#Demon Wars: Down in Flames

[illyanarasputinfan]

My favorite Magik moments of 2023!

Ultimate Invasion #2 (2023) MARVEL - Magik makes her debut in the Ultimate universe.

Magneto #2 (2023) MARVEL - It is is revealed that Illyana once used Cerebro to locate Magneto, and survived the experience.

Nightcrawlers #2 (2023) MARVEL - Magik of the Red Diamond returns to Asgard one hundred years into the Sinister Era to finish off the realm once and for all.

Realm of X #4 (2023) MARVEL - Illyana uses the magical power that Curse imbues her with to save the realm of Vanaheim, and defeat Omniversal Majestrix Opal Luna Saturnyne.

Strange Academy: Finals #4 (2023) MARVEL - Magik leads her students into battle against an army of demons for one hour during Limbo 204’s final exam.

Dark Web: Finale #1 (2023) MARVEL - Illyana uses her Soulsword on King Chasm, aiding Madelyne Pryor in reclaiming her Scythe of Sorrows, and the throne to Limbo.

Midnight Suns #5 (2023) MARVEL - The team successfully defeats Korrosion, preventing her from unleashing an apocalypse.

Demon Wars: Down In Flames (2023) MARVEL - Magik is reimagined as the demonic halfbreed Itsuki in Peach Momoko’s Marvel universe.

X-Men #24 (2023) MARVEL - Illyana engages Pogg-Ur-Pogg in a rhyme battle during a sword fight.

Dark Web: Finale #1 (2023) Magik exchanges sarcastic banter with a demonic combatant.

[panzerdrako]

Demon Wars

Into the Spiritual World #3

Down in Flames

By Peach Momoko

[dailydamnation]

Itsuki in Demon Wars: Down in Flames

Lots more of Yokai-Illyana this issue, including a fight against this bird person, which gets interesting.

[novelistwriter]

Sealed Halfa

DP x DC Prompt

Danny had been living a pretty good life. He was the Ghost King. His Ghostly Rogues are scheduling fights with him. His grades are improving. The GIW had just up and vanished. And Vlad hasn't been doing anything lately to challenge Danny for the title of Ghost King.

He should have been more careful. The reason for Vlad's silence was because the GIW had captured him and ended the Fruitloop. And now they have him. But nothing the GIW does can permanently end him, as the Crown of Flames and the Ring of Rage keep him alive. So the GIW had sealed Danny, which also makes his Ecto Signature impossible to detect by any type of means, and only a GIW member knows the location of where Danny was sealed.

This act alone had caused the ghosts to enact a war on the earth. The war had ravaged the planet to the point that it was inhospitable to almost anything living. So Clockwork had reset the planet. No one could be spared from the reset, as the entire dimension would destabilize and destroy itself.

Danny remains in the seal, still 16, and still a Halfa, as the Crown of Flames and the Ring of Rage sustain his Human Halfs by converting the Ectoplasm they generate into nutrients for their King. And as time passes, Danny's Ectoplasm leaks out of his seal, causing pools of Ectoplasm to be made all around the world.

The Crown of Flames and the Ring of Rage consume any humans that enter the pools of Ectoplasm and converts their bodies and souls into nutrients for their king. And occasionally, sometimes, when the person survives the pools of Ectoplasm, they are left the emotions of the King that has been sealed away by the US Government.

When Tim had blown up multiple League of Assassins bases on his journey to get Bruce out of the timestream, the explosions had caused ancient cave systems to be shifted and slowly open up pathways to the surface, but the pathways would take quite a few years before they could reach the surface.

And on Damian's 16th birthday, he is kidnapped by his mother and taken to Nanda Parbat to become the Demons Head.

As the Batfam is fighting the Assassins and Talia in the Lazarus Pit chamber, the ground beneath them crumbles, and they all tumble and fight their way down the long cave system they have found themselves in.

The cave system leads them to a very much abandoned lab with a big glowing green crystal in the center of it. And then Jason shoots the crystal, causing the crystal to crack all over (the ectoplasm in Jason had taken control of him and knew that the King would be freed if it damaged the seal that contained the King).

After who knows how long, Danny is freed from the seal, and after he regains his bearings, he looks up and sees his Dad in a bat suit. His mom has a different hair color, and he sees his own face staring right back at him along with the many other people staring at him (Danny and Damian are the same person from different timelines, Damian is NOT Danny's Human Half that's been reincarnated for the survival of the Human Half of the Ghost King).

[wendichester]

🐇.•*¨`*•. easter blessing,

summary. you're working a case with the brothers. it gets festive.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x reader genre. crack

wordcount. 599

notes / warnings. happy easter babies 🐰🗿

You’d like to say this is the weirdest hunt you’ve ever been on.

But it’s really not. Which might be worse.

“So let me get this straight,” you say, squinting down at the crime scene. “We’re hunting... the Easter Bunny?”

Sam, bless his over-researched soul, doesn’t even blink.

“Technically? Probably a pagan fertility god that predates Christianity by like a few thousand years. But yeah. Bunny.”

Dean makes a face and kicks a trail of shredded pink plastic eggs off the sidewalk.

“This is a new low,” he mutters. “I didn’t survive hell to get murdered by some pastel-colored Bugs Bunny ripoff.”

You don’t point out that the corpse in front of you has literal jellybeans spilling out of its mouth. Or that the bite marks on the neck are unmistakably rodent-shaped.

The victim’s last expression is... haunted.

Sam flips through a lore book like it’s a normal Tuesday.

“Looks like Oschter Hase,” he mutters. “Old German folklore. Bringer of fertility, eggs, springtime.”

Dean snorts.

“Bringer of death now.”

You nudge a marshmallow Peep out of the gore with your boot. It's still warm.

Disgusting.

Fast forward to nightfall.

You’re in a graveyard (classic), surrounded by cracked eggshells and tufts of fur, holding a flamethrower.

Because, apparently, bunnies from hell don’t like fire.

Sam’s reading Latin out loud. Dean’s loading silver buckshot into a sawed-off. And you’re wondering if you can ever eat a Cadbury Creme Egg again without getting war flashbacks.

“I see it!” Dean shouts suddenly.

You turn.

And there it is.

Bounding toward you with bloodstained fur, beady red eyes, and an oversized wicker basket slung over its back like some kind of festive serial killer.

“That is not a bunny,” you hiss.

“Technically—” Sam starts.

“Shut up, Sam!”

The bunny shrieks. Shrieks. Like a banshee doing an exorcism. It launches straight at Dean, claws out, teeth bared, ears flapping like demonic wings.

Dean yells something that sounds like “SON OF A B—” and goes down hard under a pile of fur and rage.

“DEAN!”

You turn the flamethrower on and dive into the fray.

The bunny rears up like a fluffy demon spawn just as you pull the trigger. Fire roars. Fur ignites. Sam’s still chanting. Dean’s swearing. Somewhere in the chaos, jellybeans explode like tiny grenades.

The smell is horrific.

The thing lets out a final ungodly screech before collapsing in a pile of flaming tinsel and fur.

“I think that’s it,” Sam pants, stepping over the burning corpse like he hasn’t just witnessed seasonal trauma incarnate.

Dean rolls over and groans.

“Did anyone get the plate on that satanic thumper?”

You grin, a little breathless, a lot singed.

“Happy Easter, boys.”

An hour later, you’re at the diner down the road. Covered in soot, minorly concussed, and all staring at the very suspicious chocolate bunnies in the display case.

“So,” you say, sipping burnt coffee. “We’re never doing this holiday again, right?”

“Agreed,” Dean grunts.

Sam hums.

“Well, there’s still Beltane in a few weeks—”

“NO,” you and Dean both snap.

Dean raises his glass of whiskey like a toast.

“To never trusting rabbits again.”

“Or Sam’s German pagan crap.”

“Or candy.”

“Okay, not candy,” Dean amends quickly, grabbing a pack of mini eggs off the table. “I’m still emotionally attached to sugar.”

You lean back in the booth, bruised, exhausted, and vaguely traumatized.

But alive.

And kind of weirdly proud.

Because you, Sam, and Dean just saved a town from a deranged ancient fertility god disguised as the Easter Bunny. With Latin, fire, and questionable decision-making skills.

Just another day in paradise.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[felassan]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard - site update - companion blurbs and abilities. [source] Some of this information is new, including each companion's Abilities list.

Text reads:

"LACE HARDING Inquisition This dwarven scout has a positive outlook and a ready bow – as well as unexpected magical powers. At her core, Harding is still a girl from Ferelden; she loves adventure, animals, and nature and is fiercely protective of her family and friends. Abilities: Seismic Shot; Heavy Draw; Shred; Adrenaline Rush; Soothing Potion Harding's skills with the bow are unmatched - her arrows can stagger enemies and shred armor. DAVRIN Grey Wardens Bold and charming, this Grey Warden has made a name for himself as a monster hunter. Though he was raised in a Dalish clan, he craved excitement and adventure. He’d rather make history than reflect on it. Now, he cares for Assan, a young griffon. Abilities: Battle Cry; Death from Above; Heroic Strike; Assan Strike; In War, Victory Fiercely loyal, Davrin brings his enemies down hard with a combination of mighty attacks, teaming with Assan to keep their companions out of danger. BELLARA LUTARE The Veil Jumpers Bellara is creative, romantic, and obsessed with uncovering the secrets of ancient Elvhenan. She has a strong sense of self – a clear idea of who she is and what she wants – and will push herself to her limits to find the answers she seeks. Abilities: Fade Bolts; Enfeebling Shot; Replenish; Time Slow; Galvanized Tear Bellara manipulates the Fade and uses electricity and control magic to support her Companions and diminish the powers of their foes. TAASH The Lords of Fortune A Qunari dragon hunter allied with the Lords of Fortune, Taash lives for adventure and doesn't mind taking risks. While her interests include sparkling treasures and hitting things with an axe, Taash is also deeply knowledgeable about many topics. Abilities: Fire Breath; Dragon's Roar; Dragonfire Strike; Spitfire; Fortune's Favor Blunt and straightforward, Taash is a mighty warrior, who wields dual-axes and breathes out flames, igniting enemies with draconic fury. LUCANIS DELLAMORTE The Antivan Crows Lucanis is an expert assassin for whom the Antivan Crows are a family business. He is poised & pragmatic, but he’d rather not be the center of attention. His focus is usually on his work. Lucanis specializes in executing powerful mages and has earned himself the title Demon of Vyrantium. Abilities: Eviscerate; Abominate; Soothing Potion; Debilitate; Adrenaline Rush Lucanis stylishly deals necrotic damage in battle with his dual-daggers, whilst supporting his companions with potions and buffs. EMMRICH VOLKARIN The Mourn Watch A necromancer of Nevarra's Mourn Watch, this well-meaning scholar comes complete with a skeletal assistant, Manfred. Emmrich is as serious about his duty to protect innocents from the occult as he is about his studies and his interest in the mysteries of the fade. Abilities: Final Rites; Replenish; Entangling Spirits; The Bell Tolls; Time Slow Emmrich summons forth spirits of the dead to both entangle and hinder his enemies and heal his companions. NEVE GALLUS The Shadow Dragons A cynic fighting for a better future, Neve is both a private detective and a member of Tevinter's rebellious Shadow Dragons. Born and raised in a working-class neighborhood of Minrathous, she does not believe in the superiority of mages. Abilities: Icebreaker; Blizzard; Glacial Pace; Time Slow; Replenish Neve uses her talents as an ice mage to freeze and slow enemies, stopping them in their tracks."

[source]

[itmeblog]

It's Black History Month

(Over here in the US of A) So here are some podcasts to check out.

Absolutely no Adventures - a fantasy (un)adventure story that follows Sig, the owner of Signature Eats bakery, as he aggressively avoids becoming embroiled in any daring quests or chosen one shenanigans even though the universe really seems to want him to do just that. This is a story about cutting Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey off at the knees to chill with friends and staying far, far away from the slightest whiff of adventure. And also baking. This is also a story about baking.

Afflicted - Lovecraft Country meets True Blood in this new series from award-winning producers Tonia Ransom and Jen Zink. In season one, a small East Texas town suffers supernatural disasters caused by a demonic book bound in human flesh…and only hoodoo can save the town from its affliction.

Apollyon - In the early 22nd century, the Apollyon virus wiped out 75% of the world’s population, and now most of the world is governed by the International Conglomerate of Research Scientists. Dr. Theo Ramsey is an ICRS research scientist who may have just discovered an effective vaccine for Apollyon, but the stakes to get the vaccine to the public are higher than she ever imagined.

Between Heartbeats - Tan immersive Urban Fantasy about the hurt, the powerful, and their growth within a broken world. We follow Sundiata, a guilt-ridden time manipulator with a knack for unemployment, and Nadia, a moralistic telepath determined not to lose control, as they balance frayed mental health against an unsympathetic police state. But when a malevolent presence rears is head, their neuroses become the least of their problems. Can our heroes make the most of their abilities before the option is taken from them?

Fan Wars: The Empire Claps Back - Two passionate Star Wars fans on opposite sides of the Last Jedi debate argue via Skype after their favorite forum closes down. If you love Star Wars (or call yourself a proud member of any fandom), you’ll love this romantic comedy told via

Harlem Queen - a Black historical fiction audio drama based on the life and times of Black, woman, "gangster" Madame Stephanie St. Clair during the Harlem Renaissance.

His Royal Fakin' Highness - What if Ophelia helped Hamlet get his throne back? This modern day, romantic comedy re-imagining of Shakespeare's Hamlet asks just that. As they stage an engagement in the wake of the king's death, these childhood frenemies must decide between duty and love.

InCo (This one's mine :D) - A Sci-Fi story about a disgruntled information seller, a mysterious space boy, and an android doing her best.

Janus Descending - a limited series, science fiction/horror audio drama podcast, follows the arrival of two xenoarcheologists on a small world orbiting a binary star. But what starts off as an expedition to survey the planet and the remains of a lost alien civilization, turns into a monstrous game of cat and mouse, as the two scientists are left to face the creatures that killed the planet in the first place.

Lady Lucy - Lady Lucy is an audio drama inspired by Shakespeare's "Dark Lady" Sonnets, 127-154. Between running her brothel, fighting the Church, murdering her friends' abusive husbands, and pretending to be a poet, the last thing Lucy needed back in 1586 was a surprise visit from her former flame... Will Shakespeare.

