#Demon Wars: Down in Flames | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lacydaydream · 4 days ago

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Devil On My Shoulder, Angel in My Lap

⤷ mark meachum

mark meachum x fem!reader

estelle yapping: so sorry this took so long! this is based off this request. I hope I did your idea the justice it deserves!

summary: Mark knows it’s wrong— he shouldn’t be fantasizing about the youngest detective. But after a one-seat-short op, he finds himself at war with his own mind.

cw: age gap [ mark is 20+ years older ]. slow burn. kinda religious imagery. swearing. descriptions of violence. mentions of drugs. gun violence. mark gets pissed off. sexual content. vaginal fingering. oral (f receiving), dom!Mark. possessive!Mark. mentions of spanking. praise kink. pet names [ kid, angel, needy girl, ]. very slight corruption kink. dirty talk. grinding. kinda enemies to lovers.

word count: 8.8k

Mark was going to Hell.

It was as simple as that. There was a designated demon down in the land of eternal damnation waiting for his dumb ass to die and stumble through the flames. The Devil himself was probably flicking through pages of torture methods, picking out his favorites to inflict upon Mark’s soul.

He knew he was going to Hell– he knew it three months ago when the newest recruit transferred to the LAPD. He had just gotten back from his latest UC job, a drug dealing case finally closed after three months. The ink still hadn’t dried on his damn report. He had walked into the station, settling down in the detectives’ bullpen and his eyes laid upon the most tantalizing sight.

Smooth skin, bright smile, eyes as bright as the goddamn sun. The newest detective. And, of course, the youngest. You were a damn baby. A little girl. Barely thirty years old, skin glowing from the triumph of getting the ‘tap’ so young.

Mark remembered that morning you introduced yourself. You’d gone around to each desk, grinning and practically jumping around like a bunny. It was obvious that you still had the mentality that everything happened for a reason– the job hadn’t made you question your morals and position in the universe yet. You hadn’t gotten a ‘puppy’ yet. You hadn’t rushed against time to save a life only for you to fail, just a fraction of a second before crossing the finish line.

Maybe he was envious. Not too long ago, he’d probably been in your very same place. Though he doubted he pranced around the precinct handing out lip gloss smiles like sticks of gum. He had once been young like you. Ready to take on the world, show anyone who disagreed with him the damn door. But that was before he’d lost his first case. Before the countdown in his head started ticking.

Maybe it had just been too long since he’d seen a woman– really seen one. He’d spent the last three months neck deep in lies. Undercover Work was just that: dancing around a stage playing a character so unlike yourself. You breathed someone else’s name, wore someone else’s clothes, lived in a different mind. One wrongly blocked move, one misread line, would be fatal. If you weren’t always in character– even for a second– your life would be the price. It was as simple as that. He checked in with the chief every twelve hours– logging into a hidden flip phone he’d hidden behind a busted tile in the motel bathroom he was stationed at. Mark hadn’t stepped into sunlight in weeks. Five million in meth was about to hit the LA streets, and Mark had been up to his neck in case files and meetings with felons, determined to stop it.

When he’d first seen the sweet smile pulling the corners of your lips up, he’d cursed the sky. You were absolutely stunning. You were like the water in the middle of a desert handcrafted by the Gods’ and he was the wandering man, parched on the verge of death. And he was going to Hell.

Because you were way too young. Hell, you could have been his daughter if he was a little less careful back in the 90’s. Your age was reflected in the way you acted around the team– bright eyed and bushy tailed. You’d even brought in homemade cupcakes when one of the members’ birthday rolled around.

He cursed himself for thinking about you. He hated himself for it. For the mornings he woke up hard, hips rutting into the mattress like a damn dog. He cursed himself when stepping into a cold shower, trying to wash away the carnal sin that stuck to his skin. He felt disgusted in his own skin. He was far too old for you– and dying, no less. Mark had decided to keep his distance from you.

That was safe. He could keep his eyes and perverted mind from wandering to you.

The universe– being the cruel mistress she was, holding a smoke between her delicate fingertips, always needed a laugh. Something to get her through the endless days of hopeless souls wandering aimlessly in the currents of her beautiful creations– had other plans. Of course, she had other plans.

One of your CIs– some twitchy kid who had barely made it off the street with your help, who Mark was sure was going to be your ‘puppy’ – had come into the station shaking like a damn leaf. He had information on some mid-level mafioso trying to run smack out onto the streets. Said the guy had good muscle and a big mouth– bragging about a drop happening that Friday at a butcher shop downtown in Compton.

The chief granted them the go-ahead, and the squad hit the ground running. Tech combed through burner numbers, sifting through texts until they came upon coded messages they were able to crack. You and Mark ended up taking shifts in the interrogation room, squeezing low level drug-runners until one of them cracked. By the end of the week, they had the confirmed time, place, name, and had gone through a box of coffee pods. All they needed to do was catch the bastard.

The universe never seemed to be done with Mark, though.

Once he had helped all the equipment into the van, making sure the stingray device were squared away, he himself clamored in along with the team. You were late. Probably off yapping at your CI, giving him last minute warnings or addresses to community centers like the bleeding heart you were.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Mark grumbled, hands on his hips as his eyes narrowed at the van’s interior.

Sanchez. Carter. Mattel. Zinger. Shaw. All seated. All buckled in. All looking down at their devices, checking in with command before they left the station. Just one seat left– his. One seat is missing.

Mark turns to look up at the front, gaze searing into the men at the front of the van. Gaze hot enough to melt steel. “The hell happened to the seventh seat?”

Just for the universe to punish him– because obviously, he hadn’t gotten enough in his almost fifty years of life– you came running over. Hair bouncing in the wind, an apologetic smile already plastered across your glossy lips.

“Sorry, man,” the guy up front said, looking back to see you standing perched in the van. He shrugged. “Command said seven. Van’s only got six seats with belts, though. If one of you don’t mind sitting in the back with the rest of the equipment-”

“I’ll just sit on Mark’s lap.” Your voice comes out rushed, the time crunch catching you on edge. You were out of breath from running from the station, cheeks slightly flushed.

Mark’s stomach dropped out of his feet. His jaw ticked. He’s about to stand– already halfway out of his seat. About to offer up his seat, try not to jump into the back like his ass was on fire. “Don’t-”

But he was too late. He seemed to always be just a second too late these days.

You were settling on his thighs with the kind of careless warmth that had his skin burning through his jeans. You sit down with ease. Like this was a normal occurrence- like you hadn’t just punched the air from his lungs.

You were so warm. Smelled like sweet vanilla as your hair brushed against his chin. The scent swirled around him, bordering on intoxication. The van started up and you shifted slightly, hip brushing up against his abdomen. Mark stayed still. Stone still. The greatest hurricane couldn’t get him to flinch. His hands rested on the sides of his thighs, careful not to touch you at all, his fists clenched. Knuckles white.

“Relax, Meachum.” You whisper, a half-teasing lilt in your voice. God, your voice was like music in his ears. Soft. SLow. Melodic. “It’s ten minutes. You can pretend to not hate people for that long.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t– not when the smell of your shampoo was invading his senses like a virus. If he was a younger man, and maybe a lot stupider, he would have enjoyed this.

But now, he kept his eyes burning the floor below him. Body wound up taught. Like even the smallest of movements would be his undoing. Now he just counted down the seconds to get to the drop spot.

Yeah, he was going to hell. Straight shot express.

The van started, the engine turned over and purred. For lack of a better idea, his gaze moved over to look out the small window. The sun was dipping under LA, faint pinks and orange hues being painted across the sky. Mark’s jaw tightened. He tried not to feel the warm weight of you on his thighs. Tried to think of anything else.

He couldn’t think of how soft you felt. How sweet you smelled. He needed to count tiles. Count the streetlights that passed. Count his sins.

He steered his mind towards the case. It was a simple sting. Get there, camp out. Wait for this Danver Haskell to show up. Mark had never heard of this kid before– and he’d been under cover in enough prisons to hear the names of every mafioso in the area. Haskell was a name he’d heard before. This kid was probably a son. Nepotism never seemed to find a place to cease, apparently. Then they’d be able to stop the whole thing. Put some criminals exactly where they belong and keep a lethal drug off the streets.

Mark’s attention faded back in, catching the last bits of the conversation between you and Carter.

“–I hear Rosemary’s makes a good Sex on the Beach.” Your voice flows over the thrumming in his ears, conversing about after-work festivities as if you weren’t seated on his lap. As if he wasn’t fighting off demons.

His eyes shut for a moment, groaning internally. He could imagine that– no. No. He chastised himself for what felt like the millionth time in the past month, forcing himself to think about how he was practically drinking when you were born. He was twenty years your senior. Had enough life experience that would take your sweetened soul and darken it, make it shrivel like a dried plum. Any ideas floating around in his mind had to be squashed. Maybe take a damn blow torch to them. It was so wrong.

Detective Carter nods, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “And they’ve never had a fake ID incident.” She adds, motioning with a smile as she speaks.

Without really meaning to, you lean in as Carter talks. That’s just who you are– the type of person who gives their full attention to the person you’re speaking with. You’re a bleeding heart, emotions proud on your sleeve. And you knew when to turn it off– when to change your soft gaze to one hot enough to malt steel in an interrogation.

Mark fights away the urge to brush his hand against your hip, keeping you steady as you talk. Every little movement you make is like a whip on his clothed skin, warmth blooming wherever you’re touching him.

“Even better.” The soft smile was evident in your voice. Your fingers drum absentmindedly against your knee, the same rhythm you used at your desk, hunched over a case file trying to decipher the notes. Mark hated how he noticed.

Mark could practically see the face you were making. Even if he was only faced with the top of the back of your head. He could see the way your eyes twinkled like stars on a cool summer night, the gentle look in your eyes. The way your lips curled up delicately, painting a smile across your features that was so gorgeous a grown man could fall to his knees. He lets out a low grumble from his throat.

Because you were so close to him, you could feel it before you heard it. His chest rumbled, sending soft vibrations through your shirt and reverberating through your back. Mark was a pretty grumpy guy. He had been one when you first joined the detectives unit a few months ago– and he hadn’t changed his tune. So, it wasn’t obscene for you to interpret his grumble for one of annoyance. Or him just continuing with his grump streak.

“You always so grumpy around the thought of team building?” You ask him quietly, voice laced with a teasing lilt.

Mark doesn’t answer. Not verbally. His jaw is set so tight he’s sure his teeth would crack. He only grunts in response.

“Guess so,” You murmur, a soft laugh leaving your lips. The sound was breathy and utterly heart wrenching. You gently shift on his thighs, slightly concerned about the prolonged period of settling your weight on top of him. Not that Mark was thinking about that. Not even a little.

The singular movement was hell. You were settled further up his thighs, and he almost swore aloud.

Then the van hit a pothole.

Obviously, the taxes the LA citizens were paying were not being put to good use. The van jolted in tandem with your body. You practically launched off him, jostling around like you were on a roller coaster. His hands flew out before he could stop to think. One hand on your hip. The other around your stomach. Your back pressed right up against his chest, fully flushed up against him.

Heat. Everywhere. Burning his skin, almost lighting his clothes on fire. His veins burned and the air was punched from his lungs for the second time in five minutes. His pulse roared in his ears.

Mark’s hands had yet to move.

“Shit, sorry.” You murmur softly, color rising up your cheeks. His hands were like hot pokers jammed into your side, not only startling but dangerous.

He’s a wall of pure heat and muscle. His arms caging you feel protective, pure strength simmering just below his leather jacket. Heat floods from your cheeks down through your veins, goosebumps kissing all over your skin. Every quip and sensical thought dissipated from your mind at the speed of light.

You don’t make a move to move his hands away.

Mark grunts again, grip tightening on your hip before he reluctantly lets go. Count your sins, Meachum. He repeats the thought over and over like a mantra in his mind.

But it was harder and harder to keep track of which ones were already on that list.

“Careful now, kid.” His voice is rough like gravel in your ear, low and dangerous.

You fight back a shiver that wants to run up your spine. His voice is the kind of low only used well after midnight, shadows casting along walls to silence the sins playing out in the dark.

Mark's eyes burn through your very soul. Deep pools of emerald green lit up by the dim lighting in the van study you, his pupils dilating and constricting quickly. His gaze is heavy. It’s the kind of gaze that strips you bare and spreads you open in just a simple look.

Your heart stutters in your chest. Your skin feels like it’s being set aflame. Your breath had been caught in your throat, lodged so far you could have drowned. And still. Neither of you move.

“You two alright over there?” Sanchez speaks up, perfectly groomed brow raising to a comical height. A smirk tugs up the corner of his mouth. “Need a minute?”

Mark rips his hands from you like they’d been burned. But it was too late. He could still feel the shape of your body on his palms, engraving your body heat into his skin's memory. Still could hear how your breath had caught. How a blossom of flush rose to your skin.

Your head turns, severing the contact you had with him finally. You blink rapidly. Try to catch your breath, chest rising and falling painfully fast. Try not to want to have contact with his skin again. Try not to think about the loss of his body heat feeling like stepping into a cold shower.

“We’re all good.” Your voice comes out raspier than you intended. Almost paper-thin.

Mark notices.

Count your damn sins, Meachum. His mind plays the singular phrase on a loop through his mind.

“Good,” Sanchez says, voice dipping into a more grounded, low and serious tone. The shift cuts through the leftover haze in the van like a knife. “We’re a minute out.”

The mood changes immediately. Like someone flipped a switch, each person settling into silent professionalism. The conversation dies out. No one moves. Mark stills beneath you– tense and unmoving. You don’t have to see his face to know his expression had morphed into a stone-set scowl. There isn’t even a breath that dares to break the silence.

There’s a glance between the detectives– a silent current of steadiness through the tension. Focus. Readiness. The kind of still that only happens before a storm. Calmness that is only won through dozens of high stress situations.

The van makes a sharp turn down onto the street where the drop is going down, swallowed by the darkness of flickering street lights. The butcher shops’ lights were on– conveniently the only building on the block with their lights on. The glow of the lights are too bright– too deliberate. Parked cars line the block.

When the van is parked, the team moves like clockwork. Sanchez fired up their stingray. Carter peered out the window for a lookout. Everyone moved in sync, practiced to perfection.

Mark gently taps your hip. A grunt leaves his lips– his version of polite. Not subtle. Not gentle. But understood. Your breath catches. Your heart was still stuffed in your throat, the feeling of his hands engraved in your skin.

You stand, jumping into action. A feeling of embarrassment starts within your chest. Mark was a poison apple– shiny and tempting on the outside, rotten underneath. A local legend at the station.

packed with whispers from other cops of infidelity and reports detailing his ‘cowboy’ behavior. He’s a short fuse. Something you should stay far away from. Not something to be in your head about. No less remembering the way his hands felt around you. Or the gruffness of his voice.

You take a second to collect yourself. Distraction– in any capacity– was lethal. Even in situations as by the book as these. It only takes a second for things to go sideways– for the world to turn upside down. So you needed to get Mark and his hands out of your head.

There’s a second where everything is silent. Then, Carter turns her head slightly. “They’re here.”

Out through the window, you can see a man dressed in dark clothing outside approaching the butcher shop. Real twitchy looking kid. His head kept looking around almost as if he was ready to jump eight feet in the air at the sound of a mouse.

Like in any other op, you and Mark are the first ones to slip out of the van. You proved yourself to be a great shot– just his luck, huh? – and the chief liked the way you worked with Meachum.

You and Mark are the first to move out in the sticky night air, backs pressing to the building across the street from the butcher shop. The glow from the flickering sign above the shop bathes the cracked pavement in red, looking like dried-blood on concrete.

Carter’s voice crackles to life through your ear piece. “Remember– wait for the handoff. Product and money need to be in play. Then we move.”

Mark doesn’t respond. He never did when he was in the zone– just a hard expression and chiseled jaw set tightly. But your hand comes up to click against the earpiece to signal you had heard her. Your eyes scan the alley, mind remember every dumpster and fire escape from memory after looking at hours of surveillance and briefing.

As your eyes adjust to the light, you feel your whole body go rigid. The kid standing outside was your CI. The kid you had pulled up from hell and given a rope. Skinny, bathed in the shrouded cover of night. His eyes flitted everywhere, like he expected to get shot before he even had a second to speak. Then you feel it– the horrible nagging feeling in your gut. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“Mark,” Your words are muttered, hand that’s not holding your gun, tapping his arm lightly. You fight through the small jolt of heat that floods your system at the touch.

His eyes are already on the boy. His jaw is set so tight you’re sure his teeth would crack. His eyes were flickering over the street and alleyway, mapping out a plan of escape or ruin. You could see the gears turning in his mind as he clicked the comms of his ear piece. “Problem.” Mark grunts, voice a low husk. “The kid’s CI is here.”

There’s silence. The three seconds leave you wanting to scream– or run across the street yourself and whack the boy for acting so stupidly. You couldn’t even rationalize how this was happening. How he was standing there, ready to deliver the drugs. He had brought the tip in for you– aiding in the crusade against drug use in LA– while now being the one to be handling the drugs.

“Got eyes.” Carter murmurs, voice sounding more on edge. “Continue on. Three o’clock– silver Chrysler. Three suspects are exiting.”

You swallow down any nerves. The grip you have on your gun tightens. And if Meachum had noticed when his eyes glanced over at you, he didn’t make any reason for you to believe he had.

You spot them, too. Danver Haskell is leading the pack. Early twenties, thick gold chain and stupid sunglasses pulled on even in the dark. Nepotism’s prodigal son. Two muscle types are behind him– beefy, broad shouldered, already looking for a reason to use their guns.

They approach the kid slowly. All the confidence drips out of them as the exchange plays out in front of the shop. The shop was never open– it was just a front. Probably for this Haskell characters’ family.

You feel Mark shifting beside you, arm grazing your shoulder. His voice buzzes low in your ear. “Do not move until that bag passes hands.” He says it like he was expecting something stupid to happen. As if he hadn’t been out in the field with you before– experiencing how you handle things. How you weren’t just a new detective– you earned your way to this rank and he obviously couldn’t see it.

You force a nod– though he couldn’t even see it– and fix your eyes on the kid’s fingers. You want to trust that he had things under control. But he’s nervous. Too nervous.

He must have known you were there. The kid must have gone to the station in order to get himself out of having to actually allow it to run out into the streets. Because that would be him singing off on hundreds of death certificates.

The kid reaches into his jacket and produces a key. His lips move as he says something to Danver. Then, Haskell pulls out a wad of cash. A neatly rolled thick stack of bills. Wrapped in a rubber band. Your CI drops the key into Haskell's hand. Haskell drops the cash.

“Move out.” Carter commands softly, voice cutting through the air like a whip crack. “Now.”

Mark’s already lunging, gun drawn. He charges across the street with the precision of a man who’d done this a thousand times. Even with the major hiccup in place, he handled it like it had been part of the plan the entire time. You follow behind. The others flood from the van, shouting over each other as they move in perfect sync.

“LAPD! Hands in the air!”

“Drop your weapon!”

“Get on the ground!”

Chaos. Scuffling feet. Clinking of guns and handcuffs.

One of the idiotic muscle heads reaches for the gun on his side and you watch as Carter tackles him. Zinger grabs the other guy, pushing him down against the cement. He’s being pinned to the pavement and you hear the distinct clicking of handcuffs. It’s going well– the textbook display of a successful op.

Until you spot the kid.

He’s panicked. Wide-eyes, head jerking towards the alley way like a rabbit sensing a trap. His eyes land on you– locking with your tense gaze. You had been pointing your gun towards one of the meat heads, assisting Zinger with the arrest. Adrenaline surged through your veins. One of the suspects– fucking Haskell– bolts. He sprints down the side of the building, disappearing into the shadows.

As if sensing he was next, your CI starts to move. You instinctively follow him– too quickly.

Mark shouts out your name.

But it was too late. You had already broken formation, darting over to grasp the kid’s arm. You wanted to yell at him for being an idiot and throwing away the months of work he’d accomplished. And you wanted to make sure he was okay. You try to pull him to safety behind a car, breathless as you speak. “Hey, hey– it’s okay. Breathe, kid.”

You’re not as close to the car as you’d hoped. Or thought. Accidentally, you’d gotten right in Carter’s line of sight for the runner she’s chasing after. There’s a heartbeat of confusion. She slows to make sure to not bump into you, sending you and the kid sprawling over the cracked sidewalk.

But that’s all it takes.

He’d disappeared into the maze of the alley. Leaving the three of you standing and gawking around like doofuses. Haskell was gone. Slipped through your fingers like water running down a drain. The mistake you’d made doesn’t hit until you hear her grunt. “He’s gone. We need a BOLO.”

The world slows. Everything you’d worked for that whole week was ruined in the space of a second. A misstep. A colossal mistake of your CI and yourself– you shouldn’t have allowed yourself to get emotional. You should have treated him like any other apparent 10-80.

Your grip on the kid tightens and you glance around, catching Mark’s gaze. His jaw is a slab of stone. His gaze is pure hellfire. If you had waited another second, you were sure smoke would start coming out of his ears. Though his gun is still raised, his gaze was sharper than any bullet.

But he says nothing. Not here. Not now. He just turns his back and barks orders like a man built from ice and hard rules. “Zinger, bag the money. Shaw, secure the kid. Carter, call it in. Rest of us’ll sweep the perimeter.”

His words slam against your skull. Make your breath stop short. He was pissed– in the silent, just a second from lighting everyone on fire kind of way. You don’t speak. Don’t dare to. Your chest tightens with the collision of guilt and pain.

The ride back to the station is silent. The deadly kind. The kind that made every move would set off the bomb that was Mark Meachum. The silence fell tight like a noose, tightening around your neck as anxiety rose up your veins.

The bullpen is quiet when you return.

Everyone was still fighting to breathe through the thick disappointment, tension, and something far worse– silence. It had been so close. The op was almost wrapped. Clean cut. But just a second of emotion– being a human being– had given way to a suspect to get away.

You felt it festering under your skin, melting into your bones.

And Mark doesn’t wait.

The second the team stumbles the very last of their equipment in, Mark grabs your arm. His grip isn’t harsh– firm– as he tugs you towards the empty briefing room at the end of the hallway. The door swings shut behind you with an echoing thud.

Your heart falls out through your feet.

“What the fuck was that?” His voice was raised, anger and disappointment roared in his eyes. Guilt gnawed at his chest.

He had known exactly what it was. It was you being the sweet person you were– dropping your own guard to help someone. But that had made you vulnerable– the whole team vulnerable. You acted on impulse. Used your heart instead of your head. Your actions reflected just how new you were to being a detective– how young you still were. You were going to make petulant decisions and he should have been there to make sure you didn’t– not fantasizing about spreading you out beneath him.

His jaw set. “You had one job.” His voice is low. Measured. Not too loud– but furious enough in a way that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You would have taken him screaming at you over this.

“Mark–” You start, blinking as your chest screams.

“You broke formation,’ he snarls, his jaw so tight you could see the vein in his neck straining. “We had it. It was done– and what? You just tossed protocol out the window?”

You take a shaky breath, trying to quell the pressure building in your chest. “He was my CI. My responsibility! I thought-”

“You thought, huh?” Mark cuts over you, voice dangerously rough. “That’s what you call it? Running off like some fuckin’ rookie?”

He’s livid. His eyes were dark with anger, glinting in the dim light. They burned like a fire. And his words hit like a slap to the face. Mark’s broad shoulders tense, hands flexing at his side as they fold in and out of fists. He looked like a bomb ticking down to zero.

He gets closer, his anger reaching a crescendo. “Act like the fuckin’ detective you are.”

That makes you flinch. Just barely. A half-step back. A twitch in your shoulders. But it’s enough.

Mark freezes. His eyes roam over your figure, analyzing your body language. He knew he’d let his anger get the better of him. Gone too far. The fire behind his eyes diminished, like someone had just dropped a gallon of water over it. His mouth opens. Then closes.

“Shit,” he mutters, thumb and pointer and middle finger coming up to massage his forehead. Try to relive some of the tension there. Cool down. Step out of himself and look at the situation for what it was– something that any detective or cop has done once in their career. “I didn’t mean to–”

You cut him off, breath catching in your throat. “Yeah. I know.”

But anger twists inside your chest. And you can’t hold back the things you’ve always wanted to yell at him back.

“You’ve been on my ass since I got here.” Your own voice comes out foreign in your throat, a level of anger and annoyance you’d never heard from yourself. Every moment of his blatant disrespect flashed through your mind, coiling around your brain with a vice grip. Your hands trembled slightly as your voice raised. “You snap at me. Ignore me. Act like I’m the biggest burden for the LAPD.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “That ain’t–”

“I made one mistake tonight.” Your voice is firm, trembling slightly from anger. “One. But I’ve done everything right before that, and you still treat me like a problem!” Your voice wavers. Your skin is flushed red from how worked up you’d gotten– bright cherry red cheeks and a frown pulling your lips down. “So, tell me, Mark. What could I possibly have done that made you hate me so much?”

The words echo in the silence.

Mark wants to punch a wall. He felt a weight on top of his chest, smothering him and forcing his breath to be shallow. Your words ricocheted off the walls in his mind. He wanted to scream. He didn’t hate you– how could he hate the angel standing in front of him? He was battling his demons and it obviously had seeped out in the way he was treating you.

Which he knew was wrong.

He stares at you. Hard. His jaw twitches. Then, something in his eyes shifts. His expression crumbles. “I don’t hate you, sweetheart.”

Mark curses himself for calling you that. He should turn and walk away. Walk until his feet bleed and his body's too old to move. Just staying far away from you– and your soft skin, and bright eyes that are looking up at him with sincerity swirling in them. He should be on his way to a confessional booth, if he was religious. Count up all his sins– starting with you. But he doesn’t. Because he’s a weak man.

Your huff. “Then what is this, Meachum?”

The air shifts. A knife couldn’t slice through the tension swimming in the atmosphere. Mark takes a step forward, being pulled towards you by an unmistakable force. Then another. His voice drops to a rasp– something deep in his chest. Dangerous. Shaky like he knows it’s wrong.

“I don’t hate you.” He repeats. “I’m trying not to slam you against that wall and kiss you stupid.”

Silence.

Your heart slams against your ribs. The air had been knocked right from your lungs. Heat bloomed across your skin once again– this time hotter than before back in the van. Mark is staring you down like a predator watching its prey, waiting for the right time to pounce.

Before you can even begin to think of who can see, be angry with how he treated you, or how wrong all of this probably was, you advanced the lingering space. His scent engulfed you immediately. His strong masculine scent flooded your senses, wrapping around your brain like a disease. Your fingers hooked into the collar of his shirt and pulled him down towards you.

His lips crash against yours. You step closer into the heat radiating off of him– lips clashing desperately, angry, aching. He stiffed for a second– stunned. Then, he growls and melts like wax.

His large hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. The other curls around your waist, grip on your hip bruising. The kiss deepens, months of repressed tension and dirty fantasies exploding. His mouth is hot, urgent, and the perfect amount of rough.

The second the gasp leaves your lips, he’s walking you backwards towards the wall. He growls when he feels your back hit the wall, bumping against your chest. If there was a God, Mark was gladly giving him the middle finger. Screw morals. He couldn’t consider them when you were grasping onto his shirt like a lifeline.

The world had narrowed. The only thing you could think about was him. His hands. His mouth. The way his body caged yours in against the wall, tall frame towering over you. You could feel flames start to lick up your veins, setting your skin on fire.

Mark’s thoughts were ricocheting off the walls of his mind, each getting increasingly darker than the last. Please, Lord, forgive me, his mind rattled off, grasping at your hip tighter. For all the ways I want to defile this woman.

When you break apart, gasping for air, his forehead falls against yours. His expression is pained– like he was holding himself back. His voice is raw. “This is bad.”

You nod weakly, pulling your lip between your teeth. “Yep.” Your voice is a whisper, lowered to a tone that has him reeling.

“Tell me to stop.” He warns, head dipping to run his nose along the column of your throat. He takes in the sweet scent of your skin, wanting nothing more than to get drunk off you. “You’re too good for me, angel. Too young. Fuck, tell me to stop. Please.”

His voice was ragad, rough as a knife as it split through your head. You know you should probably tell him to stop. There’s nothing good that can come of making out– or more– at the office. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could see. But, the thrumming between your ears was too loud. The building ache down your thighs was getting too hard to ignore.

You don’t tell him to stop.

“Come home with me, Mark.” Your voice is soft, paper-thin. Your hand presses against his chest. Feeling the erratic beating of his heart banging against his ribs.

And damn him all to hell. He was already going– might as well enjoy the last good thing he’ll get.

“Okay.” He murmurs back, thumb circling your hip bone.

The drive to your place is a whirlwind of lingering glances and Mark’s hand on your thigh. Every few minutes, he’d glide his hand up higher. Massage the meat of your thigh. Grinning every time your breath hitches.

He was already aching in his jeans– the decision to wear them suddenly being the worst one in his life. Still, as his length strains against the fabric, his mind drifts to the morality of all this. Was he really about to do this? Should he be doing this? What the hell was going to happen in the morning when the two of you have to go back to work–

His thoughts are cut off by your hand. The soft, almost shy touch of your hand running up his thigh. Payback. His grip on the wheel tightens, knuckles turning white. His jaw sets. Dazzling green eyes look over at you, darkened by a hunger anyone could recognize from a mile away.

His gaze burns through your soul– spreading you open with a simple look. Your thighs clench together.

Mark notices.

He throws the law out the window, slamming his foot down on the pedal. At every turn, his voice comes out roughly to ask which one to take. When your hand came up to the seam of his thigh, Mark had completely lost it. The small shred of control he had was quickly thinning.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare, angel.” A command. Dark, rough, and entirely too hot.

