, so intensely that Jungwon felt the grip of the gaze make it hard to breathe. But, forcing himself to hold the gaze, Jungwon knew that he had to face this moment, as terrifying as it was.

Every movement Heeseung made seemed to cause a palpable shift in the atmosphere, as if the room itself was reacting to his presence. Then, in a sharp voice, he asked, “And the contents of that letter… what does it say?” His gaze still didn’t leave Jungwon, like a predator studying its prey before acting. Jungwon, although already used to those icy stares, felt a shiver run down his spine. He wanted to back away, but he knew that running away was no longer an option.

“The contents of this letter… concern your engagement to Lady Y/n, Your Majesty.” The words, heavy with meaning, struck the air like a hammer on an anvil, echoing in the silence. Your name seemed to suspend time itself. Heeseung’s shoulders stiffened imperceptibly, a change so slight it could have gone unnoticed. A fleeting smile crossed his face, as subtle as a shadow, but his eyes, cold and sharp, betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. Slowly, he turned, almost with striking theatricality, as if every movement had been carefully orchestrated.

His gaze met Jungwon's, a magnetic force that pierced the air. That gaze, overwhelmingly cold, seemed to seize the soul of its recipient, and for a moment, Jungwon felt completely dispossessed of his own existence. A heavy silence followed, more oppressive than any words. A silence in which emotions swirled, bubbling beneath the surface. But this silence, this suspended moment, was far more threatening than anything Heeseung could have said.

“And what did she say?” he asked in an eerie calm tone, each word measured with icy precision. He didn’t seem eager for the answer, but the tension radiating from him was so strong that it could have been cut with a knife. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, remained fixed on Jungwon, as if he was waiting for more than just an answer: he was waiting for relief. Or a pretext for the explosion.

Jungwon, however, didn't let the weight of the question carry him away. He took a deep breath, a heavy gulp of air, almost as if he was trying to swallow the entire room into his lungs, in order to grant himself a split second of calm. He knew that what he was about to say would set the room ablaze. He knew that his words would carry the violence of a thunderbolt. But he had no other choice.

“The Pope expressed his displeasure…” He paused, the weight of the announcement weighing on his lips like lead. “And he made remarks that I must report faithfully, even though they are… insulting.”

The words grew heavy, almost too heavy to let go of the air. He felt each syllable crash into the room, soaking in like a silent poison. The tension rose immediately, the atmosphere tightening around him, and Heeseung, like a sharp predator, took a step forward. Every movement of his body exuded a quiet menace, a promise that everything in his field of vision could be reduced to ashes in an instant. The smile that inhabited his lips disappeared, his gaze hardening, becoming as sharp as the tip of a sword.

“Insults? To me?” The question was dry, cutting, and Heeseung didn’t need to ask it for Jungwon to know that the answer to that question could determine his fate. The tension was at its peak, and the slightest wrong word could set the room ablaze.

Jungwon shook his head almost imperceptibly, a gesture that seemed tiny, but said it all. “No, Your Majesty. Against Lady Y/n.” The truth, as harsh as it was, escaped his lips like a gasping breath. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, the fear of what was to come next enough to take his breath away.

The silence that followed seemed to engulf the entire room. It was of a rare density, almost suffocating. The air grew thin around Jungwon, the walls seemed to come closer, and the pressure on his shoulders became crushing. Heeseung did not move, his eyes staring at Jungwon with a devouring intensity. His pupils, dark as an abyss, remained motionless, piercing the soul of his advisor. Not a blink, not a gesture. The slightest movement would be a concession. He waited. He waited for the other to speak, to say the words that would break the fragile balance of the situation.

Jungwon, trembling, looked down at the ground, a moment of hesitation crossing his mind. The gesture was almost instinctive, a survival reflex, but he couldn't run away from this confrontation. Slowly, he looked up, and in the gaze he met with Heeseung, he felt an icy shiver run down his spine.

"The Pope said, and I quote: ' A fallen, impure woman has no place on the throne. A whore cannot claim to rule, because neither her body nor her soul are worthy in the eyes of God .'"

The words fell like stones, heavy and crushing, taking away everything that was once light and bright. They echoed through the room, making their way through the walls, penetrating the air until everything became dense and heavy. The silence that followed was as suffocating as a vice around Jungwon's heart. He didn't dare breathe, as if the slightest breath would shatter the morbid tranquility that had settled between them.

Heeseung, for his part, didn't move. He remained frozen in his position, his eyes fixed on Jungwon, but his breath grew shorter, faster. The silence, heavy with anger, became more and more unbearable. It seemed as if his whole body was tensing, every muscle clenched under the shockwave he had just received. The fire in the hearth, until then calm, flickered under the intensity of the anger rising within him, like a wave ready to destroy everything in its path.

Suddenly, a laugh escaped his lips. But it was not a laugh that could have calmed the atmosphere. It was a cold laugh, a sharp, cutting burst, like the sound of a wrought-iron door creaking under rust. Heeseung took a step back, looking up at the ceiling as if the gods themselves could hear him and answer the madness of this outrage. His gaze wandered upwards for a moment, like a man seeking answers the world has no offer.

“A whore,” he whispered, the word spat out with such force that Jungwon thought he could feel the hatred vibrating in the air. The word was laced with disgust, each letter seeming to burn Heeseung’s lips. He looked down at Jungwon, and this time, the smile that had been brushing his lips was completely gone, replaced by an icy expression, a coldness that slid through the air around him like frost.

“This decadent old man dares to utter such blasphemy against her. Against the one who…” His voice cracked for a moment, a tremor briefly breaking through his usual control. He immediately pulled himself together, his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. “…against the one who will be my queen.”

The room froze again. The ground beneath Jungwon's feet seemed to give way, his breath hitching as he watched Heeseung turn toward the hearth, his entire body filled with an overwhelming rage. He slammed his fist into the stone ledge. The sound of the impact resonated with such violence that the very walls seemed to shake. The heat of the fire in the hearth seemed to waver from the burst of anger, and Jungwon had no choice but to step back slightly, his ears ringing from the noise, as if the entire castle would shatter under the tension of the moment.

Heeseung, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with pure rage, turned back to him. “He doesn’t know her,” he growled, his voice shaking with fury. Each word seemed to spring from his insides, a cry from the heart, a dull ache that emanated from every inch of his skin. “He knows nothing of her soul, of her purity, of her strength. She is everything a queen should be, and so much more. She is…” He trailed off, searching for words with a desperate urgency, as if his entire being was torn between the desire to defend you and the need to achieve perfection. His breathing was ragged, uneven, each breath taking on an unbearable weight. The tension of the moment seemed to have frozen time.

Jungwon, his hands shaking, didn't know if he should intervene, if he should try to calm the fire burning in front of him or if he should just wait for the storm to pass. But he knew one thing: what had just happened in that room was going to change their world forever.

The silence reigned in the room, thick, heavy, almost palpable. Jungwon advanced cautiously, each step resonating in the tense air, like a drum announcing the imminence of a storm. He knew that this confrontation with Heeseung would not be a simple discussion, but a merciless battle, a duel where each word, each silence, could seal their fate for both of them. Jungwon, who had always believed in reason, knew that here, facing this king ready to consume everything with his own vengeful hand, there was no more room for logic.

His eyes scanned Heeseung, the man who embodied both admiration and terror. The room was dimly lit, the shadow of the fire in the fireplace dancing on the walls, creating shifting shadows, like ghostly specters. Heeseung stood there, motionless, a presence that saturated the space, a force that seemed to invade everything. His shoulders were tense, his gaze fixed straight ahead, oscillating between resolve and anguish, as if each moment pushed him to madness or to greatness.

Jungwon took a deep breath, trying to control the trembling in his throat, before breaking the silence. “Your Majesty…” His voice, usually calm and composed, nevertheless betrayed a hint of worry that he couldn’t hide. “Without the Pope’s approval, this marriage will be considered illegitimate. Your union with Lady Y/n will not be recognized by the Church, nor by your allies. This could lead to an irreversible rupture with Rome, and perhaps even a religious war. You cannot underestimate the impact of this decision.”

Heeseung had barely spoken the words when he spun around with blinding speed, a movement so sudden that the air around him seemed to twist under the intensity of his force. His eyes locked on Jungwon, blazing like two embers ready to explode. The anger within him didn’t even require a shout; his mere presence was enough to suffocate the space. “Rome, you say?” The question burst into the room with such force that it made the walls vibrate, as if the air itself was being shaken by the violence of his words. It wasn’t a question, it was a challenge. Heeseung stepped forward, each step heavy with certainty, a warning, a promise of an impending storm. “Rome is nothing to me, Jungwon. Nothing.” These men in golden cloaks, these hypocrites disguised as servants of God… Do they really believe that their blessings can dictate my future?”

Heeseung moved closer with such speed that Jungwon felt trapped, like an insect in an invisible web. The king’s gaze was a blazing fire, but his words were as sharp as an iron blade. “Do they believe their prayers, their curses, their promises of salvation or damnation have any power over me?” The king stopped right in front of him, so close that Jungwon could feel the heat of his rage, a heat that almost burned his skin. Heeseung’s gaze was a blaze, a flame that consumed everything in its path, and the proximity suffocated the air around them.

The silence stretched, oppressive, suffocating, as Heeseung, towering over him, stared down at Jungwon. “If they think they can stop me from taking her, from claiming her as mine, they are sorely mistaken.” There was no room for hesitation in his tone. Cold, implacable determination mixed with boiling anger, a consuming passion that transformed his gaze into an endless abyss. “I will crush them, Jungwon. I will smash their churches, I will reduce their palaces to ashes.” The king raised each word with a chilling certainty, like a promise he seemed ready to keep. “Rome, its priests and its peacemakers will kneel before me, if that is the price to pay.”

A cold shiver ran down Jungwon’s spine, but he didn’t have time to collect himself before Heeseung’s voice pierced him again. It wasn’t simply a matter of power, but of desire, of an insatiable thirst. “What I want is her, Jungwon. She’s mine. Not theirs. Not their God’s. Only I deserve her.” The words were as cold as a blade of ice, but within them was a violence that left no room for argument. “And if the whole world has to burn for that to become a reality, then so be it.”

The advisor felt as if he were being swallowed up by the intensity of the statement. There was no room for doubt, no room for logic. What he had before him was not a king in search of political power, but a man consumed by an irrepressible fever, a devouring passion that erased all morality. This was no longer a question of alliance, it was a quest for obsession, for total domination.