Liars and Leeches - Tonya Wright felt it all after the tragic murders of her sister and brother-in-law in a random act of gun violence. Struggling to travel outside of her home, she now lives constantly on edge about perceived threats that seem to surround her.

Nightlight - Multi-award winning horror podcast featuring creepy stories with full audio production written by Black writers and performed by Black actors. So scary it’ll make you want to leave your night light on.

Null /Void - a science fiction audio drama about a young woman, Piper Lee, whose life is saved by a mysterious voice named Adelaide. Piper soon uncovers a malicious plot by a monopoly of a tech company and must work with her friends and an unusual ally to help foil their deadly plot.

Out of Ashes - (currently remastering season 1) Follow a group of survivors as they navigate the ruins of modern civilization and battle against demons, ghosts, monsters and the looming threat of extinction from an ancient power.

Small Victories - A recently recovered drug addict tries to start her new lease on life, too bad life has it out for her.  This dramatic comedy follows Marisol through the ups and downs of her life.

The Courtship of Mona Mae - In the 1870s, pioneers Mona Mae Christophe and Zekial Montgomery search the American West for Mona Mae's mother, Clara. Mona must recall a past, long forgotten in order to survive, so that she can find her mother, love and create a way of life for herself.

Vega a Sci-Fi Adventure Podcast - In a fantasy futuristic world, Vega Rex is employed by her government to kill off the world's worst criminals. She's never met a criminal she couldn't catch…until now. Join Vega as she journeys through a world of bumbling apprentices, powerful technogods, and her biggest challenge yet. Hosted by Ivuoma Hall.

Witchever Path - is an anthology series where your decisions effect the story. Our stories are based in America’s NorthEast, featuring characters finding themselves in the thick of the unknown while tackling issues like queer identity, gender, race, and spirituality. Stories often focus on the communities not typically seen in stories taking place in New England, and giving voice to the perspectives of those communities while uniting under some universal themes. And the supernatural happens. A lot.

(All descriptions were taken from websites)

If you want to find more and there are way more there's a directory :D

[jezebelblues]

𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐒 | 𝐇.𝐒 𓆩♱𓆪

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛—𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲, 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫—𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧—𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫.

𝐂𝐖: smut18+ (p in v), implied consent, heavy sacrilegious elements, selling of soul, manipulation, blood, demonrry

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 11.3k

❏ i know this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but i hope some of you liked this !!! <3

masterlist

IN THE BEGINNING, he was nothing. neither light nor shadow, nor the name carved upon the breath of a thousand angels. before heaven, before rebellion, before the stars spat their first flames into the void, he was silence. harry had no name then, no purpose, no shape. his existence was the marrow of chaos, the pulse of something god himself could not contain. he was desire unbound, the ache of creation, the temptation that god wove into the fabric of his design.

but god, ever proud, sought to bury him beneath the weight of divinity.

and so it was written—let there be light.

light was a shackle, a cleaving blade that divided the holy from the profane. where harry’s essence once seeped through all things, god cast him down, shoving him into the periphery of existence. the angels sang their praises, their voices golden and bright, their hands lifting the heavens into being. harry, the silent pulse of all things forbidden, was hidden beneath their hymn.

but harry did not stay silent.

when lucifer fell, harry followed. not as a soldier, not as a companion, but as something older, hungrier. when the war in heaven turned brother against brother, harry moved through the carnage like a shadow, his presence sharp and unseen. the angels wept rivers, their feathers torn from their backs like leaves in a storm. michael’s blade sang, and lucifer screamed his defiance as the heavens split open. and harry, unseen, caught the blood of the fallen in his hands, drinking it like sacrament.

he descended into hell with lucifer, but he did not bow.

asmodeus, they called him. the demon of lust, the king of desire. but harry wore the name like a mask, his true self hidden beneath the myths men would later craft to make sense of his presence. he did not revel in lust alone. no—his was the sin that bore all others, the quiet devastation of the soul, the ache that turned men’s prayers into whispers of want.

he was the serpent in eden, not in body, but in spirit. his essence seeped into the apple before it ever touched eve’s hand, a sweetness that sang of something beyond god’s dominion. the fruit’s flesh broke beneath her teeth, and in that moment, harry smiled. for the first time, the world tasted him.

harry was no prince of hell, no ruler of legions. his dominion was not forged in flames but in flesh. where lucifer sought thrones, harry sought the softest parts of god’s creation, the places where the divine cracked beneath the weight of its own hypocrisy. he was the tremor in a priest’s voice as he uttered his vows, the heat in a widow’s chest as she knelt to pray, the shadow that lingered in the hearts of the faithful.

his presence was not an explosion but a creeping rot, a sweetness that curdled into decay. he moved through the centuries unseen, his influence whispered in the psalms and carved into the margins of holy texts. the saints who fell to their knees in ecstasy, the priests who burned in the fires of their own desire—these were his victories, small and quiet, but eternal.

but in the fourteenth century, as the plague swept across europe, harry found his hunger growing. the world had grown darker, its faith frayed and trembling. death ruled the land, its shadow cast across every village, every chapel. god’s silence was deafening, and harry stepped into the void it left behind.

he had walked among men before, his form shifting and fleeting, a phantom that touched dreams and slipped through the cracks of consciousness. but this time, he longed for something deeper. the plague had starved men of their faith, but harry wanted more than despair. he wanted worship, devotion, the kind of love that burned brighter than heaven’s light. and so, he took shape, his form a blasphemous echo of the angels he had once moved among.

he descended upon the earth as a man, his beauty unnatural, almost cruel. his green eyes burned with a hunger that no mortal could comprehend, his smile a mockery of god’s grace. he moved through the world like a fever, slipping into dreams, whispering into the minds of the devout.

and when he found her—her prayers trembling on her lips, her heart untouched by sin—he knew he had found his altar.

YN knelt on the stone floor before her bed, dusted with straws of hay and dirt yet to be swept. her hands pressed together so tightly they ached. the crucifix nailed to the wall above her loomed like an executioner's blade, the savior’s face cast in shadow as the meager light of the candles flickered against the damp walls.

"holy mother, guide me," she whispered, her breath trembling. "may i serve you in purity and devotion. may i serve you..."

the words caught in her throat.

only silence answered her.

THE dreams began the night her father announced her betrothal.

it was after supper, the fire crackling low, her father’s voice heavy with the weight of finality. the man he had chosen was a merchant—twice her age, twice widowed. a practical match, her father had said. a man of standing, of faith.

YN had nodded dutifully, her hands folded in her lap, her heart trembling like the flame on the candle before her. she had whispered a prayer of thanks to god that night, her knees pressing into the cold stone of her chamber floor, her lips moving with reverence. she prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to be a dutiful wife.

that was when he first came to her.

harry.

the name would come later, slipping through her trembling lips in the dark, as though it had always been there, coiled around her tongue like a serpent in eden.

at first, it was just the sense of being watched, the prickling heat crawling over her skin as she lay beneath the coarse linen of her blankets. she told herself it was nothing—her imagination, the aftertaste of nerves. but as she drifted toward sleep, the sensation grew heavier, like a weight pressing against her chest.

in the dream, the air shimmered like heat rising from desert sand. she stood in a place that was no place���a horizonless void, dark and infinite, lit only by a soft golden glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

and then, he was there.

he stood at the edge of her sight, just out of focus, his form a smudge of gold and shadow. his voice was a whisper, low and smooth, threading through her mind like silk. you are beautiful, he murmured, his words curling around her like a serpent. so faithful—so untouched by the rot of the world.

she tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, her tongue leaden with fear—or something deeper, something she could not name. he moved closer, still indistinct, his shape shifting like liquid gold in the flickering light.

do you love your god? he asked, his tone neither mocking nor kind, but something in between.

“yes.” she whispered, her voice trembling.

good. the word dripped from his lips, thick and honeyed, filling her with a sweetness that felt almost wrong. then show me.

her heart raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. she sank to her knees, her hands clasped tightly together, her prayer spilling from her lips in a hurried stream.

not to him, the voice interrupted, sharp and commanding.

she froze, her words faltering. the light around him pulsed, growing brighter, harsher, until she could barely see.

kneel to me.

her eyes flew open, her breath ragged, her body damp with sweat. the dream clung to her like a shroud, the words echoing in her mind as she sat up, clutching the cross at her neck. she prayed until dawn, her voice hoarse, the weight of the dream pressing against her like sin itself.

the next night, it happened again.

this time, she saw his face.

it was the face of an angel, but not the kind she had seen painted in the pages of her father’s bible. his beauty was cruel, his features too perfect, too sharp, his green eyes burning with an intensity that made her want to look away and yet drew her closer. his smile was a blade, cutting through her defenses with a single glance.

he stood before her, his hand outstretched. “come,” he bellowed, his voice a command and a plea all at once.

she took a step toward him, her feet moving against her will. the closer she came, the more she could feel it—that heat, that ache, that hunger.

“who are you?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as if amused. “you know who i am.”

“no,” she breathed, shaking her head. “i do not.”

his smile widened, cruel and knowing. “i am the sweetness you crave but cannot name. i am the ache that fills the hollow of your prayers. i am the shadow in the garden, the voice that whispered take and eat.”

her breath hitched, her knees buckling beneath her. she fell to the ground before him, trembling, her hands clutching at the hem of her gown.

her voice broke, her face twisting in despair. “you are a lie.”.

his laughter was soft, almost tender. “and yet, here you are, kneeling before me.”

his hand brushed against her cheek, and the touch sent a jolt through her, like fire licking at her skin. she flinched, but he caught her chin, tilting her face upward to meet his gaze.

“you will deny me.” his eyebrows furrowed, voice soft but unyielding. “you will curse me. you will pray for deliverance. and yet, you will return to me.”

she woke with his laughter ringing in her ears, her body trembling, her chest tight with something that felt like both shame and longing.

the dreams continued, night after night.

she stopped praying before bed, her faith fraying like a thread pulled too tight. the cross at her neck felt heavier, colder, as if it had become a burden instead of a comfort.

by the end of the week, she was afraid to sleep. but it did not matter. whether awake or dreaming, he was there.

he lingered at the edges of her mind, his presence a constant hum beneath her thoughts. she saw him in the curve of a candle’s flame, in the flicker of sunlight through the chapel’s stained glass, the contemptible ache that burned the pit of her stomach. his voice haunted her prayers, turning her words into whispers of doubt.

and then, one night, he was no longer a dream.

he stood in the shadows of her chamber, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. she sat frozen in her bed, her breath caught somewhere at the top of her throat as he stepped into the moonlight, his beauty sharp and terrible, his smile a mockery of grace.

“you called for me.”

“i did not.” she whispered, clutching the blanket to her chest.

“oh, but you did.” harry drawled, dripping with feigned sincerity.

he knelt before her, his hands resting on the edge of the bed, his gaze locking her in place. "it was the fever in your chest, the tremble in your hands as you clasped them in prayer. it was the sigh that escaped your lips as you dreamed of me.”

her breath hitched, her face burning with shame as his words carved through her, exposing her, leaving her bare.

"it was the heat between your thighs grieving my absence.” he continued, his voice a velvet knife, slicing through her defenses. "the ache that settled deep in your belly, curling low and sweet like forbidden fruit. it was the way your body sang for me, even as your lips cursed my name."

she turned her face away, her cheeks wet with tears she hadn't realized were falling.

"look at me," he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding.

her eyes snapped back to his, and the weight of his presence pressed down on her like the crushing weight of sin itself.

put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry

harry laughed, deep and cruel, a sound that slithered beneath her skin and coiled around her spine. “do you think your god’s design was flawless? he made you flesh and then called you sinful for feeling it.” his lips were that of the spring berries as he smiled, the faintest stretch of rose.

the scripture would rattle louder in her mind, her lips mouthing the words in a silent, desperate prayer. harry would tilt his head, watching her with an expression that was both pitying and predatory, as though she were a lamb brought before the slaughter. “no prayer, no scripture, no god will efface the truth. you weren’t made to flee from this—you were made to burn.”

”no–“

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "you cannot lie to me, little one. your god may turn a blind eye to the truth of you, but i see it all."

his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, so light it felt like a specter’s touch, but it sent a jolt through her that left her trembling. "and you will call to me, YN.”

ONE day without him was a reprieve, though it did not feel like mercy.

her chest still ached with the weight of the dreams, her thoughts burdened by the lingering whisper of his voice. the sunlight felt sharper that day, the world too bright, too loud. every moment dragged her closer to evening, and she feared the coming of night as much as she longed for its veil.

but the dreams did not come.

that night, her sleep was empty, untouched by his presence. she woke feeling as hollow as the silence he had left behind, her body too cold without the phantom heat of him pressing against her. she prayed that morning, her knees bruised against the stone of her chamber floor, but her words felt hollow, like they were falling into an abyss.

god had not answered. neither had he.

by the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, YN’s mind was frayed, her soul heavy with both relief and dread. she lit a candle and made her way to the small shack her father had built behind the cottage—a sacred place, he called it.

it was little more than a wooden skeleton, the walls warped with time, the roof patched with hay. the wooden crucifix her father had carved hung above a stone altar, its edges blackened with the blood of lambs offered in sacrifice. the air was thick with the smell of wax and ash, the shadows heavy and alive in the flickering candlelight.

she knelt before the altar, the cold of the stone biting into her knees. her hands clasped tightly together, her head bowed, her lips moving in whispered prayer.

“father in heaven, hear me,” she began, her voice trembling. “i am weak. i am lost. guide me, cleanse me, protect me from the darkness that seeks to devour my soul.”

the words felt brittle, as if they might shatter under their own weight.

“deliver me from temptation,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “deliver me from—”

“—yourself?”

the voice echoed through the shack, low and mocking, sending a shiver down her spine. her breath caught, her body freezing in place.

“you ask for deliverance from the one thing you cannot escape.”

she turned her head slowly, her heart pounding as she saw him standing in the shadows. his beauty was sharper here, crueler, as if the walls of this sacred place brought out the worst in him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“oh, but i should,” harry said, stepping closer, his movements fluid and calculated. “what better place for me to be? this is where your faith lies, after all. broken and bleeding on that stone.”

he gestured toward the altar, his smile wicked. “how many lambs have been slaughtered here, their blood spilling in vain as your father begged his god to hear him? tell me, little one, how often has he answered?”

she flinched, her hands clutching at her dress, but she couldn’t look away.