His reaction only spurs you on. As the streetlights paint his face in reds and oranges, you lean over and press a kiss under his jaw. You can feel the pressure building in his jeans, hard against your fingertips. “What are you gonna do?”

A feral growl rips from his throat, turning into your driveway. He slams on the brake. The car lurches, your body jolting forward and a gasp leaving your lips. Mark commanded people at his job… and he obviously didn’t stop commanding in any other aspects of his life.

“Outta the car, sweetheart.” His voice was low, a dangerous sort of smooth. Calm.

Your heart thumps against your ribcage.

Mark was by your side before you were even able to get a foot on the ground. His hand pressed firmly against your back. His presence felt like a dark cloud, festering with dark desire. You let him lead you towards the door. You let him curl his fingers in the fabric of your button up, heat shooting down to your core.

The door swings open and Mark’s quick to pin you against the door, hand gently cradling your head to not hurt. Your body thumps lightly against the wood. Mark cages you in like a man who's been starved for months. And you were the five course meal. His mouth trails to the line of your jaw, peppering kisses and nibbles.

His hands skim beneath your button up– calloused fingers brushing against bare skin, revenant like a prayer. He gently maps the slope of your spine, the feel of your hips, every inch of your skin like he’s trying to commit you to his memory.

Because he was. This would be his only slice of Heaven he’d ever get a taste of– the atrocities he was about to commit would send him barreling to eternal damnation. Despite all of that, he still touched you like you’d break.

“I ain’t got no reason to be so close to heaven– somethin’ I’ll fuckin’ ruin.” His voice is quiet, almost breaking. It was rough– something raw aching to leave his chest.

Your own hands that had been groping at him found his hips, pulling him towards you until you were flush together. You feel the weight of him against your thigh, the jean fabric doing nothing to hide his size. “I’m not breakable.”

Something in him snaps. Every second his patience wavered, thinning to a point of absolution. Then, he’s kissing you– really kissing you. His fingers are curling in your hair and his tongue is swiping your bottom lip, begging for permission.

A soft whimper leaves your lips. He grins into the kiss, licking into you like a man starved. He tastes like mint and something dangerous, a taste you’d gladly get drunk on. A grunt leaves his chest and you swallow it, swollen lips clashing against his. It’s hungry. It’s messy. It feels like Heaven and hell all at once– a war being waged as his fingers come up to hook between the buttons of your blouse.

Before you can register just what he was doing, he was yanking your shirt apart. The buttons of your button up scatter across your floor, the sound of light clattering being heard under your gasp. The cool air hits your chest like cold water splashing against your skin. His warm hands are quick to snub the cold, feeling your body under his hands. He cups your breast and you shiver.

He nibbles against your neck, licking and kissing the mark away. Every bit of pleasure and pain melds together to make your head feel fuzzy. All the while, his hand is skimming everywhere he can get it. Mark squeezes your breast softly, kneading your flesh. Even through the lace of your bra, he can feel your nipple pebbling.

“I’m not gentle.” He mutters into your neck, finally pausing his assault.

Varying ideas flashed through your mind. You were fucked. This man was gonna make sure you weren’t walking in the morning. And damn you to hell if that didn’t turn you on even more. You roll your hips against his, searching for some much needed friction to soothe the ache between your legs. “I don’t want gentle.”

Mark finally breaks. Whatever it was that had him tied down to this stratosphere snaps. It’s like a rabid animal had been released– and you were his first meal.

He acts fast. Precise. His hands are on your waist and he’s spinning you, making you brace your hands against the wood of the door. A gasp leaves your lips at the sudden roughness. His fingers and hooking into your black slacks and yanking them down your legs. The fabric crumples in a puddle around your ankles.

Mark curses, falling to his knees as if he’s about to pray. His hands roam up your thighs, the sensation sprouting goosebumps all over your legs. His fingers feel like pure sin as they curl around your thighs, peppering kisses behind your knees and up the back of your thighs.

A wicked grin captures his lips as you shiver, your legs wobbling in anticipation. When his eyes are level with your clothed cunt, he almost creams his jeans just seeing the wet spot on your cotton panties. His hand grasps your asscheek, thumb running along your slit.

Your head whips over your shoulder, chest heaving as you watch him. His brows are furrowed in concentration. A feral look is swirling in his eyes, dark green and surely dangerous. He’s sitting on his haunches as his thumb continues stroking you through your panties. Every little touch sends jolts of electricity through your body.

“Tell me, angel,” he whispers, eyes trained on the mess gathering between your thighs. “Do boys your age eat pussy?”

The question forces a blush to rise on your cheeks. You shift your weight, bending over slightly to push your ass closer to his face. A jerk of embarrassment rises in your abdomen, swirling around in your insides and shooting straight down to your aching core.

“S-sometimes.” Your word is a gasp, the feeling of him pressing his thumb against your entrance. You watch him pull his hand away, thumb glistening with your essence. He sticks his tongue out and laps at his thumb, growling when he tastes you.

“Poor baby.” He mutters, working fast to hook his digits into the sides of your panties and tear them down to follow your slacks. “Should be fuckin’ drowning in you.” His tongue darts out to lick a stripe over your cunt.

The feeling of his tongue and his words force a whimper from your lips. Your nails scratch down the wood of the door, grasping and pawing at nothing for balance. “Shit, Mark!”

He groans into your cunt, the vibrations sending pleasure shooting up your veins. “Like fuckin’ Heaven.” Mark turns his face to nip at your thighs, kissing the soft skin to chase away any ache. One of his hands snakes up your waist to hold you closer. His hand curls around your thigh and holds your legs open for himself. “Stupid little boys don’t know how to treat a woman.”

He wasn’t even talking to you– simply giving his annoyance a voice. He hadn’t been with anyone younger than him in.. well, ever. So hearing this blasphemy of boys not wanting to go down on their partners’ absolutely baffled and enraged him. It probably shouldn’t piss him off. But honestly? He didn’t give a shit. You had a slice of heaven between your legs and he wanted to worship you. Then defile you.. over, and over again.

His mouth assaults your cunt, tongue licking and flicking against your clit like a starved man. It’s messy. Your essence drips down his chin as he delves into you. Each time you moan or jolt, he’s grinning like a psychopath. Mark moans at your taste and the way you wither above him.

His hand moves from your thigh to slap your ass– a little tap to keep your focus– when you try to back yourself closer to his mouth. It’s a warning. A whimper falls from your lips, forehead lightly thudding against the door. His tongue licks all over your slit, through your folds and teases your entrance. Every swipe of his tongue felt like magic. Every wanton moan he pulled from you only egged him on.

When his fingers press into you without warning, your walls clench around his digits. His fingers are thick and he’s buried himself up to his last knuckle, ivory fingers shining with your juices every time he pumps them in and out of you. His mouth had finally paused its assault on your cunt. He takes just a second to take in a deep breath.

His head dips back between your legs to find your clit. His lips suction onto your bundle of nerves, sucking with passion. Like a man on a mission to have you screaming his name. His tongue flicks over your clit, loving the way your hips were bucking and your breathing had grown ragged.

His digits crook to the side just right, finding that magical spot inside you. Your hips grind down against his face, not even caring about the repercussions. His fingers were pounding and curling into your– effortlessly sending you to the next stratosphere. Your mouth was moving and throwing out syllables that had no real weight attached to it. With just his fingers, Mark was managing to fuck you stupid.

“Needy girl.” He mutters roughly, fingers crooking and curling. “Doin’ all that work f’me. Fuckin’ yourself on my fingers.” He chuckles, watching your hips press backwards each time his digits slid through your walls. “Makin’ a mess, Angel.”

Whimpers leave your throat, mouth dropped open because you couldn’t find the strength to close it. His words were absolutely filthy and each one shot electricity through your veins. “Feel that, angel?” He asks you, curling his fingers with precision. “Drippin’ all down my wrist.” The asshole laughs. Laughs. Your walls clench around his fingers, chasing after the pleasure he’s supplying you with. “Got me all messy– oh, look at that, it’s all down your thighs.”

The coil in your abdomen was bound to snap in an instance. Every stroke and curl of his fingers paired with faux sympathetic mocking falling from his lips pushed you closer to the edge. Your legs had started shaking. It felt like your legs were turning into jello– or maybe giving bambi a run for his money. Because you sure felt like a baby deer with the way you kept slipping down the door.

Mark’s words infected your very bloodstream, wrapping around your brain like sin washed silk. You’d never been so turned on in your life. The memories of him grumbling about having to bring you along on opps had been replaced– the vision of him on his knees being the only reverie ricocheting around in your mind.

“You always like this? Or is it just for me?” His voice was a taunt wrapped in silk. You already knew a smug smirk was turning the corners of his lips up. It’s the same smirk he adorns in interrogation rooms, knowing the suspect was digging themselves a grave.

When a broken moan slips past your lips he tuts.

“Gotta tell me, angel. This all for me?” His fingers slow to a tortuous pace, the grin evident in his voice.

“Fuck– Mark, yes, it’s for you.” Your voice is broken, panting as if you’d run a mile. Every nerve in your body was on edge– ready to explode with your impending orgasm. Being forced to say it felt degrading. Your chest tightens at the feeling. Still, despite it, his words had forced you closer to the edge.

“I know.” He says smugly, finally pounding his fingers into you the way he had been. “You’re gonna cume for me too, yeah? C’mon, angel, gush that pretty pussy all over me.” The grin plastered across his face twists his words into something that has your nails scraping against the doorframe.

His head dips, quickly finding your clit once more. He suctions his lips around it, harshly sucking it between his lips. A broken moan of his name leaves your lips. Your body shakes. White hot pleasure shoots down your veins, your hips rocking against his fingers and his mouth.

Mark is quick to hold your legs open as he feasts upon your cunt. His fingers slip from your entrance and he laps at your puffy folds. Every little touch sends your body jerking towards the door, trying to get away from his hot mouth.

He grunts, gasping your hips and pressing you right onto his face. He doesn’t stop dragging his tongue from your entrance up to your clit until you’re crying– begging him to stop.

Mark rises to his feet slowly, pressing his hips against your ass. The hardness in his jeans is aching to be let out– aching to ruin you. But Mark pauses for just a second. If he was going to hell he wanted to go out as a devout feminist.

“Listen here, angel.” He whispers in your ear, rutting and rolling his hips against you. “I need that pretty voice now.” He kisses your neck, hands holding you upright. “Need you to tell me you want this. Because I want to fuckin’ ruin you.”

Your heart stops. His voice is a rough rasp in your ear, fingers trembling against your skin from restraint.

His nose nuzzles into your neck. His actions are affectionate but every word falling from his magical lips are pure filth. “I want to ruin you for every other man, sweetheart. I want you wobbling around after I’ve fucked every thought from that pretty brain. I want to mark up every inch of your skin– show every little boy they weren’t man enough to take you home. Have you cum for them.”

Your head thumps against his shoulder, your body already heating up from his words. You wanted it, too. He could have asked you for anything and you would have agreed– jumping into the dark abyss without remorse. Your thighs were already clenching together, heat thundering under your skin.

“Because, angel.” He murmurs, hand sliding down your abdomen to cup your heat. “I want this to be just for me. I’m not gentle. I take what I want– and I need you to want it, too. Do you understand me?”

In just three seconds, you had willingly sold your soul. And the worst part was this: you didn’t want it back.

“Yes, I understand.”

divider by @viviansturns

estelle yapps some more: hello, love! you can find my other works here. my requests are currently open at the time of posting this! if you’d like, join the taglist.

taglist: @poisonivy2267 @ladykitana90 @lyarr24

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strawberrystepmom · 1 month ago

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dante x f!reader. modern gods au. dante is a vague destruction god, use your imagination. | divider thanks to @/uzmacchiato.

Through the eons, they’ve referred to him by many names.

The Crimson Guardian. The Laughing Blade. The God Who Bled.

His temple sits on the edge of two worlds, just as it has through said eons. One world is the realm of the living, and the other – a realm of darkness and destruction; fighting and fury and faces painted scarlet with blood.

Despite the fervor of war always being precariously pushed back, Dante’s temple is a place of flickering flame and deep silence, where prayers are not sung but whispered, where offerings are not gold but honesty. A place where the lost leave their grief and the brave find their peace.

Many have visited and thrown themselves at his marble feet and begged for vengeance or mercy or, well, anything. Anything a God can provide that a mere mortal cannot conjure on their own.

Despite this, few have seen the god himself.

Not like this.

Not as he is with you.

Tonight, you find him not on a throne, but seated at the foot of the altar steps, coat shrugged from his shoulders, sword leaning beside him. His eyes are closed, head tipped back, like he’s listening to some distant ache in the wind. The roar of the world he’s holding back.

There are scars along his arms — old, silvery things, divine and human all at once. Even from a distance, you’ve trained yourself to look for any new ones that need tending to.

Even a god needs a gentle hand to care for him, you decided after stumbling upon his temple more years ago than you can count. The place of worship was in utter disarray, strewn with remains of animals and perhaps human alike.

At the time you didn’t realize that this violence was meant as a gift for him. It wasn’t until he personally told you such that you realized all you were doing was preventing others from potentially receiving their blessings.

You apologized to Dante profusely at the time, explaining you only wished to keep a holy site clean, that he deserved it. That you understood the sacrifices a Destruction God must make to keep the world safe and you’d accept whatever punishment he saw fit, squaring your small, mortal shoulders and clenching your fists.

Rather than punishing you, he thanked you and invited you back whenever you’d like.

Because of this, you don’t kneel. You never have.

Instead, you walk across the stone floor barefoot, and he knows it’s you by the rhythm of your steps alone. His lips curve before his eyes even open.

“Can’t stay away from me, huh?”

Caught, you giggle. It echoes through the temple, slicing the cacophony of suffering inside his head.

“Should I?”

“Probably,” he mutters, cracking an eye open and tilting his head to look at you. “But I’m glad you don’t.”

You stop in front of him. He doesn’t rise, simply peering up at you with a gaze that has made demons tremble, now softened only for you.

“You look tired,” you say gently, reaching down to touch his face.

“I carry the weight of two realms,” he deadpans. “And someone has been keepin’ me up all night.”

You smile, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone.

He leans into it. A god, leaning into your hand like a man who’s starving for gentleness. And then his voice softens, a whisper only you can hear leaving his lips.

“They pray to me for strength. For vengeance. For victory.”

He takes your hand in his, kisses your wrist like it’s holy.

“But you never ask for anything.”

“Because I don’t need anything from you,” you murmur. “I just want you.”

That cracks something in him.

His hand tightens around yours. You see it in his eyes, the war between god and man, between protector and soul in need. Between the myth and the wartorn entity buried beneath it all.

He pulls you down gently, guiding you to straddle his lap there at the altar steps. This is where offerings are made and gods are feared. Blood and wine and gore have graced these steps, just as you are now. Yet there’s not a trace of fear in you.

Not of him. Of his violence or his cool anger or his filthy hands that have always done nothing but destroy.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers, lips brushing your jaw. “You make me weak.”

He wishes so badly that you were afraid.

“I make you human.”

He exhales shakily, hands settling at your waist, forehead pressed to yours. The heat of his divinity radiates off him like flame, but it doesn’t burn you. It never could. Because he’s never held power over you, only love.

When you kiss him, it’s not reverent. It’s real and mortal and messy and sacred. Like lightning in reverse, heaven being pulled down to earth, willingly.

“If I were ever to fall,” he murmurs between kisses, “I’d want it to be into your arms.”

“You already have,” you whisper back.

At the heart of a temple built for a god who never wanted to be one, you love a man who never needed worship, merely to be seen.

#dante x reader #dante x you #dante sparda x reader #dante sparda x you #dmc x you #dmc x reader #kendall writes #modern gods au

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felassan · 11 months ago

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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]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost

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orellazalonia · 1 month ago

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Misfire

Summary: Bucky Barnes accidentally botches a summoning ritual, leaving you, a laidback, powerful demon, permanently tethered to him and stranded in the mortal world. Despite his repeated (and often ridiculous) attempts to send you back, he slowly realizes he doesn’t actually want you gone. (Bucky Barnes x demon!reader)

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: Not going to lie, I like this, have been wanting to post this and turn it into something similar to Earth’s Mightiest Headache, exploring different one-shots/scenarios. So, hope you like it too. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You weren’t always tied to a former assassin with a vibranium arm and a perpetual scowl, but the universe or more specifically, a botched ritual in a Siberian bunker years ago, had other plans.

It started with a flicker of blood, a page torn from a corrupted HYDRA book, and a young soldier being pumped full of something more arcane than serum. One moment you were lounging in your plane of brimstone and blissful laziness, the next you were being yanked from your hammock by a summoning circle that was mostly duct tape and desperation.

You expected pain, fire, maybe war. What you got was James Buchanan Barnes blinking up at you through a haze of brainwashing and cold, his hand twitching as your eyes met. You didn’t know what he was. He didn’t know what you were. But something latched between you two that day, something binding and unshakeable. You were tethered. Not controlled, not enslaved. Just… summoned. A willing contract. He needed, you delivered. No price beyond your amusement and his begrudging tolerance.

Decades passed and the world changed, but you didn’t. You remained ageless, hellfire-forged and perpetually unimpressed, only appearing when the man muttered your name with that low, gravelly voice that always sounded like he didn’t actually believe you’d show up again.

Which is how you found yourself this evening materializing in a Brooklyn alleyway. Head-first, upside down because the summoning marks were crooked and Bucky had apparently done the entire circle while nursing a bullet wound and an attitude.

You blink slowly, lips parted with a lollipop hanging from the corner of your mouth. “Seriously?”

Bucky, crouched behind a dumpster with a gun in one hand and a half-burned spellbook in the other, gives you the driest look known to mankind. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You land gracefully if a little exaggerated with a dramatic roll of your shoulders, licking your lollipop with purpose. “I swear, if I get stuck in this dimension for another twelve hours because you couldn’t align your candles properly…”

“I didn’t have candles. I used a car headlight.”

“Of course you did.” You pause, sniff the air. “And you're bleeding again.”

A hail of gunfire cuts off your commentary. Bucky’s head ducks down, jaw tense. “There’s twelve of them. Maybe more. And at least one has something enhanced, might be gamma-based. I need backup.”

You hum, amused. “You didn’t summon a demon for backup. You summoned me because you’re bored, stubborn, and refuse to ask Sam for help.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Rolling your eyes, you flick your wrist, and shadows creep up your spine like living smoke. Horns begin to shimmer at your temples, and a faint glow pulses beneath your skin, ember-like and ancient. You’re not even trying yet. You never do.

“One of these days, Buckaroo,” You tease, conjuring your flaming whip with a snap, “You’re going to learn that sloppy summoning has consequences.”

He huffs, shaking his head as he reloads. “Like what? And, don’t call me that.”

You grin. “Like me deciding to stick around longer than you want me to.”

He freezes for a beat. Then, finally, that half-exasperated smile slips onto his face, the one he only gives you.

“You already do.”

The air crackled as you stepped forward, boots barely making contact with the ground. Smoke curled around your ankles, licking the pavement with a life of its own. The alley reeked of gasoline, gunpowder, and bad decisions. Bucky was crouched beside you, gun steady, his vibranium arm flexed and ready. You, on the other hand, looked like you were headed to brunch.

“Right,” You drawled, stretching your neck with a soft crack. “Let’s ruin some asshole’s night.”

A bullet zipped through the air. You caught it lazily between two fingers and held it up for Bucky to see.

“See? Rude.”

Then, you flicked the bullet back but not with force or aim. Just casual indifference. It whistled through the alley and embedded itself in a tire, exploding the getaway car and sending two mercenaries flying.

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Still a show off, huh?”

“I live to impress you,” You said flatly. “Truly. It’s the fire in my hellish heart.”

Another wave of attackers moved in, and you rolled your shoulders, flames licking your fingertips now. You raised your hand and murmured something ancient and absolutely unnecessary, but damn if it didn’t sound good. The shadows rose behind you, a twisted mirror of your silhouette with horns like daggers and a grin too wide.

You let it lunge forward.

The screams started almost immediately.

You didn’t watch. You leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed, licking your lollipop again. “So… who were these guys? Discount HYDRA?”

“Black-market bio-enhancers. Trying to harvest my blood for the serum or something again,” Bucky muttered as he aimed and fired cleanly into a crate of stolen weapons, blowing it apart with a boom. “Same old.”

“Wow. You get all the fun gigs.”

The shadow beast tore through three more men before slithering back into your chest like smoke curling into a bottle. You burped, loud and unapologetic.

“Charming,” Bucky said without looking at you.

“I try.”

As the last guy standing, a hulking brute with glowing green veins and a face like a blender accident, charged, Bucky stepped forward to intercept. But you held out a hand.

“I’ve got this one. You’ll break a hip.”

“I’m over a hundred years old.”

“And I’m over nine hundred. Sit down, whippersnapper.”

Before he could reply, you flicked your wrist. A sigil flared under the brute’s feet, and suddenly he was screaming about worms crawling through his brain and snakes in his shoes. You made a mental note to clean up the hallucination spell later… or not. Bucky stepped over him when he dropped like a sack of terror.

“Done?”

You dusted off your sleeves. “Darling, I was barely awake for that.”

Then you clapped once, then twice. The air didn’t shift. The circle beneath your feet didn’t flare back to life. Your tether didn’t pull you back to your plane.

“Huh,” You said.

Bucky turned slowly toward you. “What?”

You turned a slow, deliberate circle in place. “You really did smudge the runes, didn’t you?”

“I was bleeding on the floor!”

“Well now I’m stuck here.”

“How long?”

“Dunno. Could be twelve hours. Could be… forever.”

Bucky’s face did a slow twitch, that tick in his jaw flexing just a bit. “You’re telling me I summoned you wrong and now you’re just… living here?”

You grinned, wide and wicked. “Looks like it.”

A long, painful silence passed between you.

“So,” You said cheerfully, “what’s for dinner?”

Bucky had begrudgingly brought you back to his apartment, not wanting some creature from hell roaming the streets. Still, his place was quiet. Too quiet.

You stepped inside like you owned the place because, technically, at the moment, you did. The summoning mishap hadn’t just anchored you to the mortal realm; it had linked you to him. Wherever he was, you were. Until the tether corrected itself or until someone, somewhere, realigned the ritual’s symbols with fresh blood and an offering from a creature rarer than a virgin in Brooklyn.

In the meantime… he had a couch. And a mini-fridge. You could make it work.

You flicked on the lights, grinning when the bulbs sparked and then dimmed to a soft red hue. Much better. Cozy. Sultry. Slightly ominous. Honestly, you were proud.

Behind you, Bucky entered like a man walking into a trap. His boots hit the floor heavy, like he was bracing for chaos.

“I’m not sleeping in the same bed as you,” He said flatly, dropping his gear by the door.

You gave him a long, unimpressed look over your shoulder. “Darling, if I wanted your bed, I’d already be in it, probably upside down and lighting candles shaped like your face.”

He made a sound, part snort, part groan and walked past you toward the kitchen.

You helped yourself to his couch, dramatically collapsing backward with your boots still on and your arm draped over your eyes. “You should really invest in a fainting chaise. Or a coffin. Just something with character.”

“I live here, not haunt it.”

“That explains the IKEA furniture.”

He returned with a glass of water and eyed you carefully before tossing you a throw blanket. You caught it with a lazy flick of your tail, yes, your tail, which had recently reappeared now that you were in his domain long enough to let your guard down. It swayed lazily behind you like a bored cat’s.

“Are you always like this?” He asked, finally sitting in the armchair across from you.

You cracked open one eye. “Amazing? Gorgeous? Irresistible?”

“I was going to say annoying.”

You flashed your teeth. “Only to people who don’t drink enough coffee.”

He gave you a long, lingering look. Not distrustful. Just… weighing. Measuring. Then he leaned back, rested his head on the cushion, and finally allowed himself to exhale.

Silence settled between you in a comfortable, yet strange way.

Until the next morning.

Bucky awoke to the smell of eggs, cinnamon, and… sulfur?

He sat up, blinking. For one blessed moment, he thought it was a dream. That he’d hallucinated the summoning gone wrong. That he hadn’t found you were floating two inches off the floor in his kitchen wearing one of his hoodies and frying eggs over a small, hovering fireball.

“Morning, soldier,” You said without looking, tail flicking while you flipped an omelet midair.

He groaned, running a hand over his face. “You can’t just- what are you wearing?”

“You left me unsupervised. This hoodie is now mine. I’ve bonded with it.”

You passed him a plate like this was normal. Like you hadn’t just turned his microwave into a portal that whined every time it ticked down a second.

He took the food. Sat down. Stared at it.

“…You poisoned this, didn’t you?”

You sipped from a coffee mug that said WORLD’S #1 PROBLEM. “No, but I did enchant it. Every bite improves your sarcasm by 5%.”

He hesitated, then ate it anyway.

“…This is actually good.”

“Food by a demon. Duh.”

From there, it had only been three days since your magical mishap of a summoning, but for Bucky, it felt like three months. You were still there, living in his apartment like it was your damn vacation home in the mortal realm. You’d rearranged the knives ("for feng shui"), filled his bathtub with lava for “ritual skincare,” and replaced every mirror with ones that whispered compliments. (He only noticed that last one when he looked into the bathroom mirror and it said, “Nice ass, soldier.”)

This morning, Bucky woke up to the scent of coffee and a Latin chant being sung by a chorus of crows outside his window.

He sat up fast. “No.”

You were at the kitchen counter again, spinning a pen with your fingers, your legs up on the table. You were humming something eerie. The pen was levitating. The mug next to you floated lazily midair, steam curling from it in the shape of little hearts. You grinned when you saw him.

“Morning, sunshine. Did you know your neighbor is part-witch? She’s been feeding the crows again.”

He walked past you and downed half the coffee straight from the pot. “I’m sending you back today.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Sure you are.”

“No, I’m serious this time.”

“You said that yesterday. And the day before.”

He gave you a flat look. “You possessed my Roomba.”

“It was lonely.”

“You made it sing.”

“It needed a purpose.”

“I caught it offering tribute to you with screws it pulled out of my wall.”

You shrugged. “Devotion. I’m an icon.”

He ran a hand down his face and dropped into his chair. “Okay. New plan. We’re doing this my way now.”

You perked up. “Ooh. A ritual? Incantations? Should I get the chalk?”

He didn’t answer. An hour later, you were sitting cross-legged in the middle of his living room while Bucky flipped through an old HYDRA spellbook like it was a malfunctioning IKEA manual.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” You said cheerfully, inspecting your claws.

“I’m improvising.”

“Your last improvisation got me trapped here.”

“Exactly.”

You raised a brow. “Are you trying to undo a summoning… with a reversal spell written in blood, translated through Soviet tech runes, and halfway burned through at the edges?”

“Yes.”

You blinked. “Hot.”

He glared.

With an annoyed grunt, Bucky began drawing the circle again. You watched, amused, as he did his best to align the runes correctly this time. He even lit some candles, actual candles, not headlamps or car headlights, and managed to keep from bleeding on the floor this time.

You were genuinely impressed.

That is, until he finished the final line and shouted, “Begone!”

You didn’t even twitch. You sipped your coffee. “Wow. Harsh.”

The circle flared once… then fizzled out with a sad little pop.

A single puff of smoke rose. A goat sneezed into existence in the corner.

“…Did you summon a goat?” You asked mildly amused.

Bucky stared at it, face blank. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

The goat stared back.

You sipped again. “You need help.”

“I’m not asking you.”

“Good, I wasn’t offering.”

He stood and pointed a firm, accusatory finger. “I will get this right.”

“I believe in you,” You said sweetly. “But if you mess up again, there’s a 50% chance I become permanently anchored to your soul and start aging with you.”

Bucky froze.

You grinned.

“Better hurry, soldier.”

The next time Bucky tried to banish you, he didn’t do it alone.

He stood in the middle of the Sanctum Sanctorum’s foyer, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching you twirl on the edge of the ancient rug like it was a dance floor. You were humming a tune that definitely hadn’t been heard in this realm since the fall of Babylon, and your tail was flicking in time with the beat. The Sorcerer Supreme was not impressed.

Stephen Strange raised a brow. “You’re sure you want me to banish them?”

“Yes,” Bucky said through clenched teeth.

You pouted from across the room, holding a glowing snow globe filled with miniature screaming souls you’d found on a shelf. “Banishing sounds so cold. Why not just ask me to leave?”

“Because you won’t.”

You gave a little shrug. “I go where I’m wanted.”

“You’re not.”

You smiled. “Yet here I am.”

Strange sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know this won’t be easy, Barnes. Whatever summoned them tied them to you. It wasn’t just a summoning spell, it was a binding. Old magic. Pre-human, even. You’d need a cleansing ritual, a blood sacrifice, and someone with actual consent from the demon to undo it.”

Bucky looked at you.

You smiled wider and sipped your milkshake you materialized from God knows where. “Nope.”

He blinked. “What do you mean ‘nope’?”

“No consent.” You grinned. “I like Earth. I like your couch. I like your goat. And, let’s be honest, deep down? You like me too.”

“I do not.”

“You made me pancakes.”

“I accidentally made too much batter.”

“You poured mine in the shape of a heart.”

Strange looked between the two of you, clearly rethinking his entire career. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Barnes, you have two options: perform the blood-cleansing ceremony yourself, or just… learn to live with it.”

Bucky was already grabbing the grimoire off the table, eyes narrowed. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

Back at the apartment, you were lounging upside down on the couch again, feet hanging over the back, reading a magazine you’d conjured yourself.

Bucky stomped in with purpose. “I need your blood.”

You flipped a page. “Buy me dinner first.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You set the magazine down, tail curling lazily across the armrest. “You think getting rid of me will fix something? What, you afraid I’ll see too much? Get under your skin?”

“I don’t need a demon watching me shower and judging my coffee choices.”