Jungwon whispers softly, hesitantly, “The war against the Church might cost you more than you think, more than lives, more than lands… It might destroy your kingdom.”

Heeseung interrupted him with a sharp, relentless gesture, like a rekindled flame. “More than what, Jungwon? Than my will? Than my desire?” His fists clenched, so hard that his nails dug into his palms, and drops of blood beaded on his skin. “Nothing is more valuable than what I want.” The words fell like cleavers, and Jungwon felt himself struck by each syllable, like an electric shock.

Heeseung stepped back for a moment, his eyes lost in the firelight, as if he were seeking some peace in the flames, but there was none. There was only hunger, the all-consuming thirst to get what he wanted. He turned back to Jungwon, his eyes shining with an almost supernatural light, and he whispered in a softer but still powerful voice, “She’s mine. And I will do anything, absolutely anything, to make sure she knows it.”

The silence that followed settled heavily, like an invisible weight on Jungwon's shoulders. He didn't dare move, or even breathe. A cold shiver ran down his spine. What he saw before him wasn't just an angry king, or blind fury. It was a man, a king willing to sacrifice everything sacred, everything that represented the stability of the world, for a woman, for a desire that seemed to surpass all reason.

Jungwon felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead as he took in the gravity of those words. The walls of the room seemed to tighten around him, suffocating him under the weight of this cruel truth. He couldn't lie to himself anymore. This wasn't madness. No. What he saw before him was pure, all-consuming passion, ready to swallow up everything in its path. Heeseung wasn't a man who was content with what he had. He was a king who wanted it all, a king ready to destroy everything in his path to possess what he considered the center of the universe: you.

In that suffocating silence, Jungwon finally understood the truth before his eyes. This man, this king, had no limits. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could stop him. He wanted to burn everything: alliances, principles, lives, everything that stood between him and what he coveted. And in that moment, only one truth became clear: nothing could stop him.

Taglist : @strxwbloody @wilonevys

©️devotedlypinkpeanut, do not copy, translate or repost any of my works.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Oaths & Exclamations

lo (Old English) ⚜ spi (c.1225) ⚜ how mischance (c.1330)

by my hood (c.1374) ⚜ by my sheath (1532)

by the mouse-foot (1550) ⚜ what a/the goodyear (c.1555)

bread and salt; by Jove (1575) ⚜ by my truly (1580)

by these hilts; by yea and nay/no (1598)

by the Lord Harry; by the pody cody (1693) ⚜ by jingo (1694)

splutterdenails (1707) ⚜ I snore (1790) ⚜ by hokey (1825)

shiver my timbers (1834) ⚜ by the (great) horn spoon (1842)

upon my Sam (1879) ⚜ for goodness’ sake (1885) ⚜ yerra (1892)

for the love of Mike (1901) ⚜ knickers (1971)

Honour-Related Oaths & Exclamations

aplight (1297) ⚜ by my troth (c.1374) ⚜ on one’s honour (c.1460)

upon my word (1591) ⚜ honour bright (1819)

With Reference to Life or Body Parts

by my life (c.1225) ⚜ by these ten bones (c.1485) ⚜ lifelikins (c.1644)

Imprecations

woe (971) ⚜ woe worth (c.1275) ⚜ dahet (c.1290)

confound; sorrow on (c.1330) ⚜ in the waniand (c.1352)

woe betide you (1362) ⚜ wild-fire (c.1375) ⚜ evil theedom (c.1386)

a pestilence (up)on (c.1390) ⚜ hang; murrain (c.1400)

vengeance (c.1500) ⚜ plague (c.1566) ⚜ maugre (1590)

pox (c.1592) ⚜ rot (1594) ⚜ cancro (1597) ⚜ perdition; death (c.1603)

pize; vild (1605) ⚜ peasecod (1606) ⚜ cargo (1607)

confusion (1608) ⚜ pest (1632) ⚜ light upon (1642) ⚜ deuce (1651)

rat (1691) ⚜ stap my vitals; strike me blind (1697)

split my windpipe (1700) ⚜ rabbit (1701) ⚜ consume (1756)

capot me (1760) ⚜ foul fall (c.1775) ⚜ weary (1788) ⚜ drat (1815)

rats (1816) ⚜ bad cess to (1859) ⚜ curse (1885)

Damn

damn (1589) ⚜ damnation (c.1603) ⚜ damme (1645) ⚜ darn (1781)

dash (1800) ⚜ hot damn (1929) ⚜ dammit (1956)

Mild Oaths

before George (c.1592) ⚜ Gemini (1664) ⚜ dash my wig (1797)

Jiminy (1803) ⚜ Christmas (1897)

Implying Rejection

farewell fieldfare (c.1413) ⚜ twenty-three skidoo (1926)

Foreign Words

parbleu (1696) ⚜ sapperment (1815) ⚜ caramba (1835)

merde (1920) ⚜ sapristi (1932)

The recorded examples above start relatively late, in the 13th century.

People must have sworn as much in the first millennium as they do today (Beowulf would surely have let out something rather more Anglo-Saxon in his various fights than the expressively elegant locutions we know from the poem) but the words would never have been written down.

The lists show an increasingly colloquial character as time goes by, and writers more accurately incorporate the language of everyday into their work.

Source ⚜ More: Word Lists ⚜ Notes & References ⚜ Historical Thesaurus Writing Resources PDFs

[ltwilliammowett]

Silver circular seal-matrix of the Muscovy Merchants, with a semi-circular handle with moulding on edge. The Coat of arms: ship surmounted by lion and two roses. Date and legend with foliate scrolls between the words Refugium Nostrum in Deo Est ("Our Refuge is in God") Made in England, 1555

[megs-bee]

Fic: A Winter's Night, Merry and Bright

Some holiday fluff and fun with our favourite ghosts and cats, during their first December post-canon. Written for the Catwin Discord's @catwinter holiday prompt event. 🐈👑👻🔎

A Winter's Night, Merry and Bright

(1555 words) by megs_bee

Chapters: 1/?

Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Cat King/Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne Tags: Post-Canon, Gift Giving, Christmas, Fluff, Catwin - Freeform, Catwinter Event

Summary: This year, it isn’t just Edwin and Charles anymore, hidden away or on the run. They have new friends, freedom from the threat of Hell and Death, and their entire afterlives ahead of them. And speaking of new friends…

“Do you mind if I step out?” he asks to the room at large.

“Did we forget something at the shops?” Charles eyes the office decorations consideringly. “We don’t have a lot of room left.” Edwin smiles. “It’s not that. I daresay we’ve decorated plenty.” He collects a pair of bags printed with stars and snowflakes. “I merely have a gift to deliver."

❄❄❄

[junkdrawerfics]

First Date

Part 5 of Series of Firsts

Previous

Summary: Jasper takes you on your first date, but getting to it is a little more up and down than you expected. Worth it though.

Words: 1555

Note: definitely not what I planned to write, but I think I like it!

---

He knocks. For the first time since you really became friends, Jasper knocks on your front door. He doesn’t scare you at the window with that stupid smirk or wait outside by his car, far away from your father.

He knocks.

And when you stumble down to the first floor landing, there he is, with his charming smile and the stupidly nice dark blue button-down that you’ve always loved. And there your father is, laughing. Actually laughing. You blink. Your father and the boy you like, who happens to be a vampire apparently, getting along…

Now it really feels like you’re in a different world.

The racket you make draws the attention of both men.

You freeze, giving them an awkward smile, “Hi, uh, did I, am I interrupting?”

“Just having a man to man chat with your prospective boyfriend here,” your father chuffs, slapping Jasper on the back.

Your face goes tomato red, “Dad!”

“Alright, alright,” he snickers, holding his hands up innocently as he backs into the kitchen, “I’ll let you kids have your fun.” Right before he slips away though, he gives you a not too subtle wink and whispers, “He seems like a keeper, sweetpea.”

You groan, wishing you could just melt into the floor. Mortified. You are absolutely mortified. Leave it to your dad to find the best way to embarrass you in a moment like this.

When you look back to Jasper, he’s giving you one of those wolfish grins, one dark eyebrow perked.

“And what do you think, darlin’,” he drawls, voice low and teasing, “am I a keeper?”

“I- You- Stop. No, I’m not answering that.” You trip all over your words, not quite able to make your voice steady. If only he’d stop looking at you that way. It’s hard to even think when he looks at you like that.

Jasper can’t help but soften at the completely flustered look on your face. Your heart is racing so fast, it almost worries him. Gently, he brushes his fingers along the small of your back, using his ability to sooth your frayed nerves as he leads you outside.

“I hope you’re not nervous about our date,” the blond murmurs, tone serious.

You sigh, fiddling with the hem of your blouse, “How could I not be?”

“It’s simple.” He traces his hand around your waist, bringing you to face him. You bite your lip, sight trained on your feet until Jasper places a finger under your chin, tilting your face up. You look at him, eyes so wide and doe-ish, his still heart melts. “You, darlin’, can do nothing to change my mind, so I don’t want you worryin’.”

You frown, heart fluttering, “Nothing?”

He traces his fingers along your cheek, his touch gentle and cool. You can’t stop your eyes from fluttering shut, another sigh passing your lips.

“Absolutely nothin’. I’m afriad I’ve already decided you’re a keeper.”

A snort escapes you. Just like that, the rest of your worries disappear. You peer up at him, trying to keep the smile off your face. You haven’t even gone on the date yet, but you’re already being swept off your feet. As if you weren’t swept off your feet on the very first day you met and every day after that.

“You, sir, are ridiculous.”

“You’re not nervous anymore,” Jasper points out cheekily.

You look down again as the smile finally breaks out across your lips, “No. Now I’m just wondering what else my dad said to you while I was getting ready.”

“Nothin’ much.” He shrugs, leading you over to his Ducatti. “Just that he’d string me up if I did anythin’ to hurt you.”

Of course. Your dad has always been a bit protective. He was probably joking…hopefully. Your brow furrows as a sudden thought hits you.

“Can you guys even get hurt?” You ask as Jasper passes you a helmet and a leather jacket.

“Not in the ways you may think,” he replies, “Most of what the world thinks is wrong.”

“So silver doesn't hurt you?”

“No.”

“Garlic?”

Jasper smirks, “No.”

“Sunlight?” That one, you’ve been wondering about. You’ve never seen the Cullens on a sunny day.

“Not quite,” he hums, climbing onto his bike.

You hop on behind him. “But it does affect you?”