“you kneel before this altar as if it can save you,” he paused, his voice a low purr. “but your prayers are nothing more than empty words, falling on deaf ears. your god doesn’t listen, YN. he never has.”

“stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“why should i?” he asked, tilting his head, his eyes pines blanketed in fog. “why should i hold my tongue when the truth is so deliciously plain? look at this place—this shrine to a silent god. the blood stains the stone, the candles burn low, and still, you kneel.”

he stepped closer, the heat of his presence overwhelming her, suffocating.

“you pray to him, and yet your body longs for me.” his voice was a velvet knife. “your lips speak his name, but your soul cries out for mine. every breath you take in this place is a mockery of the faith you claim to hold.”

“you lie,” she spat, her voice trembling.

“do i?”

he reached out, his fingers brushing against the wooden crucifix that hung above the altar. his touch was gentle, reverent almost, but his eyes burned with something dark, something unholy.

"stop.” YN insisted, her voice rising. "you cannot defile this place."

"cannot?" he echoed, his smile widening. "little lamb, i have been defiling sacred places since the stones were first laid."

"get out," she hissed, her voice trembling.

he tilted his head, feigning confusion. "why? am i not welcome in my father's house?"

"you are no son of god.” she bit, her nails digging into her palms.

he laughed, a low, resonant sound that seemed to reverberate off the walls and whisper malevolence. “this,” he said, his voice soft but laced with venom, “is not salvation. it is a symbol of failure. your god hangs here, broken and bleeding, a man nailed to wood, unable to save himself, let alone you.”

her breath hitched, her chest tightening as his words carved through her. the candles burned lower, their flames flickering as if suffocating. the crucifix above them groaned, the carved figure of christ seeming to shift, his eyes now open, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

“he is not here,” he continued, his tone dripping with mockery. “but i am. i have always been here, in the shadows, in the spaces where your god’s light does not reach.”

he turned to her then, his eyes locking with hers. “kneel to me, YN.” harry exhorted. “kneel to the one who hears you, who sees you, who wants you.”

her body trembled, her knees threatening to give out beneath her. she clutched the edge of the altar, her knuckles white, her breath ragged.

“i will not,” she whispered, though her voice wavered with the weight of the lie.

he smiled, a predator’s smile, and took another step closer. "blessed are the pure in heart," he recited softly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "and yet here you are, YN. your prayers stained with want, your purity burned away by the fire in your chest. tell me, little lamb—what does your god see when he looks at you now?"

DREAMS came to her again last night, wrapping around her like silk soaked in poison. she woke with the taste of copper on her tongue. the air was thick, rancid, like meat left to rot.

but it was saturday, and there was no room for weakness on the sabbath.

her father had already dressed in his fine woolen cloak, his voice sharp as he called for her to hurry. she obeyed, tying her hair beneath her veil, clasping the cross at her neck with trembling fingers.

her steps dragged as she and her father walked to the chapel, the congregation gathering like crows around carrion. the chapel’s crooked steeple cast a shadow across the field, its bell tolling low and mournful. the holy place felt like a maw, swallowing her whole.

the priest’s voice boomed as the congregation kneeled on the dirt floor, their heads bowed.

“let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the lord, that he may have compassion on him, and to our god, for he will abundantly pardon.”

the words struck YN like a lash, her heart thundering in her chest as she whispered the verse under her breath. she gripped the wooden bench in front of her, her knuckles white, trying to anchor herself.

“compassion,” the priest intoned, his hands raised high. “he calls to us, even now, though we are unworthy. he calls to the sinners, the straying sheep. come back to him, my children. return to the lord.”

a low chuckle coiled through the air, faint as the flicker of a candle but unmistakable. YN’s stomach dropped.

“do you believe that?” the voice whispered, warm and mocking, curling behind her ear. “that he’ll pardon you? that he’ll save you from me?”

she didn’t dare lift her head.

“seek your servant, for I do not forget your commandments,” the priest continued, his voice heavy with fervor.

“he’s lying,” harry purred, his voice like velvet dragged over glass.

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

“you’ve forgotten every commandment that matters,” harry continued, his tone soft, intimate. “what about the one that said, thou shalt not covet? because you do. every night, in your dreams, you covet me. and your god?” he growled, low and mocking. “he watches.”

her body trembled, her fingers digging into the rough wood as the priest’s voice rose.

“i have gone astray like a lost sheep; seek your servant, for i do not forget your commandments.”

harry’s laughter slithered through her mind, dark and sharp. “you are a lost sheep,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity. “but he doesn’t seek you, little one. he sent me instead.”

she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as the priest called for the hymn. the congregation rose to their feet, their voices low and discordant as they sang, the words clawing at the stale air.

“holy father, forgive us, for we have sinned. purify our hearts, that we may walk in your light…”

“his light,” he scoffed, his voice like a knife slicing through the hymn. “look around you. this chapel is a tomb. the life you sacrifice, the blood you spilled—it did nothing. and still, you sing to a god who leaves you on your knees, begging.”

YN’s voice faltered, the hymn dying in her throat.

“keep singing,” he whispered, his voice a noose around her throat. “pretend he can hear you. pretend this is not the cry of the forsaken.”

her breath came fast, her chest tight as she darted a glance toward the altar. the priest stood with his arms raised, his back to the congregation. behind him, barely visible in the flickering light, stood harry.

he was leaning against stone altar, eyes gleaming with amusement. his beauty was stark against the dark stone, his smile sharp and cruel. he dipped his fingers into the chalice of wine and brought them to his lips, licking the crimson liquid from his skin with deliberate ease.

“the blood of christ,” he murmured, tilting his head. “does it taste like salvation? or does it taste like rot?”

YN’s stomach twisted, her knees trembling as she clutched the back of the pew for support.

“your god demands sacrifice, little one. a lamb, a son, a savior nailed to wood. i demand nothing but you.”

the priest turned, lifting the chalice high. “this is the blood of christ, shed for us, that we may be cleansed of sin.”

harry grinned, his teeth glinting like ivory in the dim light. “if you drink it, will it stop the ache?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “will it fill the hollow i left in you? or will it only make you hungrier?”

her legs buckled, and she sank back onto the bench, her body trembling.

“stand,” her father hissed under his breath, his grip biting into her arm.

“i can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“you can,” harry said, stepping closer, his eyes locking with hers. “you will. for you know i’m watching.”

the congregation knelt again, murmuring prayers of repentance. YN bowed her head, her heart pounding as she forced the words to her lips.

“forgive me, lord, for i have sinned…”

“no,” harry growled like a prayer ripped inside out. “not him. me.”

his shadow loomed over her, heavy and oppressive, and when she dared to lift her head, he was standing directly before her. his gaze burned with something dark, something primal, and his smile was a blade pressed to her throat.

“pray to me, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “ask me to deliver you. beg me for salvation.”

she squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her cheeks as her lips moved in silent prayer.

“your god isn’t listening,” he said, his voice soft and cold. “but i am.”

when she opened her eyes, he was gone. but the air still burned, his words etched into her mind like scripture written with flames.

THE day was gray, heavy with the weight of a coming storm, but YN could not wait for the skies to break. her soul was breaking already.

the dreams were unbearable now. waking was worse. her every breath felt like a prayer unspoken, each step an act of penance for sins she could not name aloud. her father noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the tremor in her hands, but he only frowned and muttered about weakness.

"pray harder," he told her.

so she did.

the confessional was cold, the air thick with damp and the faint smell of rot. YN knelt on the rough wood, her skirts pooling around her as she folded her hands tightly, her knuckles white. the small window before her was shuttered, and through the slats came the low rasp of the priest's breathing.

the priest’s voice came soft through the slats. “speak, child. let your sins fall from your lips, and god will wash them away.”

she trembled, unsure if her words could even be spoken aloud. “father, i am… i am haunted.” her voice broke, shaking with shame. “in dreams. a man—no, not a man. something else. he comes to me, tempts me, mocks my prayers. i try to resist, but he—”

her voice failed.

the priest made a low noise of understanding, his tone grave. “the devil comes in many forms, child. his beauty is meant to deceive, his words to ensnare. you must resist him. confess fully, and god will grant you the strength to drive him away.”

YN’s lips parted to respond, but the air changed. the confessional grew darker, the candlelight flickering weakly. the priest’s breathing faltered, replaced by a sound she knew too well.

laughter. low, rich, and far too familiar.

“resist me?” the voice came smooth and mocking, curling through the air like incense. “you could no sooner resist the tide than resist me.”

YN’s blood turned to ice. her nails digging into her palms as she whispered, “no. not here.”

“oh, but here,” his tone was laced in wicked amusement. “this is perfect. isn’t this where you come to bare your soul? where you whisper all your secrets, hoping your silent god will hear?”

“leave,” she hissed, her voice shaking.

his laugh deepened, almost tender. “and rob myself of the pleasure of hearing what you truly want to say?”

her throat tightened as she pressed her hands together, forcing her trembling lips into a prayer.

“our father, who art in heaven—”

“—has forsaken you,” he interrupted, his voice a sharp, blasphemous mimic of reverence. “your father doesn’t want you, little lamb. he gave you to me the moment your knees hit the floor. what did you think he’d do? save you?”

she squeezed her eyes shut, her voice trembling. “hallowed be thy name.”

“yes, hallowed,” he purred. “and hallowed is the way you whisper my name in the dark. tell me, YN, when you kneel like this, do you imagine it’s for him?”

her hands flew to her ears, trying to block him out, but his voice only grew louder, more insistent.

“stop hiding,” he spit, his tone sharp now, demanding. “tell him the truth. tell him how your thighs tremble when i’m near, how your breath catches when i speak your name. tell him about the ache that wakes you in the night, the way you burn for me even when you beg for deliverance.”

her breath came in gasps, her body trembling. “you’re lying,” she choked out, her voice breaking.

“am i?” he asked, leaning closer. the confessional creaked as if straining to contain him. “then why are you here? not to confess, surely. no, you came here hoping i’d follow. hoping i’d find you, press close, whisper in your ear.”

the wood slats separating them seemed too thin, too fragile, and the air grew stifling.

“take and eat, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “for this is my body, given for you.”

her stomach twisted, shame and something more burning hot in her veins.

“this god of yours,” harry continued, his voice a cruel mockery of the priest’s measured tone. “he asks for everything and gives you nothing. he demands blood, obedience, sacrifice. what do i ask for?”

she shook her head, trembling. “leave me alone.”

“what do i ask for?” he repeated, his voice louder, harsher now, like a crack of thunder. “your pleasure. your desire. the things you deny even to yourself.”

the priest’s voice broke through the haze, faint but steady. “child, speak. what is it you see?”

YN opened her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps. through the slats, the priest sat motionless, his eyes half-lidded and dull, as though he were barely there.

“he doesn’t even know i’m here,” harry laughed softly. “they never do. blind sheep, praying to an empty sky. but you see me, don’t you, YN? you feel me.”

she stumbled from the confessional, her knees weak, her chest heaving as she staggered toward the altar. the chapel spun around her, the walls closing in, but she dropped to her knees again, clutching the cold stone with desperate hands.

she looked up, her gaze drawn to the crucifix, and her breath caught in her throat.

christ's face, carved from pale wood, seemed to shift in the trembling candlelight. his eyes, once serene, now seemed to stare down upon her with sorrow—or was it accusation? the wounds on his hands and side bled afresh, crimson rivulets that ran down his body and dripped onto the altar.

she stifled a choke. “forgive me, father,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “for i have sinned.”

but the words felt hollow, her prayers cracking under the weight of his voice as it lingered in her mind.

“your god isn’t listening,” harry murmured, his tone soft but unrelenting. “but i am.”

the shadows seemed to twist around her, thick and suffocating, and for a moment, she thought she felt his hand ghost across her cheek. she cried out, pressing her forehead to the stone as the chapel grew silent once more.

but even as she prayed, she could feel him there, watching, waiting.

IT was well past midnight when YN woke with a start, the air in her chamber cold and heavy. the faint light of the moon filtered through the small window, casting pale streaks across the floor. her heart was racing, though she couldn't remember dreaming. perhaps it was the silence itself that had startled her, the kind of silence that felt alive, that pressed against her ears and made the hairs on her neck rise.

then she heard it.

a soft scrape, the barest shift of weight on old stone. her breath caught as her eyes darted toward the corner of the room. at first, there was nothing—just shadow. but the longer she stared, the more the shadows seemed to thicken, pooling together, forming a shape.

and then he stepped into the light.

he looked more human now than he ever had in her dreams, though the sheer perfection of him was anything but mortal. his green eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, sharp and predatory, their color like fresh spring leaves glistening with dew. his curls fell loose around his face, framing features so flawless they felt like an insult to the world that had made her.

he was bare from the waist up, his skin pale as marble, his chest broad and smooth. faint scars crisscrossed his arms and shoulders, not marks of war but something deeper, older, like remnants of a punishment she couldn't begin to fathom. he was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—gleaming, deadly, meant to draw blood.

YN's breath came fast and shallow, her body frozen in place as he moved closer. his steps were slow, deliberate, each one making the air between them heavier.

"you didn't dream of me tonight," he said softly, his voice low, almost conversational.

her breath caught as she clutched her blanket tightly.

"did you miss me?"

"no," she whispered, though her voice trembled.

his smile widened, wicked and knowing. "liar."

he stepped closer, and the shadows seemed to follow him, pooling at his feet like they belonged to him.

"why are you here?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his green eyes gleaming as he looked at her. "why do you think?"

"leave me be," she whispered, her hands gripping the cross around her neck.

his gaze dropped to it, his smile softening into something crueler. "that again," he muttered, moving closer. "you think it'll save you?"

he reached out, his hand brushing lightly over the cross. it burned hot against her skin, the chain snapping and falling into his palm. the cross itself turned black beneath his touch, the wood cracking, the air around it heavy with the smell of smoke.

YN gasped, her hand flying to her throat as he let the ruined cross clatter to the floor. "you clutch at your symbols like they mean something," he grumbled, his voice rich with disdain. "your god's little trinkets. do you think they'll stop me?"

her breath came fast, her body trembling as he knelt before her, his face level with hers.

"don't," she managed, her voice breaking. but it held no real conviction.

his lips twitched, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he leaned closer, the heat of him suffocating. "don't what? don't touch your meek toys? or don't touch you?"

his hand lifted, slow and calculating, until his fingertips brushed the edge of the blanket covering her legs.