You smirked. “I’ve seen worse. I was summoned to Nero’s bathhouse once. And honestly, your coffee isn’t bad. You could add nutmeg, though.”

He groaned and turned away, but he didn’t say anything else. He just stood there for a long moment, looking at the rune-drenched book in his hands, watching the way your fire didn’t burn his carpet and your presence didn’t wreck his walls.

You were a storm, yes. But a strangely gentle one.

Finally, he muttered, “…You really don’t want to go back?”

You rolled onto your stomach and looked at him properly. The grin dropped, just a little. Your voice was quieter. “Back there, I’m a tool, weapons. Some monster to be bartered and used. Here, I’m… just me.”

He met your eyes, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“Then maybe,” He said slowly with a sigh, like the words weighed more than his metal arm, “You don’t have to go.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel x reader #bucky barnes fic #marvel fic #bucky x you #demon!reader

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itmeblog · 1 year ago

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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

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illyanarasputinfan · 1 year ago

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Peach Momoko

#Magik #Illyana Rasputin #Illyana Rasputina #X-Men #Itsuki #Demon Wars #Demon Wars: Down In Flames #Demon Wars: Scarlet Sin #Demon Wars: Shield Of Justice #Marvel #Marvel Comics #Peach Momoko #Comics #Comic Books #Oni

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minoulapin · 26 days ago

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Chapter Five: The Softest Kind of Trap - Between Giving & Taking - Y. JW

Pairing: Demon!Jungwon x Angel!FReader

Genre: Forbidden Love, Fantasy, Romance, Mystery

Wc: 6.3k

Tw: The characters and their actions are purely fictional and do not reflect the real-life personalities of the individuals they are inspired by.

Synopsis: A love unspoken, a fate unwritten, An angel and demon, forever forbidden. Bound by the laws of heaven and hell, A story of longing they dare not tell. At the Academy of the Occult, angels and demons coexist under a fragile truce. But when a celestial heir is assassinated, war looms, secrets unravel, and forbidden desires ignite. In a world where their love is a crime, will they defy fate or be consumed by it?

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who’s been patiently waiting. I’ve been working really hard behind the scenes on the development of this story, plot, lore, character arcs, everything. This chapter was a big one, emotionally and structurally, so it took longer than expected and I really hope it won’t disappoint. To those of you who were following before: I hope you’ll continue reading. And to all the new readers, welcome! I’m so happy you’re here! So buckle up. Let’s get back into it. -Joe

Tag list: open!! @stormy1408 @miraeluv @indigoez @riribelle @iifrui @m3l4nchol @bamguetismee @w1dyvnn @heesbbygurl @starsmew @loverbyfate (Comment to be added)

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER

In Noctris, the sky had no stars.

Not because they were hidden, but because the heavens had long since turned their gaze elsewhere.

It wasn’t a city. Or a territory. Or even a court.

It was a wound in the cliffside of the demon realm. A fortress carved into obsidian, buried above the hollowing wastes where nothing grew, and even light refused to echo.

Something else moved there.

Not power in the way the celestial order wielded it. Not flame like the infernal Courts breathed.

Noctris pulsed with a force that was older. Colder. Watching. It did not shimmer. It did not burn. It waited.

The rest of the infernal realm didn’t speak of it directly. They called it myth. A leftover structure from the first age. A place where the old rules were still obeyed in absolute silence.

But Noctris was not a relic.

It was design. Brutal, precise design. And Jungwon had been created by it.

He was not born. None of them were.

Immortal beings did not procreate. They did not age. They did not pass childhood stories down through bloodlines or celebrate first steps.

They were forged, summoned into existence with purpose, sculpted into function, calibrated to fit the needs of a realm that fed on structure and collapse in equal measure.

But Noctris didn’t shape its sentinels the way the Courts did. Where other regions birthed creatures of hunger and instinct, Noctris stripped those things away. Where the Courts encouraged ambition, Noctris punished it. Individuality was deviation. Deviation was error. Error did not survive.

Jungwon had not spoken his first word.

He had been assigned it.

Not a name. A designation.

He had no memories of origin. No memory of light. Only corridors lined with runes and rules.

Walls that whispered if you were alone too long.

A voice that repeated the doctrine until it bled into thought.

Emotion was unnecessary.

Desire was wasteful.

Pain was instructional.

There were no mentors. No lessons delivered with care. You learned by watching those who failed disappear.

Discipline was absolute.

Not enforced with rage, but with Precision. Mistake once, correct. Mistake twice, reformat. Mistake three times, and you were returned to the source.

Noctris demanded purity, not of soul, but of logic. Its people didn’t pray. They didn’t seek pleasure. They served structure. The fortress sat at the edge of reason and ruin, and some believed it was built precisely because of that.

Because the veil between realms thinned there.

And those who weren’t trained to be hollow heard things that was never meant to survive.

Jungwon never questioned that. But still, There had always been something.

Some thrum beneath the stone. A pull in the gut.

Something in the pit of his chest that never quite stayed quiet.

He crushed it. Over and over.

The way they taught him to.

And yet, even now, it stirred.

When they sent him to the Academy, they didn’t give him a reason.

They never did.

He received a directive. Exit point. Coordinates.

Purpose: integration and observation. He could have been twenty centuries old, or perhaps twenty days. It made no difference.

Time didn’t pass in Noctris, it accumulated like pressure. Time, like emotion, was inefficient.

He didn’t arrive at the Academy like the others, claimed by noble beings or born from the Courts’ rituals. He appeared at the edge of campus one dawn, silent and alone, in a uniform marked only with a seal no one recognized.

He brought nothing.

No weapons. No heritage.

Just a presence that made people flinch before they understood why.

The other demons didn’t ask questions, not out loud. But he saw it in their eyes. He didn’t speak like them. Didn’t move like them.Didn’t posture or provoke. Didn’t stake claims or threaten violence.

And yet—

When he spoke, they quieted. Not because he demanded it. But because stillness, when wielded properly, was louder than fury.

They feared him.

Because they could not predict him. Because Jungwon didn’t play by the rules they understood. He didn’t want power. Didn’t crave attention. And that terrified them more than anything.

Because power could be manipulated.

But purpose? Purpose couldn’t be bribed.

He stayed silent.

Watched.

Learned the systems of the Academy.

The celestial order.

The cracks in their dome of so-called peace.

The shifting loyalties among the Courts.

The weak points in every ward, every bond, every lie.

He didn’t study the Academy.

He dissected it.

At first, that was enough.

Until lately. Lately, something had changed.

A shift in rhythm. A note out of key.

An anomaly. It started as a trace, an energy he couldn’t place. Wild. Unstable.

Then it stepped closer. Took shape. Spoke without fear. And when it looked him in the eye like it knew him, he realized he wanted to know it back.

And worse, It kept showing up.

And Jungwon… kept letting it.

He told himself it was necessary.

That unpredictability required surveillance.

But that wasn’t true. Not anymore.

He could feel it, the fracture forming inside him.

The way his thoughts lingered too long on someone else’s voice.

The way his eyes drifted toward chaos instead of away from it.

He hadn’t been built for this.

Not for deviation.

Not for… desire.

He didn’t say her name.

Didn’t need to.

Y/n’s presence was everywhere now.

Not because she was loud, But because something about her felt wrong.

Wrong in a way he didn’t understand.

Wrong in a way he recognized.

Like the hum of something ancient pressing against the fabric of the world.

He didn’t know why he felt the need to protect her.

To observe. To follow.

But he did.

Because deep in his bones, there was something she stirred.

And now. Now this anomaly had him moving through empty halls in the middle of the night, breaking protocol, crossing wards, chasing rumors.

Toward a place he knew better than to tread.

The old ruins beneath the east wing.

The library’s foundation.

A zone even most guards avoided.

He’d gone to Heeseung for answers.

What he got was a smirk.

“She asked about answers,” Heeseung had said.

“So I pointed her to where all the questions go eventually.”

It wasn’t just mockery.

It was cruelty.

Heeseung had sent her down there to be caught. Or worse.

And Jungwon,

Jungwon was already moving.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan.

He ran.

Because instinct was dangerous.

But silence?

Silence was worse.

Y/n had told herself it was just to prove him wrong.

That Heeseung’s words hadn’t gotten under her skin. That she didn’t care what he meant when he told her, “Try looking beneath the library.”

But she did.

Because there was something in the way he said it. A challenge. A trap. And worse, something she couldn’t quite ignore. Curiosity had always been her worst instinct. And tonight, it had teeth.

Now it was past midnight, and she stood beneath the east wing, the stone slick with moss, her blouse clinging to her arms in the chill. Her jacket was still at Heeseung’s. Her preppy doll shoes, scuffed and soaked, slipped slightly as she crouched and slid through the old service grate tucked beneath the courtyard steps.

She didn’t know what she was expecting. Only that she had to see for herself.

The descent wasn’t marked. No torches. No signs. Just a slope hidden behind the bones of the Academy, a narrow chute, sharp and uneven, carved deep into the earth like a secret no one wanted to remember.

She summoned a dim orb of light and muttered under her breath,

“Here’s to making bad decisions.”

The joke felt thin in her mouth.

The stone was damp. Cold. Heavy with something she couldn’t name.

But she didn’t stop. She had no idea how far she was beneath the surface when the walls began to change.

It started small, thin carvings scraped into the rock. Then faded paint. Then full designs. The deeper she went, the more complex they became. Until the tunnel widened suddenly, spilling her into a vast chamber, and her breath caught in her throat.

The walls were covered.

Murals stretched across every surface, layered in flaking pigment and ashen ink. Five robed figures repeated over and over, faceless and massive, each etched into circles of fire, water, smoke, light. Some burned. Some bowed. Some crowned. Some broken.

She stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning every curve.

“…What the hell is this?”

She reached toward one of the figures, then stopped short.

The paint wasn’t just old. It felt… tampered with. Like something had been added, erased, added again. Like the truth was buried beneath it.

And those five—

They weren’t symbols.

They were watching.

She pulled back.

And kept moving.

The halls below the library didn’t match the world above. No symmetry. No logic. Just jagged turns and splintered thresholds, like the deeper she went, the less it was meant to be found.

“This isn’t a vault,” she whispered. “It’s a maze.”

Her light quivered as she entered the next room, and froze.

A door.

Perfectly square. Seamless. Set into the stone like it had grown there. No handle. No hinge. Just a faint circle at the center, glowing softly beneath her presence.

And a window.

Narrow. Just wide enough to peer through. She stepped forward, heart climbing into her throat.

Inside, a study. Personal. Intimate.

A worn desk. Shelves crammed with parchment. An oil lantern still flickering like someone had left in a hurry. Papers in crooked stacks. A journal left open at the corner. A dark cloak hung over the back of the chair.

She pressed her fingers to the glass. Breath fogged the pane.

“Is this… a professor’s room?”

No. Not down here. No one was supposed to come down here.

Her gaze dropped to the desk again.

A mark was burned into the wood. Circular. Interwoven. She didn’t recognize it, but something about it pulled at her chest like a string buried under her skin.

Someone had lived in this space.

She looked down at the glowing circle etched in the door and reached for it. A soft pulse answered her touch, like a heartbeat, and she pushed celestial energy forward.

It disappeared. Gone.

No recoil. No pushback. No warning.

Just… nothing.

Y/n gasped, stumbling back a step.

“What the fuck”

She tried again. Harder. Her light flickered. Her power flickered. But nothing happened.

Her energy wouldn’t hold here. Wouldn’t settle. It thinned the longer she stayed, like this place didn’t just resist her, it refused her. Like whatever force lived in these walls wasn’t built to repel angels.

It was built to silence them.

She turned back to the room beyond the window. To the journal. The cloak. The pages still waiting on the desk.

“I need to get in there.”

She didn’t mean to say it out loud. But the moment it left her mouth, she knew it was true.

She didn’t know why, but something in her bones did.

Then—

Footsteps.

Close.

Fast.

Shit.

She extinguished her light, heart spiking.

And listened.

“I’m telling you, it came from this way”

“Should’ve let him handle it”

“No, check the chamber. If someone’s down here”

Y/n turned, blood rushing in her ears.

She ran.

Back through the hallway, past the cracked murals and faceless watchers.

Her foot caught on a jagged edge of stone.

She hit the ground hard. Pain shot through her leg. Her sock tore along the edge of the tile, blood beading at her knee.

No time.

Voices were closer now.

“Light! There, they’re moving!”

She scrambled to her feet. Turned left, wrong.

Dead end.

Stone wall. Solid. Cold.

She spun back around, breath trembling. Nowhere left to go.

She raised her fists anyway, ready to bluff, lie, swing. But just before the guards turned the corner.

A hand grabbed her.

An arm pulled tight around her waist.

A palm clamped over her mouth.

She was yanked backward, into a chest, a body.

And then the world changed.

Not darkness. Not quite.

The space around her thickened like fog. A veil of smoke, soft and dense, curled over her vision. She could see everything, torchlight, stone, the silver flash of armor as the guards passed, but none of it could see her back. The world outside moved like a painting behind glass.

She panicked. She kicked, flailed, elbowed. She thought she’d been caught, dragged into the shadows by a guard or something worse. Her breathing hitched, heartbeat a wild thrum in her throat.

“Stop moving,” a voice murmured, low, steady, right against her ear.

She froze. Recognition slammed into her chest. Jungwon.

She twisted her head slightly, eyes wide. He met her gaze, barely visible through the darkness, but the look in his eyes stopped her cold. Not threatening. But sharp. Unsettled. Like seeing her afraid made something inside him go rigid.

She realized suddenly she couldn’t move, not because of magic, but because of him.

His arm was locked around her waist, the other hand pressed firm over her mouth. His grip was iron, tight, inescapable, and her entire body was pinned flush against his.

Her panic curled tighter.

She felt everything.

His breath on her neck.

His chest rising slow against her back.

His fingers, warm and calloused, steady over her lips. The arm around her ribs, solid and unrelenting.

She squirmed again, unsure why, unsure whether to fight or fall apart, but he didn’t react. Didn’t squeeze tighter. Didn’t whisper reassurances.

He just… held her.

And somehow… that was worse.

The guards’ boots thundered closer. She jolted instinctively, pressing closer to Jungwon, her shoulder blades digging into the firm line of his chest.

“They won’t see us,” he breathed against her skin.

She stopped breathing.

The tension in his body wasn’t nervousness, it was poised. Like he’d already considered every possible threat, every angle of escape. He didn’t tremble. He pulsed, like a wire drawn too tight.

The guards slowed. One paused for a short moment, the beam of their torch passing inches from Y/n’s face before passing her.

Y/n’s lungs burned.

Then—

Jungwon shifted.

Gently, deliberately, he turned her to face him.

She blinked up, startled, still caged in smoke. The veil of shadows still held, thick and heavy like midnight rain. He looked at her, expression unreadable, and then… nodded. A small, silent gesture.

Trust me.

She didn’t know why, but she did.

He dropped the hand from her mouth and raised a finger to his lips. Don’t speak.

And then, before she could question it, he scooped her up.

Fast. Fluid.

He’d moved too fast, too smoothly. Before she could react, her arms had looped around his neck. Her legs, like instinct, wrapped around his hips. His hands found purchase: one beneath her thighs, the other between her shoulder blades, cradling her spine.

Her face flushed. She wasn’t used to being touched. Especially not like this.

His hands were… strong. One under her bare thigh, where her sock had ripped. Skin against skin. The other curved across her back with steady, almost reverent pressure. Not possessive. Not crude. Just there, like he knew exactly how to hold her, and exactly where.

Y/n had never been held like that.

She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, instinct again, desperate to hide. The scent of him hit her all at once: smoke, winter air, something sharp and grounding like cold iron.

She didn’t mean to notice how warm he was.

But she did.

Jungwon’s jaw clenched as he felt her shiver into his neck. He didn’t move his head. Didn’t falter in his steps. But something about the way she clung to him, it lit a fuse under his skin.

He moved quietly, each step calculated, his bootfalls silent on the stone.

She tried to distract herself. Tried to study the murals again, the ash-marked sigils she could now see from over his shoulder.

But it was so hard to focus with his hand against her thigh, fingertips burning where they met skin. He hadn’t meant to touch her like that. He was just trying to hold her properly, to carry her without dropping her.

And yet—

Her stomach tightened. Her thoughts scattered.

She hated that she noticed.

She hated him for making her notice.

Desire wasn’t something she was supposed to feel. Not like this. Not so sudden. Not so raw.

But Jungwon’s grip never faltered.

And neither did her heart.

They were nearly clear of the corridor.

Almost safe.

Until she turned her head.

The sealed study loomed behind them. Just past Jungwon’s shoulder, she caught the glint of glass. The desk. The papers. That journal.

Her body shifted, subtle at first. A twist of her shoulders. A pull of momentum.

Jungwon felt it instantly.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low and sharp.

She moved again.

A hand slipping free. Her torso angling back toward the chamber.

“Y/n” His voice faltered, then hardened. “Stop.”

She didn’t.

She was fighting now. Quietly. Desperately.

Trying to stretch toward the door, reach anything, claw her way back if she had to.

His arms locked tighter. One around her waist, the other catching her wrist mid-reach.

She writhed, legs tightening instinctively around his hips for leverage.

He nearly lost his grip.

“Stop.” The word hissed out between clenched teeth.

Another twist of her body. Another reckless pull.

His grip changed.

Not gentle.

Commanding.

One hand shot beneath her thigh, higher this time, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her inner leg, anchoring her tighter around his hips like he couldn’t risk her slipping. The other arm cut across her ribs in a single, brutal motion, yanking her chest into him with a force that forced the air from her lungs.

The sound escaped before she could stop it.

She gasped.

Sharp. Uncontrolled.

The sound was barely audible, but in the silence of the chamber, it was a gunshot.

A guard’s head snapped toward them.

“There!”

Shit.

Jungwon cursed. “Good job.”

Then he ran.

She clung tighter, arms locked around his neck, fingers gripping the collar of his shirt like a lifeline. Her legs cinched instinctively around his waist, her knees squeezing with every jolt. The veil of smoke trailed behind them like a second shadow, casting the world into blurred motion.

His speed was unreal.

Every step thundered through her, precise, powerful, controlled. She could feel the muscles in his back shifting, every movement efficient and deliberate, like his body was made for this kind of escape. Her breath hitched with the rhythm of his strides.

He didn’t make a sound. Not a grunt. Not a breath too loud. Just the low rush of air and the soft thud of his boots on stone.

He’s fast. Too fast.

And she hated how impressed she was.

And she hated that she noticed.

Hated the way her body had stopped fighting him. Hated the heat she felt where his hands still gripped her, like he was branded into her skin.

They burst through the hidden passage reached the exit.

Out past the broken service gate, past the moss-slick stairs, the rusted grate. The night air hit her like a slap, cold, open, sharp with dew. But Jungwon didn’t stop.

He carried her across the grounds like she weighed nothing.

Like she belonged there. In his arms.

Only when they reached the unmarked fringe between the celestial and infernal dormitories, where the wards thinned and the curfew faltered, did he finally slow.

The shadows peeled back. The veil dispersed.

But he still didn’t let go.

“We’re clear,” she said, trying to wriggle free.

He didn’t respond.

“Put me down,” she snapped.

Nothing.

She shoved at his shoulder. “I said—”

Then, finally, he lowered her. Not gently. Not harshly. Just… controlled.

Y/n pushed off his chest the moment her feet hit the ground.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Jungwon stood exactly where she’d left him. Calm. Still. Composed. Like he hadn’t just carried her in complete darkness across half the ruin beneath the Academy.

Like his arms hadn’t been wrapped around her body a second ago.

“You were about to get caught.”

“No shit,” she snapped. “You followed me?”

Silence.

That was her answer.

She stormed toward him, cheeks flushed. “Why? So you could be a good soldier and report back to your Court? Drag me off like some little celestial trophy?”

“If I were a soldier,” Jungwon said evenly, “you’d already be in chains.”

Her magic sparked in protest, golden and jagged.

He stepped forward, slow and measured. “Don’t mistake silence for submission.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I didn’t offer it,” he said. “I did it. Because someone had to.”

Her fury burned hotter. “I don’t need saving”

“You needed sense,” he cut in. “You were set up. Heeseung sent you down there for a reason, and you walked straight into it.”

She glared. “That doesn’t explain how you knew.”

No answer.

“What, you’re gonna tell me it was just a coincidence?” she pushed. “That you were conveniently right there again?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said.

“Then what do you believe in, huh?” Her voice rose. “That I’m some pathetic little angel wandering into traps for fun? Needing your permission to exist?”

“No,” Jungwon said. His voice didn’t rise. “I believe you’re looking for answers. And with the way you operate”

He looked at her, dead-on.

“It won’t be long before they catch you. And erase you.”

She went still.

Jungwon stepped past her, eyes scanning the shadows. “Whatever you saw down there… they don’t want it found.”

“Oh, really? Thanks for the memo.”

He turned to her again.

“Stop acting like a brat.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You keep treating this like a game,” he said. “Like you’re invincible. You’re not.”

She crossed her arms. “Wow. Thanks, my knight in shining armor. What would you like in return for your heroic gesture? Eternal gratitude? A medal?”

“I want you to stop setting yourself on fire just to feel the heat,” he snapped.

“And I want to know why you trusted Heeseung in the first place. I told you, you can’t handle him.”

“I can handle Heeseung,” she growled.

He stared at her.

His eyes didn’t move. “That’s exactly what he wants you to think.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Because underneath all her anger… was the gnawing truth that he might be right.

She turned away. “This doesn’t mean you get to follow me around.”

“You’re the one throwing yourself into death traps.”

“I don’t need your commentary.”

He didn’t flinch. “I won’t always pull you out.”

“Good,” she shot back. “I don’t want you to.”

But neither of them moved. The air between them was heavy, electric. Like something hadn’t finished unraveling.

“Stay out of my way,” she whispered.

Jungwon’s jaw tensed. “That’ll only depend on you.”

He turned and walked away.

Y/n stood there, still burning.

Still shaking.

And alone.

She didn’t move for a long time. Then, slowly, she walked back toward the dorms.

She opened the door quietly, praying Jake would be asleep.

He wasn’t.

Jake was pacing the dorm. And froze the moment she stepped inside. His head snapped up the second she stepped in. His blond hair was a mess, sticking up in uneven angles, like he’d been dragging his hands through it over and over. His Academy sleep shirt clung to his chest, wrinkled and slightly damp with sweat. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in hours, though it couldn’t have been more than one.

“Y/n!” he breathed. “Where the hell were you?”

His voice cracked. Not from anger. From relief.

But then he really saw her.

His expression twisted.

But then his gaze dropped lower, and his whole expression changed.

Her blouse was wrinkled, three buttons undone. Her Academy tie was gone. Her hair was all messy, golden strands sticking to her face. One sock was ripped to her knee, blood visible beneath the fabric. Her jacket was still at Heeseung’s. Her shoes were muddy. And dirt smeared across her sleeves like she’d clawed her way out of a grave.

Jake’s breath hitched. He took a step forward. “What happened to you?”

She didn’t answer right away. She was still catching her breath, though not from running. The adrenaline had burned out. What remained was a kind of hollow heat. Embarrassment. Exhaustion. The weight of nearly getting caught. The weight of almost dying.

Her limbs felt heavy, skin too warm, too tight. She could still feel the press of Jungwon’s hands on her, around her waist, under her thigh. She hadn’t noticed the bruises until now. Hadn’t realized she was shaking until she tried to speak.

“It’s nothing,” she muttered. “I—I went to see Heeseung.”

Jake froze.

Something in him snapped, quietly, but fast. A flicker across his face. Hurt, disbelief. Fury.

“You—” he choked. “You went to—? Are you fucking serious?”

“I needed answers.”

His voice rose. “So you slept with him?”

“What?! No!”

“You’re half undressed”

Jake stepped back like she’d slapped him. “Y/n, look at you!”

“I punched him, Jake!” she snapped. “He unbuttoned my shirt, and I punched him!”

Jake blinked. His mouth opened like he was about to say something, then shut again.

“He had information,” she went on, voice tighter now. “He said I was looking in the wrong place. Told me to check beneath the library.”

Jake stared. “So… you did?”

Y/n’s silence was the only answer.

He let out a breath. Ran a hand through his hair again. “Are you insane?”

“There was something down there,” she said. “A whole network of rooms. Symbols. Murals. I found a locked study filled with books, Jake, it was alive. Like the air inside it was breathing.”

“I almost found something,” she fired back. “If the guards hadn’t shown up—”

His jaw clenched. “You almost got caught.”

She met his gaze evenly. “It doesn’t matter.”

Jake swore. “You could’ve been arrested. You could’ve been erased.”

“I wasn’t.”

“But you could’ve been.”

“I made it out,” she said. “Barely.”

His brows pulled. “Then how did you get out?”

Her lips parted. Closed. She looked away.

Jake’s eyes narrowed.

“Y/n.”

“I ran.”

He stepped closer. “And?”

She met his gaze, refusing to blink. “And nothing. I ran. I made it out.”

“You’re a decent liar,” he muttered. “But not that good.”

She didn’t flinch.

Jake stared for a long moment, then exhaled. He looked exhausted again, maybe even hurt, but he said nothing more.

He turned, pacing again, fingers pulling at the roots of his hair.

Y/n didn’t move. Her head was still spinning. Her skin still burned in the places Jungwon had held her, where his breath had grazed her neck, where his hand had curled under her thigh. The feeling hadn’t left. It clung to her like heat. Like smoke.

And she hated that part of her didn’t want it gone.

She crossed to her bed slowly, peeling off what was left of her socks and collapsing against the mattress.

Jake didn’t speak again.

He sat on the edge of his own bed, staring at the floor. Elbows to knees. Hands slack. Not angry. Just… distant. And thinking.

Suspicion was colder than worry. Quieter. And harder to fight. She could feel it settle between them, final and thick. He didn’t know what she was hiding. But he knew one thing for sure, She was in too deep.

By morning, the bruises hadn’t even settled yet, on her body, or her thoughts.

She moved through the Academy like a ghost. Kept her head down. Avoided Jake during breakfast. Let herself vanish into the pale blur of celestial uniforms and dim hallway light. She hadn’t looked in a mirror, didn’t need to. The ache in her muscles and the hum in her bones told her enough.

The plan was simple: avoid Heeseung. And if possible, Jungwon too.

But like everything lately, that plan shattered quickly.

She spotted him leaning back against a warm stone slab near the ruins of the old observatory. The tower had collapsed over a decade ago, half swallowed by vines and shadow. Celestials avoided it. Too close to the Infernal border. Too ruined. Too forgotten.

Which made it the perfect place for Heeseung.

He was already watching her. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… waiting.

“Well,” he said, stretching his legs. “You’re not dead.”

She slowed. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

“You look disappointed.”

He sat up, brushing dust from his sleeves. “Not disappointed. Curious.”

She didn’t answer.

“You found it, didn’t you?” he went on. “The chambers beneath.”

She stared at him, silent. He stood, steps casual as he approached. “I didn’t think you’d go so quickly. Though I should’ve known, you’re the type who doesn’t let a dare rot long.”

“Wasn’t a dare,” she muttered. “It was bait.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes the difference is just in the reaction.”

“You set me up.”

“I pointed,” he said. “You walked.”

Y/n’s jaw tensed. “I could’ve been caught.”

“You almost were,” Heeseung replied. “Not exactly graceful on the way out.”

The words hit low. She bit the inside of her cheek.

Heeseung took one more step, close enough now that she could see the faint mark still healing on his jaw. The one she’d left.

“Must’ve been a surprise,” he said, voice dropping. “To see who came after you.”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask for help.”

“You didn’t need to,” he said simply. “The moment you went missing, he nearly knocked down my door.”

She said nothing. A flicker passed through her expression, gone too quickly to read.

Heeseung chuckled. “Never seen him like that before. The control cracked for a second.”

She looked away. “So what? You’re keeping tabs now?”

“I observe.” He shrugged. “You’re interesting to observe.”

“Like a lab rat?”

“No,” he said. “Like a ticking clock.”

The air between them shifted. Tense. Unsettling.

Heeseung’s voice dipped again, less amused now. “You don’t realize how much noise you’re making. How fast you’re burning through the attention of people who usually don’t look twice.”

She didn’t flinch. “I’m not afraid of attention.”

“Maybe you should be.”

Silence fell.

He watched her a moment longer. Then, too casually, added, “You should be careful what you wake up down there.”

“It was already awake,” she replied.

“Maybe. But it’s not alone.”

She turned. Walked past him without another word.

He didn’t follow.

But his voice came after her, like smoke curling around her spine:

“Tell me what you find next time.”

She didn’t look back. She didn’t want to.

That night she didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Even with her eyes closed, the darkness didn’t feel still. It felt… sentient. Alive. She dreamed of something vast and pulsing, of a landscape carved in ash, symbols crawling across scorched stone like veins beneath skin. The sky above her was split. Something whispered her name from beneath it.

And then everything crumbled.

She woke with a choked breath, sheets tangled around her legs like bindings. Her body was slick with sweat, her heart still galloping like it hadn’t left the dream behind.

Across the room, Jake stirred faintly and turned onto his side. His soft snore returned a moment later.

Unbothered.

Untouched.

Y/n sat up and rubbed her face with both hands. Her fingers trembled. Not from the cold.

She needed air.

The Academy’s west wing always felt older after midnight. It wasn’t just the dark, though that lingered deeper here, it was the silence. Like this part of the castle had learned how to hold its breath.

She moved through it quietly, sleeves tugged down to her knuckles. Her steps made no sound. She passed the empty stairwell and slowed by instinct.

Something had changed.

It wasn’t a sound. Or a shift of light.

It was presence.

“I know you’re there,” she said, voice flat.

A beat.