Jasper purses his lips. He’s not sure he wants to admit to the whole sparkling thing. It’s not like you’d hate it, you had a strange pension for loving strange things after all. Like him. But maybe it can wait for another day.

So he settles with a small, drawn out, “It does…”

But you’re curious now, propping your chin on his shoulder with an innocently intrigued look, “How?”

The motorcycle suddenly revs to life under you, making you jump. Instinctively, you drop down to the seat and wrap your arms around the vampire’s waist. Jasper chuckles, the sound vibrating through his body so deeply you can feel it.

“Hold on tight, darlin’.”

You squeal as the bike takes off. Like all the Cullens, Jasper drives like a madman, going just a little too fast, taking turns like a drag racer. And even though you’ve ridden with him countless times, your pulse still races, your knuckles going white at his waist as you try to bring yourself as close as possible to him.

The forest blurs around you, turning into a canvas of green and brown smudges that you can barely make out as you fly down the street. It’s all but impossible to keep track of where you are, where you’re going, especially when a particularly sharp turn makes you snap your eyes shut and hide your face against his back.

You only dare peek out when the bike comes to a slow stop. Blinking the blur from your eyes, you let the world come back into focus, and what you see makes you gasp.

Part of you was expecting a simple dinner, like he said. A fancy restaurant maybe, humming with people and dimly lit. You were definitely not expecting a candle-lit picnic looking out over your town, the setting sun painting the sky with vivid reds and oranges. It makes the trees around you seem to glow, just like the candles scattering the ground around the thick blanket he laid out.

“How did you have time to do this?” You breathe, foot catching on the seat when you try to gracefully slip off of it.

Jasper catches you before you can go reeling into a tree, lips twitching with amusement, “My kind isn’t quite as limited by time as yours is.”

You give him a grateful smile, “So you’re fast?”

“Faster than a bullet, darlin’.”

“Wow. Okay, okay, then how about strength?” You lean towards him, all the questions that have been floating in your mind coming to the surface. “All the articles said vampires are, like, crazy strong. Could you lift me? Wait no-” Too easy. What’s something a really strong person couldn’t lift? “Could you lift the bike? Or a car?!”

“I could.” Jasper has to bite back a chuckle at the absolutely wide-eyed look you give him. It’s like a kid first discovering the world, disbelief and awe mingling in the air around you.

“That’s amazing,” you say, voice pitching up, “I can’t believe this. Any of this. It’s so beyond crazy.”

Jasper turns suddenly serious, drawing you close by the hand you didn’t realize he was still holding. You hesitate, mouth going dry at the proximity. His nose is practically touching yours and you can feel the coolness of his breath on your lips.

“Are you sure you want to be a part of this?”

Head tilting, you let your eyes linger on his face for the first time. You’ve never had the confidence to look, actually just look at him. He’s gorgeous. Dark brows, sharp jaw, and eyes like the sun setting behind him. Not a single blemish or wrinkle. And yet, you can read the concern written there with shocking ease. And the hope.

It makes your heart ache with something warm, knowing you both feel the exact same way about this.

You squeeze his hand, giving him the softest, sweetest smile, “I’m sure, Jasper. I know I should probably be scared, or at least freaked out, but, I don’t know, I’m just…not.” Your heart beats like crazy, making you feel almost nauseous as you finish, “You’re still you. And I’m still me. And I just, I think we’ll make a good we. I hope. So, I’m…I’m all in, Jasper. Is that okay?”

Jasper wishes he could drown in your timidly soft affection.

Tenderly, he raises your hand to his lips. It’s a ghost of a touch, like a brush of a cold breeze, leaving your skin tingling ever so pleasantly. His next words are a mere whisper against your skin.

“More than okay, darlin’. I’m all yours til the day I die.”

“Aren’t you unable to die?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“...good.”

The colors of the sunset did little to match the color on your cheeks as you sat down for the picnic. And the shine of the stars that come out cannot compare to the glitter in your eyes as you spend the whole night talking, asking questions, and sharing stories.

It may be the best first date you’ve ever had.

—-

Hope you guys liked this! I honestly didn’t know how to write the actual date part, so imagine what you will :) love y’all!

[searchingforgravity]

Missing You (Austin Butler x Reader)

Fandom: Austin Butler

Prompt: Austin is away shooting for his latest film, and you are missing him desperately. An innocent phone call quickly turns into something more heated as you tell him just how much you miss him.

TW: Smut, Phone sex, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, cussing

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Word Count: 1555

A/N: Hey everyone! I'm trying to write more Austin smut, and I've been wanting to do a phone sex one for a while, so enjoy!

You are going crazy without your boyfriend, Austin, at home with you. He has been away shooting for his latest film, and tonight you are missing him more than ever. You were feeling a little restless earlier that day, so you decided to watch a movie. When a particularly steamy scene started playing, you couldn't help but think about how Austin would touch you when you too were alone. How he would kiss every inch of your body as his hands danced over every groove and crevice. How he worshiped you, telling you how beautiful you were as he dipped his head down to kiss your breasts, kneeling in between your legs as he gently rubbed himself against you.

You are pulled out of your thoughts when your phone suddenly starts ringing, signaling that your boyfriend is calling. You pause the movie as you grab at your phone to answer. "Hey honey," you breathe, catching yourself off guard by the breathlessness in your tone. You clear your throat in an attempt to hide what you were just thinking of. "Hey sweet heart, what are you up to?" he asks, and you think you catch a sense of desperation in his voice. You subconsciously bite down on your bottom lip, his voice cause a sting of arousal to course through you. You adjust your position on the couch, trying to get comfortable.

"Just watching a movie...I miss you, Austin," you breathe as you pull your legs up to your chest. You aren't exactly planning on having phone sex with him, because you two had never done that before. Of course, you both have sent the other pictures when he would text you that he was particularly lonely, but you had never initiated it, until tonight.

You hear a slight pause on his end of the line, making your cheeks flush, your confidence starting to fail you. "I miss you too, baby," he says lowly as you hear him adjust his position slightly. Silence again. "W-What are you doing?" you question as you fidget with the remote, nerves coursing through you. "Just laying in bed, it's been a long day," he sighs and you hear a hint of sleepiness in his voice. "Oh, you can sleep if you want, we can talk tomorrow-" you start before he interrupts you. "No! I mean...I wanna talk to you, baby," he says as you hear him move around, maybe sitting up in bed. You smile at this, grateful that he doesn't want to hang up. "What are you watching?" he asks, drawing your attention back to your aching core.

You swallow as you look at the screen, having paused it right in the middle of the two characters having sex. Your cheeks flush as you look down, slightly embarrassed. "Uh...I'm watching this new movie called Lady Chatterly's Lover," you say quietly. He chuckles on the other end making you smile despite yourself. "You and your damn romance movies," he laughs. "It's good!" you defend yourself as you pick at the remote anxiously. "I'm sure it is," he teases on the other end. There is a slight pause again, and you can feel a tension in the air. You can sense that he wants something too. "It's really hot," you say quietly as you look back at the tv. "Is it?" he asks, his breath now more strained than before. "Yeah...It's making me think about you," you whisper now, your breathing shallow in anticipation. He pauses slightly, hesitating before he responds, "Tell me what you're thinking."

Another shock of arousal courses through you at this, his voice now deeper than before. You must've been quiet for too long because he speaks up again. "Honey," he hums into the phone. "Y-Yeah?" you ask, your cheeks now flushed a bright red. "Are you wet?" he asks in a groan. You can tell by his tone that this is getting him hard. He's tried to have phone sex with you before, but you've been too nervous, changing the subject when it started turning sexual. You pause only for a moment longer as you shift on the couch, rubbing your thighs together. "Yes."

"Talk to me," he pleads as you hear him shift on his end of the phone. "Tell me how bad you need me," he groans, and you can almost see him slipping his hand down to his boxers. Your cheeks flush slightly, but you decide you're too turned on to be bashful as you play with the edge of your pajama pants. "I need you so bad, Aus. I've been thinking about you all day. I just need your hands on me," you whine, making him moan into the phone. "Yeah? What would you want me to do if I was there?" he says lowly, his breath hitching slightly and you can tell he's palming himself through his boxers. You bring your own hand to your core through your pants and find that you had already started soaking through. You gasp at the feeling as you slowly start rubbing yourself through your pants. "I-I want you to feel how wet I am for you."

"Shit," he groans, his breath hitching, making you bite your bottom lip. "I'm so hard for you, baby," he groans, his impossibly hard cock now fully exposed as he strokes himself softly. You moan at this as you slip your hand underneath your pajama pants, finding your now swollen clit. "I wanna bury my face in that sweet pussy, you always taste so fuckin' good," he growls making you close your eyes as you imagine his fingers on you instead of your own. "I-I, shit, I need you around me. I've been thinking about you so much. How you feel when you're cumming on my cock. Jesus..." he trails as his breathing becomes more labored. "I wanna take you from behind, spank your ass for making me wait to have you. You want that, honey?" "Y-Yes, I need it, baby," you barely get out as your finger increases its pace on your clit, your head falling back against the couch.

"Are you touching yourself? Fuck," he groans deeply, spurring you on. A small whimper leaves your mouth as you plunge one of your fingers into your dripping cunt while the other continues its assault on your clit. You can only moan in response, words failing you. You hear another soft groan leave his lips as you hear his movements increase. "They're not as good as yours. Wish they were your fingers," you whine as you speed up your movements. "I know, baby. Pretend they are, t-touch yourself like I would," he stutters, and you can tell he's getting close. "Tease yourself," he moans, as he starts to slow down his movements as well, wanting it to last a little longer.

You do as he says as you slow down your movements, whining as you buck up into your fingers. "Austin," you moan, desperate for him. "I know, honey. Fuck, I wish I was there," he groans. You continue teasing yourself the way Austin would and close your eyes again, imagining him there. How he would kiss your neck as he slowly thrusts his fingers inside of you, making you practically cry for him. It turned him on so much knowing that he could bring you to that place, to have you begging for him. "Austin, please," you cry, now needing to speed up. You just need to cum. You gather that he's thinking the same thing as he relents, groaning at hearing you beg. "Okay."

You both speed up your movements as you chase your orgasm, now desperate for it. His name leaves your lips continuously as he moans. He loves hearing you so desperate for him. It's enough to make him orgasm alone. "Shit, baby," he moans urgently. "Me too, I'm so close," you whine, and hearing that has him hurtling off the edge. Hearing the strangled moans falling from his lips throws you right off the edge with him as you cry out in pleasure, your eyes clenching shut as you grab onto one of the throw pillows for dear life.