"i see the way you tremble," he murmured, his voice like silk pulled taut. "not with fear. no, this is something else."

“stop.”

"why?" he asked, his tone soft, almost gentle. "why should i stop, when your body begs me to keep going? when your cunt weeps my name, even as your lips say no?"

her face burned, shame twisting in her chest as she shook her head violently. "no. you're lying."

it felt even more shameful that she was the one who lied.

his smile widened, sharp and predatory. "am i?"

his hand dragged up her leg, slowly, the blanket slipping as his fingers grazed her bare skin. her body jolted at the touch, a heat blooming deep in her belly that she tried desperately to ignore.

"there it is," he said softly, his eyes locking with hers. "that flame. you try so hard to smother it, to pretend it's not there. but it is, YN. it always has been."

"you're wrong," she said, though her voice faltered.

his hand paused, resting just above her knee, his thumb brushing in slow circles against her skin. "am i?" he asked, his tone low, teasing. "then why are you shaking? why does your breath hitch when i'm near?"

she clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as tears pricked her eyes. her desires were red hot, searing and damning—it could blind her.

"there's no shame in it, little lamb." he murmured, his voice soft and coaxing. "desire is the most human thing about you. even the saints, even the martyrs—they all burned with it. they lied to themselves, called it devotion, but you..." his hand slid higher, his touch light but deliberate. "...you feel it for what it is. don't you?"

her body shuddered, heat and shame twisting together in her chest. "no," she whispered, her voice breaking.

his laughter was soft, warm, like a lover's. "you keep saying that, but your body tells me otherwise. it sings for me, YN. every breath, every tremble, every beat of your heart—it's all for me."

his hand left her leg suddenly, the loss of his touch almost startling. it felt wrong to miss it. but she shifted in her bed, tucking her legs beneath her.

he rose to his feet, towering over her, his presence heavy and oppressive. "look at you," he pouted, his voice low and mocking. "kneeling there like a lamb before the slaughter. tell me, YN—when you kneel to your god, does it feel like this?"

her head snapped up, her breath coming in ragged gasps as tears streaked her cheeks. "you're vile," she spat, her voice trembling.

his smile didn’t waver, “and yet you crave me.”

her lips parted to deny him again, but no words came.

"pray to him," he said suddenly, his tone sharp. "pray to your silent god. beg him to take me away. go on."

her hands shook as she clasped them together, her lips moving in a hurried, whispered prayer.

"louder," he demanded, his voice a growl.

she choked on the words, her voice faltering.

"he doesn't hear you," harry breathed, leaning down, his eyes burning. "but i do. i hear every word, every plea, every desperate little gasp."

his hand brushed against her cheek, light as a whisper, and her body flinched at the heat of his touch. "and i'll return to you.”

then he was gone, leaving her alone in the stifling darkness.

YN collapsed onto the floor, clutching the blackened cross in her trembling hands. her prayers spilled from her lips in frantic, broken whispers, but her chest ached with the weight of him, her shame twisting into something darker.

your body tells me otherwise.

the words echoed in her mind, and no matter how hard she prayed, she couldn't silence them.

and part of her didn’t want them to be silenced.

THE festival was a rare indulgence, but one that brought the village together in a brief, fragile joy. the green had been cleared of mud and manure, and stalls were hastily built from rough-hewn wood to hold baked breads, sugared apples, salted fish, and honeyed wine. ribbons of faded red and gold hung between posts, fluttering weakly in the breeze, a half-hearted attempt at gaiety. the villagers gathered in their sunday best—threadbare cloaks and patched tunics, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to the air.

YN moved stiffly beside her father, her eyes fixed on the ground as he gripped her arm with a hand calloused from years of tilling the fields. his voice, rough and impatient, barked orders as they wove through the crowd. “stand straight. do not fidget. the merchant will see you soon.” he snapped, his words a command, not comfort.

her stomach churned at the thought. she had heard of the man—léonard. old, jowled, his hands thick with grease and his temper legendary. his two previous wives had died, and the rumors whispered that it was grief that drove him to cruelty. others muttered darker things.

“a match is a blessing,” her father had said weeks before, his face dark as a storm. “you will not shame this family with resistance. god’s will is clear—obedience to your husband, salvation through servitude. you will thank him for this.”

YN bit the inside of her cheek, her throat tight as her father led her through the crowd. laughter and shouting mingled with the braying of goats and the clatter of wagon wheels, but it all felt far away, a blur against the rising dread in her chest.

and then she saw him.

harry.

he was standing near one of the stalls, his green eyes fixed on her, gleaming like firelight through emerald glass. he leaned casually against a post, shirtless, his pale skin a stark contrast to the coarse linens and wool around him.

no one else seemed to notice him.

her breath hitched as he began to move, threading through the crowd with a predator’s ease. his presence was heavy, suffocating, even as he stayed just far enough away to keep her guessing.

her father stopped abruptly, and she nearly stumbled into him.

“he’s here.” her father muttered, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

her gaze snapped forward, and there he was—léonard.

his cloak was fine but stained, the dark fabric stretched tight over his rounded belly. his face was ruddy, his jowls trembling as he spoke, his voice low and wet, like the squelch of mud beneath boots.

“so this is the girl,” léonard paused, his beady eyes scanning her from head to toe. “she’ll bear fine sons, i’m sure.”

YN’s cheeks burned as her father grunted his agreement.

“come closer, girl,” he barked, motioning her forward.

she stepped forward reluctantly, her body tense, her hands clasped tightly together.

and then she felt it.

a touch, light as silk, sliding along the small of her back. her breath caught as harry’s voice curled through her mind.

“look at him,” he purred, his tone rich with disdain. “smells like pig’s blood and sour ale. this is the man your father chose for you? a shepherd fattened for slaughter?”

her knees weakened as his hand slid lower, his touch teasing but firm.

“stop,” she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard raised a brow. “speak up, girl.”

harry chuckled darkly, his breath warm against her ear. “sheep don’t speak,” he said, his tone a mockery of scripture. “they follow.”

her body stiffened as his hand crept to her hip, his fingers pressing lightly, just enough to make her shiver.

“obedience,” he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. “isn’t that what they want from you? isn’t that what your god demands? kneel, obey, bleed. it’s a wonder they don’t ask you to thank them for it.”

léonard was still speaking, his voice droning on about dowries and blessings, but it was muffled now, like the buzz of flies over something rotting.

“look at him,” he whispered. “look at the way his lips move, spilling lies and demands. do you smell it, little one? the decay beneath gold? this is what they call god’s will.”

her breath hitched as harry’s hand moved to her thigh, his fingers dragging upward slowly, teasingly.

“you could scream right now,” his voice was low and taunting. “and no one would care. they’d blame you for it. your father would say it’s your fault. your god would call it a test. but me? i’d enjoy it.”

“enough,” she hissed under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard frowned. “what did you say?”

he laughed, his eyes gleaming. “tell him, little lamb. tell him what you really want to say.”

YN’s heart raced as harry stepped around her, moving behind léonard.

“this is what you’ll wake up to every morning,” he taunted, gesturing to the man’s bulk, his jowls, the faint stink of sweat and blood. “this is your future. do you see it?”

he tilted his head, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“let me show you.”

before she could respond, harry reached out, and suddenly léonard’s throat was slit, a jagged, gaping wound spilling blood in thick rivulets. his mouth moved silently, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbled back, gurgling, before collapsing to the ground.

her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen in horror.

harry knelt beside the body, his fingers dipping into the blood and lifting it to his lips. “the blood of the lamb,” he said, his tone rich with mockery. “shed for you. do you feel saved yet?”

her knees buckled, and she grabbed at her skirts, trembling.

“YN!” her father barked, his voice sharp.

she blinked, and léonard was standing again, unharmed, his voice droning on as if nothing had happened.

harry stood beside him, his eyes locked on hers, his smile wicked. “just a taste,” he mumbled. “but you see it now, don’t you? the rot. the lie. tell me you want more.”

her chest heaved, her breath shallow as she tore her gaze away, trembling. “i… i need a moment.” she stammered, fleeing before her father could object.

YN's feet moved without thought, her breath shallow and uneven as she fled toward the trees at the edge of the green. the sounds of the festival faded behind her—laughter, clinking mugs, the low hum of a hymn sung off-key. she stumbled into the shadows, her back pressing against the rough bark of a tree as her hands trembled against her skirts.

her heart pounded as she clenched her eyes shut, willing the sickening image of léonard's torn throat to leave her mind. the blood. the gurgling.

the way harry had knelt so casually beside the body, his fingers trailing through the crimson spill like it was honey.

"it wasn't real," she whispered, her voice shaking. "it wasn't real."

"oh, but it could be."

her eyes snapped open, and there he was.

he stood a few paces away, leaning casually against another tree, his eyes bright even in the dim light. he looked impossibly at ease, his shirtless torso pale and gleaming, the scars that marked his flesh carved from a divine hand.

her chest heaved as she pressed herself tighter against the tree, her knees trembling. "you’re vile," she spat, though the words came out weak, a desperate attempt to regain control.

harry’s smile widened, wicked and knowing. "yet here you are," he said softly, stepping closer. "running from him. running to me."

she pressed her back harder against the tree, the bark scraping through the thin fabric of her dress.

"leave me," she whispered, her voice trembling.

harry tilted his head, his curls catching the faint light, making him look more angel than demon. but his smile gave him away, all sharp edges and mockery. "leave you?" he repeated, taking a slow step closer. "but you're the one who called me here. the moment you fled, the moment you thought of me instead of your god."

"i didn't," she said quickly, her voice breaking, though she couldn't meet his eyes.

"liar." he murmured, closing the distance between them in a single stride.

the heat of him was overwhelming, pressing against her like a heavy shroud. his fingers reached for her, trailing along her jawline, his touch featherlight but impossible to ignore.

"do you know what you've done, little lamb?" he asked softly, his tone almost gentle. "you've brought me here. to this holy forest, where the air smells of prayer and sacrifice. do you think your god is watching now?"

she flinched, her lips trembling as she looked down. "he watches everything."

harry laughed, low and dark, turpentine—wearing her thin . "oh, YN. he does not watch you, if he was, would he have let me come so close?"

his fingers slipped beneath her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. "would he have let you feel this?"

her breath hitched as his other hand trailed down, brushing over her waist, bunching the fabric of her dress in his fist. the coarse wool scraped against her skin as he gathered it higher, his green eyes never leaving hers.

"stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

his smile widened, cruel and indulgent. "but you don't want me to stop," he said softly, his tone a mockery of tenderness. "you want me to keep going, to do what your god will not."

there was a moment of silence, eyes boring into one another as the trees shook in the breeze of whispers. “banish me.” he prodded, his eyebrows furrowed. “tell me to go and i will leave you.”

her chest heaved as she struggled to find her voice, to deny him, but the words tangled in her throat.

the faint glimmer of her damning shining through her cracked resolve.

"look at you," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "trembling like a virgin sacrifice before the altar. but that's what you want, isn't it? to be taken. to feel something other than this cold, empty devotion."

"no," she choked out, though her body betrayed her, her legs weakening as he stepped closer, his body crowding hers against the tree.

"no?" he repeated, his voice a low growl. "then why aren't you pushing me away? why does your breath quicken when i touch you? why does your cunt sing for me, even now?"

his hand slipped lower, finding her thigh beneath her skirts. his touch was firm but slow, deliberate, as he dragged his fingers upward, his gaze locked on hers.

"your god asks for obedience," he uttered, his voice sharp and mocking. "he demands sacrifice. but i ask for nothing but this."

her knees buckled slightly as his fingers brushed the edge of her undergarments, the heat pooling low in her belly making her head spin.

"don't." she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.

harry's free hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "don't lie to me, little lamb. i can taste the truth on your lips."

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her mouth. "say it," he urged, his voice low and commanding. "say you want me."

her breath came fast and shallow, her heart pounding as shame and desire tangled in her chest.

"say it.”

her resolve crumbled. "i-i want you," she choked out, her voice breaking.

she gasped, her hands clutching his arms while her face burned—shame and something darker twisting inside her as his fingers slipped beneath the thin fabric, finding her folds.

"there," he murmured, his tone soft and taunting. "that's the truth of you, YN. not the prayers, not the fasting, not the faith. this. this heat, this need, this sin. it's mine."

her nails bit into his skin, taut and firm underneath while his digits slid through her arousal, deliberate and unhurried.

"you'll deny it, of course," he hummed, eyes burning as he watched her. "you'll call it blasphemy, call it wrong. but it's not wrong, is it? it feels too good to be wrong."

she bit her lip, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her body trembling as he circled her clit with maddening precision.

when he withdrew his hand, her body lurched at the loss, her breath catching in her throat. harry's fingers glistened in the faint light, slick with her arousal, a damning testament to her betrayal.

"look at this," he breathed, holding his hand before her face. his eyes burned with triumph, his lips curling into a smile. "the fruit of your desire. forbidden, but oh, so sweet."

YN's lips trembled, her cheeks wet with tears as she tried to look away.

"no," he said sharply, his tone slicing through the air like a blade. "you don't get to turn away from this. from me. taste it, little lamb. taste what you've given me."

her stomach twisted as he pressed his fingers to her lips, the heat of his touch scorching her skin.

"open," he commanded, his voice low and unyielding.

she hesitated, her chest heaving with shame and fear.

"open," he said again, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. "you've come this far. don't turn back now."

her lips parted, a trembling act of surrender, and he slipped his fingers into her mouth. the taste was overwhelming—salt and heat and something darker, something that made her stomach clench and her body burn with ashamed desire.

"good girl.” he breathed, his tone a velvet caress. his eyes stayed locked on hers, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

when he pulled his fingers away, he let them trail down her chin, leaving a faint sheen behind.

"do you see it now?" he asked softly, his hand moving to cup her face. "do you see what you are?"

she shook her head, not trusting her voice.

his smile deepened, his thumb brushing over her trembling lips. “you do not see, hm?” he cooed, “you are mine by design, as eve was made for adam, as fire is made to burn."

she slid down the tree, her back scraping against the bark as she crumpled to the ground, her head in her hands.

harry crouched before her, his smile softening into something almost tender. "pray if you like," he murmured. "but it won't change the truth."

he stood then, his green eyes gleaming as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving her trembling and broken beneath the gnarled branches of the forest.