Then Jungwon stepped into view.

No sound, no drama. Just there, like he’d never been gone to begin with.

She didn’t flinch. “You really don’t know how to take a hint, do you?”

He said nothing.

She crossed her arms. “You following me again? Or is this just your favorite haunt?”

“You shouldn’t be out alone.”

“Clearly I’m not.”

That made him blink, just once.

Then his gaze dropped, sweeping down her legs, bare beneath the hem of Jake’s old shorts, shadows clinging to bruises mottled across her knees and thighs. The scrapes from yesterday were healing, but barely. His eyes narrowed on the faint smear of blood where a cut had reopened.

Not lingering.

But not unaffected, either.

“Did you get hurt anywhere else?” he said, voice lower now. Almost rough.

His gaze returned to her face.

“Not that you can see.”

Another pause.

Then Y/n stepped toward him, exhaling through her teeth. “What do you want?”

“You’re not learning,” he said simply. “You keep walking toward things like consequence is optional.”

She scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from someone who stalks people through restricted hallways.”

“I’m not stalking,” Jungwon said. “I’m watching. There’s a difference.”

“Oh yeah?” she bit back. “From where I’m standing, the only difference is that one comes with better excuses.”

That landed. He didn’t speak.

So she pressed further. “You didn’t give a damn about me before. Now you’re everywhere. Watching. Appearing when I least expect it. Saying just enough to confuse me, but never enough to help.”

“I’m not here to confuse you.”

“Then what?” Her voice dropped. “You want to warn me? Lecture me? Save me?”

“I’m trying to keep you from being destroyed.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. “By lurking in the shadows like some infernal bodyguard?”

“You’re not listening.”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m just tired of being talked to like I’m some disaster waiting to happen. You think I don’t know that already? I know I’m breaking rules. I know I’m setting myself up. But I don’t know what else to do. No one ever taught me how to question anything. So I’m guessing, every step. I’m trying. At least I’m not one of the blind ones pretending the world is fine.”

She stepped even closer now, chin lifting. “At least I’m awake.”

Jungwon was quiet for a long time.

“You’re not just reckless,” he said.

Y/n’s eyes flashed. “Oh yeah? Heard that one before. You can take a number and join the line.”

Then, very softly, almost like an admission:

“You’re also a problem.”

Her breath hitched.

“And yet,” she said, voice low, “you saved me.”

He didn’t deny it. She stared at him. “Why?”

Silence.

Then, finally—

“I thought you knew what you were doing,” he said. “That I could watch from a distance and let you fall flat on your own.”

His voice changed. Darkened.

“But I’m the one who saw your face when the fear finally caught up to you.”

She stiffened.

“I thought you weren’t afraid,” Jungwon said. “But when the guard was inches away…”

Her jaw tightened. “I wasn’t scared.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“You don’t know me.”

His gaze sharpened. “I know what panic looks like. I saw the way your body locked under mine. The way your hands shook. You looked brave, until you realized you weren’t. And the worst part?” He stepped closer. “I don’t even think you knew.”

She couldn’t reply.

“I’ve seen terror before,” he added, quieter now. “It’s different when someone doesn’t recognize it in themselves.”

Y/n’s throat felt tight.

“And I don’t know what’s worse,” he said, “that no one ever told you what fear feels like, or that you learned to ignore it so well, it stopped registering.”

A long silence passed.

She looked away. “You think I’m trying to be fearless?”

“No,” Jungwon said. “I think you don’t know when you’re afraid.”

She gave a laugh, dry, humorless. “And that makes me what? A perfect idiot?”

“No.” His eyes softened. “It makes you dangerous.”

She stared at her hands. Her nails had left half-moons in her palms.

“I don’t want to be scared,” she murmured.

“You already are.”

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

“I don’t understand you,” she said. “One minute you hate me, the other you’re dragging me into shadows. The next, you’re disappearing like I imagined you.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped back half a pace. “Then what do you want from me?”

“I don’t know.”

The honesty of it cracked something in her, but not in the soft way.

In the furious, bone-deep way that made her clench her fists and bite back the shake in her breath.

“I don’t get you,” she snapped.

“You’re not supposed to.”

“If you don’t know what you want,” she said, “then stop orbiting me like I’m a falling star. If you’re going to follow me, do something. Help. Or go.”

Jungwon didn’t move.

“I’m not your enemy, Y/n.”

Her name in his mouth wasn’t a warning this time.

“Then stop acting like you’re waiting to watch me break.”

She looked up, eyes sharp.

“If you want answers too, contribute. Don’t just follow me like some divine executioner waiting for the moment I trip.”

“I’m not here to execute you,” Jungwon said.

“Then why do you always feel like a sentence?”

He went still.

The silence shifted. Dense.

He stepped back slowly, retreating into the dark like the weight of staying had become too much.

“You think standing in shadows makes you untouchable?” she asked. “Better?”

“I don’t think I’m better,” he replied. “I just know how this ends.”

She shook her head. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get from me right now.”

A breath passed. He turned, steps already fading.

Y/n called after him, voice low.

“If you don’t care… then stop following me.”

He stopped. Just long enough to say:

“I never said I didn’t care.”

Then he vanished. And this time, she didn’t chase the silence he left behind.

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imagination-mess · 20 days ago

Text

A Second Chance at Life (Touya Todoroki X Fem!Reader) Chapter 9

Summary: For the past five years, you’ve been raising your son as a single mother. You’ve successfully avoided questions about his father by claiming that he died during the Paranormal Liberation War. From what you believe, this isn’t a lie. The last time you saw him was when he personally escorted you to U.A.’s shelter amidst the chaos in the streets.

Unbeknownst to you, he has been alive all this time, clinging to life in a facility working to keep him alive. His father, Enji, has been desperately searching for someone willing to heal him. After his presumed death, a single photo of you and Dabi began circulating through the underground, hinting at the nature of your relationship. To protect yourself and your child, you had to pay someone to stop the pictures from spreading further.

The photo provided answers to a long-standing question: who was the healer Dabi had been protecting? It identified you as the healer who had been deemed untouchable, but it also brought unwanted attention.

A/N: Sorry for any grammar or spelling errors in advance.

Word Count: 3.6K+ Masterlist of ASCAF Previously Chapter Eight

13 Years Ago

Touya was covering his head and curling his body up on the cold alleyway floor. He was trying to protect himself as he was getting jumped by grown-ass men who were twice his age, after swiping one of their wallets when they passed him.

He was starving, which caused his quirk to not work as effectively as he wanted. He couldn't even engulf his hand with flame.

"Hey! Fuck off!" a voice called out. It didn’t sound normal. It sounded like a distorted voice speaking through a machine.

"YOU! Fuck of—" one of the men started to yell.

"Oh shit! I a—"

Touya kept his eyes closed, but he heard the sound of bodies dropping to the ground. The next sound was something breaking. There was no screaming, only a whimper.

"I’ll break more than your arm. Next time, get out of my sight." The voice was definitely coming from a machine.

He then heard the men scrambling to get up and running away. He couldn’t feel them around anymore.

"Get up, kid," the voice said, nudging him with their foot to see if he was dead. Touya stayed on the ground, not moving. He knew better than to trust anyone.

"I’m not leaving until you get up, kid."

Touya slowly sat up, letting out a quiet whine from the ache running through his body. His left eye was definitely going to be a black eye in a few days.

"Happy. Leave me alone," Touya spat, looking up at the masked individual whose face was completely hidden, blending into their hood.

He had heard rumors of the faceless individual, Vein. Someone known for spreading fear. People often referred to them as a crossroads demon. They could find information faster than anyone and had supposedly been roaming the underground since they were kids, building a reputation along the way. They only made deals if it benefited them, otherwise, it wasn’t worth the investment.

They weren’t someone you crossed. Anyone who did was always found the next day, tortured depending on the betrayal. People in the underground would rather throw someone else under the bus than deal with Vein’s wrath.

Vein was about to walk away until the sound of his stomach growling made them pause.

"You know there’s a shelter a couple blocks down. They provide food and medical services—"

"I don’t need help," Touya said, glaring at the individual who was now facing him again.

"You’re starving. Winter’s coming."

"I can either take you there, or do it the hard way. I’m not going to ignore a starving child when there’s shelter literally a few blocks down."

"Get lost!" Touya yelled, but then his eyes widened as all of his muscles suddenly went limp. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. His body wouldn’t respond. He would’ve collapsed if the individual hadn’t caught him.

"Sorry, kid. I tried to do it the normal way."

His body was completely dead weight, and he couldn’t move anything except his eyes. He could only watch as the individual carried him like a potato sack. He couldn’t do anything about it. They were careful with where they placed their hands.

They didn’t complain, just kept walking forward, and people around them acted like it was normal.

"It’s not a traditional shelter, and it’s not packed. It’s a secret place, meant for people like us. Runaways, criminals, mutants, or those who are just struggling. You can only get in by recommendation or if you’re with a regular. I know you can’t trust people who offer free food, especially when you’re a kid. There are creeps out here. You can ask the staff to try it first if it helps you feel better. It’s not laced." Vein said.

The rest of the walk was silent until they arrived at a sketchy, enormous building that looked like it was falling apart, with a broken sign that read:

Safe Haven for Everyone.

There was a gorilla mutant standing guard who lit up at the sight of them, completely ignoring Touya’s wary stare.

“Good to see you, Vein.”

“Nice to see you too. Make sure this brat eats something before he leaves.”

“You got it, boss,” the gorilla mutant replied with a surprisingly soft smile.

He grabbed Touya by the collar like a wet cat and opened the door. Touya was held there for a few seconds before the strength returned to his limbs, and he was dropped to the ground.

Touya let out a string of curses at Vein. Vein didn’t flinch, but rather had a lazy wave goodbye.

“Go eat.”

After the door closed in front of him, Touya tried to reopen it, only to glance up and see the gorilla mutant already staring him down through the glass before casually tapping on the wall to his left.

“You heard them. Go eat.”

Touya grumbled under his breath and turned around, surprised to find the interior completely renovated. Kids around his age were waiting in line, the staff mostly teenagers and a few adults behind a glass counter.

He watched the staff with sharp, observant eyes, noting how they responded to each kid’s request without hesitation. Then he looked over at the kids themselves, who were already digging in without a care. Each was given two large takeout containers.

“Excuse me.”

Touya turned his head and saw a young girl around his age. Your (eye color) eyes widened at the sight of him, and he mentally braced himself for the usual comment about his scars.

“Oh! Wow! Your eyes are really pretty!” you said with a bright smile, pointing to your own eyes as a reference.

Touya froze and blinked at you like you’d lost your mind. That was the first thing you noticed? The comment caught him completely off guard.

“Thanks… I guess.”

You smiled again and began explaining his food options since he was clearly new.

“How do you know I’m new?”

“I know most of the regulars by now. It wasn’t hard to guess when the security guard was holding you like a feral kitten,” you said with a soft laugh.

You grabbed four containers and continued, “The usual rule is two containers per person, but newcomers get four. Please don’t eat them all at once. You’ll just end up puking.”

Touya filled the containers to the very top. You packed them up for him, tossing some silverware into a plastic bag. He quietly watched you, then noticed another teenager approaching, holding out a backpack.

He just stared at them.

“This is yours now. It has all the necessities. Let us know if you start running low on supplies. Welcome to Safe Haven.”

He hesitated before taking it, but there was no shame in his movements. He opened the bag to see it was filled with snacks, water bottles, and sports drinks.

“Thank you,” Touya whispered, eyes lowered. He didn’t look up, and the teen simply nodded before walking away, leaving him alone again.

That was the first night in a long time he went to sleep with a full stomach.

_____________________________________________

Touya continued coming to the shelter after that. Everyone kind of minded their own business. No one asked him questions. There were free showers and a crash room where people could sleep, with lockers to store their belongings.

Surprisingly, no one touched other people’s stuff, unlike the other shelters he’d been to. It was an unspoken rule among everyone.

There were flyers pinned on the board in the center of the room, offering help with housing, jobs, and domestic violence. Clothes were available for anyone in need. There was even a small laundromat, which you could use in exchange for helping clean the building—a task that wasn’t hard to do.

It was only open from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. every night. Vein wasn’t lying. People had to be invited or brought in by a regular to prevent abuse of the system.

Throughout the year, Touya only stayed at the shelter to crash during the winter and in the overwhelming summer heat.

He thought you were weird at first, because you never commented on his appearance. You didn’t give him the usual looks he’d grown used to. You were growing on him, especially since you worked on the medical side of the shelter. More often than not, you were the one patching him up, and you never forced conversation the way others did.

He noticed you only worked on certain days to complete your volunteer hours for a high school program, often alongside your friends. You were also one of the few who gave out bigger food portions, which explained why everyone wanted to be in your line.

That’s the only reason he had your schedule memorized. He always showed up earlier on your days.

You were kind of too sweet and naïve for a place like this, but you could bite when you needed to. He once saw you snap at another teen who tried to pressure you into giving more than the standard two containers.

“If you’ve got friends who are hungry, bring them. Otherwise, I’m not breaking protocol.”

He didn’t know how you handled things when they escalated. Once, there was shouting in the building, and he was one of the few who peeked over while eating. A man twice your size was on the ground. You looked shaken, but unharmed.

That man was banned from the shelter after becoming aggressive with you.

You’d been trying to get his name ever since he started showing up more often.

The shelter eventually added a gym in the empty part of the building, which brought in more people, but it was large enough to handle the regulars.

Most people didn’t stay long. They used the resources to find jobs and escape abusive situations. There was even a lawyer who took those cases for free.

You started calling him Drakon, another word for dragon after you accidentally caught him using his quirk to stay warm while waiting for the shelter to open. He had been sitting on the front steps with his backpack.

It was freezing, and he could barely feel his fingers. You let him in early with you, since you had a copy of the key. You were too trusting sometimes.

You brought him blankets from the medical clinic and a portable heater. That was the first time he didn’t lash out when you touched him, especially after you warned him first.

You wrapped him up like a burrito. He hadn’t even realized how badly he was trembling. He’d been struggling to regulate his temperature that season. His quirk wasn’t working properly either.

It was one of the coldest winters on record.

Before everyone had to leave that morning, the shelter handed out expensive winter coats. They were good quality. Something that would last him a few years, if he took care of it.

“Take care of yourself, kid,” the same gorilla mutant, now known as Fuji, said as he handed him the coat. ______________________________________________________ He doesn't really remember how the two of you became friends. It just happened.

You barely reacted when he got snappy with you, just threw the same energy right back at him, even if it was kind of immature.

You weren’t bad to talk to. You didn’t push to know his background. The two of you just talked like normal teenagers, which felt rare in a place like this.

But seriously, anything would’ve been better than Pretty Boy. That was fucking embarrassing.

He wanted to die on the spot when you called him that with that mischievous grin tugging at your lips as you held out his bag of food.

He’d even made the mistake of glancing around to see if you were talking to someone else. But he was the only one standing there. The regulars in the background burst into laughter at his reaction.

“Boy, she’s talking about you!”

When he realized it really was him, his whole body lit up with heat. Mortified, he snatched the bag from your hand and retreated to his usual corner of the building like his life depended on it.

Eventually, you came out from behind the counter with an extra dessert as an apology, along with a chocolate bar.

Touya shot you a glare but took the offering anyway. He wasn’t about to say no to more food. When he caught you training in the same gym as him, your form was completely off. You were going to break your wrist or fingers if you kept going like that. He knew from personal experience—he’d made those mistakes before.

"Who the fuck is teaching you?" he asked, walking over with a frown as he forced you to adjust your posture.

"...Myself," you admitted nervously.

Touya gave you a look. "You're doing a terrible job at it."

You deflated, shoulders slumping.

"Aren’t you trying to be a doctor or something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why the hell are you learning how to fight?"

"You never know when I’ll need to defend myself," you said quietly. "I know I’m privileged. I’m not blind to it. But that won’t protect me if I end up in a bad situation."

He was silent for a few seconds, watching you.

"...I could teach you a few things," he finally muttered. "But I want something in return."

You looked up, surprised. "Deal."

Then you smiled so brightly, and the look in your eyes showed a complete, blind trust in him.

How could you look at him as if he wasn’t already a few steps away from becoming a criminal?

It made something twist in his chest. He had the sudden, irrational urge to turn around and walk the hell away.

You were too soft… and he wasn’t.

But he stayed, ignoring the feeling in his chest.

Nevertheless, it was a bit fun picking you apart because, damn, your entire routine was a complete mess. Just asking for accidents to happen. _____________________________________________________________ It’s been almost two years since he first stepped into that shelter. You started calling him Drakon, the name you gave him, and it stuck. It grew on him. He responds to it without thinking now, since he always refused to say his real name and couldn’t come up with anything better. He doesn’t mind it.

A lot of people started calling him that, not because he introduced himself, but because they heard it from you.

It became routine. Once a week, you and Touya would train together at the gym and spar. You were getting better at blocking his punches even if he never used his full strength.

It wouldn’t be a fair fight, but you were catching up.

He doesn’t know how it happened, but he didn’t mind others joining in on the sparring matches. He was learning through experience. Some of the other teens even gave him tips.

You were picking up a wide range of fighting styles and adapting fast. Between school combat training and those matches, you were close to the level of students in the hero course.

And true to your word, you shared what you learned with him. It was either fighting drills you picked up from other fire-users… or food. Usually snacks based on his specific requests.

But you became lethal when you started integrating your quirk into your punches.

You didn’t use it while sparring because you were still learning and didn’t want to risk hurting him. You were still figuring out how to sync it with your movements, but he’s seen the videos your friends recorded to help you review your form.

You could seriously hurt someone with those blows. You’ve destroyed too many dummies to count.

You could kill someone with those blows. You’ve destroyed too many dummies to count.

You never really bragged about your quirk either, which he appreciated, especially considering how powerful it was. You struggled with it, not because you didn’t know how to use it, but because it was simply too much for your body to handle at your age. Even with years of quirk training under your belt, you were still learning to control it. Still pushing through it.

That was your theory about his quirk, too. If he could build more muscle and stamina, maybe he’d start to develop some resistance to his flames. It wouldn’t be fast. It might take a long time, but it was something.

You were persistent about it. Told him to give your method a chance for at least six months. Just six. See if it was worth it. If not, he could throw the idea away if he wanted.

….

You weren't wrong, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He couldn’t boost your little ego any more than it already was, especially with your apparent hobby of quirk analysis. You were going to be smug about it either way. He didn’t realize it until one day when you were staring at him a little too intensely during his training. That look when you were hyper fixated on something, calculating in your mind. You interrupted his training to tell him to lower his output and retry his move. But you were starting to scare him a little bit when you began challenging him in hand-to-hand combat. When you caught him off guard with a punch, he avoided it. Purely out of instinct, he threw a punch straight to your face without mercy.

When he realized what he'd done, his fist collided with your cheek. He froze, mentally panicking, not seeing the glint in your eyes. His mental turmoil was interrupted when you swept his legs out from under him, making him fall onto the mat. You pinned him down, your grip tight on his shirt, expecting a punch to the face, so he shut his eyes. He deserved it.

But instead, you flicked him on the nose, causing him to reopen his eyes.

"Checkmate," you said, out of breath, with a tired smile above him. Your quirk was active, the soft yellow glow covering where he'd hit you and healing the injury before it deactivated. "Please consider, this is not a real loss," you said, looking down at him. "You got into your head at the end there. I'm okay. I wanted to see if I could surprise you since you’ve learned my fighting style. He feels….guilt over it, despite you are not holding it against him

"I didn't panic," he muttered, refusing to admit it. He never had harmed you before, breaking his streak with this mistake. He’d manhandled you a few times, but never enough to really hurt you. You gave him a look that said, Oh really?

“Whatever you say, pretty–”

You cut him off with a surprised yelp when he flipped you over, slamming you onto the mat before standing up.

“Whatever you say, princes–”

You hurled a shoe at his head. He dodged, laughing.

He kept walking, dodging the other shoe when you threw it. He didn’t need to turn around. He already knew how much that nickname pissed you off. Especially since you’d grown up hearing it your whole life, always used to mock you when you didn’t know something.

You were aware of it. The privilege and money. You knew it meant there were things you’d never been exposed to. Things you had to learn the hard way later on. Money wouldn’t always get you out of trouble. You had to get yourself out of it.

And you knew he was teasing. It was a harmless game between the two of you. Still, it never got old. How flustered you got whenever he said it

But you were more than that. And he knew it.

He understood what you meant when you talked about how money sheltered people. He’d seen the reality of that the second he walked out of that orphanage.

Didn’t mean you weren’t still a spoiled brat, though. Bonus Scene: "I feel like I’m corrupting your naive little mind," Touya muttered as you walked side by side, both eating popsicles you'd brought from the store.

"I don’t think so," you said, glancing at him. "You’re honest when I ask things. I am naive, but not that naive. I know the world’s not all rainbows and sunshine," you added casually, eyes forward.

Touya stared at you for a few seconds before looking ahead again, then gave you a playful shoulder bump. "You’re too trusting, Remedy."

"Only to you," You muttered but enough for him to hear.

A smirk was slowly tugging subtly at the corners of his mouth.

"Am I getting special treatment? Am I your favorite?" He asked in a teasing tone. He knew damn well he was your favorite shelter citizen. You wouldn’t be hanging out with him outside the shelter, buying snacks like it was some weekly ritual.

What started as a deal for one snack had somehow turned into three bags without either of you ever addressing it. Not that he was complaining, he would never say no to more food.

You shot him a glare and tried flicking him off.

"Your flicking needs some work. Your finger isn’t even straight," he teased, laughing under his breath.

There was a quiet pause, before Touya glanced over to you to see the pout on your face looking down at your hand seeing he was right. Your finger's straight unlike his yet..

"...You really shouldn’t trust someone like me so easily." You glance over to him, before saying softly but firm. "You haven't robbed me when you had so many opportunities to do it. You haven't given me a reason to not." You held his gaze, steady and unflinching. Your eyes were too warm, too trusting to be staring at someone like him the way you were.

It was too much. For someone like him, it always was.

He broke eye contact first.

The action made you laugh lighthearted at him, since it isn't the first time he has to break eye contact with you.

He was getting too soft. Next: Chapter Ten _________________________________ Author's Note: How are we feeling about the dynamic between younger Touya and Remedy? They are teenagers if i needed to clarify. I tried my best to keep this as Touya's point of view. Hopefully, people got the reference who is Vein? They have been mention before :3 (SPOILER ALERT CHAPTER 8)

Any thoughts or theories? I’m all ears! I’d love to hear them. I have seen some interesting theories :3

Once again, Your comments seriously mean the world to me. 💖 I’m so grateful to know there are people who want to read more. I am really enjoying writing this story.

Thank you again for reading! I love reading your comments. 💖

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slylycurioustreasure · 2 months ago

Text

The Obsidian-Eyed Guardian

— Part 2.2

Summary: Heir to a cursed line of sorcerers, you carry on your shoulders the weight of an ancestral pact: to prevent the destruction of the world, you must unite with four men from clans once enemies of your own kind—a demon, a celestial, an immortal fox, and a human.

But nothing is simple when love, hate, desire, and betrayal intertwine. Torn between your curse and your feelings, protected by some, judged by others, you will have to face the truth about your blood... and what you are willing to sacrifice to survive.

What if it wasn't you, but them... who were trapped from the start?

Genre: Fantasy, Dark Romance, Drama, Action, Reverse Harem, Supernatural, Wuxia, Historical

Pairing : Park Sunghoon x reader

Word : 19k

⚠️ Warning: Blood, betrayal, jealousy, heartbreaking separations, desperate and all-consuming love, loneliness, magic, pain, deep introspection, ambiguous morality, binding and painful bonds, toxic loyalty, feelings of rejection, psychological violence.

Sexual content: vulgar and crude language, vaginal and oral sex, magic related to the sexual act, explicit and provocative dialogue, voluntary submission, intense rhythms alternating between violence and tenderness, body marks left by bites and scratches, sex in a forbidden place, blasphemy, domination, implicit BDSM practices, crude language and consensual sexual violence.

PREV PART— NEXT ✘ SERIES MASTERLIST ✘

Yànluò Kèzhàn Inn (焰落客栈) — The Inn of Falling Flames

The door had barely closed behind you when Sunghoon grabbed you—not roughly, but with that stifled anger you recognize in men who have struggled with themselves for too long. His arm circled your waist, the other slid across the back of your neck, and your back hit the icy wall softly, like a silent cleaver. Not a word. Just the shudder of his breath against your cheek, burning like white-hot metal, as he fought not to give in too quickly.

Sunghoon looks at you as if he's about to devour you. And maybe that's exactly what he's about to do.

His eyes, unfathomably black, stare into yours with the intensity of lost men. It's no longer desire. It's a fever. A damnation. A silent oath that only your body can exorcise. The silence around you is almost sacred, taut like a rope about to snap. Your breaths are short, out of tune, desperately hungry.

Outside, the first fireworks burst. Blood red. They illuminate your faces with a supernatural glow, bathe the room in a crimson glow, and make shadows dance on the walls like spirits summoned by your sins. The paper lanterns quiver and tremble, as if they were watching, complicit, a forbidden ceremony.

Sunghoon approaches. Slowly. Too slowly. His hand slides against your cheek, trembling, almost hesitant—but it's not gentleness, it's the storm before the rush. And when his lips reach the tip of your nose, he kisses you so gently it makes you gasp.

A farewell. Or a prelude to oblivion.

He moves down, his mouth brushing your cheek, your ear, your neck. Sunghoon doesn't kiss. He writes. He traces on your skin the silent verses of a desire so ancient it becomes sacred. Each kiss is a confession he can't express. Each touch is a war he's losing.

Then, Sunghoon reaches the corner of your mouth. He doesn't kiss yet. He lets your lips brush, search for each other, miss each other. You feel his breath brush yours, rough, feverish. The space between your lips is reduced to a thread, and yet he strives not to break it. He wants you to beg him. He wants your silence to implore his. And when you finally move forward to capture his mouth, he flees—his tongue brushes your cheek, trails down your neck, and you moan in frustration.

His mouth reaches the hollow of your throat. He stays there. For a long time. Too long. His lips close over your skin with agonizing slowness. He licks, he sucks, he tastes. He marks. And when he reaches the beat of your heart, he stops. His lips rest there like a blade on a still-raw wound.

“I want to drink until your last light…”

Your throat tightens. You don't know if you're gasping or sobbing. Your fingers stray into his hair, desperate, clutching at it like a prayer. Your legs buckle. Your breath hitches. And he continues. His voice, hoarse, seeps into you like poison:

“You will be my fate…”

Then Sunghoon attacks your hanfu. He doesn't undo the knots: he rips them out. The silk tears beneath his fingers, a sound both delicate and violent, and each layer falls away like a lie being exposed. Your skin is revealed, shivers in the icy air, tenses under his gaze. He steps back, contemplates you. As one contemplates a sacred object. As one gazes upon a curse.

“You are a work of art… And works of art are locked up. They are stolen. They are broken… Do you want to be one, my little judge?”

Sunghoon lifts you up, as if he's been carrying your weight for a thousand lifetimes. Your legs wrap around him, your forehead presses against his throat. You tremble. He lays you down with a heartbreaking gentleness, as if he fears losing you in the very act of possessing you. His fingers slide into your hair, remove your pin. Your hair collapses, like a sudden night. And outside, a firework explodes, flooding the room with a bloody red.

He freezes. His gaze is feverish, haunted.

"If you don't answer... You will be punished. Mistakes always have a sentence."

You smile. Slowly. You are a priestess offered to her executioner. You stretch out your throat. You expose your belly. You open your heart.

“Yes… Lock me up. Punish me. Devour me… As long as in the end, it’s you. Only you.”

You tug at his hanfu. Sunghoon gives in. He lets you do it. Your hand explores, bares, brushes against him. Beneath your fingers, his skin is burning. His muscles are hard, carved by war and rage. He is made of flames and ice. Of punishments and prayers. Of you.

It lies upon you like a sentence, a fall, a war that can no longer be stopped.

His body is warm, burning, as if emerging from a blaze. And when his hands rest on you, Sunghoon doesn't touch you: he examines you. He explores your skin like a mad calligrapher copying the verses of a forbidden sutra, his fingers trembling with rage, desire, hunger. He deciphers you. He reads you in a low voice, in a forgotten language, pagan and sacred. Every hollow becomes a sanctuary. Every fold, a trap. Every flaw, an offering.

His palm brushes your throat, and you feel the edge of the saber—not the caress. You feel like he could squeeze. Like he could open you, there, with a slow gesture. He moves down slowly, so slowly, toward your sternum, then traces the valley of your breasts as if following the scars of a past too heavy to bear. His breath becomes hoarse. His irises darken, the color of a storm, the color of a moonless night.

Sunghoon whispers, in a hollow, strangled voice:

“You are mine. Mine. Not the world’s. Not theirs. Not even yours.”

His words lacerate. They enter you like an ancient poison, a cursed pact you've already signed—with your blood, your soul, your will.

And Sunghoon's fingers slide along your skin like white-hot jade blades, first grazing, then tracing cruel lines across the contours of your breast. When they reach your nipple, he doesn't brush against it—he grasps it. Between two knuckles as precise as metal pliers, he pinches it with a methodical, almost searching slowness, as if searching for the exact point where pleasure turns to torture.

You inhale too deeply, too sharply. A cry escapes your throat, hoarse, wild, raw, as if a part of your soul had just been ripped from you. Your back arches violently against the dark silk mattress, taut as a bowstring about to snap, and your neck tilts, offering your bare throat like a sacrifice.

Sunghoon says nothing.

He doesn't need to speak.