After a few moments, all either of you can hear is labored breathing as you both come down from your highs. You look back at the tv and almost laugh at how you got into this position. "God, I've wanted that for a while," Austin mumbles through the phone, his voice completely blissed out as you can almost see his swollen lips parted, his chest heaving with a sheen of sweat. You blush at this, knowing he has. "I'm sorry-" you start before he interrupts you "No, no! I didn't mean it like that," he soothes in a gasp, trying to catch his breath. "I-I know it's new for you, I just knew it would be hot." Your face flushes as you try catching your breath as well. You respond with a hum, agreeing with him as a small smile plays on your face. "I miss you so much, honey," he mumbles as you hear him getting up, probably to clean himself off. "I miss you too, Aus. Come back home to me," you whine, suddenly ice cold in your warm house, needing his body on you. "I will, baby, as soon as I can."

Masterlist

Tag List: @flowersofcement @horrorgirl4life @looloolily @peaceloveelvis @goldobsessionsworld @tantamount-treason @father-of-2cats

[oldiesstationlover11607]

Absolutely adore your work! It never fails to make my day <3

I was thinking a josh x drummer reader! Maybe they drum for a pop punk band so they're in similar scenes and josh has just been admiring and pinning for them, I don't have a specific era or anything in mind! Just something fluffy with the drummer boy <3

WWWY - Josh Dun x Iero!Reader

Warnings: none hehe

Word count: 1555

A/N: I've been watching all the WWWY videos and thinking about MCR and PTV a lot recently so here's a cute little fic about a pop punk drummer and Josh being at WWWY fest :)

The sun was setting behind the Las Vegas skyline, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple as I slid my drum sticks into my back pocket. We’d just wrapped our set on one of the smaller stages at When We Were Young Fest, and I was still riding the adrenaline high, my hands tingling from the final drum solo that I’d nailed—thank god. As the drummer for Neon Rebellion, I’d been dreaming of playing a festival ever since I first picked up a pair of sticks and plastered my bedroom walls with posters of all the bands who were now, somehow, my peers. It still felt surreal.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and grinned as I caught sight of a familiar face—my uncle Frank. He was talking to Mikey, and as I walked up to them, they both turned to greet me with warm smiles. Mikey gave me a little fist bump, and Frank pulled me into a quick, sweaty hug.

“Hey, Y/N, you killed it out there!” Frank said, his voice loud enough to carry over the hum of conversations and the distant echo of whatever band was rocking the main stage. “It’s so great to see you making music hun. You’re just like me!”

“Yeah, you guys sounded great,” Mikey added, nodding approvingly. “How’s it feel to finally play a festival?”

“It feels like a dream,” I admitted, brushing a strand of my damp hair out of my face. “I feel like I’m going to wake up in my room any minute now.”

“Nope, you’re definitely awake.” Frank grinned and ruffled my hair. “And you’re not going back to bar gigs anytime soon.”

I laughed and swatted his hand away. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. This is just… huge. Thanks for all your support.”

He waved me off, looking almost embarrassed. “You don’t have to thank me. You did this all on your own, kid. We just knew you were gonna be a star.” He shared a proud look with Mikey, who nodded in agreement.

“Speaking of stars, though,” Mikey said, gesturing over my shoulder. 

I furrowed my brow and turned around, only to find myself locking eyes with someone I recognized immediately—even though I’d never met him in person before. My breath hitched, and for a second, I thought I was hallucinating because Josh Dun was walking toward us. Like, Josh freaking Dun. I must have looked like a deer caught in headlights because Frank chuckled under his breath and patted my shoulder.

Josh had this shy, nervous energy about him as he approached, his eyes flicking between me and my uncle, almost as if he was worried he was intruding on a family moment. His red hair stood out against the dark fest grounds, and he wore a faded band tee that I couldn’t quite make out. There was a nervous smile tugging at his lips, and it was like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands—he shifted awkwardly for a moment before tucking them in his jean pockets.

“Hi, um… Y/N?” he asked, his voice a little hesitant, almost like he was testing out the sound of my name.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fact that my heart was beating faster than the double-kick I’d just played on stage. “Hi.”

“I’m—well, I’m Josh,” he said, then laughed at himself. “Obviously. Sorry. I, uh, caught your set earlier, and I just wanted to tell you that you were amazing. Like, really amazing. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I felt heat rising to my cheeks, and I cursed myself internally for getting flustered. “Oh, wow, thank you! That means a lot, coming from you. I’m a huge fan. Your band was one of the first that made making it seem possible to me.”

Josh’s smile widened at that, and I thought I saw a hint of relief in his eyes. “Really? That’s awesome. I actually, um… I’ve been following you guys for a while. You’ve got this insane energy on stage. It’s super cool.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. Josh Dun, a drummer I’d idolized for years, was standing here, telling me that I inspired him. It was almost too much to handle, and I felt my mouth go dry. Mikey stepped in to ease the tension, giving Josh a friendly nod.

“Josh, good to see you,” Mikey said, extending a hand. Josh shook it quickly, and they exchanged pleasantries, but I barely registered their words because my mind was still reeling. I managed to glance at Frank, who gave me a knowing smirk before stepping back with Mikey to give us space.

“So,” Josh said after a moment, shifting a little closer. “I noticed you’ve got some pretty unique gear. You’re using custom cymbals, right? I thought I heard a different kind of tone during that breakdown.”

He leaned forward slightly, and suddenly we were deep in conversation about drum gear—the exact sizes of our snares, the brands we swore by, how to get the perfect tone for different genres. I told him how I loved experimenting with hybrid kits, and he shared how he modified his drum pads to get the right sound for live shows. We geeked out about drumming techniques, the struggles of keeping up with intense touring schedules, and even laughed about mishaps during sets.

At some point, Frank and Mikey wandered off, leaving us alone. The festival buzzed around us, the noise a constant backdrop to our conversation, but it felt like we were in our own little world. Josh was so easy to talk to—passionate and animated when discussing the intricacies of drumming, but gentle and attentive when he asked me about my experiences on tour.

“You know,” he said, after what felt like no time at all, “I’d love to catch some sets with you, if you’re up for it. There are a few bands playing tonight that I really don’t want to miss.”

“Yeah, that sounds fun!” I agreed, trying not to sound too eager. “Who do you want to see?”

“Well, My Chem are playing soon so we should definitely head there later,”” he said with a lopsided grin. 

My heart skipped a beat. “I’d love to,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement. 

We spent the next few hours wandering around the festival, squeezing through the crowd to get the best view of some of my favorite bands. Pierce The Veil, Sleeping With Sirens, Taking Back Sunday—it was like reliving my teenage dreams, but with Josh by my side. When the time came for My Chemical Romance, he guided me to the side stage, his hand brushing mine for a moment before we stepped into the chaotic world of backstage passes and crew members.

Frank saw us as we approached and shot me a teasing look. “So, Josh, you finally managed to pull her away, huh?”

“Frank!” I groaned, feeling my face flush, but Josh just laughed.

“She’s a tough one to impress,” he said, sending me a sideways smile that made my heart flip. “I had to pull out all the stops.”

“Good luck,” Frank said, winking at me before turning his attention back to the stage, where Gerard was getting ready to kick off the set.

I felt a flutter of excitement in my chest as Josh and I took our spots at the side stage, the bright lights from MCR’s setup casting long shadows across our faces. I’d seen them play a million times before, but something about watching from here, with Josh leaning close to make comments about the drum technique or to share an inside joke, made it feel completely new.

The set was electric, every song hitting me harder than the last. There was a moment during “I’m Not Okay” when Josh and I both looked at each other, grinning like idiots as we sang along at the top of our lungs. It was the kind of moment I knew I’d never forget.

As the last notes of “Helena” faded out and the crowd roared their appreciation, Josh turned to me, his eyes catching the dim lights of the stage. “So,” he said, a little breathless from singing and shouting, “can I… take you out for real sometime? Like, a date?”

I stared at him, feeling my heart hammering in my chest. “Yeah,” I said, almost too quickly. “I’d like that. A lot.”

“Awesome,” he said, grinning so wide that his eyes crinkled at the corners.

Before I could say anything else, Frank reappeared, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Well, well, well,” he teased. “Looks like someone’s got herself a date with a rockstar.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks.

Josh just laughed, looking over at Frank with a playful expression. “Hey, you know what they say,” he said, nudging me gently. “It’s all about the drummers, right?”

“Right,” I said, feeling a warm glow in my chest as I looked back at him. “It’s all about the drummers.”

And as we stood there, watching the stage lights fade and the crew begin to break down, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be—right here, in the heart of the music, with Josh by my side.

//

REQUESTS OPEN

[ao3feed-piltovers-finest]

Pain of the Past

by cricket_thestarman

Vi hasn't gotten her period since she was a teenager, too focused on survival. Until she lives with Caitlyn and she no longer has to fight for her life.

Words: 1555, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F

Characters: Vi (League of Legends), Caitlyn (League of Legends)

Relationships: Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends)

Additional Tags: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, i think, There's definitely comfort, Periods, it's sweet i swear, Caitlyn is in love with Vi (League of Legends)

Read on A03. from AO3 works tagged ‘Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends)’

[the-fiction-witch]

Mr Crown P5

Media - Morbius Character - Lucien Crown Couple - Lucien Milo X OC Reader - (OC) Anastasia Morton (Assistant) Rating - 18 + Smut - Sex toy discussion / sexual launague Word Count - 1555

Lucien smiled as he felt her lean her head on his shoulder, her breath coming in small gasps as she tried to recover from the intensity of her orgasm. He loved the way she looked, her skin flushed, her eyes glazed over with desire. He took his hand from under her dress, bringing it to her chin and tilting her face up to his. "You're absolutely gorgeous, darling," he whispered, his gaze roaming over her face, taking in her flushed cheeks and the satisfied look in her eyes.

"I uh ... I assume I should arrange things for a visit to your new lodge?"

Lucien chuckled, his hand still holding her chin, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "You assume correctly, darling. I fully expect you to make all the necessary arrangements. I'll leave that in your very capable hands." He let his hand fall from her chin, his fingers trailing down her neck, his gaze fixed on her eyes. "And I have a few specific requests for what I'd like you to arrange," he added, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

she nodded sitting up and letting out a breath doing her best not to reveal what had happened, she grabbed a small notepad and pen from her purse "Yes sir?