THE days following her surrender blurred together, each one heavier than the last. YN no longer prayed—not because she didn't want to, but because the words felt meaningless. they sat heavy on her tongue, unmoving, like stones lodged in her throat. every attempt at confession ended in silence, the weight of her sin pressing her knees deeper into the cold stone of the chapel floor.

and yet, it wasn't guilt that made her tremble in the quiet moments. it wasn't shame that kept her awake at night, her hands fisting her sheets as she tried to ignore the heat pooling low in her belly. it was him. the memory of his touch, his voice, his green eyes burning into hers as though they could see every thought she tried to hide.

she waited for him. every day, every night. and when he didn't come, it felt like torment.

it was near midnight when she woke to the smell of smoke.

at first, she thought the cottage was burning, but when she sat up, the air was still. no flames licked at the thatched roof, no shouts from her father broke the night. the smell was faint, clinging to her skin like an afterthought, mingling with the faint taste of ash on her tongue.

the shack was colder than she remembered.

YN stepped inside, her breath catching as the warped wooden door groaned shut behind her. the faint smell of damp wood and old blood clung to the air, a reminder of the offerings her father had made here long ago. candles sat in the corners of the room, their flames low and flickering, casting shadows that stretched like grasping hands across the walls.

and at the center of it all stood the altar.

its surface was dark with stains that time could not scrub away. her father's hands had held lambs there, muttering prayers as their blood spilled onto the stone. the altar had been a place of sacrifice, of devotion, of faith.

now, it was hers.

harry stood beside it, waiting. his bare chest gleamed in the candlelight, the scars that crossed his pale skin stark and unyielding. his eyes burned as they met hers, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, knowing smile.

"you came," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

her body trembled as she stepped closer, the worn planks beneath her feet creaking with every step. "you called for me.” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"are you afraid?" he asked, his voice a low hymn, the kind that made sinners weep.

YN's knees shook. her faith had been a crutch her entire life, a shield against the dark, but now that shield was splintered, discarded at her feet. she didn't want god anymore.

she wanted him.

"no," she lied, though her heart was a caged bird, its wings beating frantically against her ribs.

harry smiled. it was not a kind smile. it was the smile of a wolf, sharp and full of promise. he beckoned her closer with the wave of his hand, her steps light until she stood before him at the altar.

his hand reached for her, pale fingers curling around her throat. his grip was light, reverent, as though she were something holy, something to be cherished.

his mouth found hers, claiming her with a kiss that was both savage and tender, his lips devouring hers with a hunger that felt endless. her body melted against him, her resistance crumbling with every stroke of his tongue, every graze of his teeth.

his hands roamed her body, pulling at the coarse fabric of her dress, lifting it away from her skin with a reverence that felt almost mocking. when the cold air hit her bare flesh, she shivered, but his warmth was there, surrounding her, consuming her.

he looked at her like she was something sacred, a relic carved by divine hands. his eyes trailed over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, lingering on the hollow of her throat where her pulse fluttered like a trapped moth.

"do you know,” his voice soft as a lover's whisper, "that heaven and hell both weep at the sight of you?"

her breath hitched, her cheeks burning as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his gaze.

"don't," he said softly, his tone sharp but not unkind.

his hands reached for hers, pulling her arms away from her body. "don't hide from me, YN. not here. not now."

his hands moved over her then, slow and purposeful, tracing every curve, every line, as though committing her to memory.

"you're perfect," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "the most beautiful lie heaven has ever told."

her chest heaved as his hands slid to her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the cold stone of the altar. the chill bit into her skin, sharp and unyielding, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body as he stepped between her legs.

"do you feel it, little lamb?" harry murmured, his voice dark and smooth, the words curling into her ear like smoke. "the way your body aches for something more? the way your soul trembles at the edge of the void?"

YN gasped, her body trembling beneath him, every nerve alight with a sensation she couldn't name. she tried to speak, to protest, but when his fingers gripped her hips and dragged her closer, the words dissolved on her tongue.

"i'll make you feel heaven," he sighed against her lips, his voice a promise and a threat.

her mind swirled with panic and want, her hands pressing weakly against his chest. "this is... wrong," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"wrong?" harry repeated, a laugh slipping from his lips, low and mocking. "do you think the lamb is asked if it consents to the knife? do you think your god cares for your innocence, your purity? no, YN. you were born for this. to be taken. to be ruined."

before she could respond, he kissed her, and it wasn't the soft, tender act she had imagined in her prayers. his lips claimed hers with bruising intensity, his tongue forcing its way past her defenses, devouring her protests until there was nothing left but submission.

her hands, once pushing against him, now clutched at his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor her as the world seemed to shift beneath her.

his lips descended to her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he kissed the tender flesh just below her ear. she shuddered, her fingers tightening against into him as his teeth grazed her, a soft scrape that sent heat coursing through her veins.

her head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips, and she hated herself for it. hated the way her body betrayed her, the way it arched toward him, desperate for his touch.

his body was a weapon forged of bone and muscle. he was naked, his skin a canvas of scars and shadows, his beauty as blasphemous as it was perfect.

"do you remember your scripture, YN?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear. "your body is a temple, isn't it?"

her breath came in short, desperate gasps. "yes.”.

"then let me worship."

the stone of the altar was cold against her back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body. he moved with purpose, his hands firm on her thighs as he spread her open, exposing her in a way that made her breath hitch.

he shifted, pressing his hips against hers, and the hardness of his cock sent a shudder through her body. she gasped, her nails digging into his sides as he positioned himself between her thighs, his movements deliberate, torturous.

YN cried out, her back arching against the altar, her hands clutching at him as her body stretched to accommodate him. he fucked into her, the sensation overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it felt like her very soul was unraveling.

"that's it," he grunted, his voice thick with pleasure. "take me, little lamb.”

his hips moved, his thrusts deep and unforgiving, each one dragging a sound from her lips that she couldn't control. the rhythm of him was maddening, each movement sending a wave of heat crashing through her, building and building until she thought she might break.

"do you feel it?" he asked, his hand gripping her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh. "do you feel heaven inside you? because it is not god who gives it to you. it is me."

YN's head fell back, her eyes squeezed shut as her body betrayed her, her hips rising to meet his with every thrust. she hated herself for the way her breath hitched, for the way her moans spilled from her lips like confessions.

"say it," he commanded, his voice low and rough, his hips driving into her with brutal precision. "say you find salvation in me."

her eyes flew open, meeting his gaze, and she saw it then—the green fire that burned in his eyes, the darkness that curled at the edges of his smile.

"say it," he demanded again, his pace quickening, his body relentless—a sacred place ricocheting with moans and wet slaps of skin against skin.

"i–" she gasped, her hands clawing at his back, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

"say it," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back so that she had no choice but to look at him.

"i find salvation in you!" she cried, the words ripping from her throat like a scream.

his smile was triumphant, his lips descending to her throat, his teeth scraping against her skin as he drove into her harder, faster, each thrust filling her with a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.

her body tensed, her breath catching as the pleasure crested, shattering over her like a wave. she cried out, her voice echoing through the chapel, a sound of both ecstasy and despair.

as she fell apart beneath him, she felt the final pieces of her faith crumble, her soul slipping from her grasp and into his hands.

harry stilled above her, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "you were always meant for this. for me."

the shack went still. the candles burned low, their wax pooling onto the cracked wooden floor, the flames flickering weakly as if ashamed of what they had witnessed. the air was heavy, thick with the scent of sweat and smoke and something darker. the altar was cold beneath YN’s bare back, but she no longer felt it.

the space seemed different now. even as moonlight spilled through cracks in the wood, painting the ruins in pale silver, there was no pretense of holiness. the crucifix above her hung crooked, the wooden christ staring down with lifeless eyes, mouth agape not in sacrifice but in mockery. if god was watching, he did nothing. no lightning struck. no thunder rolled.

she thought, for the first time, that perhaps he was never there at all.

what had she done?

the answer burned its way into her mind, not with guilt, but with a clarity so sharp it was almost cruel. she had abandoned heaven for him. traded salvation for damnation.

the weight of harry’s body pressed into her, his chest rising and falling against hers in a rhythm that was almost human. almost. her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her breath shallow, her hands limp at her sides.

this was what she had feared, wasn’t it? the moment she’d run from, prayed against, begged god to prevent. and yet here she was, laid bare on the very altar her father had once sanctified with lamb’s blood. the same altar where prayers for forgiveness had echoed into the rafters, unanswered.

she could feel harry still on her, even as he moved away, the imprint of his body an ache that had lodged itself deep in her marrow.

the stone beneath her was unforgiving, just like the faith she had clung to for so long. faith that had demanded her knees break on cold chapel floors, her hands bleed as she tilled the earth in her father’s shadow, her heart ache as she bent to the will of a god who had never once spoken her name.

now, that faith lay in ruins.

she pushed herself up slowly, her limbs weak, her thighs slick with what they had done. the air bit at her skin, but she did not cover herself. there was no point. there was no shame left to cloak herself in.

harry stood near the altar, watching her. his naked body was a study in contrasts—smooth and unyielding, as though carved from alabaster, but alive with a heat that seemed to radiate from his very core. his beauty was inhuman, the kind that drew worship but offered no mercy in return.

his gaze on her was heavy, not with judgment but with possession. he had taken her, yes, but it wasn't force. it was inevitability. a dance they were always meant to perform.

YN swung her legs over the edge, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. she thought of the animals her father had slaughtered here, the way their blood had run in thin rivulets down the grooves of the altar.

how fitting that she had bled here, too.

harry spoke no parting words, offered no promises. he didn't need to. what had happened was already written into her skin, her bones. it wasn't just her body he had claimed. it was her soul, and now it was marked, an unholy sigil that no prayer could erase.

when she stepped out into the night, the air was sharp and cold, the stars above indifferent and unmoving. but YN did not shiver. she felt warm, burning with a fire that no heaven or hell could extinguish.

there were no more prayers left on her lips. no scripture to guide her. there was only him, harry, and the path he had carved into her.

and as they disappeared into the forest's dark embrace, the shack and its altar remained behind, empty and silent, its walls whispering of a god who had abandoned it long ago.

[holybibly]

Heyy if your dark hours are still open…👀👀 would you mind sharing your thoughts about yandere Ateez concubine harem…? Or perhaps any harem that you can think of because I’m very much into this topic🤭🤭🤭

You know what? Today I wanted to be affectionate with you, damn bunnies, and spoil you with tenderness and sweets, but you just provoked my dark side with all these requests, didn't you?

So change of plan, bunnies; we're going down the dark and rough road. I love yandere's concubines, Ateez. God, can we think of anything more seductive and more dangerous than that? From now on, you should send me such requests more often, bunnies. Feed this demon within me.

You entered the palace as the wife of the new emperor. His fourth wife. His glittering war trophy.

When war came, your world was changed beyond recognition. Flames and ashes consumed the luxury and grandeur of the palaces, and the jewels turned to dust, leaving only you, the Ice Princess of the Northern Mountains.

Your life was made of crystal and your heart was made of ice stronger than diamonds, and it was this cold and lunar beauty that caused you to be forcibly married.

Yes, you may have entered the palace as the Emperor's wife. But you were a nobody within the high walls of the palace, just a sad reflection of past your greatness.

Everyone knew that the Emperor had a large harem, not counting the three older wives, but what really surprised you was that it was not only made up of girls, but of young men as well. There were eight of them. Each one more beautiful than the last, each one unique and unrepeatable.

Until one fateful night, you had never met them or seen them in person. It was a lunar festival, and you were its queen. Dressed in silk and the finest translucent tulle, as if kissed by the moon goddess herself, you sparkled and attracted the attention of everyone around you. Everybody, but not your husband. He didn't even look at you, brushed you aside as if you were an annoying mosquito, and sent you off to talk and smile at the guests while he went off to fuck another beautiful concubine.

And then, for the first time in your life, you had a meeting with the concubines of his other harem. And your world was turned upside down for the second time in your life.

It was love at first sight, a fire that burned through his veins and poisoned his mind. And it was all because of you. It was your fault that Wooyoung couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't laugh, and couldn't live. All of a sudden, his whole world was reduced to you and your heavenly, icy beauty. He passionately wanted to melt that ice, make you beg, squirm, and moan as he fucked you unconscious and painfully, filling you with his sperm and marking you as his property.

The only thing Wooyoung ever had in his life was his beauty. He grew up in poverty, living on scraps of food and the small amount of money he was able to pick up from the dirt. That is, until the day the current emperor, who was still a prince at the time, came upon him in one of the alleys, on the run from his guards. Wooyoung's dark fox eyes captivated him at once, and as if he had fallen under his spell, the emperor brought him back to the palace to be his concubine.

Wooyoung was a greedy concubine; there was always something that was not enough for him. He wanted to swim in luxury, to drown in gold and silk, to have diamonds, and to own the whole damn world. The best should be his, and so it was; the emperor gave him everything and more that Wooyoung had a desire for. And now you were in his sights. He wanted you so much that it ate him up from within and almost drove him mad, greedily and viciously, in the most horrible way in the world.

Yes, Wooyoung was greedy, and if he had to kill the Emperor to get you, he wasn't going to think twice about doing it.

One look at you could bring him to his knees. He would crawl to you like a pet if you commanded him to, and that desire was stronger than the hatred he felt for the whole of the world. You could tame his wild temper, and Mingi would want nothing more than for you to straddle him and ride his cock day and night, tearing the skin from his back and shoulders, choking him, and biting him until his will was broken. Mingi was uncontrollable and capricious, passion and fire raging in him, burning everything in his path, but your element was ice, burning him harder than hell itself.

Once upon a time, Mingi was a warrior, one of the great generals of his country, until the war came and destroyed his entire life. It took everything from him—his will, his family, his home. Yes, the war had taken everything from him except for the poisonous rage and the dark, vicious passion that was boiling in his veins. He was brought to the palace in chains like a slave, and that very night the Emperor took him by force and made him one of his concubines. This only made him bitterer.

Mingi was venomous and aggressive, biting and scratching until he bled, but you, you did something to him—you forced him into submission by your very presence, without him even knowing it. The wild, unbridled storm inside of him became the icy surface of the lake, soothing and healing. And Mingi wanted peace. He wanted the touch of your icy hands on his heated skin and cold kisses on his lips. He wanted you.

What is passion if not a flame that is a destroyer of all things on its way to its goal? And Mingi was full of fire to burn this damn palace to the ground to take possession of you.