For his mouth acts. It descends. Slowly. Terribly slowly. His lips are sweet poison and his breath is a bite of hot ashes on your trembling skin. When he encloses your other breast in the burning hollow of his mouth, it is no longer a kiss—it is a combustion. A sacrificial offering.

You're burning.

You're burning from the inside out. You feel the heat, that rising tide, swallowing your belly, consuming your loins, ravaging the secret sanctuary between your thighs. It's not just a shudder—it's a fracture. As if something is breaking deep inside you, a forgotten dam, an ancient seal, something dark and powerful that even your own power couldn't name.

And you scream. Again. But this time, it's a scream that has nothing human about it. It's not a complaint. It's a perverted prayer, a call from the depths of your body to this celestial being who crushes you, explores you, consumes you. It's the echo of a chasm he has awakened within you, a chasm that had never known light—only shadows. Primitive, violent impulses that had always slept beneath the calm surface of your mask.

Sunghoon's teeth graze your still-wet nipple, trapping it for a moment, then pull with cruel delicacy, a patience that borders on refined torture. You moan again, but this time, it's no longer pain. It's no longer fear.

It's abandonment.

You are his. You feel it. Not in a romantic sense. Not in a naive pact. You are his like a terrain conquered by war. Like a city set ablaze. Like a body caught in a forbidden ritual. He desecrates and sanctifies you in the same breath.

His gaze rises back up to you—black, unfathomable, merciless. And in his eyes, you see your own reflection: a broken, possessed being, magnificent in his ruin. Sunghoon releases your breast slowly, as if reluctantly returning your flesh, and his hand moves down to your stomach, his palm burning, possessive, marking your skin with an invisible but indelible imprint.

And your whole body, on fire, waits for what happens next. Not to flee. But to be annihilated.

And then… It happens.

Your link.

The mark tattooed on your shoulder blade glows, like an ember blown out after centuries of oblivion. Blood red. Sob red. Condemnation red. It throbs like a beast's heart. His, etched vividly on his wrist, pulses in echo, a furious, brutal, uncontrollable beat. Their glow seeks each other, seizes each other, devours each other. Your bodies attract like two magnets that hate each other, two chained gods who can only crush each other with each revolution.

Sunghoon descends, kneeling before you like a fallen king before the idol he is about to desecrate.

But there is nothing tender in his submission. Nothing sweet. This isn't a kiss he steals from you. It's a silent war, a sacrilege whispered between his cursed lips. You feel his breath brush the inside of your thighs—a damp, disordered, irrational heat. Like the wind from ancient tombs. Like the sigh of a celestial freed by breaking a forgotten seal.

Sunghoon no longer looks at you with human eyes. He devours you with the fever of a black priest. With the madness of an ascetic who has finally found the beating heart of his heresy.

His palms slide slowly over your hips, then part them, gently but firmly, like two blades opening onto a living heart. He cuts you open. Literally. He tears you away from yourself. Every millimeter of your skin he reveals becomes a dirge, an offering to chaos. You are no longer a woman. You are an invocation. You are the burning hearth of an unholy ritual.

And he—Sunghoon—is not a lover. He is the instrument of the pact.

When his mouth reaches your center, it's not a shudder that runs through your body, but a telluric jolt, a tremor of the soul. His tongue enters you with the grave slowness of a forbidden spell, with the unholy precision of a monk tattooing forbidden runes on flesh. This is not pleasure. This is not sweetness.

It's a power grab.

It is enslavement.

It's an incantation.

The first pressure tears a hoarse, inhuman cry from you, and you feel your muscles tense, your stomach hollow, your back arch as if your body were trying to flee—or hold it in. But Sunghoon is relentless. He drinks from your source like a cursed cup. Every movement of his tongue seems calculated to break something inside you: modesty, will, resistance.

Sunghoon moans against you. A hoarse, hungry, almost animal sound. And in that vibration, you lose your bearings. You moan, gasp, lose all sense of time. You convulse beneath his mouth like a woman possessed. You are nothing more than a black torch consumed by his breath. More than a sacrilegious fire.

Sunghoon adores you like one adores a demon:

With fanaticism.

With despair.

With violence.

His hands grip your thighs, pushing them further apart, not asking—not begging—but demanding. He opens you like an offering on the altar of a fallen god. You feel your magic escaping you with every strangled moan. You feel your essence abandon you and flow into him like a poison only he knows how to tame.

You are no longer a woman in his arms. You are an oracle in a trance. A living artifact.

You collapse, finally, under his tongue. You break. You scream. You cry. You plead. But he continues, tireless, until he makes you convulse again, until your cries break into hoarse sobs and your sighs become silent prayers.

And then… Sunghoon climbs back up. Gently. Slowly. Too slowly. Every inch of his ascent is torture. His mouth traces a trail of black fire across your wet skin, and you feel him marking you, imprinting something inside you, something eternal, unspeakable. Your fingers close around his shoulders as if you're afraid of falling—when you're already falling, inside.

When he finally reaches your face, Sunghoon is breathless, but his eyes… His eyes are no longer human. They shine with a mad glare. A feverish, almost painful glare. His pupils are dilated, as if he's tasted some divine drug. He's trembling. He's on the edge. You feel it—he's reeling, like a warrior drunk on slaughter, like a blade vibrating just before it cuts. All it takes is a word. A sigh. A breath.

And Sunghoon would dive.

He kisses you then, brutally. Tongue against tongue, taste against taste, you against him. And you understand, in this devouring kiss, that it's not over. That this was only the first door of the temple.

And as he is about to cross the second, he says:

“Tell me you love me… or I’ll lose myself.”

You grab him. Like holding a condemned man. You scream, sob, hiccup.

"I love you. I hate you. I want you."

And then suddenly... Sunghoon enters. Not gently. Not hesitantly. But all at once, all at once, like a sentence spoken in a low voice under a rain of ashes. He enters you brutally , without a word, without a warning, like a drawn saber, a deadly strike in the shadows.

The pain is raw. Total. A sharp fire, pure and raw, ripping you open. You scream—but it's not your voice. It's not that of the woman you were. It's the beast inside you. The witch. The creature the war left behind. A heartbreaking, inhuman scream, as if your very soul is split open, caught in magic older than you.

He growls against your skin, his teeth clenched, every muscle tense like a bow. He pushes deeper, slowly now, merciless, as if he wants to inhabit you . As if he wants to destroy you from the inside out. And you feel… Everything. Every inch of him. Every pulse of his desire, raging, blind, desperate.

Sunghoon doesn't make love. He takes revenge. He takes you like you cast an irreversible spell. Like you destroy what you can't have.

Your legs close around him—reflexively, out of need, or out of defiance. Your back arches. Your nails dig into his skin. You want to run away. You want to stay. You want to die and be reborn, all at once.

And Sunghoon... He accelerates. His movements become wild, rhythmic, inhuman. His thrusts are furious, uncontrolled waves, strikes of passion pent up for too many years, too many silences.

He grabs your hips, lifts you, pushes you against the silk sheets. Your back hits the headboard. Your forehead falls on his shoulder. You gasp. He turns you over, abruptly. Your stomach on the bed. He takes you again, without slowing down, harder. Deeper. And you lose yourself.

You lose track of up, down, time. The world becomes his breath against your neck. His hands around your throat. His name you moan like an oracle, like a poison you want to swallow to the end.

Sunghoon moaned back—hoarse, almost painful—as if taking you was ripping him apart too. As if your warmth were exorcising him.

And he whispers, panting, his breath breaking:

“You… You’re killing me…”

But Sunghoon doesn't stop. He pushes deeper, all the way to the bone. He rips moans, tears, and sobs out of your control. Your body vibrates, your legs tremble, your hands try to find a place to anchor themselves—in his hair, on his chest, in his blood.

You scratch him. You hurt him. He bites your shoulder, brutally, leaving a red, raw, hot mark.

And outside, the sky bursts.

The lanterns burn out. Fireworks tear silently through the night. But none of their bursts are as incandescent as what you are becoming . A demon and a witch. A judge and a criminal. Two hearts that have never learned to love except with violence.

Sunghoon slows down. His thrusts become slower. Deeper. Each thrust is an unspoken oath. An "I love you" choked in his throat. A goodbye whispered between moans.

His hand slides between your legs. He wants you to fall with him. To be lost, burned, erased. And you do. You come against him. Once. Twice. You lose count. Your body arches, shaken, seized by convulsions you can't hold back. He follows you. With a final cry. A low, hoarse, animal rattle.

Sunghoon empties himself into you. And for a few seconds, he stops breathing.

When he falls back on you, panting, trembling, it's as if he's collapsing against his own past. He stays there, anchored inside you, his breath hot on your neck, his skin covered in sweat, your blood, the shadow of a love he no longer knows how to refuse.

“I hate you,” he whispers in a dead voice. And then, in a whisper, “But I love you even more. And I’m… Lost.”

You don't answer. You cry. Silently. Your tears fall onto the bed, onto him, onto this night that engulfs you both.

Sunghoon kisses the back of your neck. Not tenderly. Desperately. As if he wants to keep you in his mouth forever. As if he'll spit you out tomorrow.

And he whispers, in a voice so low that only your heart hears it:

“You are mine. Forever. Even if I have to burn to keep you.”

Sunghoon never left you.

Or rather, he never really let go of you.

His shadow was everywhere around you, a silent weight, an icy breath on the back of your neck, a presence that insinuated itself into every corner of your body and mind. You no longer knew where your breath ended and his began.

Sunghoon was there, always there, like a dull ache in the hollow of your skin. Not a moment of respite, not a moment of freedom. His presence was an invisible chain, a bond of blood and curse that you shared. A mark that burned beneath your clothes, there, on your skin, pulsing like a cursed heart, beating in unison yet light years apart.

You sat on his lap, back straight, hands immersed in the cold inkstone, slowly grinding the black ink stick. The acrid smell of soot and pigment crept into your nostrils, bitter, lingering, like poison. The white paper before you was sacred territory, a battlefield where his brushes traced signs and destinies, while your hand slowly turned the black powder into a dark, hypnotic liquid.

His free hand, the one not holding the brush, slid over your stomach, slow and heavy, each caress like a threat, a promise, a half-whispered oath. His fingers traced burning circles, awakening buried pains and forbidden desires. You shivered, despite yourself, as he let his hot breath fan against your bare skin, his nose brushing against the nape of your neck, his lips a breath away from your ear.

"At this rate, my legs will end up numb before all this ink is even ready..." His voice, hoarse, broken by emotion held back for too long, betrayed bitter amusement and deep weariness.

You shrugged, a sad smile on your lips, staring at the black ink you were melting.

"If you didn't spend all your time distracting me... Maybe I'd be a better student." Your laughter was a breath, a fragile glimmer of humanity in this dark universe.

Sunghoon gently nuzzled your skin, and a shiver ran through you. His touch was both a caress and a torture, a tender bite that consumed your defenses.

"You're the one who distracts me from my duties," he murmured, his voice heavy with silent reproaches and unleashed desires.

His fingers slid slowly lower, brushing against the small of your back, teetering between restraint and surrender, making your heart race.

You wanted to get away, to escape this grip that was both suffocating and consuming you. Slowly, you slid off his lap, seeking refuge on the cold, hard floor, your back straight, the inkstone in front of you.

“I’ll continue here,” you breathed, your voice fragile, almost breaking. “So as not to be a distraction.”

You pretended to pout, puffing out your cheeks slightly, a desperate play to keep a distance you didn't know how to maintain.

But he didn't let you go.

With a sure, relentless gesture, Sunghoon pulled you towards him, placing you back on his lap, your chest crushed against his. His warmth enveloped you, a black flame that devoured what remained of your resistance.

He buried his face in your neck, like a shipwrecked man clinging to the last lifeline, whispering your name like a desperate prayer:

“Don't go away from me… Y/n.” His voice was broken, shaky, filled with a deep pain that reached your core.

You couldn't help the lump rising in your throat, that harsh, icy weight that stifled all hope. So you slowly stroked his hair, your fingers sliding gently along the back of his neck, trying to soothe the storm rumbling within him, to calm the black fire consuming him from within. The warmth of his skin beneath your palm, the slowness of his breath against yours, all of it formed a fragile bubble, suspended outside of time, far from the cries of the world and its storms. You felt beneath your hand that paradoxical mixture of tension and need, of restrained power and barely veiled vulnerability.

In this almost sacred silence, your heart beat to the rhythm of the caresses you offered it, in the hope of bringing back a semblance of peace to this chaos that it was.

But then, brutally, heartbreakingly, the silence was shattered.

The door exploded.

A wild crash echoed like thunder in the dark night. The wood splintered, sending splinters into the air, and an icy blast rushed in, carrying with it the warmth and tenderness you shared. The atmosphere froze, heavy with a dull, implacable threat. The next moment, you felt his body tense against yours, a bow ready to release its deadly arrow.

Sunghoon leaped upright, his muscles tense, his gaze turning cold, warlike, almost animal. The gentleness that enveloped you was fading beneath the icy bite of imminent danger. He was no longer the man who sought refuge in your arms, but the soldier, the sharp shadow that cut through the night.

Before you, a figure flickered, trembling, like a flame about to go out. Jang Wonyoung. The mortal. The woman for whom, once, his heart had burned with a tender and cruel fire, this flame that he had believed he could nourish, until fate came to crush his dreams under the weight of your shadow.

She lay there, collapsed, almost unreal, pale as death itself, panting, breathing with difficulty. Her once immaculate clothes were torn, soaked with a dark red that seemed to ooze from her invisible wounds. Her face bore the pallor of a ghost, her livid lips betraying an icy, unfathomable fear. She slowly opened her wild eyes, meeting Sunghoon's with a heartbreaking intensity: a storm of horror, relief, and a love shattered by time and silence.

Her body faltered, her legs gave way, and without strength, she collapsed, unconscious, on the cold floor.

Silence fell again, heavy, oppressive, like a sealed coffin. The air seemed saturated with pain, regret, unspoken words, and dead promises.

“Wonyoung…” Sunghoon breathed, his voice broken, trembling, a silent scream that tore through the icy night of his heart.

Without even meeting your gaze, without an ounce of hesitation, he abruptly pushed you away. You fell to your knees, breathless, your body bruised by the sudden rejection, abandoned like a broken toy, a shattered fragment tossed to the ground without remorse.

He rushed to her, lifted her up with a desperate, infinitely fragile, almost painful tenderness that you had never seen in him. His hands were trembling, betraying the depth of an emotion he always hid behind his impenetrable mask. Then, in a burst of cold, harsh light, they both disappeared, leaving you alone. Alone with the immense emptiness their absence had left in your chest.

The ink stick slowly slipped from your clenched fingers, shattering into hard, black shards that lacerated your palm without you feeling the slightest pain. Your skin felt numb, your mind filled with an icy cold. Your stomach tightened violently, as if an invisible force were strangling you from within. Your heart screamed silently, a dull, tortured cry that had no echo. No anger, no jealousy, none of it.

No.

You were beyond that.

You were the shadow, the curse incarnate. Cursed, condemned to bear the weight of an impossible love, sealed by a pact of shadows, blood, and suffering. You were a witch, a creature locked in an invisible cage, prisoner of a cruel destiny, of a dark and inescapable fate.

In this silence where the light was going out, where the world seemed to collapse around you, an icy certainty took hold: you would never be the one he saw. You would never be able to share a future. You would always be the open wound in his soul, the creeping shadow that gnawed at his light.

And maybe…

Not even in this life.

You stayed.

Even as every fiber of your being screamed to flee, to dissolve into darkness, to turn your back once and for all on this kingdom of ashes that your heart had become. To go far away, out of this night where your own silence echoed, to disappear into the folds of shadow where no one would call you, where the pain would perhaps dissipate into oblivion. As you had done so many times before, withdrawing from the battle of the world, fleeing the wounds that life kept planting in you. But this time, you had stayed. You had not shunned.

For what ?

Because love is an irremediable madness, a wound you carry like a brand, a poison from which you never truly heal. Because even when the fire consumed you to the bone, you still wanted to sink into its embers. Hoping, against all reason, that one day, perhaps, that very fire could be reborn, illuminate the ashes with a miracle. That something impossible would emerge from the nothingness to which it had relegated you.

You had chosen Sunghoon. Again and again. Despite the insurmountable distance that had grown between you, an icy, impenetrable wall, a chasm where your hands broke with every attempt. Despite the hard, cruel frost in his gaze, those steely eyes that had ceased to call to you except through the force of worn-out habit. Despite his silences, heavy with unsaid words sharper than a thousand blades, silences so deep they drowned every spark within you. Despite his absences, long, cold, deep, like so many chasms that swallowed every fragment of your life.

You had clung to what he had been. To the almost extinguished glow of an ancient tenderness, to the fragile silhouette of a past where Sunghoon had loved you. As if love could survive from these faded vestiges, these hollow echoes, these broken memories. As if that were enough to resurrect the light.

You had reached out. You had held out your heart, fragile, beating, offering, hoping for an answer—even if it was just a whisper, a breath, a flutter of an eyelid that would tell you there was still something left. But each time, your voice broke, shattered against the stone wall he had erected around himself. You had tried to pierce that fortress of ice, to touch the man beneath the cold shell, to brush against his frozen soul. But Sunghoon wouldn't give in. He wouldn't.

"I have more serious concerns." Those words struck your heart like a saber blow. Sharp, sharp, final. Sunghoon hadn't even looked at you. He had turned his face away from your despair. Those words were a sentence. A condemnation sealed with an iron seal, the final tombstone placed on your bond. A grave where you had thought hope would still blossom.

You had smiled. A broken, torn, desperate smile. You had believed those words because you wanted to believe. Because you clung, like a drowning woman to a piece of wood, to the idea that there remained a crack, a flaw through which the light could return. That he could remember you. That he could come back.

So you waited.

You had waited for him to come back, to look at you, to care, to love you. You had waited, mercilessly, in the invisible cage of your patience, that trap of suffering and mad hope, day after day, minute after minute, in the slow agony of an all-consuming wait.

Hands clasped, lips closed, heart offered like a sacrifice, beating dully, a funeral drum in your chest. You waited like a damned woman, condemned never to see salvation, prisoner of a love that would never be returned. Every day, you felt your life crumble, unravel into a thousand threads of pain woven into your bones, in the hollow of your chest. A dull, insidious agony, all-consuming, silently gnawing at the soul, invisible to those who don't know how to look.

But nothing came. Sunghoon did not return. Sunghoon wasn't looking at you anymore.

You were nothing more than a ghost in his world, a shadow he could barely bear. A wound he carried, but one he longed to see disappear, like a weight too heavy. Your love, that burning blaze, was no longer enough. You were no longer the light that lit his days, but the fleeting shadow his eyes avoided. And you could no longer deny that.

So your steps had led you, on that starless night, to the Hanging Garden of Perfumes. Xuánxiāng Yuán. A place of cruel beauty, a beauty so pure it tore at the heart. A forest of silence suspended in the shadows of sky lanterns.

Bleached wooden walkways, like ancestral bones, stretched over the deep, black waters, shimmering like open wounds to infinity. Serpentine bridges connected the jade-roofed pavilions, all enveloped in a silver mist that stretched like a breath of death. Everywhere, dormant lotuses, frozen in icy stillness, shone with a spectral light beneath the pale halo of hanging lanterns.

The wind itself seemed to have frozen. Time suspended. Absolute stillness. Not a breath, not a sigh, nothing but that oppressive, perfect silence, which held you in its icy embrace. And the only sound that broke that silence was the dull, heavy beating of your own heart—a drum of pain, a condemned man's hammer.

You had moved forward, each step echoing like a death knell on the cold flagstones, each echo reverberating like a dire omen. You were alone. But the weight of your grief made you a thousand times heavier. A thousand pains, a thousand regrets, a thousand disappointments crushed your fragile body.

At the edge of a black pool, water as still as the starless night, you leaned over. You wanted to see something other than your reflection—a fragment of light, a forgotten smile, a sliver of hope to be gathered from the night. But the mirror returned only your pale face. A bent silhouette, eyes hollowed by sleepless nights, dark circles hollowed like ravines of shadow, lips cracked by the overflow of silences and unspoken words.

You were kneeling.

And the weight of grief had broken you.

A heart-rending sob erupted from your chest, an invisible blade piercing you without warning. You collapsed, your body trembling on the icy stones, your arms wrapped around your own being, as if to keep your heart from falling apart, as if to hold back the tide of pain that threatened to engulf you, to swallow up what little light you had left.

You had cried.

But not the kind of furtive, almost timid tears that slide silently over the edge of your eyelids in the secrecy of a fading night. No. What you were shedding wasn't just clear water. It was a raging torrent, a furious river of pain, bitter and burning, that dug into your skin, cutting into your flesh and soul deeper than the sharpest blade.

Each tear, heavy and inflamed, was an invisible dagger planted in the hollow of your being, a corrosive venom insinuating itself into the smallest folds of your pain, tearing away what remained of your strength, tearing at the fragile bonds that bound you to life. Your whole body was shaking, vibrating with that dull, wild pain—as ferocious as a hunted, wounded tiger, ready to bite the earth with its bloody claws.

Muffled sobs, hoarse and primitive, escaped your tight throat, death rattles of agony and despair that seemed to come from a time before time, from the forgotten echo of a broken melody. They were the lamentations of your martyred heart, woven from buried regrets, silent humiliations, from all those hours stolen from hope, spent staring at a silent, impassive sky, as cruel as a merciless judge.

"Why... Why am I always the one who loves the most?" Your voice, a broken breath, a whisper broken by pain, faded into the icy air.

You were teetering on the edge of the abyss, fragile and trembling, a child broken under the weight of a world too hard, too cold. Around you, Xuánxiāng Yuán stretched, silent and motionless, a golden prison within an empty white palace. Its pale wooden galleries reflected the spectral glow of the suspended sky lanterns, frozen in a still, icy light, as if petrified in a frozen dream. The lotuses, heavy and motionless, drifted on black, lifeless water, prisoners of an eternal, merciless sleep. Like you. Frozen in a painful beauty. Captive of a winter that would never end.

You had no more strength. More willpower. So, with desperate rage, you hit the ground with all your might. Again. Again. Again. Your fists crashed against the icy stone, tearing your fragile skin, letting blood flow, hot and raw, splashing the immaculate whiteness of the cobblestones, a macabre painting, a silent cry of your suffering that no one would come to wipe away.

You wanted your pain to become visible, palpable, undeniable. You wanted to scream your misery to the whole world, to him, to this ghost who had left you wandering in the shadows.

But Sunghoon wasn't there. And he wouldn't come.

First, you whispered his name, a cursed breath thrown into the eternal night. "Park Sunghoon..."

Then, pain consumed you. And you screamed. Wildly. Desperately. A heart-rending, primal scream, shattering the frozen silence of the garden, a scream that carried the anger of a thousand shattered heavens.

“You destroyed me! You took me, consumed me, then abandoned me!” Your voice trembled, choked with rage and pain, a howl of agony that tore through the starless night. “You made me a ruin… An abandoned carcass! And you don’t even realize it!”

But the deepest, most intolerable wound was the one that burned silently, invisible.

You couldn't even hate him.

“But the worst part… I can’t even hate you…” Those words, whispered with the desperate weariness of a broken soul, were sharper than all the swords in the world.

They betrayed the cruellest truth: you were captive to an impossible love, chained by invisible bonds, torn promises, by the same pain you were trying to escape.

You let yourself fall onto your back, exposed and vulnerable on the cold stone. Your body trembled, naked, abandoned under the merciless light of the hanging lanterns, their soft, cruel glow illuminating your pale face, helpless before the abyss that was devouring you from within. Every breath was torture, a cruel reminder of his absence. Every beat of your bruised heart sounded the cadence of an abysmal emptiness, deeper than the darkest abyss.

You were nothing more than a living wound, a witch with a shattered heart, marked not by runes or pacts, but by a love torn from the flesh. A dull poison. A gaping wound that bled endlessly.

In that night of silver and ashes, you finally understood the bitter truth of the sorrow of loving a celestial. Of loving a divine being, too high, too distant, too perfect for this imperfect world. Of loving an inaccessible star. Of loving an elusive wind. An icy breath that eats away at you to the bone.

You loved the impossible.

And the stars, they never go down.

So you closed your eyes, engulfed in a sea of shadows and regrets, praying that the pain would consume you entirely, that the night would devour your last ember, that silence would swallow your sobs. Because anything was better than this half-dead survival, this slow sinking in an ocean of endless agony.

You were a faded flower in a hanging garden. A shadow without light. A broken soul, lost between two worlds. And no one, ever, would come to save you.

Night was not falling : it was descending.

Like a funeral cloak, like a living shroud spread across the rooftops of the celestial palace, it bore neither star, nor moon, nor respite. The sky seemed to ooze a black, almost liquid substance, as if darkness itself were bleeding from the firmament. Even the sacred lanterns arranged around the medical pavilion had gone out one by one, in an almost religious silence. The air was heavy, laden with a strange, metallic scent, which had nothing to do with the medicinal roots hanging from the ceiling. It was the smell of a world turning upside down.

And at the heart of this chaos, Sunghoon. Frozen. On his knees. Mute.

Her fingers, once so sure, trembled above Wonyoung's inanimate body. The light that bathed them, usually a pure and restorative white, had taken on a sickly hue. Filaments of ink snaked beneath the celestial brightness, like veins of shadow infecting divine magic itself. Healing became contamination. The sacred, a curse.

And yet, Sunghoon didn't stop. Because if he stopped, he knew what he'd see. The mark. And it was just waiting to wake up. A pulse. Slow. Dull. Then another, stronger one. It struck his flesh like an ominous bell, like a call to pain etched into his bones. And finally the third—an invisible hammer blow, driven into his nerves.

The mark opened. Literally. Like a mouth. Like a scream. It cracked, expanded, stretched until his skin gave way. Blood flowed, thick, black, incandescent. It gushed from his wrist as if from a foreign heart, from another living being grafted onto his soul.

Sunghoon stifled a groan. His knees hit the floor. A spasm ran through him.

« No… »

But it was already too late. Pain seeped into his body like acid. It rose through his veins, burned his lungs, and tightened his throat until it choked him. His breathing became erratic, ragged, as if he were drowning in an invisible liquid.

And in the depths of this torture, a name. Your name.

Y/n.

His jaw tightened. Sunghoon bit his own tongue, hard, very hard, until the bite made blood run down his throat.

Why? Why was it your name that kept coming back? Why your face? Why this silhouette—yours—cloaked in the mist of his memory, both desired and cursed?

Sunghoon wanted to forget you. He was supposed to forget you. But he felt you. There. Somewhere. Far away, yet so close. And you were crying. You were in pain. He didn't have proof, but he knew it the way we know the rain is coming from the trembling of the leaves.

The pain you felt screamed through the mark like a sob from the depths of time. Like an unholy prayer. A plea addressed to no one. To him. His magic became unstable, his celestial energy decaying, tearing apart under the force of this cursed resonance. Sunghoon was going to get up. Join you. Cross the mountains, the forbidden places, the celestial chains. Even if it meant losing everything.

But then... A voice. A barely audible breath. Like an echo from the other side of life.

« Sunghoon… Is that you? »

He froze. His heart skipped a beat. His hands fell dead to his sides. His gaze, devoid of light, slowly rose to the source of the voice.

Wonyoung.

She was awake. Her lips were trembling. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her body, so frail, seemed carried by a silk thread, ready to break at the slightest movement. But she was breathing. She was alive.

And suddenly, everything inside Sunghoon flickered.

The bond. The mark. Your name. Your suffering.

Everything was thrown into a sea of confusion. Everything that had been tearing him apart a few seconds earlier was pushed into the background, because she was alive, and he had thought her lost.

Sunghoon approached her slowly, like a man crossing a field of ruins. He took her in his arms. She was already sobbing against his chest, her breath ragged, her body burning. He wanted to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

“Wonyoung… What happened?”

She coughed, spitting up a little blood. He handed her a bowl of water, which she frantically drained. Then she looked up, and he read something in her eyes he'd never seen before. An ancient fear.

“The village… Nothing remains of it.” His voice was hoarse, raw. “A mist. Black. Dense. Living. It arrived without warning. It covered everything. Then… there was fire. The smell of blood. Screams. Howls…”

She collapsed against him. Tears were streaming from her wide-open eyes, as if she didn't dare close them anymore, afraid of seeing what she had experienced again.

“They're all dead, Sunghoon… All of them. Even the children. Even the old people. It was just me.” She screamed silently, her fists clenching on her tunic. Her whole body was shaking.

And Sunghoon… He felt anger rising. It rose. Dully. First like a burning in his stomach. Then it unfolded, vast, violent, unbearable. He closed his eyes. The mark pulsed again. And he knew. He knew what his heart refused to admit.

It was you. Y/n. It was your magic. This mist. This darkness. This chaos. This blood.

Maybe you did it unintentionally. Maybe you were just an unwitting weapon. But that didn't change the outcome. You had killed. Again. And Sunghoon… He loved you. Sunghoon had opened his home to you. Sunghoon had kissed you. Sunghoon had seen you cry in the shadows and believed that his love would be enough to heal your wounds.

What a fool. What a blind man. He saw your face, the one from a few nights ago. Your fingers on his skin. That whisper against his mouth. Your ragged breath, that shiver he thought he shared. Sunghoon had seen you as fragile. He had thought you were human. But you were a curse. And he was only a man, too weak to stop.

He gritted his teeth until he heard the bone crack in his jaw. His magic bucked, out of control. He pushed Wonyoung away with fierce tenderness and laid her back down, gently. She was already asleep, exhausted from the confession.

Sunghoon stood up. And his gaze was no longer the same. Something inside him had died. A fire. A faith. A light.

The next time he laid eyes on you… It wouldn't be to love you anymore. It would be to judge you. And this time, he wouldn't tremble.