"I have a few specific requests for the lodge. Firstly, I want it fully stocked with the finest food and beverages. I'm not talking about your average grocery store fare. I want the best of the best - the finest champagne, the most expensive whisky, the most exquisite caviar."

"yes sir," she nodded making a note on her pad "The lodge is in Canada so I could get it specifically stocked with specialist Canadian items? Or we can bill the import fees of us items over the border though crown transports our own internal company and thus not pay the actual fees"

Lucien nodded a satisfied smirk on his face. He was pleased that she was already thinking ahead and making detailed notes, as usual. "Good girl. I appreciate your attention to detail. Let's do both - stock the lodge with some Canadian specialities, and have our imports sent through Crown transports. We can certainly afford a few extra fees to ensure we get exactly what we want." He paused for a moment, his eyes roaming over her body, the way the dress clung to her curves.

she nodded "next request?"

Lucien allowed himself a moment to admire her body again before speaking, his mind already moving to his next request. "Next, I want the best entertainment. A top-of-the-line sound system, a state-of-the-art home cinema, and a library stocked with the best books and movies. I'm talking about the kind of entertainment that will make us never want to leave the lodge. And, I expect you to arrange for some... private entertainment as well," he added, his eyes glinting with something between mischief and desire.

she continues making her notes "Private entertainment sir?"

Lucien chuckled, his smirk widening at her question. He could see the blush spreading across her cheeks as she asked, and he knew she understood what he was talking about.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, darling," he said, his voice low and seductive. "I want the lodge to be equipped for... our intimate encounters. Make sure the rooms are well-appointed with the finest linens, the most comfortable beds, and the most romantic atmosphere."

she nodded slightly blushing "Outwardly equipped or ... Less obviously" she asked basically asking how openly he wanted the lodge stocked for their romantic stay, usually somewhere between candles, roses and hidden boxes of toys to well condoms on every surface, and a dungeon set up in one bedroom

Lucien chuckled, amused and aroused by her question. "Let's go with a mix of the two, darling," he said, leaning back in his seat one arm over the back of her chair. "I don't want it to be so obvious that just anyone could figure it out, but I do want it to feel personal and intimate like the lodge is designed specifically for us, and what we like to do together."

she nodded "next request?"

Lucien chuckled, enjoying the way she was following his instructions so obediently. He paused for a moment, thinking of his next request. "Next, I want the lodge to be secluded. I don't want any neighbours within miles, and I don't want any uninvited guests dropping by. Make sure all the security measures are in place - cameras, motion sensors, the works. I want it to feel like we have the entire lodge to ourselves."

she nodded as she knew the usual level of security for a properly Lucien actually used "anything else?"

Lucien shifted closer to her, his hand moving to her thigh, his fingers tracing circles on her skin through the fabric of her dress. He could feel the heat coming off her body, his mind already imagining all the things they could do in the secluded peace and quiet of the lodge. "Just one more thing, darling," he said, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. "And this one is more of a request for you personally." He leaned in closer, his mouth close to her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "I want you to bring your best wardrobe, darling," he whispered, his fingers moving higher up her thigh, his hand sliding under her dress again. "Pack all your most beautiful dresses, your most provocative lingerie, and anything else you think would... excite me."

"yes sir" she agreed "anything else?"

Lucien chuckled, his hand continuing to tease her through her dress, his touch becoming more brazen. “And your new jewellery. Incase I want to take you out and show you off. Or… I just want to see you in it,”

“Yes Lucien,”

"That's all, darling. You have your tasks - stock the lodge, arrange for transportation, and pack your wardrobe. Make sure everything is perfect for our stay at the lodge. I expect nothing less than excellence from you."

"awww Lucien" she cooed grabbing her phone and the folder of paperwork for the lodge confirming they owned it and all the details "This is what you pay me for" she smirked already getting to work in the middle of the gala

Lucien chuckled at her comment, admiring her ability to multitask. He knew he paid her for her efficiency and organizational skills, but he was still impressed by the way she could handle so many tasks at once. "That's true, darling," he agreed, his hand finally leaving her thigh as he leaned back in his seat to watch her work. "But don't think for a second that I don't also have you around for other reasons."

"do you?" She chuckled

Lucien smirked and leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming over her body with an appreciative gaze. "Darling, you know very well that I have you around for a variety of reasons. Your organizational skills and efficiency are certainly valuable, but so are other... attributes which you possess." He let his eyes linger on her body for a moment, his gaze roaming over her curves and the way her dress hugged her figure.

she chuckled as she worked "When do you want to arrive at the lodge?" She asked so she knew the time frame she has to work with,

Lucien thought for a moment, his mind already picturing the two of them in the secluded, intimate setting of the lodge. "As soon as possible, darling. I want to get away from here and spend some time alone with you in that lodge as soon as I can." He paused for a moment, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "How quickly do you think you can have everything arranged?"

"I can... Have us leave by tomorrow morning?"

Lucien's smirk widened into a grin at her words. The thought of leaving so soon and having her all to himself was extremely appealing.

"Excellent.” He paused for a moment, his gaze roving over her body again, his mind already imagining all the things he could do to her once they were alone in the lodge.

she nodded already making arrangements on her phone with multiple people to ensure the place was set up, their bags packed, and everything was prepared with the plane

Lucien watched her work with a sense of satisfaction. He loved the way she managed to get things done quickly and efficiently, and he knew that she would make sure everything was perfect for their stay at the lodge. He couldn't help but feel a mixture of excitement and desire as he thought about the secluded, intimate setting of the lodge and all the things he was going to do to her once they were there. "You're doing a great job as usual, darling," he said, his eyes still roaming over her body as she worked.

She chuckled before hanging up her phone, “Got workers setting it up, Marshal is flying out in an hour to supervise with the card, he’ll leave when we land, The plane is set, everything is sorted other then our own packing,”

“You are magic you know that?”

“I’m good at what I do,”

“I know,” He nodded, “Come on, let's head back so we can… get cosy and prepped for our little getaway,”

“Yes Lucien,” She agreed giving his cheek a kiss before she got up to get organised for them to leave.  

Commissions here

[artandthebible]

Adoration of the Magi

Artist: Jacopo Bassano (Italian, 1510–1592)

Date: c. 1555–1560

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Kunsthistorisches Museum Vienna, Austria

Adoration of the Magi

With his rural scenes and their convincing realism, Jacopo Bassano brought a new accent to Venetian painting. At the same time, in his finest works including this one, he proved himself to be a leading exponent of Mannerism at the height of that period. With extremely bold contrasts of colour and refined design, he unexpectedly paints realistic details and abstract motifs right next to one another.

What the Bible says about the Magi or three Wise Men

We assume that there were three wise men because of the three gifts that were given: gold, incense, and myrrh (Matthew 2:11). However, the Bible does not say there were only three wise men. There could have been many more. Tradition says that there were three and that their names were Gaspar/Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar/Balthazar, but since the Bible does not say, we have no way of knowing whether the tradition is accurate.

It is a common misconception that the wise men visited Jesus at the stable on the night of His birth. In fact, the wise men came days, months, or possibly even years later. That is why Matthew 2:11 says the wise men visited and worshiped Jesus in a house, not at the stable.

We know that the magi were wise men from "the East," most likely Persia, or modern-day Iran. This means the wise men traveled 800 to 900 miles to see the Christ child. Most likely, the magi knew of the writings of the prophet Daniel, who in time past had been the chief of the court seers in Persia. Daniel 9:24-27 includes a prophecy which gives a timeline for the birth of the Messiah. Also, the magi may have been aware of the prophecy of Balaam (who was from the town of Pethor on the Euphrates River near Persia) in Numbers 24:17. Balaam’s prophecy specifically mentions a “star coming out of Jacob.”

The wise men were guided to look for the King of the Jews by a miraculous stellar event, the “Star of Bethlehem,” which they called “His star” (Matthew 2:2). They came to Jerusalem and asked concerning the birth of Christ, and they were directed to Bethlehem (Matthew 2:4–8). They followed God’s guidance joyfully (Matthew 2:10). When they arrived in Bethlehem, they gave costly gifts to Jesus and worshiped Him. God warned them in a dream against returning to Herod, so, in defiance of the king, they left Judea by another route (Matthew 2:12).

So, the magi were men who 1) read and believed God’s Word, 2) sought Jesus, 3) recognized the worth of Christ, 4) humbled themselves to worship Jesus, and 5) obeyed God rather than man. They were truly wise men!

[dhr-ao3]

No Words Needed

No Words Needed https://ift.tt/C3ZLYsi by ReadstheRoom Hermione Granger doesn’t speak. Not one noise has spilled from between her petal lips since she’s entered the castle for eighth year and Draco Malfoy wants, no, needs to understand why. or Hermione’s vocal cords are shredded and damaged by extensive exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. Draco and Hermione must learn to communicate eighth year as they move past years of trauma and misunderstood feelings, comparing scars seen and unseen. Words: 1555, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood, Theodore Nott, Harry Potter Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Speech Disorders, Muteness, POV Draco Malfoy, Protective Draco Malfoy, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/tZmzJTn January 02, 2025 at 10:45PM

[lifblogs]

Have You Heard of the Venomous Twirfang?

Day 6 of Neurodivergent Tech Week Prompt: Special Interest @neurodivergent-tech-week

Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 1555 Summary: Tech and Omega are repairing the Marauder, and Tech gets the chance to infodump about an animal he finds interesting. READ ON AO3

“Wait, does it really have one hundred teeth?” Omega asked with a delighted smile on her face, pressing against the crate before her, leaning in.

Tech looked over at her from where he was repairing the ship, a wonderful delight filling him at the thought that she was interested, that he was able to talk, and talk.

“Spanner?” he requested.

Omega handed it over in a flash.

“And yes, one hundred teeth,” he told her, imagining the large creature in his head. “Picture multiple rows of needles. The venomous twirfang has muscles just underneath the gums that it uses to gyrate the teeth, further shredding its prey.”

“Whoa. How do you know all this?”

Tech adjusted his goggles.

“I take special care in learning about the creatures in the galaxy. I find them fascinating.”

“So is the venomous twirfang aggressive?” Omega asked. “I mean, it must be since it has so many teeth, but does it only attack if provoked, or does it hunt?”