He was sin clothed in a human body, debauchery and lust embodied in an image of heavenly beauty. The whole of Seonghwa's life had been nothing more than a constant stream of sex and an endless series of lovers. He could not get rid of this feeling; it was like frost on his skin. This constant, painful need was scratching him from the inside out. But when he saw you, all his thoughts were focused on you—on your pure, untouched skin that he wanted to lick and bite, on your slim waist that he wanted to squeeze as he fucked you continuously. On those red, seductive lips that would be simply amazing when wrapped around his dick. It was you he wanted, and for the first time in his life, Seonghwa wanted you to be the one. He didn't want anyone else, only you. 

Before he entered the palace, he was one of the most sought-after whores in the brothel, famous for his devilish beauty and his languid, cat-like gaze. There was a line of people waiting for him, and Seonghwa was more than happy to accept them all. He was insatiable, wanting to fuck anywhere and anytime, trying the most sinful and unusual things. He was a real slut. But when the emperor heard about Seonghwa and visited his brothel one day, everything changed. Suddenly, he was no longer just a whore; he became Imeretar's concubine.

Seonghwa's hunger could not be quenched, and one partner would never be able to cope with it. But here you are, pure and radiant like an angel, beckoning him with your immaculate beauty. You were stronger than his dark, insatiable demon of lust. He wanted to corrupt you, to make you like him, and to make you dependent on him, just as he had become dependent on thinking about you.

It is said that whores don't know how to love, but they know how to desire. And there was enough darkness in Seonghwa to consume and destroy the world; to possess your purity and chastity. Then let the world be plunged into darkness until you are alone with him.

Yeosang had never been interested in anything at all. The world was too boring and dangerous for him. He could never care less about it. If he could, he would stay safe and comfortable in his bed for the rest of his life. You were different—distant and cold, but with an inexplicable thirst to live. You wanted to see all the things around you, to experience the cultures and the art. The world was interesting to you, and that was a source of irritation to Yeosang.

Everything about you was fragile and exquisite, and the fact that you didn't see it was what made Yeosang so angry. Don't you see, little butterfly, the world is terrible and dangerous. You would be much better off with him in his bed, far away from anything that could harm you in any way. Perhaps you would finally understand that you shouldn't run away from the safety and comfort of his bed if he were to break you. If that helped, Yeosang would want to destroy you and fuck your little curious brain until you thought only of him. He would spend hours warming you with his dick, days kissing your cold lips, and smothering you with his attention and love.

Yeosang was always aware that one day he would be part of the emperor's household. He had been prepared for this since he was a child, pampered and protected from the whole world, so that there would not be a trace of dirt on his silky, snow-white skin. Always waiting for the Emperor to visit his chambers and warm his soft bed, albeit temporarily. Yeosang almost never left his room, but like all concubines, he had to attend the Moon Festival. And that's when he saw his fragile butterfly. And like everything beautiful in this world, you were too easy to break. Yeosang wanted to protect you, hide you between his sheets, and shower you with care.

Yes, beautiful things broke easily, sometimes too easily—delicate butterfly wings, flower petals, crystal jewelry. But Yeosang wanted to see how the most beautiful thing in the world—human life—broke.

He wanted to eat you alive. Sinking his teeth into you and never letting you go, you awakened in him this wild, all-consuming hunger that he could not satisfy with anything else. You were the most delicious dish of all, and your taste was his only desire. San had always been a little insatiable, wanting more attention, wanting to love more, wanting to more sex, wanting everything this world had to offer him. It was never enough. You walked past him without even looking in his direction, the trail of your perfume settling on his skin and seeping into his body, poisoning him as you went. He wanted you to pay attention to him, to smile at him, to love him, to touch him. Oh, he would never let you go, he would fill you with his cum over and over again, and it wouldn't be enough for his taste. If he could, his dick would be in your pretty pussy all the time, so warm and delicious. He was in desperate need of you, he was hungry for you, and this hunger was all-encompassing.

Ever since he was a child, San had had a voracious appetite, always in need of a bigger and sweeter bite to temporarily fill the emptiness inside him that was growing with him. He had everything he could ever wish for; he had grown up in a loving and wealthy family with titles, but the dark hunger that plagued him was terrible. No matter what it was, he was always in need of more. So one day, when the emperor asked if he wanted to join his harem, San didn't hesitate to accept, but the hunger didn't go away.

You were the most delicious forbidden fruit of them all, and San was desperate to sink his teeth into you. He could almost feel the heavenly sweetness of you on his tongue, and it was driving him wild.

The sky could crash and burn all around him, and he wouldn't care, as long as you could fill him up and satisfy him.

There was no one in this world who could ever be like him. There was no one like Hongjoong. There was no limit to his pride and his greatness, and any praise You never praised him, you never sought his attention, and you were never enchanted by his sharp mind, his sweet voice, or his beauty, which could only be rivalled by the devil himself. And Hongjoong hated it. He hated how much he wanted your attention and your love. He wanted you to worship him, idolise him, and devote your whole life to him. He had to have you in all ways, even if those ways were darker than the night itself.Hongjoong wanted to see you in his golden bed, stretched out on the silk, while he was ravaging your body. He wanted to hear the endless moaning of his name as his cock tore apart the little cunt that was yours. He was in need of it, so much so that his whole body ached.

Hongjoong was a trophy of war, just like you. He was a real prince, who was supposed to be a king one day. His ego knew no bounds, and he was cruel and daring. Of course, the whole of the palace was conquered by the magnificent prince dressed in gold - all of them, except for you.

Yes, Hongjoong was a true prince, and one day he would overthrow the emperor and take his rightful throne, and like every emperor, he had to have his empress. You may not see him now, but the day will come when Hongjoong will be the only sunshine that illuminates your life. And he couldn't wait for it.

Yunho has never been the victim of jealousy. He has always been the recipient of praise and adoration, a constant reminder of how much he is loved. Yunho had no idea how jealousy could be. Or so he thought, at least.

That night, when he saw you in the light of the moon, he had hatred for the whole damn world. How dare he look at what belonged to him? He envied all those who could speak to you so freely; he envied all those who could pronounce your name; he envied his emperor, who did not appreciate your beauty and who humiliated you. Damn it, Yunho was jealous of the very air you were breathing. He desperately wanted to be him—to live inside you and melt into your skin. He wanted to melt into you without a trace.He would have loved to take you to his bed, to kiss every inch of your skin, to fuck you long and slow, and to shower you with compliments and praise. He would like to have you in his arms all the time, writhing and moaning with desire and need. For him, you are the only thing he needs in his life.

Yunho used to be just a servant in the palace. But he caught the Emperor's eye. That very night, he entered the emperor's chambers as his new concubine. Yunho knew about the others; he knew that he was not the only one, but that never bothered him; he was able to share the attention of the emperor. Except you. You were his own, and even the world was not worthy of seeing you.

It would be so easy to have the entire palace blinded, so that no one else but Yunho would have to see your celestial beauty.

Jongho was a man too proud for his own good. In his mind, it was beneath his dignity to pay attention to others and smile sweetly at them. Jongho was the spoiled, arrogant son of one of the most important palace officials, and when his father had the chance to get close to the emperor, he naturally gave him to the harem. But even so, he still considered himself to be better than everyone else, even Hongjoong, who was a prince in his own right.

Jongho was the one who first saw you, quite by chance, when he visited his father on the night you were appointed as the emperor's fourth wife. The Emperor was a real fool not to see how brilliant and magnificent you were—a real crown jewel. You were a symbol of power, strength, and might, an enslaved princess of a once great country, and a black flame of desire flared up in Jongho—he wanted to own you completely.

He wanted you for himself—your thoughts, your will, your body, and your life. He wanted you to sit by his side, to be covered with jewels, and to bear his children. It was easy for him to imagine his hand wrapped around your fragile throat as he fucked you into the mattress, you begging and moaning for him, wanting to be filled with his cum.

Fueled by his selfish desires, his fixation on you became increasingly harmful and dangerous.

Out of all the trophies in the world, there was nothing that was more attractive to Jongho than you. And on the way to what he wanted, murder was never a serious matter for him.

[redvexillum]

SUMMARY: You royally pissed someone off because you were receiving anonymous hate emails for the past fifteen years. How incredibly petty and...entertaining. At first, you decided to ignore them but as their hate comments got increasingly creative, the more you couldn't help but add oil to the burning, passionate flame of their hatred towards you.

Until one day, the mysterious anonymous hater (probably) accidentally revealed themselves to be the one and only TV demon, an Overlord and CEO of everything technological and modern.

WARNING/TAGS: f!reader, dual POV, enemies to f*ck buddies to something indescribable, Vox is a bratty sub, dom!reader, Vox takes a lot of L's but he secretly enjoys it, reader is sexually liberal and confident, Vox is bad with feelings, Vox has a humiliation kink, slow burn, masturb*tion (Vox)

<- PREV

Pride.  

It had been Vox’s anchor through every storm, the bedrock upon which he rebuilt his empire time and time again. When everything else failed – fame, wealth, power – his pride would always remain. It was his impenetrable shield against defeat; it was his sharpened sword in the face of adversity.  

Pride goes before a fall?  

To that, Vox would laugh in mockery.  

In life, in damnation, where everything else – his mind, his body, even his treacherous heart – crumbled to dust, his pride would endure, unwavering and indomitable. He would sooner die than surrender it.  

Despite Vox’s resolve, he had once again succumbed to his damn weakness, his hand wrapped around his throbbing cock. Memories flooded back, warning him of the same path he was about to tread once again. 

Moments of shameful releases played in a loop.  

Moments where he had sobbed and vowed to never repeat.  

Moments where that fucking old-timey radio prick’s name rested on his tongue while his hand was coated in his sticky release.  

He had promised, sworn, that he would never sacrifice his pride for a fleeting moment of hollow pleasure.  

But today, surrounded by the evidence of his obsession with her, he found himself once more in the mercy of his desire, his resolve crumbling like the ashes of his once glorious empire.  

Vox knelt there in supplication, head bowed, clutching his cock like a goddamn lifeline. He realized with a sinking heart that his pride had been the first casualty in this war. The war he waged against her, against himself, against the very fucking essence of who he thought he was.  

He should just find Val and fuck him senseless, let out all the pent-up frustration in a mindless, carnal release. But as he made up his mind, his eyes drifted back to the picture she had sent him. Her playful little smirk pulled him back as a prisoner of his obsession.  

His hand moved almost to its accord, slowly, gently stroking up and down his strained cock. He hissed in relief, the tension easing slightly with each stroke, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought to maintain control.  

Closing his eyes, he felt like a drug-addled addict, convincing himself that just one more hit would be enough. 

“Just one more,” he whispered. “One more stroke, and I’ll fucking stop.” 

With each repetition of the motion, his supposed impenetrable fortress that housed his resolve chipped away. One, two, three breaths – his hand moved once, twice, thrice, and he moaned, the sound torn from his throat as he succumbed to the pleasure. The sensation was overwhelming, consuming him whole.  

“Fuck,” he groaned. “This…feels real fucking good.” 

Vox had a terabyte worth of images and videos of her stored in his internal hard drive. A digital shrine he had created to self-flagellate himself as he reminded himself that he shouldn’t and didn’t want her. 

Every day, he fought the temptation to give in, to fuck himself with his hand while he pulled up images and videos of her — let the very image of her sear into his mind.

But he had resisted.

Always.  

Instead, he channelled his frustration into writing her emails filled with hate and vitriol. Some days, when the want, the desire reached to unbearable heights, he would write to her about how much he despised her, how much he didn’t want her, how much he didn’t think of her.  

It never helped. It never fucking did. But it became a ritual, a futile attempt to reclaim what little dignity remained within him.  

A pathetic whimper escaped him as he forced his hand off his weeping cock, denying himself the release he so desperately craved. The photo slipped from his claws, fluttering to the floor as he pressed both hands against the ground, panting heavily.  

Pride.  

That was all he had left.  

Everything else could be rebuilt from the ashes, but without his pride, he was nothing. He’d be damned if he let another fucking soul strip that away from him.  

Vox glared at the photo; its edges crumpled from his desperate grip. It taunted him with her sweet yet mocking smile. “Fuck you,” he said in vain, knowing she didn’t give two shits of what she was doing to an Overlord – to him.  

It was then that he noticed another small scrap of paper, or rather a business card, among the shredded pieces of the package he must’ve missed. Despite doing nothing today, his body felt like it had just run a marathon. His hand trembled as he grunted, forcing himself to stretch his arm to grab the card.  

Whatever restraint he had completely shattered once he read the words on it. “Fucking, fuck, fuck,” he cursed out loud, his voice a mix of rage and despair. “Damn you, damn you to fucking hell,” his whine blended with a shameful moan as his hand went back to clutching his throbbing cock.  

The business card read: 

Vox couldn’t believe this fucking bitch had made a custom order of her own fucking cunt and sent it to him. God, that fucking whore. He cursed her and praised her depravity in a single breath as his eyes fell back to the fleshlight – her gift to him.  

It was the same colour as her skin.  

God fucking dammit.  

He hated her. He wanted her. His emotions swirled in a chaotic storm, tearing at his sanity. His hand moved on its own, gripping the fleshlight with a desperate intensity. It was soft, warm, and he could almost imagine it was her.  

The tip of his claw traced the lips of the synthetic pussy, and he inserted one finger in. He shuddered as he felt his finger enveloped by the soft, wet, plush walls. He had never used a fleshlight before, believing his hand or Val’s ass was good enough.  

His teeth gnashed together, trying to force the words back, but before he could swallow them down, he blurted out his thoughts. “Fuck you,” he hissed as he inserted a second finger. “You’re thinking quite highly of yourself, huh?” He started to fuck his fingers in and out of the fleshlight, relishing the way the walls seemed to tighten, as if not wanting to let go. 

“You think your cunt is this tight?” Vox let out a dark chuckle, recalling how three years ago, there was a huge scandal where sex tapes of her fucking some no-name guys were released on the net. His fingers withdrew from the fleshlight, dripping with its artificial juices, and he traced the lips of her pussy with the head of his cock.  

The very thought of her, the memory of those tapes, the sight of her in that bikini – all of it drove him to the brink of madness. His breath was ragged, a mix of anger and arousal shrouding his mind.  

He hated her.  

He wanted her.  

She tore him apart.  