Hēi Lián Gé (黑莲阁) — Black Lotus Pavilion

You've been back at the Black Lotus Pavilion for five whole days, but that return has only added shadows to the chasm gnawing at your soul. Every step on this familiar ground is a slap to your will to breathe, a bite of icy steel to your already bruised chest. Here, you thought you'd find refuge—a secret enclave outside of time, far from the poisonous venom of the White Wheel Palace. But peace would not rest its wings on your heart.

This place, this dark wooden dwelling with walls tattooed with dancing shadows, exudes a scent of memory and regret. The walls, imbued with the whispers of those who have gone before you, seem to weigh on your shoulders like an invisible weight. You have banished the name of the celestial—Park Sunghoon—from your mind, but it returns with every beat of your heart, like a blade too deeply planted to be extracted without pain.

You lay down on the old, varnished wooden deckchair, the one that creaks under the slightest movement, as if even the material refuses to accept your weight. Your bare skin, sunburned and drenched in cold sweat, clashes with the roughness of the wood, each roughness reminding you of your own vulnerability—a fragile balance between bruised flesh and bleeding soul. Your breath hitches and freezes, both heavy and shaky, on the verge of a muffled scream you barely hold back.

The wind, that traitor, plays with your untidy hair, its strands falling across your face like invisible chains. It caresses your skin like an icy hand, carrying the memories of sleepless nights, of lightless days. Its breath is a deadly cold that snakes through your bones, as if it wanted to finish you off or freeze you alive, imprisoned in this infinite silence.

Before you, the forest stretches out, a sea of darkness where ancient trees, standing as silent sentinels, observe and judge. They are the motionless witnesses of a pain no one dares to name. Each dead leaf that flutters, fragile and uncertain, dances like a soul condemned to wander endlessly, prisoner of a past it cannot escape. The sky above this black sea is an ocean of lead, heavy, suffocating, like an open coffin ready to swallow you up.

You feel the bite of the moment—the wood beneath your body, the bland, acrid taste of chrysanthemum tea slowly fading on your tongue, the icy bite of the wind on the back of your neck, the sly caress that lights a black flame in your gut. Your fan, once a symbol of your mastery and grace, trembles in your hand, victim of an uncontrollable nervous tic, an absurd, chaotic dance without rhythm or end.

Your eyelids close with infinite heaviness, you seek refuge in oblivion, in the fragile illusion that is silence. But you know, deep down, that this calm is a lie. A cruel and fatal trap. This lie has a name, a face, a breath that resonates in your blood: Park Sunghoon.

You don't move as he approaches. You don't need to open your eyes to feel his presence freezing the air around you, tightening it into a steel cage. He's there, his rigid, cutting aura falling on you like a silent condemnation. He is that icicle of the heavens, motionless, perfect, uncompromising. The very breath of divine justice, a crystal sword suspended above your head.

And yet... You know. You've glimpsed the other side of the mask, the crack no one else sees. A secret, ancient pain, a deep wound that tears him apart from within, though he refuses to show it. Sunghoon carries his grief like a weapon, cold and sharp, hidden behind his stony gaze. He doesn't cry. He doesn't speak. But he bleeds. You never forget those who bleed.

The wind suddenly stops, as if terrified, and the world becomes heavier, more stifling.

You slowly open your eyes. Your eyelids flutter open to reveal this motionless figure. Your gaze meets his, hard, clear, burning with a cold flame. He stands there, erect, dignified, a living statue carved from crystal. His white hanfu with gold trim seems to float around him, but even perfection has its flaws—his sleeves are wrinkled, his forehead is beaded with sweat that the wind struggles to dry, his strands of black hair escape and caress his face like rebellious snakes.

“The icicle of heaven deigns to honor me with its presence…” you breathe, sarcasm dripping from each syllable. “What a beautiful day to die.”

Your smile is a cold blade, a sharp irony, a veil of pain and resentment. You slowly place your fan on the wooden table, the dull sound like a death knell, and raise your cup of tea to your lips. You drink slowly, silently, as if this moment weren't his, as if you were standing somewhere else, far from him, far from his coldness.

But you should have known. Sunghoon won't stop there. His voice falls, heavy and sharp, an implacable axe:

“Unclean woman… What have you done to the village of Qinglin?”

There is no nuance, no gentleness, only the dry and final condemnation.

Sunghoon's hand hits the table with a sharp thud. Your cup flies, topples, spilling its hot liquid like blood onto the dusty floor, the red pool spreading, sinister and silent, a macabre reflection of the unspoken truth. You stare at him, and in that gaze, a shard of you cracks and shatters. A dull ache crushes your insides, invisible, unbearable, a dead weight that makes you stagger.

"You're tiring me out, ice block," you whisper through gritted teeth, your voice trembling with an icy anger that refuses to die down. "Why is any of this any of your business?"

A sob twists your throat, but you swallow the weakness. Not in front of him. He dared to cross the line of silence, to violate your fragile peace, to judge you as always, to accuse you as always, to crush you as always. This injustice is a blade that slashes at your heart, even if it beats only weakly beneath the black ashes of your despair.

You raise your head, your burning gaze piercing his steel eyes, and launch a poisoned arrow:

“Don't tell me you're worried about your lovely girlfriend… Or should I say, your ex-girlfriend?” A broken, raspy laugh, laden with pain and disdain, escapes your throat. The laugh is a silent scream, a breath of fire amidst the ice. You see it flicker, if only for a moment.

Sunghoon doesn't respond. His jaw tightens, his hand trembles imperceptibly.

And you, deep in your chest, a pain you refuse to name spreads. Jealousy? Sadness? Despair? You refuse to give it that power. You're not jealous. You're the one he betrayed before he even knew he loved you. You are the one he wanted to save, but chose to condemn.

The wind rushes in again, violent, laden with dust and ash. Beneath this dying sky, the air seems to tear itself apart. The pain within you ignites into a black blaze, a fire that threatens to consume everything.

Your fingers dig into the lacquered wood of your fan, tense, white with tension. Your deep black hanfu floats around you like a veil of mourning.

Park Sunghoon stands there, majestic and terrifying, an ivory statue frozen in the storm. His eyes reflect a silent war: a dull anger, a deep melancholy, a fierce struggle between duty and desire, order and passion.

Without a word, he summons his sword, a blade of cold, sharp light. It is an extension of his unyielding will, a divine judgment hanging over you. With a quick movement, he brings the sharp point to your throat. The pressure is light, almost a caress of icy metal, but suffocating. An icy shudder runs through your skin, a slight burn. A trickle of bright red blood escapes, slowly, drop by drop, a scarlet trail in the gloom.

"I will not let a sinner like you bring calamity to this world," he snarls, his voice thick with suppressed anger, a silent threat of storm.

You stand still, silent defiance burning in your eyes, ablaze with icy hatred. With a firm hand, you grasp the blade, ignoring the burn in your palm. Blood flows, hot drops on the cold metal, falling as an offering to this grim silence.

“You claim to want to save this world,” you whisper, your voice low, vibrating with pain and bitterness, “but you are unable to reach out to the one bleeding before you.” Each word is a blade, a blow against the wall of ice around his heart.

“Hypocrite. Coward. You hide behind these celestial laws, this justice you brandish like a mask, but what you're running from is yourself. You're running from this marriage, from what you could have been, from this love that silently consumes you.” A harsh, bitter laugh escapes you, the pain in your chest burning like a black fire, but you refuse to bend, to cry. Not in front of him.

“Then do it. Kill me. If it will assuage your shame, your fear, your hatred. Kill me, and be free.”

Your fingers, frozen by visceral fear and abysmal exhaustion, finally release the blade of the sword that Sunghoon holds with terrible rigor, its cold steel resting on the delicate skin of your neck. This contact is a blast of icy wind that freezes your entire being, your spine stiffens as if it were trying to break, while a shudder of agony electrifies you from head to toe.

Your muscles contract in a painful dance, but it is your mind, that fragile, cracked temple, that reels most violently, buffeted by the inner storm that rumbles dully.

Your short, uneven breaths beat against your ribs like hungry claws. The silence that envelops you, heavy and suffocating, is broken only by the high-pitched murmur of your sobs. They have not yet flowed, but burn beneath your skin like an invisible poison, torrents of liquid pain, secret, forcing their way into the shadows of your flesh.

Then, in that abyss of darkness and silent screams, you see—just for a moment, but that brief flash pierces you—a crack in the impassive mask he wears. The cold mask of the man you loved, or at least thought you loved. This crack is tiny, fragile, but it reveals all his pain: the dull regret that grips him deep inside, the invisible, incessant struggle against his own demons, a pain so ancient that it seems to have dug into his soul like a sharpened blade.

Sunghoon looks up at you. His pupils are black wells drowning in pent-up anger, resentment, and a silent pain that crushes you as much as it tears him apart. His fists clench, white with extreme tension, as if every nerve in his body is straining toward an explosion he's barely holding back. He's chained to this inner war, this fight he refuses to wage out loud, a prisoner of his own shadows and his heartbreaking pride.

Then, suddenly, the sword disappears, swallowed by a burst of cold light, as fleeting as life itself. A breath escapes your tight throat—a broken, trembling sob—as you collapse, broken, to the cold ground. And it's there, in the depths of this silent chaos, that your gaze falls on the burning mark on his arm. It pulses with the force of a burning heart, burning flesh and blood. The black fire emanating from it slowly eats away at his skin, a living wound that bleeds in dark streaks onto the cold ground.

A moan, low and plaintive, almost human, escapes his throat. A strangled wail, barely a breath, that tears your heart into a thousand pieces. You wanted him broken. You wanted him to know what suffering was, to know the icy bite of despair, the bitter taste of the pain that has always eaten away at you. You wanted to see his ashes. But deep down, hidden beneath thick layers of anger and hatred, you know you love him. Too much. Too much to let him sink without reaching out to him. Too much not to buckle under the cruel weight of this poisonous bond.

You stand up, a frail figure caught in a freezing wind, trembling but determined. Your fan falls to the ground with a sharp clap that tears through the silence like a clap of thunder on a stormy night. Your hands seek his; this contact is your anchor in the storm. You grasp his hand, cold and weak, and with a clumsy gesture but filled with all the desperate tenderness you can muster, you roll up the sleeve of his hanfu.

The mark is there, black and split, bleeding, like a cruel mirror of your own silently bleeding heart. The metallic smell of blood, the burn of burning flesh, the palpable pain that unites you in a single invisible torture.

Sunghoon instinctively recoils, trying to flee this presence that tears him apart, to escape from your gaze that sees him, that illuminates him, that makes him vulnerable. He is a coward, yes. It is in this cowardice that he finds refuge, a fragile shelter where he cannot face the truth. He doesn't want you to see his face broken by the tears he refuses to shed, nor the anger that boils quietly, ready to consume everything.

But he can't run away. Not this time. He stands there, motionless, his eyes fixed on yours. Your pupils, clouded with tears this time, no longer carry the anger of before but an infinite sadness, heavy as the starless night, a sadness that only love can inflict, that bittersweet pain that tears without healing.

His heart stops, suspended in this eternal silence.

"Is it... Is it my fault?" Your voice breaks, cracking, fragile like a branch under the snow. You stare at his bleeding arm, then at his drawn features, trapped in an invisible struggle between the man he is and the man he wants to be.

Sunghoon wants to reassure you, protect you, tell you that you're not responsible, that you're innocent. But no words leave his lips; his silence is a chasm more terrible than any accusation. In this void, you understand everything.

“I’m sorry…” you whisper, your throat tight with old, genuine grief.

Sunghoon doesn't know why you're apologizing. Yet when you pull him close, when you embrace him with the fragile strength of your broken love, a spark flickers in his eyes. A faint, wild glimmer of hope that whispers that one day, perhaps, you could be happy. That you could grow old together, silent, united, like those simple, mortal couples.

But Sunghoon knows it's just wishful thinking, a fragile illusion.

“Y/n…” His voice becomes hoarse, torn.

“If you must condemn me… Do it. But listen to me.” Your voice is a trembling breath as you release your grip, but don't step back, staying within reach of his hesitations. Your gazes lock, heavy with pain and unspoken words.

“I'm innocent. I know you don't believe me, that you don't trust me. But I, too, have the right to the presumption of innocence.” Your voice wavers. You look down, nervously biting your lip. Then, slowly, you raise your head, ready to reveal the truth you've hidden for so long. “I've done my research. You won't like what I'm about to tell you. But Wonyoung… She's not a mere mortal. She's chaos incarnate.”

And then, you reach out your hand. But it's not a gesture. It's a farewell. A summons. A pact with darkness. Your lips move, slowly, and what you speak is no longer a human language. It's a forgotten breath from ancient kingdoms. A song that shouldn't exist. Grave. Fractured. Flayed. As if the world itself were choking under the weight of your truth.

The magic obeys. First, it's a wind. Slow. Frozen. Sharp like a blade of black jade. Then comes the mist. It creeps along the ground like a wounded beast. Thick. Heavy. Oozing. It rises, it surrounds your bodies, it erases the trees, the ground, the skies. You no longer breathe the air of the world. You breathe oblivion. And then, the mirror rises. Not a mirror. But a wound. A nightmare eye. A gaping rift between dimensions, between reality and what we would have preferred never to see again. It throbs. It pulses. It bleeds a dark, almost carnal light. And then it opens—not like a door, but like a deep wound in the flesh of time.

And the memories come flooding back. Not like a story. But like a scream. Qinglin. The village. Or what's left of it. Impure red flames lick the collapsed roofs. The sky is inky, split by purple lightning. The ground is blackened by blood. Not red. Not scarlet. Black. Burnt. Stained by magic. It runs underground like a rabid beast. It oozes between the paving stones. It makes the walls tremble.

And in this nightmare theater—the bodies. Small. Frail. Children. Eyes open. Frozen in terror. Their hands outstretched. Their charred limbs. Women clinging to their corpses. Men crucified in the air, suspended by chains of screaming spells.

And in the center—Wonyoung. Or rather… What's left of her. A being consumed by shadow. Disfigured by dark magic. Her eyes are empty, hollowed out like two graves. Her smile is cracked to the temples. She laughs. A hollow, mechanical, morbid sound. And suddenly—she opens her stomach. Slowly. Deliberately. She traces symbols into her flesh. She mutilates herself before your eyes.

And in the mirror—in this perverse illusion—it's you holding the dagger. It's you she's imitating. You she's accusing. You she's sullying. And all of this… To keep Sunghoon away from you. To steal his gaze. His love. His soul.

The mirror closes. With a rattle. As if reality itself had just died. And silence, then, is no longer silence. It is drowning. It is the exact moment when the heart stops beating before it starts again—or never starts again. It is nothingness breathing.

Sunghoon doesn't speak. Doesn't back away. Doesn't moan. But his body betrays him. His shoulders slump. His breath becomes short. Ragged. As if he's suddenly carrying the weight of a thousand deaths. His fists clench. His chin trembles. And his eyes—my god, his eyes—slowly close, with that desperate slowness warriors have when they finally accept their fate.

You want to say something. You want to catch up with him. Touch him. But he beats you to it. His voice, when it falls, is not a word. It's dizzying. A bottomless pit where one falls endlessly. It's a strangled wail, woven of blood and dust, slicing through the air like a black thread suspended between the jaws of a collapsing world. It doesn't strike your eardrums. It wraps around your heart and squeezes. Again. Again. Until you stop breathing.

And you understand. Because deep down... you were waiting for this question. Or rather: you were afraid it would come too late.

“Why… did you run away?”

But that's not a question. Not really. It's an echo. A barely articulated plea. A fracture that speaks through the voice of a broken man, too proud to implore, too empty to pretend. It's not a blade. It's what remains after the blade. That silence that still bleeds, even when the wound seems closed.

And before you, it is not the Heavenly Judge. Not the sword of Heaven. Not the son of the Law, nor the living weapon of a world devoured by order. It’s Sunghoon. Just Sunghoon. The man. The one you loved until you lost sleep, speech, and even your name. The one you could have hated if only you had loved him a little less. The one you fled not out of weakness... But because staying was slowly killing you.

And in his eyes—there is no rage, no pride, no justice. There is only fear. Raw. Unhealthy. Twisted. The fear of never having been enough. The fear that your love was a dream stolen from a life that didn't belong to him. The fear that if he lost you, it was because he unwittingly killed you. And worse… the fear that you never really loved him. Or that you stopped loving him when he became who he is.

But you know. You've always known. And now that the blood is pounding in your temples like a war drum, you can no longer remain silent. Even if your throat is tight. Even if your soul is crumbling.

You breathe in.

You're bleeding inside.

And you speak.

“I didn’t run away…” Your voice isn’t a voice. It’s a rattle. A rattle of agony. Your knees are shaking. Your mouth is dry. Your hands are cold as death. “I left.”

And you see him collapse. Not physically. Not yet. But his gaze. His gaze becomes empty. Like a fortress crumbling in the rain. A thousand-year-old stone wall eaten away by salt and shame. He doesn't even blink. He takes it in. He absorbs it. And you feel each word sink into Sunghoon like an arrow.

You should keep quiet. But if there's one thing you've learned from loving him... It's that silence kills.

"I didn't leave because I didn't love you." Sunghoon flexes. Barely. But you see it. His shoulders, usually so straight, tilt a millimeter. And then you tell the truth. Whole. Dirty. Heartbreaking. “I left… because I loved you too much.” You don't have time to breathe in. You're not allowed to cry. Because you have to keep going. “You weren't looking at me anymore. You were sleeping by my side, but your mind… It was elsewhere. With her. With Wonyoung. Even your silences, they no longer belonged to me.”

You're shaking.

“And I… I was there. Motionless. On my knees before your absence. Screaming silently. Consuming myself in anticipation.” Your voice breaks. “I was jealous. Jealous of what I couldn’t be. Of what she represented. And I was ashamed. Ashamed of being human. Ashamed of needing you more than you needed me. Ashamed of loving a man who no longer had room for me.”

And there you see it. That quiver in his lower lip. That dark glow growing in his pupils. You take a step back.

“You no longer made room for me in your life, Sunghoon. And I understood… That I was becoming a burden. A speck of dust. A weakness. And I loved you too much to become a weakness for you.”

The silence that falls after your words is so thick it could kill.

But it's not Sunghoon who moves first. It's you who staggers when he falls to his knees. His knees hit the ground. Brutally. Like a verdict. Sunghoon. The man with hands covered in sentence. The chosen one of heaven. The weapon of the world. On his knees before you. Not to beg. Not to be forgiven. But because his legs no longer carry him. Because your absence has cut him down more violently than a thousand wars.

His hands cling to your dress like a prayer. His forehead rests against your stomach. And then, in a whisper that comes from the abyss:

“You don’t need to be jealous, my little judge…” Her voice clears her throat. It’s hoarse, destroyed, drenched in ash and pain. “You are my universe. My chaos. My breath. Even when I lost myself, it was you I was looking for.” Sunghoon finally looks up at you. And in his gaze—those aren't tears. They're storms. Years of unspoken words. Sustained torments. And that tenderness. Immense. All-consuming. “During those five days, I died. Not once. Hundreds of times. Every time I woke up. Because in my dreams… I saw you. You laughed. You were there. But when I woke up… All that remained was the smell of your absence. The emptiness of your warmth. And I thought… That I wouldn't survive.”

You hiccup.

Sunghoon continues, his voice breaking:

“I dreamed of you. Pregnant with my children. In a place without war, without oaths. I dreamed of a world where I could touch you without having to punish myself. Where I could love you without having to judge you.” And then—her voice falters. Her eyes moisten again. “I love you, Y/n. I love you like a curse. I love you enough to tear my heart open to the bone. I love you enough to extinguish me so that you can shine. And I beg you… Don’t leave me in this shadow. I can change. I want to change. For you.”

He's there, prostrate. Offered. Sacrificed. Then you fall in turn. Your body no longer belongs to you. You kneel. Your hands frame his face. And there, you force him to look at you.

"I don't want you to change." Sunghoon blinks, lost. You breathe, "I want you. Not a perfect husband. Not a repentant god. You, with your silences. You, with your darkness. You, with your pride, your violence, your sick love. You... With your heart that still beats for me."

And then you kiss him. But it's not a kiss. It's a rush. An affront. A scream. A shipwreck. Your mouth collides with his like blades meet blades atop a battlefield—not to seduce, but to survive. You don't kiss him like you'd find a lover. You kiss him like you'd catch a condemned man you love too much to let die.

Your teeth catch his lip. Your tongue invades him. You bite him. You drink him. You tear him apart. And Sunghoon answers.

Gods… He answers.

His hands, initially frozen by shock, roughly grab you by the waist. Not gently. With the urgency of a man who has lost too much, waited too long, dreamed too much. He presses you against him, so hard your ribs protest, your breath hitches, your body struggles to keep pace with a heart beating on the verge of bursting.

It's not a kiss of love. It's a kiss of instinct. Of agony. Of obsession.

Your fingers dig into the nape of his neck, into his black hair soaked with sweat, fever, and nightmares. And you pull him closer. As if you wanted to drown him inside you. As if his salvation could only come in your mouth, in your blood, in your ravaged devotion.

Sunghoon moaned—A hoarse, almost painful sound. Not of pleasure. But of need. The raw, brutal need to never be alone again. To have you, here, all of you. Flesh, soul, abyss included. His mouth opens beneath yours, but Sunghoon doesn't lead. You're the one who dominates. You're the one who ravages. You're the one who demands accountability from the hollow of his tongue. You kiss him like someone screams. Like someone hits. Like someone cries.

And Sunghoon offers himself. His back arches. His knees tighten beneath you, pressed into the damp earth. His hands, large and trembling, slide down your back, as if he wanted to carve his nails, his imprint, his last prayer. It's not erotic. It's animal. It's spiritual. It's too much. Far too much. And yet, not enough. Sunghoon wants more. He wants your throat. Your breath. Your sighs. Your pain. He wants the child you never carried. The future he ruined. The forgiveness he doesn't deserve.

Sunghoon wants everything you deny this world—and he wants you to give it to him, right here, right now, in the hollow of your mouth, in the blaze of your rage. And you give it to him. You give him your anger. You give him your abandonment. You give him your grief, your love, your broken silence. You don't need words. You don't want them.

This kiss is a testament. An oath without promise. A hand-to-hand combat between two ruined souls.

And Sunghoon… He capsizes. He falls into you, against you, for you. His arms embrace you like a last refuge, as if he wanted to lock you away against his skin, in his breath, beneath his bones. And his lips—those lips that have judged you so much, ignored you so much, burned you so much—finally become yours again. Supple. Fierce. Painful.

You feel his hand slide down the back of your neck, trembling, almost feverish. He's not guiding you. Sunghoon isn't imposing anything on you. He's begging you. And you understand. That it's not your kiss he's receiving. It's your newfound faith. It's your flame. It's your choice. So Sunghoon cries into your mouth. Not visible tears. But by the tension of his jaw. By the heaves of his stomach. By the way he presses his forehead against yours between gasps, like a man out of breath, out of life, out of love.

“Y/n…” Sunghoon moans your name between kisses, like a prayer. Like a condemnation. Like a sacred fire. And you fold your legs around his waist, both kneeling in this black earth, this field of ruins turned altar. You cling to Sunghoon like a ship in a storm. And you continue to kiss him. For a long time. Fiercely. Tirelessly. Until the night itself seems to close in around you.

Until all you hear is his breath, hoarse and broken, mingling with yours. Until his fingers slip under the fabric of your neck, searching for warmth, for life, for reality—You.

And in that kiss, you finally feel it. The silent cry he never dared to utter. The pain he kept silent for too long. The love he locked away in the folds of a heart too proud. And you know. That Sunghoon never forgot you. Not for a second. Not for a breath. Not for a night. That he punished himself for your absence. That he hated himself for having been loved by you. That he dreamed of dying… But only after seeing you one last time.

So you open your eyes. And you look at him, there, a few inches away. His face flushed, his lips swollen, his pupils dilated by withdrawal, by ecstasy, by fear. And you whisper, your mouth still glued to his, your tears mingled with his:

“If you lose me again… I won’t come back.”

Sunghoon grabs you. His breath catches. And with one last kiss, almost gentle this time—a touch, a whisper of lips—he answers:

"Then I won't let you go. Even if heaven punishes me. Even if I have to sell my soul."

And in this silent oath, your united brows, your bruised lips, your hearts finally freed from silence - the world, at last, falls silent. There's no more pact. No more war. No more Wonyoung. No more blood. No more revenge. Only you. Two souls in tatters. Two hearts on fire. Two lost beings, who have stopped running.

And in the night, in this ravaged embrace, a love is born stronger than the gods themselves.

Juébié Tái (诀别台) — The Terrace of the Final Separation

The horizon, once a clear line between heaven and earth, was now nothing but a deep quagmire, an ocean of blood mixed with ash. A red, visceral, almost living abyss—as if the earth itself were bleeding, sliced by a wound no hand could close. This was no simple sunset, nor a natural end, but the last gasp of a torn world, a burning farewell hurled in the face of deaf gods. The sky seemed to vomit up its own heart, saturated with a dull anger, an ancient despair, a visceral resentment that only war can breed.

The heavy, low clouds, black as the entrails of a dead dragon, poured their acrid smoke over the landscape, weaving a web of doom. Each ray of light tore the scarlet horizon into bursts of fire and soot, like glaring scars on the skin of a dying giant. That deep, thick red pulsed in the air—a hue of farewell, of broken promises, of consumed souls.

A gloomy wind blew through the ruins of the Juébié Tái temple, once a sanctuary of peace and light, now a silent tomb of dead illusions. The wind carried with it the stifled sighs of the dead—invisible ghosts slipping between the cracked stones, carrying with them faded dreams and torn oaths. Dead leaves swirled in a dance of death, scattering across the cracked paving stones like a shower of dying ashes, witnesses to an end come too soon.

In the heart of this desolate landscape, a figure stood, motionless like a statue carved in the night. Sunghoon. He stood there, frozen, like a warrior worn to the bone, marked by the weight of years of internal struggles far crueler than those waged outside. Every tense muscle, every held breath, vibrated with a dull tension ready to explode. The silence around him was not absence, but an oppressive cage filled with suppressed anger, buried pain.

His shadow, long and menacing, stretched across the shattered stones of the temple, drawn by the last rays of a glowing, dying sun. This sun refused to illuminate his face, as if afraid to reveal the invisible scars, the deep wounds etched in his soul. His steely gaze, icy and unfathomable, was a restless sea of shadows and secrets, a night where even the moon would have hesitated to land.

The sword strapped to his back seemed to pulse in unison with his pent-up rage, vibrating beneath his dark tunic with a cruel glow, ready to spring forth like a venomous snake, to spill a torrent of pain and blood. The blade, cold as death, caught the faint light and sent it back in menacing flashes.

Sunghoon didn't move, but his very stillness was a statement—a silent warning that beneath that apparent stone lurked a raging storm, ready to sweep everything away. Then, slowly, his winter eyes rose. They tore themselves from an abyss of solitude and scanned the gloom before him with icy intensity, until at last they encountered a flickering figure.

She was there. Wonyoung. Fragile. Broken. And yet, painfully beautiful in its desolation. Her hanfu, once bright and silky, was torn to shreds like a funeral shroud, stained with dust, dried blood, and silent tears that time would not wash away. Every step she took seemed torture, a struggle against an invisible weight that chained her, shackled her, pulled her toward the depths of this waking nightmare.

Her hands trembled, carrying the burden of the world, her lips quivered under the weight of an oppressive silence, heavy with secrets and repressed pain. She wanted to scream, to tear the sky apart with her cries, to shatter the night with her despair, but she no longer found the strength to beg, even in silence. His breath, short and panting, was a broken prayer, a whisper of life in this theater of death.

The world around them seemed to hold its breath, suspended on the fragile thread of their encounter.

« Sunghoon… »

The simple word, barely more than a breath, escaped her lips like a hoarse whisper, a fragile tremor on the verge of extinction. It was both a plea and a condemnation, a flickering flame in an eternal winter wind. The name carried all the pent-up pain of so many years, the weight of a love twisted by betrayal and blood. It was a glowing ember, an open wound that time had failed to heal.

Her gaze, tired and dull, finally met Sunghoon's. But this gaze was no longer that of a man she had known. It was a frozen chasm, a black abyss in which all the shards of humanity had drowned, a desert of ice where no flowers grew. In his eyes, the fire had gone out, replaced by an implacable coldness, an armor of steel tempered in resentment and despair. Sunghoon didn't answer. He couldn't. His silence was an impenetrable wall, a silent refusal, the death of all tenderness.

Then, slowly, terribly slowly, like a tightrope walker walking the sharp edge of fate, Sunghoon took a step back. This movement seemed sealed by a grim destiny, a sentence carved in stone. Every millimeter of retreat was a wound inflicted on Wonyoung's heart, an even deeper fracture. Sunghoon was moving away from her not only physically, but from his entire life, from everything they had ever been.

Sunghoon's voice finally broke through the silence, icy, sharp, honed like a blade that cuts flesh with precision. It cleaved the frozen air, shattering the fragile ephemeral of their shared memories, tearing at the fragile fabric that had united them.

"Don't come any closer."

It wasn't a request, nor advice, but a guillotine, a final decision. The simple order resonated in Wonyoung's chest like an iron hammer hitting an anvil. The weight of the words crashed down on her, crushing what life remained in her veins. Her heart exploded silently, a firework of sharp shards that embedded themselves in her flesh and soul. The pain was no longer physical; it was visceral, burning, heartbreaking. It consumed everything, gnawed at the last fibers of her being, lacerating the fragile veil she still wore.

The air around them suddenly became thin, as if the universe itself had decided to abandon them, suspending their breaths, suspending time. Emptiness seeped in everywhere, icy, voracious, ready to swallow them up.