Tech smiled, a wonderful thrill filling his chest. “Oh, it hunts all right. Though, I will say I don’t quite understand why it has venom. The venom is only on the teeth, which by that point, you’re dead anyway. Perhaps to incapacitate its prey to make an easy meal for it—I know some snakes do something similar, or even constrict their prey to keep it still while they eat it whole. But I digress. The venomous twirfang could have possibly just had a useless trait from evolution. After all, most lifeforms have something like that.”

Omega was rifling through the tools, like she needed something to do with her excitement.

He handed her back the spanner, and asked for the solder.

She gave it to him, and he was soon fixing some faulty wiring that had been giving them trouble with life support.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Have you ever wondered why humans have an appendix?”

Omega put her elbows on the crate, her chin cupped in her hands, a thoughtful expression on her face that Tech was happy to see.

“Oh. Huh.”

“So, as I was saying, there are useless traits, which the venom might be one. Perhaps it helped at one point—hmm, maybe the teeth were smaller, or there were less of them. The mouth could have been smaller too.”

He straightened as an image of what the creature might have looked like thousands of years ago entered his mind. He pictured something smaller, slimier, maybe even without its four eyes.

Tech had the urge to find a data retrieval center so he could dig into this.

“Oh, perhaps there weren’t muscles under the gums!” he added.

“Do you have a holo of it?” Omega asked. “It sounds weird.”

He gave her a grin, and got back to the soldering work. “The word I would prefer to use is fascinating. And yes, I can show you after dinner”

“Sweet. So what else does it look like?”

“Well, picture a fish, but it has legs. Six of them.”

“Six?!”

“Yes. The large amount of legs is necessary to move its considerable, round mass across swampy land. The feet have thick webbing between the toes to help it not get stuck in the swamp.”

“What does it get out of living in a swamp?”

Tech couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t stop smiling. Someone hadn’t asked him this many questions about his special interest in quite some time. To be fair, they were busy running from the Empire, but his mind was busy with this; always busy with something.

“It feasts on smaller predators, and some large prey. It blends in well with the landscape because of its green skin. I do believe it fits in the class of amphibian, actually. So it has slick, slimy skin.”

Out of the corner of his eye Tech saw Omega scrunch up her face in disgust, and he almost laughed.

“It tends to sit halfway in the water, halfway on land, waiting for its prey to approach unknowingly. When it moves towards prey it can move fast thanks to its six legs. They are deceptively long, letting it make leaps one wouldn’t expect.”

Omega fiddled with the welding torch, and— Oh no, Hunter would not like that.

He promptly took it from her, and put it on a crate on his other side. She gave him a disappointed look, but with a raise of his eyebrow she ended up letting out a huff, letting it go. He almost expected an eye roll, having seen similar expressions on lifeforms countless times through his recordings. The slight pinch to her eyes showed that she was just a hair from doing so, that she was resisting.

“The venomous twirfang mates by—” He glanced at Omega, a twelve-year old. Sure, she probably knew a bit about her own reproductive system at this point with puberty, but…

“Never mind,” he said, blushing slightly. Right, not everyone wanted to hear how creatures mated.

But it was so interesting! The venomous twirfang was able to change its sex to suit the needs of a potential partner. There was even documentation of males carrying the eggs. And there was at least one more documented sex, and a hypothesized fourth one, though those studies hadn’t been well corroborated seeing as, well… the top researcher had died getting too close during the mating (which was often violent).

He did his best to search through the catalogue that was his mind for something else to talk about regarding the venomous twirfang.

Ah!

“They have gills on their stomachs that let them breathe underwater during the long hours waiting for their prey.”

Omega started patting her own stomach, and he couldn’t help but find it highly adorable.

“Gills on the stomach,” she repeated, words punctuated with emphasis as she thought it over.

“Yes.”

“I wonder where humans would have gills if we needed them.”

“You’re not going to like that answer,” Tech immediately responded.

Omega leaned in again, so much so the crate tipped, and he held out a hand to steady her. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh?”

“Well, if we look at how gills work and how they need access to the lungs, and based on human metabolism, they’d be on the chest.”

Omega’s eyes widened and she looked at Tech’s chest, then her own, horrified.

“All over the chest, in fact. We would not have any free space. They’d be large for our blood supply.”

I wonder where the breast tissue and mammary glands would go then. Hmm… Perhaps the stomach in this case.

Omega shuddered, perhaps imagining what he was, and how gills looked when they were at work, the way they moved.

“Oh gosh, okay.”

“Would you prefer if I tell you how many lungs the venomous twirfang has?”

She nodded.

“Four. Usually it only has two lungs at work, but the other two act as reserve lungs for situations that require more oxygen in the blood, such as the rare times they chase after their prey, or are attacking something because of a perceived threat to their habitat. And mating,” he added. “It also helps with injuries. It has been documented that the venomous twirfang has been able to survive while missing two of its lungs, or with injury to two. If one of their lungs is infected with something or is decaying due to prolonged illness they can actually rework it through their body into their stomachs where they can purge it through the mouth.”

Omega’s eyes were wide. He hoped with wonder, because that was certainly what he was feeling.

“Wow,” she breathed. “That is the grossest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He paused in his work, gesturing at his chest. “Worse than the human gill thing?”

“Way worse.”

“Oh, um…”

“Cool.”

Tech inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.

It went on like that, Omega asking questions, Tech answering them, and they finished the repairs in a little under an hour.

She was helping him carry the crates of tools back into the ship, the sun setting, and Tech couldn’t help but feel not just a sense of accomplishment about a job well done, but something deeper, something special.

He was content. Actually, he was more than content.

During dinner at Cid’s place, everyone sitting around a table, and enjoying surprisingly lovely fried food that perhaps did not meet military nutritional standards, Hunter nudged Tech.

“You’re in a good mood.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Only you could be in a good mood from repairs,” Wrecker said.

Tech nodded because it certainly was true. He loved doing work like that, loved using his mind in a way that felt like he was delving deeper or stretching it, coming to new conclusions, new solutions, new thoughts, new ideas. It was invigorating, it was fun. But today it was more than that. He felt light, giddy, like he had released something and it was met with wonder.

“You get in a good mood from building explosives,” Echo pointed out.

“Yeah, of course I do,” Wrecker said. “Duh.”

“Well, it was more than the repairs,” Tech began.

Omega immediately put her food down, slammed both hands on the table (subsequently rattling their cups and plates), and stood, leaning towards all of them.

She asked, breathlessly, “Have you heard of the venomous twirfang?”

[lemoncrushh]

Cubicle // 5) Tonight

STORY PAGE

Word Count: 1555

Roni

I was barely in the door properly when I heard my ringtone chime. I hurriedly dropped my bag on the floor, pushed the door shut with my foot and grabbed my phone which displayed Harry's name.

"Wow, that was fast," I breathed.

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you just leave work?"

"Actually, I haven't left yet," he explained. "I'm walking to my car as we speak."

"You model employee," I quipped.

"I wouldn't go that far." I could hear the smile in his voice. "But I wanted to get your address so I can put it in my phone."

After I gave it to him, he reminded me he'd be here at eight. As I hung up, I felt the butterflies begin to flutter in my stomach and I got goosebumps. Not from nerves per say, but from a slight release of sexual tension, knowing that I was finally getting a chance to be alone with Harry.

I stripped off my clothes in the bedroom and turned on the shower, stopping for a moment to look at my reflection in the mirror. I'm not vain, but I'm proud to say I like my body. I wouldn't consider it perfect, but I've worked hard to keep it fit and toned. I have curves like any woman, and I'm not ashamed to flaunt them.

In the shower, I lathered up my body head to toe, imagining the places I might just let Harry touch this evening. I ended up getting myself quite worked up but decided against going any further with my own fingers. I wanted to reserve myself for Harry. I shaved my legs and underarms thoroughly, as well as the edges of my pubic area. Some people like to shave it all, but that's just never been my cup of tea. It makes me feel prepubescent and a little too Lolita-ish.

I dried off with a towel and walked back to the bedroom, examining the contents of my closet. I had decided not to stress previously over what I would wear tonight. Last minute decisions tend to work best for me. I pulled out a little black dress that I adore with a swing skirt and spaghetti straps. Harry hadn't told me where we were going, and I hadn't asked, but I figured this little number would work with just about any scenario, not to mention drive Harry crazy.

I grabbed from my drawer the only undergarment I would need, a black lace thong. Then I slipped the dress over my head and stepped into my favorite black heels. I applied my make-up the way I always do. The guy sees me at work every day, there's no sense is shocking him with a clown face. Then I curled my hair only slightly at the ends with my flat iron, letting the tendrils fall softly on my shoulders. Finally, I dabbed a little bit of perfume on my wrists, behind my ears, and down my throat to the bottom of my cleavage. Taking one last look in the mirror, I smiled at myself.

Harry

The truth is, I was a nervous wreck. I've never been this nervous before a date. I'm always so cool, calm and collected, but something about Roni is different. I don't know, it's as though she's got my head spinning. On the way to her place, I stopped at the florist. Something tells me Roni's not your typical red rose girl, so I opted for a bouquet of stargazers that smelled amazing.

I stopped my car in front of her building and made my way up the stairs to her flat. My palms were sweaty, so I quickly wiped them down the front of my jeans, rotating the flowers in each hand. Then I took a deep breath and knocked on her door. Seconds later, Roni opened it, standing before me like a Playboy model in the hottest little dress she could have possibly worn. I felt myself salivate and I temporarily lost my speech.

"Good evening, Harry," she smiled, breaking the ice. "Don't you look handsome."

I let out a breath and blinked. "Thanks. You look beautiful." My voice was raspy and barely audible.

"Thank you," she said as she looked down at her dress. "I hope this is okay."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I let slip out before thinking. With her eyes wide open, I apologized. "Sorry, it's just...you look incredible."

Her eyes then twinkled as she smiled and beckoned me inside. I stepped into the open living area as she shut the door behind me. Everything was a palette of white on dark wood, with splashes of black and light blue. It was all very calming.

"Oh!" I exclaimed when I remembered the flowers. "These are for you."

Another sexy grin grew slowly across her face as she took the bouquet from me and sniffed them.

"How'd you know, Harry?"

"Are they your favourite?" I asked.

With a wink she turned slightly to the right and revealed a stargazer lily tattoo on her left shoulder. Of course, I had never seen it before because her work attire covered it up.

"What are the odds?"

"It's fate," she declared as she turned around and headed towards the kitchen. "Just let me put these in some water, and we can go."