When that sex scandal broke out and plastered her face all over every platform on social media, Vox felt a rush of vindictive joy. This bitch, who had been a thorn in his side for so long, was finally going down. Instead of gloating in another email to her, he offered her a deal.  

He wrote to her that day as Anonymous666, every word dripping with cocksure smugness, suggesting that if she begged him and admitted on her next video that VoxTek was the greatest, he would help her make the whole scandal go away. 

That bitch never fucking responded.  

She never responded to any of his emails.  

Instead of trying to take down the sex video and paying a company to manage her reputation, she hired a small independent programming firm to create a fucking app called “OnlySinners.” On that app, users could create accounts to post exclusive photos and videos of themselves. It quickly became popular among influencers, promising exclusive content for their fans. This so-called exclusive content was all sexual in nature.

Honestly, it was much worse than porn in terms of quality and content.

Furthermore, fans had to pay a monthly subscription to view the posts. There were also different tier systems, allowing fans to get different benefits such as a chance to converse with their idol depending on how much they were willing to pay.  

Because of her, the porn sector of his company took a huge hit that year. He managed to convince the shareholders of OnlySinners to sell their stocks to VoxTek, so she and he became co-owners. But before their first OnlySinners company meeting, she offered to sell the rest of her stocks to VoxTek and his assistant purchased it.  

Vox inserted the tip of his cock inside the fleshlight and moaned obscenely. Fuck, this was amazing. 

She was amazing.  

Why couldn’t she have contacted him to create the OnlySinners app? He had the resources, the power, the connections. They could’ve been filthy rich together. He pulled the fleshlight off, teasing himself as he panted loudly.  

Why did she sell the rest of her stocks instead of co-owning the company together? He inserted the tip of his cock again before pulling out, repeating it again and again.  

She was such a fucking tease.  

Vox had hacked her OnlySinners account out of curiosity and nearly choked when he saw she earned a whopping thirteen figures in the first year of launching that app on the income from subscription alone. She only uploaded five fucking thirty-second clips of her getting railed by other VoxTubers, and yet she was able to earn so much.  

What’s worse was that the quality of the videos was shit, and he couldn’t see her tits or ass. All he could hear was her sinful moans and the sound of skin slapping together. 

Yet, Vox paid to be her one and only loyal, “supreme” fan. She made an absurd tier costing $250,000 a month, and he still hasn’t cancelled despite her account clearly being inactive. In fact, the rest of her so-called fans stopped paying a monthly premium due to the lack of content.   

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Vox whispered, his voice breaking from another moan ripping through him as he sank halfway into her tight, dripping cunt. “We could’ve been unstoppable together.” 

Inserting himself deeper into the fleshlight, he imagined her smirking at him, taunting him with those dark, smoky eyes. “Don’t fucking kid yourself,” he thrust harder, his breath hitching with each movement.  

As he fully sheathed the fleshlight on his cock, taking it all the way to the base, Vox groaned, “Oh, fuuuuck.” His voice glitched, and his head tweaked from the overwhelming sensation of her tight, simulated pussy gripping his hardened, dripping cock. If he pulled out, he might come.  

Holy fuck, was he seriously going to come after one fucking full stroke? 

“I always knew you were a one-pump chump,” a voice, a familiar, and taunting voice, echoed in his head. “You should be thanking me for giving you this.” She giggled, and Vox’s vision momentarily blacked out as images of that damn woman flashed before his eyes. 

“How dare you drop my photo on your filthy floor? Don’t you know you hold the only copy of that photo in existence?” She whispered, her voice caressing and electrifying every nerve, every circuit that made him who he was.  

As his vision returned to the small, dimly lit room, surrounded by her sex toys, filled with the scent of his arousal, he quickly reached for the photo she had sent. He could still hear her voice in the back of his mind. “You should feel special,” she whispered, a seductive undertone drenching her words.  

Vox’s hand gripped the fleshlight tighter, his claws digging into the sides, and he felt his cock hardening even more under his touch and the sensation of her simulated cunt. He dragged his cock out of the plush, wet pocket, his breath heavy as he fought to control himself, trying not to spill his seed inside it. He wanted this to last. He wanted this moment to last, to drown in this euphoria, to lose himself in this sensation of pleasure.  

He wanted to muffle the scream of shame that threatened to short-circuit him.  

Holding the fleshlight just above the tip of his cock, he thrust his hips upward, entering her once more. He held the photo up, forcing his head to look up – to look up at her. He slowly fucked the toy, pretending she was on top of him, imagining taking her slowly, letting her feel every inch of him.  

“D-does it feel good?” Vox asked her. Of course, the photo of her remained still, her lips – her smirk – unmoving. A familiar feeling of his chest being flayed open coursed through him.  

In the quiet space, where it was only him, away from the paparazzi, away from the need to maintain a perfect image for society, he was back in the body of an upstart entrepreneur – a body of a scrappy nobody.  

Vox was back to being the man who had groveled and begged the investors to take a chance on him. To believe in him. He had withstood the mockery and the laughter as he swallowed his pride again and again.  

“Can I…” he gasped, as his hips started to pump in and out quicker and quicker, the lewd sound of his cock thrusting into the lubricated toy squelched and filled the air. “Can I…come?” he groaned, his head falling forward, his ass up in the air before he thrust mindlessly into the toy with reckless abandon.  

The pleasure built with each thrust, a fevered pitch that ate away his mind. He clung to the photo; it kept him tethered to the fantasy of an alternate reality where he had her – where she wanted him.  

“Please,” he whimpered, his voice breaking, a plea to the silent room. “Please let me come.” 

Vox’s pace became frantic, his strokes wild and uncontrolled. The tight, wet embrace of the fleshlight, the image of her teasing smile, the imagined feel of her beneath him – “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna fuckin’…” his words were lost to the sound of his filthy moans and the wet slaps of his hips against the toy.  

His vision blanked with a final, desperate thrust as he released everything he had within him. “Ah, fuuuuck,” he groaned as he slowed his pace, rocking his hips against the toy, wringing his cock dry.  

Once Vox controlled his heavy breath, he slowly collapsed to the floor and rolled onto his back. He stared down at his limp cock, wearing the fleshlight like a sleeve. As the high faded, and the evidence of his broken restraint leaked out from the toy and drenched the front placket of his pants, the all-too familiar sensation of shame settled on his chest.  

His chest rose and fell with the aftermath of his exertion, his breath still heavy and laboured. As if he had woken up from a fever dream, he looked around the room. The shelves were lined with her toys, each one a reminder of his obsession and the depth of his humiliation. The business card, the photo, her message, the custom fleshlight – all of it ridiculed him.  

Vox pressed his palms against his eyes. The cold floor seeped into his sweat-soaked back; he felt the weight of his insignificance. For all his power and wealth, he still saw himself as his scrappy, pathetic self, groveling to other men that were born into a higher status.  

He enjoyed sex for what it was. It brought him a moment of pleasure. But the price was always too fucking high to pay, for at this moment when his mind retained clarity, his heart was out in the open once more.  

Once again, he was back in the void, a cavernous cold space where a sense of emptiness gnawed his very soul.  

Once again, he felt a pain in his chest that he could never seem to fucking name.  

Once again, he had sacrificed his pride for a fleeting moment of hollow pleasure. 

NEXT ->

💠 MASTERLIST 💠

[illyanarasputinfan]

Peach Momoko

[dailydamnation]

Itsuki in Demon Wars: Down in Flames

Yokai are not (the western idea of) demons and can be friendly as often as malevolent, but the comparison is easily made, so to have an Illyana stand-in here who is part human and part yokai, but the *human* part is seen as the problem, the violent part? That’s just a very nice twist. I like it, and the backstory given here.

Also, appropriate levels of ass-kicking.

[sleeper-kerennnnnnx]

MASHLE author‘s Q&A from fan book translate！（2）

If there are some poor translations or errors, please point them out! I will correct them in time, thank you!

I will translate this in four parts!

Here are parts Q34-Q67! The original text and other parts can be found in the collection!

To the animation fans: There are slight references to the subsequent plot of the comics‼ ️ (Q34 and Q37) If you don’t want to be too comical, you can avoid it.

Q34: When Epidem met Dot, he said that the Ira Kreuz were very rare. What is the position of the Ira Kreuz people in the magic world? Are they regarded as a dangerous people? What does the cross scar on their head warn them about?

A34: They are probably regarded as very powerful people. The cross scar is a warning to their fighting instincts.

Q35: What kind of people are Lance and Dot’s roommates？

A35: Dot and Lance later lived in the same dormitory! Because both of them were very noisy, they were complained by their roommates!

Q36: Does Easton have a school song? Who sings the best among Lance, Dot, Lemon, Finn, and Mash?

A36: Yes! I think it should be Finn or Dot!

Q37: Who proposed riding horses in the God divisionary Exam?

A37: Dot! When men get together, the first thing we should do is ride horses!

Q38: Is Ryane's rabbit handkerchief sold to the public? I want to know if it is bought or homemade.

A38: Homemade! He can do needlework!

Q39: Is the little spider (the spider that tested Mash's magic during the battle, sorry I forgot his name! Kneel down 🧎) Ryane's servant? Or does Ryan call it when he needs help?

A39: He calls it when he needs it! It's always there!

Q40: Rayne Ames has the strength of a mid-to-high-level God divisionary, but I haven't seen him use the highest-level magic in the work - thirds magic (note: there is in the comics). Does the firepower he have means he has the ability to use thirds magic?

A40: Even among God-divisionary, there are not many people who can use thirds magic. Probably Light, Undying, Sand, and then Flame cane and Rayne. (The latter reply should be the battle power ranking. Flame cane's official website introduction clearly states that he is a double liner magician.)

Q41: Rayne is the director of the Magic Tools Administration Bureau. Was the rabbit phone designed and made by Ryane?

A41: It was specially made!

Q42: Abel said that only Rayne can resist Abyss's Demon Eye. I want to know how Ryan did it!

A42: The Demon Eye cannot last forever. I think this is the point!

Q43: What does a perfect do? Are there any privileges and benefits to being a perfect? Doesn't Rayne feel tired when he has to balance the work and study?

A43: Perfects are mainly responsible for managing students' attitudes towards life, etc.! Perfects have special baths! They are as tired and hard as entrepreneurs!

Q44: Who named the "Magia Lupus Arc"? Lord Abel? Is the ranking is selected by the number of coins collected？Does Abel choose the people who join? Or did they volunteer?

A44: Abel named it! He is actually a sensitive high school student, very cute. They are just ordinary Boy Scouts!!

Q45: Did the Magia Lupus Arc and Mash get together after the war?

A45: They got together to play poker! The endings in Mashle's world are basically good!

Q46: Please tell me the order of academic performance among the Magia Lupus Arc.

A46: The best student is Wirth! Then it should be Abel and Abyss.

Q47: Are the poker cards in Abel's personal property?

A47: Yes! Abel has a lot of poker cards!

Q48: Why does Abel cherish the broken doll in his arms and call it "Mom"?

A48: Because it overlaps with the scene that his mother passed away.

(I'm already in tears after seeing the above line. let me cry for a while)

(I'm done crying, let me continue translating!)

Q49: Abel's third line is artificial. Will he still have three lines in the future? Will he never go back to two lines?

A49: Because it was forcibly added, it's different from the normal three lines, and it won't go back to two lines!

Q50: It is said that Abyss's sword has a magic wand built into it. Will he use an extra magic wand during class?

A50: He will use an ordinary magic wand during class! But the output power is relatively small! (Sorry, but I imagined Abyss holding a sword and waving it around in class haha ​​... 

Q51：Abyss is not good at talking to girls，how he talks to love cute？

A51：He Can't！！！！He watches the ceiling while talking to her.

Q52: Do you know why Abyss wears his hair in a bun or ponytail?

A52: A unique hairstyle may mean that he wants to be recognized... He may cut it short later!

Q53: Will love cute say things like "like or hate" or "am I cute" to other members of the Magia Lupus other than herself?

A53: All boys will be asked.

Q54: Why was Ryane so angry at Milo (the green-haired one of the Fourth Fang) in the ? Is it okay to kick him like that?

A54: Ryane is a bit extreme... Generally speaking, this is not a good job (crying)

Q55: What did Ansel Sinli (the Seventh Demon Fang, the one carrying two round plates) say in the last episode?

A55: "In my opinion, cream puffs are likely to contain cream."

Q56: Does Oror (the magic policeman) appear naked every time he casts a spell?

A56: It's pitiful, but that's how it is. (crying)

Q57: What kind of people are Ryoh's wife and son? If there is any story, please tell me!

A57: The wife is the kind of person who is broad-minded and said "Okay, okay" and then started dating (crying). The child admires his father!

Q58: Are the Ryho peripherals in the work certified by the author? Or are they made by fans?

A58: Certified by the author! ! ! ! ! (Please link it)

Q59: I want to join the Ryoh‘s fan club. Can I become member No. 0001?

A59: I admit it!

Q60: Why doesn't the robe on Orter's shoulders fall off?

A60: It's fixed by magic!

Q61: Why is Orter so short-sighted that his eyes have become "3"?

A61: He read too many books!

Q62: Can Orter’s sand magic turn himself into sand?

A62: It seems that he can't do that! But if you really work hard, you might be able to do it! (translator: It was done in the anime)

Q63: I want to know how Orter and Wirth address each other! What is their relationship like?

A63: They probably address each other with "お前" and "テメェ" (similar to "you bad guy" and "Hey")... They don't have a very good relationship! But it will get better one day!!!

Q64: Wirth said, "I have received elite education in magic since I was a child." Did Mr. Orter do the same thing?

A64: That's right!

Q65: I want to know why Kaldo wears gloves!

A65: Because it is so cool and making him handsome! ! ! ! !

Q66: What is the opportunity for Kaldo to like sweets? In addition, he has a strong impression of honey. Does he like sweets more than honey?

A66: He likes it after spreading honey on toast! He likes everything when it comes to sweets! My tongue is dying!

Q67: Which is better, Kaldo's honey salmon or Lemon's handmade cookies?

A67: Handmade cookies I guess? They are as bad for your health as the Ganges!

Q68: What is the name of Agito Tyrone's (Dragon Cone) pet dragon?

A68: Hipotan!

If you like, Can I please ask for a like🥹

Comments are welcome to discuss anything! And suggestions for translation!