“This situation… Disgusts me,” Sunghoon breathed, his voice choked with deep hatred, a silent venom that had been eating away at his insides for years. “I didn’t expect this. Not from you.” A dry, hoarse, bitter laugh slipped through his lips—the broken laugh of a man forged in the depths of silence and pain. A laugh that was both a plea and a farewell. “Years, Wonyoung… Years.” Sunghoon swallowed his rage like a deadly poison, like a bitter medicine he had to absorb to survive. “And because I respect those years, I’m going to let you go. Without consequences. Today.”

Sunghoon took a heavy step forward, laden with faded promises and open wounds. But it was Wonyoung who stepped back this time, her legs trembling, fragile, about to buckle under the weight of a past too heavy. She felt anchored to a cold, dead earth, unable to escape this unbearable pain. Her breath broke, shattering into a thousand shards in her throat, an echo of despair that seemed like it could consume her entirely.

"But listen to me carefully..." Sunghoon's voice, when it finally broke the silence, was hoarse, as if torn by years of silence and hurt. "If you ever cross that line. If you ever come close again to what I swore to protect..." The words crashed down between them, heavy as invisible blades, sharp as a grim promise. Sunghoon's eyes darkened, hardened, becoming that hardened metal that cannot be bent, a sword raised in the dark, ready to strike. “I will not turn away my eyes. I will not tremble. I will raise my sword against you, and I will not fail.”

The wind moaned in the ruins, a low sob that seemed to carry the voices of the dead, a dirge suspended in time, a final farewell to what might have been. Wonyoung felt that weight crash down on her heart, an icy storm that froze her insides. She wasn't crying yet, but in her wide-open eyes shone a light worse than fear—the agony of betrayal, the suffocating weight of incomprehension.

Her legs buckled, wobbled, but she took another step, trapped in a nightmare that refused to go away.

“A… relationship…” she whispered, her voice cracking, shattered into a thousand pieces. “You mean… our relationship.” Every breath was a dagger in the pit of his chest, every breath a torture that his body rejected but could not escape. “The one you destroyed with your own hands. For her. For that cursed witch to whom you offered what you promised me. Your heart.”

She staggered, her fingers seeking his, not in anger, nor in gentleness, but with that empty embrace of a hope that no longer existed, a painful pressure, a last breath of life in a still-warm corpse.

“You swore to me… You promised me that you would never forget me. That despite the chaos, despite the war, our souls would remain linked. That your gaze would never change.”

But Sunghoon didn't answer. His steely gaze, cold and distant, scrutinized her like one observing a ghost, an illusion one would want to banish.

She felt the abyss opening beneath her feet. The tearing, the black hollow that swallowed everything.

“You lied to me, Sunghoon. You betrayed me like a blade in your back. You left me. Abandoned me. Forgotten me. And you dare speak of justice? Of morality?” Wonyoung’s voice rose, heartbreaking, a burning howl that tore through the night and into his own heart. It was fire and ashes, anger and despair mingled in one incandescent scream.

“Don't tell me you cared about me. Don't tell me you suffered. Because I… I waited for you. In silence. In the shadows. In blood. I sacrificed everything. And you?” She laughed, a dry, bitter, stillborn laugh, a broken shard, a shard lost in the emptiness of a shattered soul. “You ran away. You watched my collapse without lifting a finger.”

Sunghoon looked at her again, implacable, merciless, his eyes cold, like frozen glass. Not an ounce of trembling, not a sign of pity.

"No. I never loved you." The words were like a sword cut, slicing through flesh, tearing through flesh, leaving a gaping void where a heart still beat. "I was nothing to you, Wonyoung. And you were nothing to me." Sunghoon took a step back, moving away from her like a bad dream you want to shake off. “You were just a reflection. A shadow of what I could have become if I had embraced the darkness.”

The silence stretched between them, thick, crushing, laden with the echo of a pain too raw. Then Sunghoon slowly turned his back, abandoning this last bond that united them.

"Find someone who can look at you without throwing up at the thought of the dead people you're dragging around. I can't. I won't. I'll never forgive you." The wind grew stronger, howling through the ruins, carrying his words away like a cursed oath suspended in nothingness. “Atoned… That’s all you have left. Until your last night, until your last breath. Pray that the heavens have mercy, for I have none left.”

His departure was a blast of icy wind, an implacable end.

Wonyoung fell. His knees hit the cold stone, his back bent, fragile and broken like a broken bow. His face was lost in his trembling hands, in that infinite solitude. A dull, silent, nameless cry burst from the depths of her being, forged in the dust, ashes and pain of a world she had just lost forever.

The last glimmer of a murdered love.

And, in a breath, a murmur of agony:

"If she hadn't existed... Maybe... Just maybe... You would have loved me, too."

But there was only silence. Such night. Such void.

Bai Lun Yan (白轮殿) — The Palace of the White Wheel

The Wheel Room was bathed in a murky gloom, broken only by the flickering glow of a few red lanterns suspended from rusty chains. The air was heavy, saturated with old sweat, musk, dried blood, and datura. Each breath seemed to collide with the oozing walls of forgotten desires. It was like entering a womb—living, warm, obscene.

And you, you were offered.

Pressed against the Wheel like a condemned woman, like a virgin ready to be sacrificed to a god she herself had summoned. The black wood, engraved with ancient glyphs and dead curses, bit into your bare skin. Your arms were raised, tense, your muscles trembling, your fingers clenched in the grooves of the thousand-year-old wheel. Your hanfu, torn in places, slid slowly from your shoulders, revealing your taut stomach, your heaving chest, and lower still—your pussy, naked, swollen, glistening with anticipation. Open like an offering. Vibrant like a living scar.

And he—Sunghoon—was there. On my knees before you. Not as a lover. Not as a servant. But as a devoted executioner, ready to implode you, piece by piece.

Sunghoon looked down at you, his eyelids half-closed, his breathing already erratic, as if he were holding himself back from devouring you too quickly. And then, he dove. His tongue found your clitoris in one swift stroke—like a saber cut. You arched your back so hard the pain took your breath away, but the pleasure swept it away immediately. He licked like a thirsty man, as if your pleasure were the only elixir capable of saving him. His tongue swirled, slid, felt, searching every millimeter of flesh inside you. And he didn't just lick: he sucked, growled against your sex, nibbled just enough to make your body arch even more.

You were dirty. You were sublime. You were broken.

Strings of drool stretched from your parted lips to your chin. You gasped. You cried unintentionally. Your legs trembled, twitched, your stomach contracted in an uncontrollable spasm. And Sunghoon… He moved his hands up your thighs. Slowly. Exasperatingly slowly. His fingers dug violently into your flesh, leaving painful, red marks. Then he yanked your legs apart. Your foot found itself on his shoulder, spread-eagled before him like a captured slave.

And then he bit you. Right there. On your already swollen clitoris. A precise, sadistic bite. You are screaming. And Sunghoon whispered against your soaked skin:

“You want me to break you here, on this Wheel? You want me to ruin you?”

Then he slid a finger inside you. Slowly. Rough, hot, merciless. He didn't let you adjust—he pushed in all the way to his palm, then he moved. Slowly. Then harder. Then faster. Your inner wall sucked in that finger like a living sinkhole. You were on fire. Sunghoon added a second finger, sharply. And you cried out again, your head slamming against the wheel. Your body bucked—and he held you, tight, too tight. His fingers were now moving at an animal pace. And then a third. Inside you. Entirely. He was fucking you with his hand, fucking you to the core.

And meanwhile—his tongue never stopped. Sunghoon let his chin rub against you, let his saliva mix with your juices. And you were dripping. You were a river. A tide. A tidal wave of desire. The sound of his fingers sliding in and out of you was indecent. A wet, sticky, extremely erotic sound. The floor was becoming slippery. The stone beneath you was stained. And Sunghoon was growling between your thighs like a rutting beast.

"You have a pussy made to be devoured. You stink of sex. You're crying so I can open you up even more."

And you were crying, yes. With pleasure. With shame. With desire. Your eyes watered, your thighs trembling. You didn't even know if you wanted to run away or be killed right there.

Then, abruptly, Sunghoon pushed his fingers deeper, curved them—and you exploded. The orgasm pierced you like a poisoned blade. You screamed. You began to squirt, to ejaculate like a fury. Powerful, uncontrollable jets, spurting against his mouth, on his face, on his neck. He barely pulled back, grabbed your pussy with both hands, and leaned down to drink. To drink it all. He swallowed, he gulped loudly, moans rising from his throat as if he were choking on your pleasure.

And Sunghoon continued. He was still licking. He lapped at your soaking wet pussy, cleaning it with horrible tenderness, the patience of a monster. He kissed you. He sucked on your intimate lips. He pushed his tongue inside you to collect every last drop.

Then he finally stopped. Slowly. Very slowly.

And stood up.

His chest was heaving. His chin was shiny. His neck was dripping. His mouth—covered with you. And in his eyes, there was nothing human anymore.

"You taste divine, my little judge..." he said, his voice hoarse like a death rattle.

Sunghoon lifted two fingers covered in your juices and brought them to your mouth. You opened your lips wide. You sucked them slowly. One by one. Then both together. You pushed them all the way into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, rolling your tongue like a learned whore. He moaned. A low, painful whimper.

"Are you hungry?" he said. He leaned down, his chest brushing against your burning stomach. "Me too."

And then he grabbed you roughly by the back of the neck and kissed you. A wild kiss. A brutal kiss. His tongue invaded your mouth. He tasted your pleasure on your tongue. He rubbed himself against it like a wild animal. His hand slid to his belt, which he undid with a brutal gesture. The hanfu opened.

You placed your hands on his bare, taut, veiny torso. And lower down—you saw his cock. Erect. Long. Wide. Throbbing. Slightly curved. A droplet beaded from its tip, and you saw it slide slowly down his shaft.

Sunghoon was ready.

And you couldn't take it anymore.

Your hand slid, slow and trembling, like a snake exploring offered flesh, first brushing against the smooth skin of his belly, that cold, hard surface sculpted by years of combat and discipline. The coldness of the polished stone beneath your palm contrasted with the dull, menacing heat rising within you, a latent fire flowing beneath your skin like magma ready to overflow. Your finger descended, almost groping, to the hard, taut bulge throbbing against your palm, a promise of destruction and ecstasy, a sharpened weapon that already made you tremble.

Sunghoon's breath was raspy, laden with suppressed impatience, and the thick silence of the night seemed to hold its breath as well. The tension hanging in the air was palpable, a rope stretched to its limit, ready to snap like an executioner's whip.

But before you could fully surrender, your hand slid lower, eager, his wrist closing roughly around yours. His grip was firm, commanding, undeniably powerful, yet within that raw strength, there was a strange sweetness, a silent oath that only your bodies could understand. No need for words. No need for promises. Just the certainty that this battle was not just a war of flesh, but a war of torn souls, chained in a cruel fate.

Sunghoon lifted you then, seemingly effortlessly, as if you were mist, a feather abandoned to the wind. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your arms clinging to his strong shoulders, as he carried you to the Wheel—that black, icy circle that seemed to absorb all light. He set you down with surgical precision, your bare skin hitting the cold surface. The contact lasted a split second, enough to take your breath away. A hoarse, muffled cry escaped your throat, a mixture of astonishment, fear, and burning desire.

Your heart pounded, a war drum in your chest, as the weight of his body crushed you against the Wheel, locking your body in an embrace as cruel as an oath. This weight was both threat and promise—a prison and a sanctuary.

Suddenly, Sunghoon's hand lit up with a vibrant, unearthly white glow. A cold flame burst from his fingers, filling the space with a spectral light that made your mind flicker. Your eyes blurred, went out, engulfed in a night blacker than the deepest ink, an absolute void, an absolute nothingness. Celestial magic had just stolen your vision, condemning you to total darkness.

You were blind.

But you felt it. Oh yes, you felt it.

His hot breath brushing the back of your neck, his fingers digging into your flesh, scratching with a ferocious gentleness. His pelvis pressing, forcing its hardness against your vulnerable stomach, the burning line of his cock rising against your skin like a burning blade. His desire consumed you, unleashed, wild, unstoppable.

A dark smile split your lips, carnivorous, a flash of provocation in the silence of the night.

“Block of ice…” you whispered, your voice trembling, saturated with desire and defiance. “You’re playing a dangerous game, you know… Fucking your blind wife, hanging from that cursed wheel, which could turn at any moment… Aren’t you afraid she’ll end up crushed?” Your tone was sweet venom, a slow poison that flowed between you, a challenge thrown into the gloom. But beneath that provocation slid a fierce expectation, a visceral need.

Your hand moved then, exploring his torso like a lover eager to discover every secret. You brushed against every tense muscle, every invisible scar, tracing furrows of fire beneath his skin. Then, with a cruel gesture, you let your nails sink into his flesh, scratching, marking, drawing red lines, thin but deep. A hoarse, almost bestial rattle rose from his throat—the awakening of a wounded, excited, hungry beast.

You bit your lip, biting and wild, happy with this answer.

“You’re a bad husband,” you breathed, a hot breath that brushed against his lips, sliding down his tense jaw. “So… bad.”

Your fingers found the back of his neck, digging in like hooks, and you pulled gently, eliciting a deep moan. His body crushed against you, every muscle tense, his hard, demanding cock pressed against your stomach, demanding, hungry. Your head was spinning, your soul was burning, and the fever was rising inside you like a black tide.

Then, his voice hoarse, low, almost a growl:

"I should have gagged you..."

Without warning, Sunghoon skewered you brutally, with a sharp, deep, merciless thrust. A wild cry escaped your throat—a mixture of astonishment, delicious pain, and obscene pleasure. Your body arched violently, oscillating between heartbreak and ecstasy; his cock was a sword tearing you apart from the inside, a burning blade that marked your flesh forever.

Sunghoon gave you no respite. No time to adjust. His all-consuming urgency, his insatiable hunger, pulverized you. Every thrust of his hips promised destruction and rebirth. The erratic rhythm of his movements tore through the air saturated with sweat and incense, fever and cum. The Wheel vibrated beneath your bound bodies, each impact resonating like a war drum.

You wanted to flee, but your body, furious and revolted, rose up with every movement, seeking to receive it, to provoke it, to demand it. You wanted to scream at the heavens, to break the silence, but only hoarse moans, sighs of delicious pain and adoration escaped your mouth. You were both submissive and queen, prisoner and sovereign.

Your hands skidded across his broad back, clinging to it, clawing at the skin with a savage rage. You dug and dug again, until blood gushed forth, hot and salty. He groaned, not a gasp of pain, but a primal cry of pleasure, a bestial explosion. Sunghoon loved this savagery. This struggle. He loved dominating you, crushing you, losing you.

You responded to every movement with ferocious jerks, pelvic undulations that shattered what little restraint he had left. You were nothing but fire, burning flesh, madness incarnate.

You were his hell, his heaven, his downfall.

Then Sunghoon gripped your hips with beastly strength, his fingers digging in like talons, pulling you closer, deeper, more violently. You felt every inch of him penetrate you, tear you apart, melt you. An explosive cry, a heart-rending rattle, escaped your throat—a wild, black orgasm, an infinite fall into an abyss of pleasure and pain. Your body tensed, convulsed; the Wheel may have been turning, but you saw nothing. You felt only Sunghoon.

But it wasn't over. No. There would never be an end.

"You're dripping..." Sunghoon spat between wild thrusts, his voice raspy, saturated with a brutal thirst, an unbridled desire that seemed to want to reduce you to incandescent ashes. Each word was a blade, sharp, ferocious, a promise of mingled pain and pleasure, a silent pact sealed in the fire of your intertwined bodies. "You scream like a fucking, sacrificial virgin, trembling, offered up, burning to the core. Do you want me to ruin you, to smash you against this Wheel until it turns again and again, so that your screams become the dirge of your flesh?"

Your breath crashed against your throat—short, raspy, ragged—like a tumultuous torrent drowned in a boiling sea of ecstasy and pain. You nodded, mute, unable to formulate anything but raw, wild, almost bestial gasps, wordless cries, silent pleas of fire and surrender.

Without warning, Sunghoon grabbed your hips with an iron grip, his fingers digging into your damp skin, biting into the flesh with the controlled violence of a hunting beast. Every tense muscle beneath his palm vibrated with a savage, precise power. He lifted you slightly, holding you in a position where you were entirely open, vulnerable, offered like a flower torn by the storm of steel roaring within him.

His cock, hard as a sharp saber blade, penetrated your tender flesh with calculated, merciless cruelty. The angle was perfect, incisive, each thrust a cruel explosion in your burning flesh, an exquisite tear that tore a primal, brutal, heart-rending scream from you, echoing against the cold, damp walls of the room. This cry mingled with Sunghoon's guttural growls, like a furious warrior on the rampage, a savage symphony of destruction and creation.

The rhythm he imposed was frantic, wild, a sensual carnage where your bodies collided with an almost sacrificial violence. The ancient wood of the Wheel vibrated beneath you, each impact drumming out the secret war tearing at your skin, each thrust sculpting your pain into pleasure, your suffering into ecstasy. Sweat slid in burning rivulets down your entwined skin, carrying with it the last vestiges of all restraint, all fear.

Then, suddenly, everything slows down. His strokes grew heavier, deeper, slower, each thrust a painful promise, a silent oath of domination and devour. The fire consuming your body still burned, but dull, insidious, an exquisite torture fevering your insides, a slow fire that trickled beneath your skin. His hands slid down, exploring your sweaty, panting skin, his fingers brushing, caressing, until they reached that burning spot, that incandescent focus: your clitoris, feverish, swollen, so painfully sensitive that it made you teeter on the edge of madness and ecstasy.

Then Sunghoon's fingers fell upon this offered flesh with the methodical cruelty of a mad craftsman. They rubbed, pinched, and mistreated this source of your pleasure with an almost sadistic insistence, a slow, delicious torture that made you scream without restraint, a wild, wrenching cry escaping from your entrails like a raging torrent. The Wheel vibrated beneath the scream, capturing it, echoing it, a dark, haunting litany in the vast silence of the room. Your blood pounded in your temples, your heart hammered against your ribcage like a war drum, and yet it was your body betraying you, burning in that forbidden fire.

“Come,” Sunghoon breathed, his voice raspy, low, a command charged with dominance and dark passion, a hot whisper in your ear. “Cry out for me. Squirt, my Queen. Show me your burning fire, let the night tremble beneath your tear.”

You then gave in, to Sunghoon, to yourself, to this maelstrom of pain and pleasure. Your body exploded suddenly, devastated by an orgasm of raw intensity, an incandescent flash that struck you from the inside out, sweeping every fiber of your being away in a burst of merciless spasms. Your muscles contracted so violently that you felt as if you were tearing yourself apart, tearing yourself away, disintegrating, only to be reborn with that wild scream.

Your hot, burning juice splashed his stiff cock, trickled down his powerful hips, stained the icy surface of the Wheel, blending your bodies in a wild, sacred, chaotic union, a hellish dance of flesh and blood. You could feel the consuming hunger in his dark eyes, the insatiable fire in his throat that swallowed your come like a hungry, voracious, inhuman beast.

Then, in a slow, almost possessive movement, he brought his burning face closer, licking with cruel slowness the burning hollow between your breasts, where the thin, fragile skin burned beneath his rough tongue. The contrast between velvety softness and fiery bite sent a wild shiver down your spine, a shiver that tore you apart, crushed you, set you ablaze. Without warning, Sunghoon bit your neck with restrained, controlled violence, a flash of pain and pleasure that set a new fire exploding in every nerve. A sharp, delicious pain that sharpened your pleasure, chained you to his bites, to his hot breath, to his relentless domination, to this wild force that tore you apart slowly, surely, until the ultimate ecstasy.

You were nothing but at his mercy, a willing prisoner of the burning fire he lit within you, until you were nothing more than a broken breath, an incandescent body, a painful and proud promise of what was yet to come.

But he wasn't finished.

He possessed you with a sovereign brutality, tearing every inch of you apart with every thrust, every blow, like a warrior wielding his blade in a battle of shadow and blood. His hips pulsed, crushing your body, breaking your will, sculpting your pain into pleasure, your suffering into ecstasy.

Your body arched, writhed beneath the relentless force of his assaults, every cry, every moan, every short breath becoming a savage offering to this silent duel between domination and surrender. The Wheel vibrated beneath your bestial union, your blood mingled with your sweat, the heavy, acrid odors of primal desire filling the saturated air. Each spasm tore you deeper, until you were nothing more than a trembling, submissive shadow—but triumphant, sovereign in this secret war of flesh and blood, bearing the burning scars of this carnal battle with a fierce and desperate pride.

The cold wind blew around you, carrying away your wild cries, mingling them with the darkness, the mystery, the endless night of your forbidden pact.

And you couldn't take it anymore. Your breath, short and ragged, burned your chest with a black, dull, and merciless fire. Every tense muscle, every fiber of your being vibrated under the brutal and merciless rhythm that Sunghoon imposed on your body, like a master shaping a weapon of flesh. You felt your will waver, swept away in this whirlwind of ecstasy and fatigue, but he showed no sign of weakness. On the contrary, his blows accelerated, feverish, almost desperate, as if he were seeking to engrave this moment in eternity, to mark you forever with his essence.

“Sunghoon…” Your moan broke between pain and desire, tiredness and longing, “I’m exhausted…”

But his eyes, dark as a moonless night, yielded nothing. Sunghoon growled, a deep, wild sound filled with possession: "I won't stop until I've put a child inside you."

His hand grew rougher, digging into your hips, his fingers leaving new burning marks on your skin. His thumb slid down to your clit, which he rubbed relentlessly, a cruel, methodical movement, as if he wanted to draw every spark of fire from your bruised body. Each caress triggered electric shocks within you, a delectable pain that made you teeter on the edge.

The pace suddenly slowed, but each thrust was deeper, more violent, slowly tearing at your flesh, tearing you from your senses. You felt his thick member insinuate itself deep inside you, consuming you from the inside out. Sunghoon brought his lips to yours, his hot breaths crashing against your skin, damp with sweat and desire. His lips swallowed you in a voracious kiss, a collision of storms and sweetness, a silent promise of domination and eternity.

Your tongue was captured, swept into a wild dance, his harsh breath playing with yours, nibbling, teasing, exploring every corner of your mouth. His body kept grinding into you, penetrating you with an almost inhuman intensity, and you felt the pain mix with the pleasure in a chaotic whirlwind, driving you mad.

Then, suddenly, Sunghoon exploded inside you. His burning seed flowed deep into your flesh, marking your womanhood like an indelible seal. You let out a cry, a wild, vibrant cry, mixed with ecstasy and pain, as your fingers clung to his shoulders, trying not to sink into the surge.

Your moans intertwined, a bestial, heartbreaking melody, as Sunghoon curled his tongue around yours, nibbling gently and cruelly at the intimate connection. When he finally pulled away, a trickle of drool still connected your lips, a clear sign of the hurricane you had just experienced.

Sunghoon then placed his hand on your face, brushing back the strands of hair stuck to your forehead by sweat, caressing your burning skin with a tenderness that was almost incongruous in the midst of this passionate chaos. Your eyes fluttered open, surprised to regain your sight, faced with this unexpected softness in the midst of the storm. You looked at him, a tired and sincere smile illuminating your bruised face, as if the simple fact of having survived this ordeal was enough to justify your reason for being.

“That really would have been the best way to die, you know…” you whispered, your voice shaky, almost breaking, a breath mixed with a fragile laugh as you felt your pussy instinctively tighten around his still-tense member inside you.

Sunghoon responded with a raspy growl, holding you tighter, his possessiveness turning into a protective hug. "Stop talking nonsense." His voice, low and vibrant, was a silent declaration of power and love. Without letting go, he lifted you into his arms, carrying you like a precious conquest to his room, his kingdom.

You moan with every touch, the constant pressure of his manhood against you waking every dormant nerve, leaving you vulnerable, captive, drunk on Sunghoon.

"And help me make a child with my wife," he whispered in your ear, stealing a burning kiss, a carnivorous smile stretching his lips. Sunghoon sensed your nascent protest, smothering it with a deeper, more demanding kiss, where desire and promise intertwined, inseparable.

So you lay, night after night, day after day, enveloped in the thick darkness of that room where every breath, every shiver, every bead of sweat was offered to the black fire that consumed your bodies. The supposed excuse of conception was only a fragile veil masking the raw truth: Sunghoon wanted your body, your soul, your essence, without restraint or hindrance, and you let yourself be devoured, because nothing else could bring you such intensity, such release.

Your hands traced invisible marks on his warm skin, your fingers running over every curve, every hollow, every scar, while his mercilessly explored your exposed flesh. Your bodies spoke a silent language, a wild and sensual dance where domination and submission intertwined endlessly, melting into a gentle and absolute violence.

And in this carnal chaos, this storm of shadow and light, you found a strange peace—being both broken and whole, devastated and uplifted, alive beyond anything you had ever known.

Taglist : @weepingsweep @immelissaaa

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xdarkestdesirex · 4 days ago

Text

Metempsychosis - Scene Two

Jinu x f.reader

n. the supposed transmission at death of the soul of a human being or animal into a new body of the same or a different species.

Reincarnation? Ha! Yeah right, I don't believe in that. . .

Wait. . .

Am I dead? No, I'm alive, but l'm. . .

Different.

I'VE DIED AND REINCARNATED AS RUMI FROM KPDH?!

This writing contains highly sensitive topics like violence, gore, mental health, death, manipulation, smut, and other mature themes. If you click keep reading, you're agreeing to reading something that’s potentially triggering. Reader discretion is advised.

WC: 14,753 | prev | next

THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SMUT. 18+ ONLY AFTER WARNING

We make it home and take time to patch up any wounds we have. My back is slouched over in defeat as I think over our battle. I was supposed to be smarter when fighting Jinu, and not let him scratch me. He still tore through the protective layering I wore underneath! I cry softly and hit my head against my bedroom wall. Stupid demon claws are just too sharp. I even tried to bring forth my claws and scratch at the shirt, but I couldn’t figure out how to make that happen. I used none of my demon side before, scared that it would turn me more demon, and maybe I shouldn’t have tried. Not that it did anything, anyway.

“Rumi,” Mira’s voice calls through my door, “you need to come see this.”

I walk out of my room and meet the girls in front of our ceiling-to-floor windows in our living room. Their faces pull down, and they look worn out and defeated. We have experienced nothing like this; in fact, it’s been decades since a trio of hunters has gone through a dark age. For the past three decades, hunters have thrived, steadily strengthening the Honmoon. They’ve only had to handle the occasional stray demon that appeared now and then. Even for us, the beginning was relatively easy. The Honmoon was stronger than it ever was by the time we became hunters; that’s why Celine is so certain it’ll be us who seal it.

“How did this happen?” My eyes scan over the Honmoon. What once shone brighter than the twinkling stars now had large, dark magenta spots that flickered like flames. So many weak spots that would make it easier for demons to slip through.

“We’ve seen nothing like this before,” Zoey says sadly. Her hand came to rest on the window in front of her.

My face sets into a serious one, and I clench my hands tightly at my sides; “Gwi-Ma knows we’re close to sealing the Honmoon, so he’s throwing all he has into keeping us from doing that.”

“A demon boy band?” Mira hisses out.

A deep sigh leaves my lips, and I cover my face with my hands. I saw this coming, but it’s still heartbreaking to see the Honmoon like this. I’m not as strong as Rumi, at least in certain areas, and I definitely am a crybaby. Tears roll down my cheeks, and the other girls' lips pucker softly as we group hug one another, mumbling incoherent words as we cry together. When we pull away, I wipe away the wetness from my cheeks.

The sound of our front door opening has us quickly putting ourselves back together and beating makeup over our war wounds. Bobby walks into the living room, stress-dumping over the fame and popularity the Saja Boys have gained overnight. He doesn’t even realize how much his words tie into what we’re dealing with right now. I wish we could tell Bobby that we fight demons, but people aren’t supposed to know about that part of our world. It would turn the world into chaos, where people would be terrified all the time, or evil individuals would try to exploit and manipulate it, making it difficult for hunters to do their job.

Bobby puts his phone down and takes a deep breath while looking outside. It’s funny that he sees a tranquil landscape of the city view, but we girls see the genuine danger of what's happening.

“You know what we need to do,” I smile sinisterly at Mira and Zoey, “Hit 'em where it hurts.”

Mira cracks her knuckles with an evil grin; “I like what you’re saying.”

“Zoey!” I call out to the youngest, making her stand up straight, “We need a new song.”

“I’ve got 23 notebooks with demon insults ready to go!” Zoey shows off her notebooks while Bobby hypes her in the background.

“Mira!” I point to the pink-haired girl. “We need new dance moves.”

Mira looks down at her nails nonchalantly; “I’ll make them even hotter.” She looks up and smirks.

“This is how we’ll win against them,” I say positively.

“We’ll kick their demon asses and send them back to hell!” Zoey shouts out.

Mira and I stare at the younger girl in bewilderment. Zoey rarely cusses, but when she does, it’s funny to see such words coming out of a sweet girl. Then we all shout yeah together and take off into our music room, leaving poor Bobby alone in the living room, not sure about what he just witnessed, but supporting us anyway.

After a couple of hours of spitting out ideas for the song we wanted to make, I finally made my way back into my bedroom. I flop onto my mattress and roll around on the blankets. Ah, it feels so good to be lying down. I had to do too much fighting today. Now, if only I had a boyfriend I could call to come give me a massage. I wouldn’t ask any of the girls to do that because I know they’re just as tired as me.

The sound of a bird tweeting from outside catches my attention, and I groan as I turn over to see what's going on. I see a dark bird sitting on my balcony railing with bright yellow eyes and wearing a small hat on its head.

“Awww, that's so cute,” I whisper to myself.