I internally cheered to myself, proud that I not only had gotten something right, but I'd been dead on. Roni returned with the flowers in a tall clear vase. She sat them down in the center of the coffee table and grabbed a small handbag that was sitting near the edge.

"Ready?"

"After you," I nodded and gestured toward the door.

Roni opened it and I followed her back into the hall, waiting while she locked up. I let her walk ahead of me down the stairs, mostly so I could watch her. Fuck, she's so gorgeous. I knew I would have a hard time keeping my hands to myself tonight. I already wanted to touch the skin that I had no doubt was incredibly soft. Even the click of her heels on the wooden stairs was erotic.

When we reached the bottom, I opened the door for her and led her out to my car. When I held the car door, she said thank you and as she brushed past me, I got a whiff of an intoxicating aroma. I groaned as I walked around to my side. As soon as I got in, I glanced over at her legs. Just like my fantasy, only this time her skirt wasn't tight. The way it flowed actually showed more of her legs and it was hot as hell. Possibly catching me gawking, she adjusted her dress, but not so it showed less skin. Bless her.

"So where are we going, Harry?" Roni inquired as I turned the key.

"La Colombe d'Or," I answered in my best French accent.

All I heard was silence so I turned head towards her. Her eyes were huge and her jaw was open.

"Is that okay with you?" I asked.

"Well, yeah, but...Harry," she began and then dropped her voice, "It's so fancy. And...expensive."

"So what? You're not worth it?"

I looked at her again and she gave me the cutest puppy dog eyes. Then she sat back in her seat, resting her head against the headrest with a satisfied look on her face.

Roni

I think the whole idea of keeping a man waiting is total bullshit. He's asked you out, he's coming to pick you up. The least you can do is be ready when he gets there. So I was just sitting on the couch watching the telly when Harry knocked on the door.

My heart almost burst out of my chest like in a cartoon when I saw him. He was dressed in black jeans, a shirt that was such a dark blue it almost appeared black, and a black jacket. His shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest and for the first time I noticed he had tattoos there. I couldn't tell quite what they were yet, but I was determined to find out.

The best part was the way he looked at me. I could tell the dress had been a good decision. When I invited him inside, he handed me the flowers he had been holding. Stargazer lilies are my absolute favourite. So far, this date was going splendidly.

I knew he was checking out my ass on the way down the stairs. I can tell he does that a lot at work too, but I don't mind. When he opened the car door for me, I made sure I touched his arm as I got in. Then I adjusted my dress but not too much. Harry liked what he saw, and that knowledge gave me tingles everywhere.

When I'd asked him where we were going, I was not expecting the answer he gave me. La Colombe d'Or! It's French for The Golden Dove. A super swanky restaurant that I've only been to once with my ex, Roland. Ugh, why did I have to think about him? No, he's no Harry. I can tell that much already. I sat back in my seat, ready for the evening to officially begin.

A/N: Sorry these early chapters are so short. I didn't really write long chapters back then. I usually wrote blurbs that were around the same length, but I never kept up with the word count lol. I think as the story moves along, the chapters get longer.

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

[monowritestoomuch]

Am I The One To Blame?

This is Day 1 of my Hanukkah event (Mono’s Hanukkah Event!). I wanted to start out strong with a canon divergence!

For this, SugarBoo is female and slightly southern. Just a heads up. Angst hour guys. My inner voice was screaming at how absolutely fire these scenes were, even though they were sad asf. Be prepared to cry I guess. And I put this up super early? Why, you may ask? Because this is my self restraint as to not listen to EPIC: The Ithaca Saga right now.  (Spoiler alert: I listened to it, it was fire) Hope you all enjoy!

Fandom: Yuurivoice

Rating: Teen

Theme: Angst; What if SugarBoo didn’t go with Derek after Charlie got knocked out? What if she pulled out the gun?

Word Count: 1555

Tires screeched around the corner as Charlie swore to himself. The door to the car opened as Charlie tried to barter. “H-hey, I don’t want any trouble–” before being knocked out unconscious in a single punch and getting the wind kicked out of him.

You were kicked to your knees as a hand covered your eyes, so you couldn’t see what was going on, but you could hear it. 

The hand got taken off your eyes as someone started to speak, taking in a breath of air. “Well, hello there, sugar~” he greeted, his tone flirty, making your spine shiver. He took in another breath. “How ‘bout we go for a little trip?” he suggested, although it didn’t seem like a suggestion. “I’ve been dying to meet you,” he finished, his voice deep and eerie. 

That was Derek. That had to be Derek. 

“Well I haven’t been dying to meet you, Derek,” You spat, backing away from him. “And I’m not goin’ nowhere with you.”

“Ain’t that a shame,” Derek chuckled, hands in his jean pockets. “You think I’m given’ ya’ a choice, Sugar?”

“Life is full of choices,” You responded, eyes narrowed as you kept eye contact with the greasy man. “And as far as I’m concerned, I’m free to make ‘em.”

“You’re just full of surprises, ain’t ya’?” Derek chuckled again, sighing mockingly. “I should’ve expected that from someone who would date a colossal fuck-up like that boy,”

“What the fuck did you just call him?” You asked, your tone demanding and gruff. Anger seeped into your face, as you kept the man’s gaze. 

“You heard me,” Derek growled, a cocky grin split from his chapped lips. 

You seethed with anger as the words centered in your soul. Your body shook with not fear, but rage. Pure and unbridled, as it was, but it was rage.

“Their little innocent Sugar~” The pet name rolled off his tongue with eerie ease. “The one thing they didn’t want their filth to taint,” he taunted.

It was then you pulled out the gun, Alphonse’s gun. You’d been hiding it, packing it, only until you could get the chance to strike.

You pointed the gun head on at Derek, aiming for his chest, clicking off the safety. His eyes widened as he slicked back his greasy black hair. He laughed psychotically as your hands held the gun in his direction. 

“That’s your plan?!” he cried hysterically, whipping his head back in disbelief. “You’re going’ta shoot me?! You?!” He laughed again as your anger boiled. “You wanna’ know why those boys of yours like you?”

You stayed silent, glaring at the man who had once had the gall to be a father-figure for your Seth. 

“Because you ain’t part of their filth. You don’t got your hands dirty like them, and that’s why they love ya’,” he spat. “You’re not dirty, you’re their little innocent, who they leave in the dark about everythin’,” he taunted.

Your hands shook while your anger boiled into unbridled rage, your teeth gritted and scraping against each other. 

“They don’t trust you a damn dime enough to let you even give your opinion, wanting you to be their little doll, sittin’ still and lookin’ pretty for ‘em.” 

“Don’t you say another fuckin’ word you son’uva’bitch!” You shouted, uncaring if anyone else heard you at that moment anymore. You raised the gun to face his head. “I oughtta’ shoot your fuckin’ brains out, but it’s not like ya ever had any!” Your rage seethed out from your lips into the crisp December air. 

“Go ahead, shoot me then! But just know, Sugar,” Your hands shook violently as he spoke. “The only reason they keep you around–the only reason they’d ever keep you around, is because you are the only thing untainted by their pasts–and if you shoot me, they won’t give a damn bother about you for the rest of their damn’ days,” he hissed, grinning as he stared at your shaking hands that still held the gun. “And even now, you’re too much of a coward to take the damn sho–”

A bang resonated throughout the street and down the alleys. Derek fell backwards onto one knee, clutching his bleeding shoulder, the blood dripping onto asphalt. He looked up, locking eyes with you as his cocky smile disappeared. He ran his tongue over his teeth as you held the gun back up again to face him, walking closer to only be a few feet of distance from him. You raised the gun to where his head was, hands trembling. 

You were well aware that the boys would hear the shot, that it might’ve been damn loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, but you didn’t give a damn anymore. 

“I could kill you,” You seethed through gritted teeth, holding the shaking gun in the direction of his temple. “I should kill you–I have every fucking right to kill you where you kneel. I should-I fucking should-I have every damn right in my mind to pull this fucking trigger–!” You said, trembling as you shouted the last words. Tears fell from your wrath-filled eyes. 

The front door to the apartment building practically slammed open, Alphonse and Seth rushing to the doorway and pausing abruptly in disbelief. You saw Jessie stop behind the boys, making eye contact with you, eyes widened, before her face split into one of shock. 

“Boo, what are you–” Alphonse’s quiet voice of disbelief rang throughout the alley, it was so loud that if you dropped a penny, it would be the loudest part of the alley. 

The gun shook in your hands as you held it in front of Derek, pointing at his head. Tears ran down your rage-filled face. Alphonse and Seth were still, faces filled with horror as your own heart practically cracked in two. But Miss Jessie? Jessie moved the boys out of her way and walked down the steps and over to you and Derek. 

She didn’t demand anything, didn’t scold you or yell. She simply took the gun from your shaking hands and pointed the gun at Derek’s head and pulled the trigger.

Derek fell forward, causing you to jump. Jessie dropped the gun and it thudded against the asphalt, wrapping you in a hug as the two of you sunk to the ground. You sobbed into her arms, your shaking body trembling against her. She craned your head behind her shoulder, rubbing your back in a comforting manner as she used her other hand in a motion to the boys, who walked down the steps towards the two of you.

Blood soaked your clothes as you sobbed. A hand on your shoulder made you flinch, but the hand was warm. Seth, your brain registered. A pair of arms wrapped around you, the pick and blue arms of the sweater warm against your skin that had been cool with the night air. Alphonse, my boyfriend, your brain registered.

Alphonse gingerly raised you to your feet, enveloping you in his arms. Seth went to your other side, putting a hand on your shoulder as Alphonse walked you to the apartment building steps. You saw in your peripheral as Miss Jessie put Charlie’s arm over her shoulder, hoisting him up. 

Your line of sight was drawn back to your frigid hands. Red coated your hands. Blood. Hands scraped and dry, blood seeping through the crevices and down the palms. Red. All you could see was red. 

Your ears rang as tears fell from your bloodshot eyes, your trembling body feeling as if it was to collapse at any moment. 

Up the steps you went, through the hallway and up to the empty apartment. Seth and Alphonse gingerly placed you on the old couch, your body flinching as you were sat. 

Alphonse said something to Seth, but it all just sounded underwater to you. Seth left the room briefly, returning with a bowl of water and a washcloth only a minute later. Alphonse took the washcloth and dipped it in the bowl, bringing the washcloth to your hands and wiping them of the blood. 

But you knew yourself, you knew that the blood was on your hands. A man was dead because of you. No matter if the blood was washed off, you could feel it in your hands, in your soul. You’ve taken a life, and what becomes of you? Are you punished for the murder? No, you are cared for. 