Chinese version updated in：longyou1225.lofter.com

[roukabi]

How does it feel to predict the final boss of wilds

I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS

tbh I was actually pretty confident in my theory because, as mentioned in my tags on the original meme, what could possibly be a better final boss for a game about humanity vs nature than the imbalance of that relationship? Especially since Wilds has more in common with World than other MH games, and World's final boss philosophy was to make what's essentially the anti-game: oh you like nature and new frontiers and ecology? Here's an alien. Likewise, Wilds' philosophy is 'oh you like harmony and synergy between people and their environment? Here's a bioweapon slave made of fatalis parts'. Also I heard from gaijin hunter's (EDW hater) review that the roster was 1. disappointing and 2. the lore 'goes places'. And who could possibly evoke such reactions like that from this specific person? That's right. the frankenstein's monster itself!!! I was fully prepared to see the EDW at the end and I had the stupidest grin on my face throughout the story.

I'll admit I wasn't 100% right tho. I was expecting Arkveld to be this 'undiscovered endling' after the rest of its kind was killed for the EDW. I made this assumption based on its skull (and the male helmet for guardian arkveld is VERY EDW inspired so I'll give myself that). I was not expecting a new angel/demon dragon made of Fatalis parts to be the EDW. Honestly, it's super awesome and (HOPEFULLY!) sets up some bigger, stronger Zoh Shia fights later on in the game's lifespan. I finally beat Fatalis back in january (killing The Dragon on the inauguration made me feel better) + the second I saw that flame shower/flame breath sweep from Zoh I felt the fear of god. It actually didn't click for me right away that Zoh was a black dragon amalgamation and I feel really stupid abt it lol. sorry zoh shia i was unfamiliar with your game. I even recognized the fatalis theme during the 2nd phase but thought it was just a neat homage

But yeah. Now I have to wonder what's next. Everything we know about the ancient civilization is basically canon now (buildings made of monster parts, EDW + subservient monsters, great dragon war, artian gear), just modified to fit the game's setting better. I guess the only lore thing not yet canon afaik is Fatalis' motive for attacking Schrade. I'm excited for the inevitable expansion and what future stories await!

Also I hope so much that MHStories 3 becomes a thing. I NEEEEED Arkveld as a monstie it's SO CUTE and SO SAD it's like a KICKED PUPPY and alma straight up told nata that it needed to be 'PUT DOWN'. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH

[winterzxsoldierz]

War Child

Part two, read part one first Bucky Barnes x (Fem) Reader

Warnings: Traumatic flashbacks, hydra, blood, mentions of human experimenting, violence.

Description: You're a hydra experiment or had been since you were young, for years you lived in the cold walls of Siberia and when you finally get free, faces and demons of your past come knocking.

Reader is an enchanted superhuman, she has the super soldier serum giving her, super speed, super strength, a healing factor, fast metabolism, endurance, strong lung capacity & etc, she also has both fire and ice magic. The time line in this will review the past and present.Reader can look anyway you want. Her soon love interest will be Bucky.

Italy (Present, four months later) Your Pov

Rain droplets hit the windows of my apartment, the sound soothing to my racing mind and fast pounding heart as i gather my personal things around my apartment, which isn't a lot, i grab my get away back and gun, i check the clip making sure it's fully loaded and shove it into my jacket pocket once satisfied, i sling the backpack over my shoulder and make my way towards the fire escape, the sounds of loud thudding boots and German orders could be heard outside, my former apartment's door. I'm already out and down the fire escape, when the hydra soldiers knock down the apartment door with force, i'm tempted to look back but i don't, i run, picking up the pace, soon i'm crowded around the busy streets with a ton of people, i didn't need to run, now that i could blend in with the moving civilians, i look around, my eyes moving on every man in view, i glance at the making sure i don't see that god forsaken symbol, i once thought had meaning, but seeing i'm in the clear, a sigh of relief leaves me. It's not long until, i get away and closer toward a public transportation area, i get onto the train with no destination in mind, but i knew Italy was no longer somewhere i could stay. Siberia 1958 (flashback)

"My child, time for another procedure." Zola's voice rings through the intercom, his german accent thick with a dark intent, your cell door opens and one of the hydra soldiers walk in and grabs you by the forearm. you're pushed into the lab and you immediately take a seat on the metal experimenting table, you look around the lab, when suddenly your eyes land on a giant tube in the corner, in it lies a man, you seen him a few times over the past few years, he teaches you how to use weapons, seeing him like that makes something uneasy grow in the pit of your stomach and you can figure out why. "Interesting isn't it?" Zola's voice suddenly was right next to you causing you to flinch, to which he chuckles, he pushes you down on the table and nods to the guards to strap you down, "The machine keeps him alive, and well, until his help is needed again." Zola explains, as he lays down a tray of sharp objects, his eyes meet yours again and a grin appears on his lips as he speaks "You are growing my child, soon we will need you more than you think." he murmurs, while injecting you with something that makes you go numb and physically unfeeling immediately "This will only take a few minutes, don't be afraid." he says, his tone is meant to sound soothing but it sends coldness down your spine. He cuts into the upper side of your right arm and picks up a small chip, he clicks a little button and places the chip under the bloody skin, he then wipes the blood from your skin and he nods towards the guards. The guard nods back pulling something out of a flaming furnace, making the blood in you pump, the tool the guard pulls out is a hot metal rod, with a star embedded on it, the guard wastes no time to place the hot rod on the skin of your arm where you were cut at- The sound of the loud train horn awakens me, i look around panting as sweat trickles down my forehead, Thump...Thump...Thump i hear the sounds of my own heartbeat in my ears, i swallow thickly and wipe at my face, looking around there is barley anyone in the train cart with me, it's a bit eerie, i knew it wouldn't be long until they found me again. "Rain again? great." i think to myself, walking out of the train station, i walk past a few people and drop the small tracking chip into the trash can hoping it'll throw off hydra for a while, digging into my pocket i pull out a map, i had no destination in mind, only survival so i let my feet take me wherever.

Avenger's tower (Present) Avengers pov "Well Italy was a dead end." Tony huffs, and pinches the bridge of his nose, he leans back in his chair, the stress of this was wearing him down. "It was, but it also wasn't, she left in a hurry like she was panicked, her door was kicked in and the place was ransacked, my guess it was hydra." Natasha comments. "She slipped up though, she left behind a notepad." every ones attention turns to Bucky who had been silent this whole time, he sets down the little book for everyone to see, Steve is the first to pick it up and look at the first few pages, it has a few hydra base locations and leader names, Steve looks at Bucky and raises his brow, "You think these are still up and running?" Bucky shrugs in thought "Impossible, it can't be unless they're rebuilding." the conference room is silent, everyone is tense and unsure of what's to come.

Queens, New York. (Present) Your Pov

It had been a few days since i fled from Italy and came all the way to america, it was a big step and risky but, i think it'll throw hydra and whoever else that's looking for me off my trail, i had been trying to find a place to stay in that's warm enough to keep me from freezing to death, but there's only so many places i can go, New York is a big place. Turing into a darkened alleyway, i spot movement from the corner of my eye and i freeze and stand still, and slowly i move my body towards the direction, ready to fight if i have to, but instead there's no fight and just a cat...? my brows furrow and i walk into the direction where the animal is, it's almost as white as the snow on the ground, after approaching the cat i bend down to pat it but then i hear a voice coming into the alley, it's a voice of a young boy who sounds panicked "Oh no, Mr. Bucky is gonna kill me for this, Alpine! Alpine!" Peter calls out, his tone panicked." Peter continues to walk down the alleyway and stops when he sees me with the cat, he stares at me and i stare back, his expression is confused and slowly but surely it turns into recognition and a gasp leave him and he points "Hey y-you i-it's you, the women, you're Y/N the avengers have been looking for you."

i stare at the boy as if he had grown two heads and slowly i back away from the cat, and dart down the alleyway, the boy yells but i don't stand around to listen to him, i'm nearly out the alley but something gets stuck on my foot causing me to trip and hit my chin on the ground.

i ignore the pain and look at my foot and i frown wondering what the heck this sticky stringy stuff is on my foot, i pull some of it of and see the boy approaching me, he speaks while holding his hands in surrender "I-i'm Peter, miss just listen, you're in a lot of trouble, i can get some help." my eyes widen and i burn off the rest of the webs and stand "No, you will get no one, go away child." i tell him as i brush the snow off me.

Peter stands there, a look of determination in his eyes and again he speaks "Let me help you then, my aunt, she can help with the gash on your chin, and it's cold, i promise i won't tell the avengers." I look peter in the eyes, looking for any dishonesty but i find none and i nod slowly "Just to clean my wound nothing more." i tell him firmly. Peter smiles and picks up the cat and leads the way out of the alley and together you and Peter walk down the streets of new york toward his aunt's apartment as he rants to you about Star Wars.

This one is a bit short but, there will be more, i'm gonna have you the reader, befriend peter first before anyone.

@weirdperson-1 here's part two, sorry for the delay

[fallenclan]

Bargaining

by Dice Anon

The first thing he notices about the place he wakes up in, is that it’s bright. Blinding, from the sharp darkness of the caverns that held his home, his people, his clan. His clan. The thought makes him sick. Oh no. He closes his eyes again, tight. The light is just– too much.

  It’d been so dark in that cavern. He hadn’t thought to look behind him, hadn’t thought to attack Honeysong, hadn’t thought to—

  He’d not thought anything through. The stars are making his head spin, the clear air starting to choke his brain tight with emotion. It feels like it’s sharpening his mind into shards, shattering them alongside his clarity. He doesn’t know if…

  Gentledawn. Rookfeather. It was meant to be a simple ceremony, to invigorate the clan and aid in their battles, war looming above them. It didn’t. His mouth turns dry, remembering their faces. Their trembling, shaking snarls. Those five demons— no, ruffians. Shadowed birds drowning in honey while flames lick at their heels, of course. That anger, that anguish. That sting in his heart.

  His brother’s face comes to mind. Pale fur, parted by scars that were caused by—

  He forces his eyes open, blinking the dark spots from his vision. He realizes that he’s laying on grass, chest freckled with stains of slight green. It smells of a foggy day, and that fills his throat with nostalgia, clogging his reason for a brief moment. He rises to his paws, lifting his head up into…

  Cherrystar stares him down. Fuck.

  He glares at her, not moving. She doesn’t move either. Those sunshine eyes stare deep into his own heather gaze. He lets his fur bristle, tail beginning to lash. He doesn’t care anymore. All ideas of respect and illusions of grandeur have gone out the window. He doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care.

  He doesn’t.

  He…

  “Did you really think I’d let you go and take my clan?” Her voice fills the air, and he really looks at her for the first time. She looks exhausted. Ravenstar— no, he lost his leadership. Ravenshade doesn’t have an answer for her. He doesn’t.

  “You better prepare for Wolfbite’s ceremony, she’ll want the clan stable before the next Gathering.” Ravenshade knows he’s avoiding the question. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t have the energy to be angry. He doesn’t have anything anymore.

  Cherrystar is looking at him with a level gaze, and he knows that she understands. It’s infuriating, that look. It was so blank and unrevealing, and always made his head spin with annoyance. He can’t take anything from that expression. He can’t. He can’t, he just needs time and rest and— 

  He was so excited, damnit. Finchbeak, oh Finchbeak. He looks away sharply, turning his gaze to the ground as his chest constricts. He can see the roots of that damned forest beginning to cling to his paws, ready to drag him down. He takes a shaking breath and looks—

  —up into the eyes of his mother. Her brilliant gray eyes, almost silver among the speckles that dot her pelt. Brilliance gleaming off her pelt in thick starlight, bouncing off his eyes in a way that makes him speechless. Tears form in his mind, unbidden.

  “My little corvid, you’ve done wrong,” Her voice was a leveled calm, and Ravenshade wanted to leap into her embrace and purr all his troubles away in her arms. Just like he was a kitten. He doesn’t. “I asked for empathy and you gave me tyranny.”

  Ravenshade doesn’t respond, looking back down at his paws. The dark roots begin to intertwine around each other, brushing his carpal whiskers. He wants to flinch at the sensation. His chest tightens at the idea of talking to his mother, a pumping through his veins that makes his nerves dull with comfort and his chest tighten with a need.

  “All I ask for now—” He tries. 

  “You are in no position to make demands, Raven.” Gyoza’s voice cuts in, heavy accent filling his ears with–

  With—

  “Father, I ask for protection for my kittens.” He needs to see this through. He needs to see this through. He needs Finchbeak to be okay. He needs them to be okay. He’ll never see them again; he needs them to be okay. He’ll never see them again. He’ll never—

  “Raven, no tears. I ask for no tears.” Gyoza’s voice is slow and comforting, and Ravenshade realizes that he’s started to cry. He doesn’t care. He snaps his head up, and looks into his father’s eyes.

  He sees himself reflected in them.

  “All I ask is that they are safe,” The roots are climbing up his arms now, thirsty for those tears. It thrives off of the suffering of its inhabitants, and it feels the anguish it could have, sliding between the thick pelt of a dead tyrant into desecration itself. He tries to speak through the terror that fills his whole being. 

  “I ask this as your son and not as a leader. I come to you, bleeding, and ask that you gift some mercy—” The roots dig into his flesh. “—not to me, but to my children. Finchbeak’s litter is—” Blood leaks from old wounds, healed long ago. It’s almost time. “—my own and I just want their safety–!” 

  A root slides its way in between his jaw and teeth, and he crunches down hard on it as he attempts to speak, hissing in pain. It comes out garbled, sliding between each bone harshly, stinging his gums. The taste of iron fills his mouth, and he stares into his father’s eyes, pleading and begging.

  The world fades away as soon as he sees his father nod.

 -🎲

small under 1k snippet because i need to WRITE and WRITE!!!

dice anon getting back into it. straight up 'writin it'. and by 'it', haha, well. let's justr say. My raevnstar. love this freak and everyone associated with him and would die for him. and cranekit too. and sleepycloud and sleepydawn but dont think too hard on that second one okayt. okt. next fic will be about them (collective)

(beetle notes: FICS THAT MAKE ME INSANE? "he has nothing anymore." "Ravenshade wanted to leap into her embrace and purr all his troubles away in her arms. Just like he was a kitten. He doesn’t." "He needs to see this through. He needs to see this through. He needs Finchbeak to be okay. He needs them to be okay. He’ll never see them again; he needs them to be okay. He’ll never see them again. He’ll never—" AUGHH)