You stared blankly as Seth left the room again, returning with a pair of large basketball shorts and a t-shirt. But you could hardly care what they did at that moment. You had shot a man. You pulled the trigger. And after you’d done that? You held the gun near his temple, to shoot him in the head, hoping in the moment that blood would pour from his head for all the people he hurt. For the people he hurt that you loved. 

You felt as you were moved around and dressed. You felt nothing but inescapable numbness. Not even when Alphonse hugged you tightly and Seth placed a blanket over your shoulders. 

It was all over, Derek was dead. 

You should’ve been happy. You were all free. 

But you’d done the deed. You’d killed him.

And you would never get the blood off of your hands.

[messierthanthou]

Like I said in prev post, Lae'zel using mage hand to finger Shadowheart, so please, enjoy

Aching Night

Rated E, Shadowzel, mage hand stuff happens, 1555 words

Shar guide her, for she is surely going to hell for this. For these thoughts. These urges.

As Shadowheart lays on the bedroll inside her tent, shrouded in darkness, they come to her, uninvited. Images of Lae’zel flourish in her mind, and even as she tries to pray, to push it all away, they persist. The gith’s strong, slender body haunts her, those yellow sharp eyes follow her, that witless tongue speaks her name.

There’s no escaping it as she tosses and turns in bed, landing on her back she throws off the covers that trap the heat of her body that grows hotter by each second - by each concerning thought.

It is unbecoming how butterflies swarm her stomach at the mere idea of the gith’s touch, however rough or gentle it be. Would she grab her by the wrists and hold them above her head as Lae’zel fingered her senseless? Would that long tongue of hers be finally put to good use? How it might feel swirling her clit, entering her pussy, eating her out like it’s a last meal.

Hells, this isn’t helping! She needs to cool down, and the lake nearby camp seems a fitting respite.

Towel in hand she wanders the few feet to the lakeside, every light in the camp extinguished but her darkvision guides her easily and silently through it all.

Shadowheart stops before the lake’s edge, strips till she’s all nude, lets her hair down where it grazes near her buttocks, then enters the body of water, sighing gently as the coolness caresses her heated body, the relief immediate.

She moves in deeper till her body is consumed, her chin just above the water, her hair floating behind her like a cape of raven black. Eventually Shadowheart finds her way to the rocks by the edge, leaning against them, and another sigh falls from relaxed lips. This was sorely needed, and while those thoughts remain behind closed eyes, the cold water manages to wash them out ever so slightly till they’re barely more than a reflection in the waves.

“You,” an all too discouragingly familiar voice says, and Shadowheart meets Lae’zel’s burning gaze.

“You,” she responds with in turn.

“Leave, now.”

“You don’t own the lake, Lae’zel, I am free to come and go as I please.”

“Chk, you wish to fight me on this when your precious Tav isn’t around to save you from my torment?”

“Every second with you is torment, whether Tav is here or not.” Shadowheart can only hope that the darkness shrouds the growing blush on her face as she starts to realize that the gith must be naked, too.

But the way Lae’zel’s furrowed brow smooths out is not all that promising of what she does and doesn’t notice in the moonlight. And when she steps closer, Shadowheart tries to back up, but the rocks keep her in place.

“You say that like this torment is unacceptable, and yet I have seen you looking at me with lidded eyes, and I will admit, your scent intrigues me.” She closes in on the half-elf. “This little dance we do, you don’t find it… enticing?”

“Macabre, more so than intriguing, and you must have seen wrong; how could anyone look at a gith with desire?” Shadowheart bites but the other woman just smiles, and it is equally worrying and electrifying.

“You say that, and yet I can sense your heartbeat, see how the blood rushes to your face, and that fire in your eyes. You’re aroused.”

She is. Greatly even. This soldier before her lights an unwanted fire in Shadowheart’s cunt, and as much as she desires her, so does she despise her.

“You want a taste. To feel my lips against yours, our bodies pressed together, a flesh-bond. Very well, I shall give it to you, for I, too, pine for the body I so relentlessly think about.”

“You talk too much,” Shadowheart whispers in the seconds it takes for their lips to meet, as she brings a hand up to grab Lae’zel by the neck and pull her in.

And the gith isn’t slow to respond, as she pries the other’s lips apart with her tongue to invade Shadowheart’s mouth, who in turn moans at the taste of her spit.

“You must keep quiet,” Lae’zel hisses, “We can’t have anyone hear you.”

“Then make me quiet,” the Sharran demands, although it sounds more like an invitation, and their lips clash together again.

The fighter grabs both of Shadowheart’s wrists in one strong hand and pins them above her head, against the rocks, and one would think she had read the half-elf’s mind about this earlier, as she practically quivers under the restraint and has to fight back another moan.

Beneath the surface of the water that keeps their bodies hidden from each other, she feels how the gith presses against her, separating her legs with a persistent thigh that then grinds against her throbbing clit, and again, Shadowheart fights a most pleasured sound from erupting.

Together they find a rhythm that suits them both, rubbing together in harmony, but it’s not enough.

The half-elf tears her lips away from Lae’zel’s demanding kisses, and whispers with restraint, “Touch me.” She would be embarrassed at how needy she sounds if she wasn’t instead so horny.

“Chk, so ungrateful for what I already give,” the gith snaps in turn, but doesn’t look as offended as she sounds.

In fact, the way she stares seems to be almost with interest.

And that’s when Shadowheart feels it, a hand pressing against her pussy instead of Lae’zel’s own thigh. 

“Remember, keep quiet.”

With their eyes locked together, a single ghostly finger enters her, elevating her breathing till she’s near silently gasping for air, and she bites down on her lower lip, huffing through her nose. The gith smiles like she’s won something, then starts thrusting with the mage hand, and if it wasn’t for her hand holding Shadowheart up, she’d have succumbed to her weakening legs.

With every thrust of that single finger, it gets harder and harder to keep eye-contact, but the cleric worries that Lae’zel would vanquish the hand if she closed her eyes or looked away, as if they’re in a staring contest.

She exhales hard, takes a big gulp of air, then bites down again, regaining some composure, but just then a second finger slides in and joins the thrusting below. It takes all in her not to moan out in ecstasy as the mage hand continues to fuck her thoroughly, its thumb starting to massage her clit, making her squirm.

“I wonder how long you can last like this, before giving in to your most carnal desire and cumming with such simple touches,” Lae’zel speaks as if completely unaffected by what they’re doing- what she’s doing. “You will have me tonight, and then, when the time is right, I will have you.”

A third finger joins, and as heat builds up to a boiling point, her brows knit together, she closes her eyes for a mere moment longer than just a blink, and the hand between her thighs adds a fourth finger. It burns, the sensation of being split open like this hurts so deliciously, she can’t fight the yelp that comes out. 

And in response the gith leans in to bite at Shadowheart’s lower lip before kissing ferociously, making her head knock against the rocks behind her.

“I told you to keep quiet. If you can’t, we will stop this.”

By instinct, with an urge to pull Lae’zel closer again, the cleric struggles against the hand that holds her back, leans in for another kiss, but the gith dodges out of the way with a near evil smirk, ever so pleased with the whole situation.

But she gives Shadowheart what she wants, kisses her, uses her long tongue to keep the other’s under control, tasting her and humming pleased tunes.

The stretching ache of the half-elf’s cunt doesn’t subside, as the thrusts grow tenacious and unyielding in the finger’s pursuit of her climax. A chase that comes to a rather abrupt but overwhelming end, as everything that touches Shadowheart makes her nonsensically overjoyed. And like a fire it roars throughout her body, making her clench down on the fingers that persist in their thrusting and fucking of her cunt, letting her ride out the euphoria at a punishing pace that makes it feel like she’s been cumming for minutes before the hand stops and vanishes, leaving an emptiness in her body she didn’t expect.

As she slowly returns to this realm, her body relaxing after a high she can’t remember ever having felt before, she notices just how gentle and almost kind Lae’zel’s kisses have grown, before she slowly pulls away, releasing her wrists and removing her body heat entirely from the other woman.

Shadowheart is speechless, but even if she had the words for it, she might not have the strength, as she gasps for air and rests against the rocks, her legs barely keeping her standing.

“Regain your strength, Shadowheart, for come one night soon, I will seek you out, and I will let you taste me again. The anticipation will be… delicious.” And with that said, the gith turns around and leaves the still quaking half-elf to her own.

[queenmarytudor]

Hello ! I was wondering on what is your take on the false pregnancies of Mary Tudor . Do you think that she had a miscarriage early on her pregnancy? Or do you think it was an actual phantom pregnancy.

I tend to think she had an early miscarriage in 1555 that manifested as a phantom pregnancy for a few reasons.

It's shown in various different sources that Mary is reluctant throughout her 'pregnancy 'to confirm it's real.

An English ambassador told the Emperor in November that Mary "will not confess the matter until it is proved to her face" and it's only around Christmas Mary acknowledges that "As for that child which I carry in my belly, I declare it to be alive.” Carole Levin points out it's a strange word choice and I agree.

The biggest piece of evidence is at the beginning of May in my opinion. When the court are awaiting her child's birth, it's recorded that "according to her count it would not be strange if her delivery were to be delayed until the 6th of June."

Mary herself seemed to think she was a month behind her pregnancy then everyone else and there must be a reason for that.

We know she was recorded as being ill in mid September: "I have noticed her feeling sick (or seen her being sick) besides which her doctor has given me positive assurance, saying that if it were not true all the signs described by physicians would prove to be fallacious." I don't find it hard to believe Mary found herself nauseous and bleeding and thought it was a late period (it's well known she suffered badly with menstruation) or an early miscarriage, while her optimistic ladies and doctors handwaved it all away as usual symptoms of pregnancy, which are real and common.

With the altered hormones in Mary's body it would lead to her still producing pregnancy symptoms for a while (you can still produce them several weeks after miscarrying). I think this is likely what led her to later believe she was pregnant after all, but due after everyone else expected.

It's 9 months from October to June, when Mary believed she was due...

This is all my personal theory, but to me this explains her initial unsurety, the peculiar wording declaring she's not just pregnant but the babe in her belly is "alive", and her miscounting the dates compared to everyone else.

As for the 1557/8 I'm less sure of that just because there's hardly any information about it. It seems again Mary, despite her portrayal in media, was not certain of the pregnancy because she delayed informing Philip until what she thought was the seventh month.