Then its head pops up, revealing two more yellow eyes below the first one I saw. A gasp leaves my lips, and I look at it with confusion. What? This is when Jinu wants to meet up? I’m so exhausted, couldn’t he at least wait a day before trying to get me alone? I groan as I pull my heavy body out of bed and drag my feet out onto my balcony. My eyes glared at the poor bird that did nothing wrong to me. I know I shouldn’t be mad at the messenger. He’s just doing what Jinu asked of him, but the dark-haired male isn’t here for me to glare at.

I turn my head to look at my bushes of plants to see a large tiger emerging from the darkness. If I didn’t know it was already going to be there, I would have peed myself. As the tiger slowly walks closer toward me, it knocks over one of my plants. Staring at the plant with curiosity, he tries to put it upright but fails in doing so.

“Oh my gosh, you’re just so cute,” I bend down to be level with the tiger; “Here, let me help you.” I pick the plant up and put it off to the side, so it’s no longer in the tiger's way.

The blue-striped tiger then sticks its tongue out, revealing a slimy card that falls to the floor. I pick it up gingerly, my face contorting with disgust, as I open up the card to read what’s inside. It says nothing different from the movie. Just an ominous note saying, “Let’s meet up -Jinu.”

“He really is old, isn’t he?” I say to the tiger, reaching out to pet its head, “I mean, he’s communicating through letters.” I giggle softly.

I stand back up, stretching out my back and looking down at my outfit. I know he makes fun of Rumi for the pajamas she’s wearing, but maybe if I dress up (or down if you get what I mean) it’ll be a little distracting for him. He is ancient, so showing some skin might fluster him. I tell the bird and tiger to wait on the balcony as I rush back into my room. I throw open my closet door and pull out my nighttime drawer. Being dressed in normal clothes would seem weird, so I wanted it to seem like he still caught me off guard while I was getting ready for bed.

I pick out a pair of black booty track shorts and then throw on a black cropped hoodie. Looking in the mirror, I fix my hair to make sure it doesn’t look too crazy, and then I slide on a pair of sneakers. Once I’m back out on the balcony, I nod my head at the creature, and they lead the way to where Jinu is waiting for me.

When I arrive in the area, I jump up onto the roof of the building and see the manikin that Jinu had set up as a decoy. I slowly walk over to it, scuff, and then push the giant doll off the roof.

“Very funny,” I say while looking around; “Now come out, I promise I won’t hurt you.” I waited for about thirty seconds before Jinu came out of his hiding spot and walked cautiously toward me.

I lifted my hands in surrender to show him I was serious. “Why did you want to meet me?”

“I wanted to talk about your patterns.” The dark-haired male steps closer, but then pauses. Jinu’s dark eyes scan over my body, taking in my exposed skin. “Where are your clothes?” He says matter-of-factly while pointing at my legs.

I follow his line of sight, acting like I don’t know what he’s talking about; “These are clothes.” I stick my leg out and wiggle it. “You caught me before going to bed, so sorry for not dressing appropriately.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

The tall, handsome male walks slowly around me, still taking in my form. I’m used to having my body on display as an idol, but the way Jinu’s eyes are running over me makes me want to cover myself. His gaze is burning and intense, and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Damn it! He was the one who was supposed to be embarrassed.

He pauses at my backside and quirks an eyebrow while wearing a devilish smirk; clearing his throat, he moves back in front of me. Leaning in so his mouth is just a hair's breadth away from my ear, he speaks in a deep, whispered tone, “I don’t mind it.”

It’s like he knows what I’m doing, so he’s playing back even harder. Which so isn’t fair. He should be the one weak in his knees right now, not the other way around!

“Are you done checking me out?” I rest my hand on my hip and smirk at the demon male.

Jinu jumps backward, landing on a higher part of the roof, so he’s looking down at me. His eyes flicker, showing off the yellow-golden hue‌ before settling back into his deep chocolate eyes.

“I don’t think I could ever stop,” the dark-haired male gazes into my eyes as he speaks.

I roll my eyes at the cheesy yet working line that he used.

“So, did your friends freak out after seeing your patterns?” Jinu questions, stalking toward me. My head quirks to the side in confusion. “I’m guessing they already know about your patterns.”

My mouth opens into the shape of an ‘O’ once I realize what he’s saying, “Oh, yeah,” I wave my hand in the air like it’s no big deal, “They’re my best friends, of course I told them.”

Jinu keeps walking in circles around me like I’m his prey, trying to make me feel like I’m cornered, but I won’t let him scare me. So, I plop down on the roof of the building we’re standing on and swing my legs over the edge as I stare out into the distance. Wow, the view is so pretty up here. Maybe I should come here when I need to clear my head.

“You sure you should be comfortable?” Jinu narrows his eyes into slits as he watches me closely, trying to read what I’m doing. The look on his face tells me he doesn’t trust what I'm doing. He thinks I’m trying to pull something on him by letting my guard down.

“I’m sure,” I say softly, giving the demon male a sweet smile. I then pat the spot next to me; “Come on, I don’t bite.” My voice comes out sultry, and I move my lips in a way that draws his attention; “Unless you want me to.” I playfully wink at him.

Jinu continues to stare at me for a moment before releasing a deep sigh and making his way over to me. Carefully sitting down, with some space between us, Jinu hangs his legs over the edge as well. I lean back on my hands, my feet sway in the cool night air, and I just stare out at the horizon. A breeze drifts by, lingering on my skin and sinking into my bones. My body shivers, and goosebumps form up and down my legs. I’m regretting not staying in my fluffy pajama bottoms.

Jinu removes the jacket he had layered on top of his grey hoodie and drapes it over my legs. The warmth instantly relaxed my body, and I just wanted to curl up under his jacket. Or maybe I want to curl up next to him. Is he unnaturally warm because he’s a demon? Jinu’s dark orbs look over to me, softening, and he slides in closer to me. He doesn’t get so close that it fully invades my bubble, but enough so that my leg almost brushes against his, and I can feel the heat radiating off of him.

“So tell me,” Jinu looks into my eyes, “How can a demon be a hunter? How have you been able to hide all this time?” He leans in closer, keeping eye contact; “Don’t the voices drive you insane?”

“Voices?” I say quietly, “The only voice that drives me crazy is my own.” I chuckle softly. Jinu glares at me, not finding what I said funny.

“You don’t hear Gwi-Ma?” The dark-haired male looked genuinely surprised.

“No,” I shake my head softly; “Does his voice constantly ring in your mind?” I look at the male with concern, and I slowly lift my hand to rest on his head. I ease my fingers through his hair, but he quickly grabs my wrist and rips my hand off him. His touch ignites my patterns, causing them to glow brightly.

“How did you get these?” Jinu’s voice is stern as he asks. It seems I struck a chord. I know I struck a chord. Gwi-Ma’s voice is the one thing Jinu wants to stop hearing. It’s the reason he’s constantly reminded of the betrayal he did to his sister and mother. I need to break down his walls faster than they did in the movie. I need to fully remove them. He opened himself up so little in the movie while keeping his guard high. I need him, all of him, if my plan is going to work. I can save him; I know I can.

Jinu rips his eyes away from mine. The way I was staring so intensely and the determined look in my eyes overwhelmed him in a way he didn’t understand.

I look down at my arms and push my sleeves up, uncovering my patterns. “I didn’t ask for these,” I finally speak, “I was born with them.”

“What?” Jinu’s eyes snap back at me.

“I don’t know if I’m lucky or cursed, but I remember every detail of my life.” It’s because I died and came into this world with a functioning brain of a twenty-four-year-old. “The day I was born, there was a man in the room. He leaned over the hospital bed my mother was in while she was holding me, and he petted my head while smiling down at me. He had bright yellow eyes. That man was my father.” I looked up at Jinu with one of my eyes glowing in the dark while the other stayed normal.

“That was the first and only time I ever saw him. I don’t know why my mother, a hunter, would have a baby with a demon, but that's the reason I have these patterns.”

We sit in silence for a moment. Jinu is taking in everything I just told him, and I’m just hoping he’ll find it in himself to open up to me. In the movie, the only reason he talks about his patterns is to get Rumi to open up, but I opened up first. I know I’m using his tactics against him, but I genuinely want him to feel like he can talk to me.

“I’d say you’re lucky,” Jinu’s voice is low as he speaks, and a look of jealousy crosses his face. “Gwi-Ma controls us by being in our heads; his voice is deafening, and I’ll never forget the first time I heard him. It was 400 years ago.”

If I had a cup of coffee, I would’ve taken a drink just to spit it out at that comment. 400 years! I knew I liked older men, but I guess I’m into ancient ones now.

“My family was poor, and we were struggling. The only thing I had was an old bipa, so I would take it out and busk on the streets. But people didn’t want to listen to a beggar like me. I was ready to give up when a voice rang through my head saying, ‘You can’t do anything for your family,’ and ‘You’re not good enough for them.’ Gwi-Ma played on my weakness and then offered me a way out.”

Jinu pauses and takes a deep breath; “I didn’t have any other choice, we were starving, so I accepted it, and overnight everything changed. People actually listened to my voice, praised me, and even the king himself took an interest in me. We got to live on the palace grounds, never having to worry about money or food again.”

The dark-haired male stares off into the distance, almost like he’s rewatching the words he’s saying, “It was paradise while it lasted. My patterns only continued to spread until they took over my whole body. Next thing I knew, I got ripped away to the demon world, condemned to a life where my purpose was to serve Gwi-Ma for an eternity, and my family suffered even worse once I was gone.”

My eyes never wavered from Jinu as he told his story, my heart aching in my chest as I listened to him. He still lied to me. My face fell in disappointment, and I bit my lip softly. I don’t know why I had such high expectations that he would’ve just told me the truth. He’s still a demon, he barely knows me, and his goal is still his key priority. But I won’t let him think he pulled one over on me.

“Jinu,” I say the demon's name softly, “That’s such a heartbreaking story.” I rest my hand on his wide shoulders; “But I know you’re not telling me the whole truth.”

My voice isn’t accusing; it’s warm with understanding. “Gwi-Ma only makes deals either for the person or a deal that benefits another party for the person. He can’t do both. So either you made a deal for your family to live lavishly, or you made the deal for yourself.”

Jinu grits his teeth and hisses, throwing my hand off him. He quickly jumps to his feet and glares down at me, “You know nothing!” His demon voice screeches, causing the Honmoon to ripple. The dark-haired male was no longer hiding in his human form. His patterns glowed on pale skin, and his eyes shone so bright they could tear through the darkness. Teeth sharp and ready to bite, and nails almost as long as talons.

“You see this!” Jinu’s voice breaks as he motions to himself, “I have to live like this as a reminder of what I did! I was selfish, and I failed them!”

I stand ‌on my feet, heart racing in my chest at the scene before me. Jinu is breaking. The choice he made 400 years ago haunts him to no end, and the way his eyes glisten shows how much he regrets what he did. Anyone else in this circumstance would either pull out their weapon or run away. Being in front of a demon who’s mad or losing their cool can be scary, but I’m not afraid of Jinu. He’s just hurting inside. I crash into his chest and wrap my arms around his neck, holding him against me. The tall male stiffens, unsure of what’s going on, but then he gives in. His enormous arms wrap around my waist, and he buries his face in the crook of my neck.

He doesn’t cry, but I can feel his body shaking. One hand grabs a fist full of my hoodie, and his other hand digs into the flesh of my back. His touch was warm, sending fire through my skin. It almost feels like he’s holding onto me for dear life, and if he lets go, he’ll fall. This is probably the first time he’s hugged someone in 400 years. That thought breaks my heart, and I lift my hand to run through his dark locks. He’s back in his human form, and his body is relaxing.

“I uh,” Jinu pulls away from me and scratches the back of his neck, “I need to go.”

Before I can say anything else, he disappears into a puff of smoke.

——————————

The girls and I spent the next few days working on a new song and fighting demons nonstop. The Saja Boys are taking over everything, and their influence is worming its way into people's souls, causing the Honmoon to weaken drastically. In the movie, Jinu reaches back out to Rumi at some point, which she ignores, but I know once I meet the tiger again, I won’t ignore it. We also attended two award shows where the Saja Boys won for Soda Pop, and while the other girls glared over at the boys, I looked at Jinu proudly. Then at the next awards, our song Golden won, and obviously I couldn’t help but be happy and cheer with my girls.

I’m lying on my stomach on my bed, my chest propped up on my elbows, and my legs kicked up. I’m chewing on the eraser of a pencil as I look over a few different versions of Takedown that we’ve written so far. Unlike Rumi, I think this song is good, but I also know this is not the song that will get fans to turn on the Saja Boys. It will probably make them lean more toward the demon boy band and turn against us, but this song is giving us the determination we need to fight. I’m also trying really hard not to write the whole song and act like I’m thinking hard about what would sound best.

A loud bang against my balcony door causes me to jump. My hand flies to my chest, and I roll over on my back to take a few deep breaths.

“You guys scared the shit out of me!” I whisper-yell as I make my way to the door and open it.

The bird and tiger were standing on the other side, and I gave both of them some pets. The tiger sticks its tongue out, revealing another card, and I gingerly pick it up. We have to find another way to send notes because I hate slobber. I open the card up and read, “Let’s meet up, same place -Jinu.” I stuff the card on the nightstand next to my bed and grab the jacket Jinu laid on my lap during our last meeting. He took off so quickly and left it behind, so I just brought it back with me. And I may or may not snuggle it at night. I can’t help it! It’s so warm and smells of sweet spices.

I sit on the back of the tiger, my legs dangling over its sides as the demon tiger brings me back to the place where Jinu and I met previously. The dark-haired male sat ‌on the roof, and I swear I saw a hint of a smile as he saw me. I hop off the tiger, rub its cheek, and thank the blue-striped animal before I hop my way up next to Jinu.

“I see you’ve taken a liking to Derpy.” Jinu looks down at the tiger, who's sitting in a dark corner with the bird perched on top of its head.

“Derpy?” My eyes widen after hearing the name of the demon tiger; “That’s its name?” I giggle softly as I sit down next to Jinu. “It suits him.” I look back at my newfound fury friend with a smile.

When I turn back to the handsome male, I find him intensely focusing his dark eyes on me. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to read into my soul or just taken away by my beauty. I’m hoping for the latter. An awkward smile forms on my face, and I lean back to defuse the intense feeling that’s coming from him.

“Um, is there something on my face?” I ask quietly, turning my face and wiping at it. I was eating snacks, so maybe I have crumbs somewhere?

Jinu reaches out, gently grabbing my chin and turning my face toward him; “Your hair is down.” His voice comes out raspy as he speaks. His fingers run across the edge of my jaw, finding a loose piece of hair, and tucking it back behind my ear.

My cheeks burn from his touch, and I quickly smooth back my hair. “Oh, uh, yeah, I didn’t feel like braiding it.” Except I remember having my hair braided when I left my room. When did it come undone? I rarely have it down like this; I mean, it’s become such a habit to braid my hair that I don’t even remember braiding it half the time. Maybe I’m tired and didn’t realize I undid it.

“Oh.” My mind tears me out of this burning tension, and I shrug Jinu’s jacket off my body and hold it out to him.

But he pushes it back toward me; “You should keep it. It looks better on you, anyway.”

Where the hell did this man learn to be so smooth? I’m supposed to be sweeping him off his feet, not the other way around. I need to step up my game, but when he acts like this, my whole body gets flustered. How am I supposed to function properly? I'd be in trouble if this were my first life. Like yes, Jinu Mr. Demon, please take my soul. He’d have me dumb and like putty in his hands.

I slip his jacket back on, lie back on the rooftop, and look up at the stars. “So, what’s it like being part of one of the hottest boy groups?” I glance at the dark-haired male, smirking.

When Jinu was a human, he was busking in the streets, so this must feel like a dream come true, even if the fame is coming from manipulation.

“I already knew this would happen,” Jinu lies on his side, his larger body hovering slightly over mine, with a cocky look plastered on his face.

I roll my eyes, chuckling, and I playfully smack his chest; “No shit.” I give him the best deadpan look I could muster, but my face cracks into a smile. “Now give me an honest answer.”

Jinu rolls onto his back, folding his arms behind his head, and stares off into space—literally space, he’s looking at the stars. I can tell that his mind is going a hundred miles per hour trying to figure out if he should be honest or not.

“It’s hard for me to enjoy it,” he finally answers, “In another circumstance, I would love the attention and support we’re getting, but what we’re getting isn’t real.”

“Then make it real.” It’s my turn to lie on my side. I prop myself up, so I’m looking down at the dark-haired male.

“That’s impossible,” Jinu shakes his head.

“It’s not impossible. You’re very talented, Jinu, and people would love you without Gwi-Ma’s influence.” I pause for a moment; “I know I shouldn’t be saying this because we’re enemies, but why not use this opportunity to be real? Let them hear what you really sound like, the whole of Saja Boys!” I raise my hand into a fist while giving off ‘Fighting!’ vibes.

A deep chuckle erupts through Jinu’s chest; “Easier said than done, little hunter.” The dark-haired male pushes himself up, so he’s now in a seated position, leaning back on his hands. Our faces are only a few inches away from each other.

My eyes betray me and flick down to Jinu’s slightly plump lips, but then quickly move to look into his deep orbs. I wonder if Rumi and Jinu felt this burning tension between them in the movie, like I’m feeling with him right now. I long to be with him; we were always meant to be together, but I guess he and Rumi were fated. They just didn’t get a happy ending.

“What are you thinking?” Jinu’s deep voice floods through my body as he speaks, our proximity staying the same.

“What if I could help you?” I say without thinking.

“What do you mean?”

“When I seal the Honmoon, my patterns are supposed to disappear. Since you’re not a demon by design, and you only became one because of a deal, then if you’re up here, it should rid you of your patterns as well.” I reach out and grab Jinu’s hand, pressing our palms together, and our patterns illuminate the surrounding darkness.

“You won’t be bound to the demon world, and you won’t have Gwi-Ma whispering in your head twenty-four-seven. You could live a normal life.” My voice comes out so softly as I speak, like I’m whispering a forbidden secret.

Jinu sighs, looking dejected; “You don’t know for certain if that would work.” He moves back, creating a space between us, letting the chilly breeze wrap around me. “Plus, I don’t know how to be human anymore.”

“What if we make a deal?” I say playfully, “Let’s spend tomorrow like normal humans. If you enjoy it and can truly see yourself as a human, then you follow my plan, but if it’s a shit day or you can’t see yourself as a human, then I won’t interfere with your plan.”

The dark-haired male searches my eyes, then he flashes me that devilish smile, and says, “Deal.”

——————————

I woke up extra early to get ready for the day, trying to figure out how I wanted to look. I didn’t want to cover up and hide myself, but I also couldn’t go out looking like Rumi from Huntrix if I wanted to spend the day like a normal person. So, I open my trusty disguise drawer. Inside the drawer are multiple hair colorings that wash out after one use, wigs, and a few other random things like enormous hats and dark sunglasses.

Putting a wig on felt like too much work, so I opted for a one-time use hair dye. I grabbed the (h/c) tube and turned it around in my hands. I haven’t had my hair this color since my previous life, and thinking about my hair looking this way even for a day makes my stomach erupt with a bittersweet feeling of nostalgia. Every once in a while, I want to go back to see my old friends and family. I wish I knew how they were doing, but there’s no way for me to find out.

I squeeze the bottle in my hand and turn to head toward my bathroom. After I finish the long process of my shower routine (why does Rumi have to have so much hair?). Once I’m done, I take a step back and admire my hard work. It’s going to take at least four washes to get this out later. I then continue with the rest of my route, which includes brushing my teeth, doing my skincare, and then applying a light and natural makeup look.

I make my way back into my room and throw open the doors to my large walk-in closet. It took me a long time to get used to this lifestyle from my old life, but at least I have my old life to look back on. It keeps me grounded and humble. I step into my closet, looking around my wardrobe for what outfit I want to wear. Do I go casual, or do I dress up a little? I decided on a simple yet endearing look with a black cashmere turtleneck sweater; to hide my patterns, I needed something that covered my arms and neck. Then I grabbed a black pleated skirt, and to top off my outfit, I grabbed my chunky black sneakers. Simple and cute.

I was about to put my hair up when the image from last night floated through my mind of Jinu leaning in and brushing my hair behind my ear. My cheeks bloom a soft pink color, and I choose to put my hair half-up, half‌-down. Accessorizing my hair with a giant floppy bow. Taking one last look at myself in the mirror, I nod my head in approval and quickly grab my purse and my favorite sunglasses before I run out of the house. It’s still early enough that Mira and Zoey are sleeping or lying in bed and doom-scrolling before dragging their bodies out.

Escaping from our shared home successfully, I make my way through the semi-quiet streets and toward Jinu and I’s meet-up area. As I round the corner, I see a tall, nicely dressed male pacing back and forth. I arrived about ten minutes earlier than our agreed meeting time, so I wasn’t expecting to see Jinu already there waiting for me. His hair was loosely slicked back with one strand dangling down his forehead. He was wearing a black button-up shirt with the top few buttons undone and black jeans. Seeing him looking finer than wine, standing off in the distance, takes my breath away. Why does he have to look so good? And he’s wearing all black, so it feels like we planned to match. What if people think we’re a couple?

My cheeks grow hot the longer I stare at him, and I have to turn around and smack my cheeks a few ‌times; “Gah, (Y/n) get it together.” I whisper to myself.

After a few moments of trying to calm my racing heart, I make my way toward Jinu. His large back is facing me, so I reach out and tap his shoulder. The tall male whips his head around but freezes once he sees me.

“I, uh,” Jinu stutters, “Wow.”

Oh, my gooooooooood. Did I just leave him breathless? All the work I did to calm myself before coming here was for nothing because now my face is like a flaming hot Cheeto. I’m not even dressed up enough to receive such a reaction. My eyes gaze down at the ground, and I switch my weight back and forth on my feet.

“Um, I was thinking we could go to a cafe first. Get coffee and breakfast?” I say sheepishly, keeping my face pointed to the ground.

“That sounds good,” Jinu says. I feel his soft fingertips hook under my chin and lift my face so I’m looking into his deep orbs. “Just make sure you keep those eyes on me.”

That’s it, I’m going to end up six feet under the ground if this is how today is going to be. Doesn’t this man know how to chill? I feel like he binge-watched ten different romance K-dramas. How does a demon know how to act like this? I just nod my head in response, not trusting my vocal cords not to betray me.

Walking side by side, Jinu and I make our way through the town. The streets are busy as people are coming out to head to work or to beat the afternoon traffic to get their shopping done. The more people we pass, the more anxious I feel. What if someone recognizes me? Even worse, what if they recognize Jinu, and word gets out about us? The girls would surely question me, and I’m not sure if they’d understand my side of things. Zoey would be more willing to listen, but Mira is a harder nut to crack.

Jinu seems to notice how my body stiffens up and intertwines our fingers together. He pulls me close to him, and feeling the heat radiate off his body helps me relax instantly. That’s right, I need to relax; I can’t show Jinu a good time if I’m stressed about everyone around us. This day has to be perfect if I want Jinu to feel like he could be a human again.

We approach a cute cafe that’s been trending on social media lately. I haven’t been here yet, but with all the positive reviews, I can’t help feeling excited. They open in the next thirty minutes, and there’s already a small line outside the building waiting to enter. Gripping Jinu’s hand tightly, I pull him behind me as I rush toward the line to secure our spot. We’re fourth in line, and not even ten minutes later, the line grows by about eight couples.

“Is this place popular?” Jinu leans down to ask me.

“Yes! And I’m so excited! There are so many drinks and meals that I’ve seen online that look so good. I don’t know what I’ll choose!” I whip my phone out and look up the cafe to show Jinu what I am talking about. His eyes widen, and I swear I see a bit of drool run down his chin.

“You’re right; those look good,” Jinu says.

We spend the next few minutes in line debating what we’ll want once we’re inside, and when the doors open and the hostess finally seats us, I bounce up and down in my chair with excitement. When the server comes by our table, we tell her our order. Mine is a strawberry matcha latte, and Jinu gets a caramel frappe. Then, for our food, we ordered an assortment of things that both of us wanted to try.

We make small talk and even take a few photos as we wait for our food. Our drinks came out first, and I wanted to sink into the depths of my chair at how good my drink was. Jinu seemed to enjoy his, and he just sat there and sucked the drink down in a couple of gulps. My mouth hangs open as I watch in shock. I try to suppress the laugh that's bubbling up my chest as I see Jinu’s face turn from delight into horror as he clutches the side of his head.

“Ow, why does my head hurt?” Jinu looks at me as if I had poisoned him.

“It’s called a brain freeze, Jinu. When you drink frozen drinks too quickly, it hurts your head.” I cover my mouth with my hand as a few giggles slip past my lips.

The dark-haired male slumps in his chair across from me and pouts like a little child. I was getting ready to tease him even more, but then the server came in front of our table carrying a large platter with all our food on it. She sets each item on the table, and I’ve never been so ready to stuff my face before. I don’t even care that I’m with Jinu; he won’t hold me back from pigging out and enjoying my food. We each have empty plates and load them up with what things we want. I pick up a piece of food with my chopsticks and groan in pleasure as I take a bite. That’s how good it is, and I’ve never been so happy that something lives up to the hype it gets. Jinu doesn’t even notice the weird sound that came out of my mouth cause he’s too busy experiencing the same thing I just did. Let’s just say there were no crumbs, and we got another drink to go before paying.

We make our way to a bookstore that I spend a lot of my time in. When you walk through the large double doors, it’s like you’re being transported into a fairytale world. The owner of this bookstore knew what he was doing, and it’s become a place where I feel truly relaxed. I don’t even know if Jinu likes to read, but I wanted to share one of my safe places with him.

“This place is amazing,” Jinu says, eyes wide like a child seeing the world for the first time.

A smile blooms on my face, and my heart warms at the dark-haired male's reaction. There’s nothing better than showing one of your favorite things to someone, and they enjoy it just as much as you.

We spent the next two hours wandering around the store. I showed Jinu my favorite books that I’ve read and explained the plot to him in great detail, probably too much detail, but he didn’t seem to mind. He takes me to the folklore section, tells me stories from his past, and points out a few stories that are based on actual demons. Listening to Jinu telling stories from the time when he was a human intrigued me. The way his dark eyes sparkled back to life made my heart skip a beat in my chest. He misses his time as a human, and seeing him like this makes me more determined to change his fate.

For lunch, Jinu wanted to go to a sushi place, so I took him to one of the best sushi places in town. Having a full breakfast didn’t keep us from eating all we wanted at the sushi place, but after eating so much, I needed to walk around. So I suggested walking through the market that was set up for today.

A lot of booths were set up selling knick-knacks, jewelry, clothes, and street food. We stopped at each booth, looking over all the items. I felt like I was in one of those movies where we tried on silly hats, sunglasses, and scarves and laughed our asses off. One booth had beautiful jewelry, and I was amazed by every piece. Each is handmade and unique in its own way. The lady behind the booth watches Jinu and me closely, answering questions we have, but at some point, she turns around and grabs something from a box behind her.

She sets it on the table in front of us and opens it slowly; “I made this ring set with a very special couple in mind. I didn’t want them on display, because I wanted to offer them to two individuals who are deeply in love.” The older lady explains with a smile so sweet it could give me a cavity.

Jinu and I glance at each other in the shop, choking on the air. I glance away, my face turning bright red. “T-that’s so sweet, but-”

“Can we try them on?” Jinu interrupts me, catching me even more off guard.

The older lady quickly agrees, takes them out of the box, and hands the rings to us. Jinu slides the ring onto his ring finger, and it fits him perfectly. He gently grabs my hand, thank God, because I’m short-circuiting so badly I can’t move. He holds the dainty ring in his other hand and slides it onto my ring finger, and it’s like the lady made this ring for me. I just stare down at my hand. This is such an intimate moment, and I never thought I’d have a guy sliding a ring on my finger like this unless he was proposing to me.

“How much?” Jinu asks the lady behind the booth.

She waves her hand; “Take them as a gift.” The lady smiles at us, “It seems they were truly made for you two, and it’ll make this old lady happy knowing that you’re wearing them.”

“We can’t possibly take them without giving you something.” Jinu reaches into his back pocket to grab his wallet, but the lady reaches out and grabs his hands.

She glances over at me, still staring down at my hand, and she chuckles softly, “Just promise me you’ll take good care of her.”

Jinu leans into the older lady, smiling softly as he whispers, “I promise.”

The dark-haired male grabs my hand and pulls me away from the booth, while simultaneously pulling me back into reality.

“Wait! We have to give these rings back!” I say, looking back at the older lady.

“She gifted them to us,” Jinu says nonchalantly. Like the fact that we now have couple rings isn’t that big of a deal.

IT’S A BIG DEAL!

We get to the point of the market where a few crane games‌are lined up alongside a few strength tests, and a photo booth that's off in the corner. I challenge Jinu in the games to see who’s better. I beat him at the crane game, picking up a stuffed animal before him, and he demolished me in the strength test. I pout and say it’s not fair because he has demon strength. Once we’re done having fun with the games, I drag the taller male into the photo booth with me. We take a couple of goofy photos and some cute ones. I make sure we do another round of photos so we each get two photo strips. Having photos is important to me because I don’t have any photos of people from my past life to look back on. I want to make sure I can always look back at the memories I created with those I care about the most.

Instead of going out to another restaurant for dinner, we just stop at some of the street food carts and pick up an assortment of different things. We plop ourselves down at one of the picnic tables, enjoying the cool breeze as the daytime shifts into night, and eating our steaming hot food. The day is ending, but my chest feels heavy at the thought of having to part ways. Damn, how could I be falling for him so quickly? I wonder if my past thoughts and feelings have anything to do with it, and I wish I knew how Jinu was feeling. Is he feeling any of the same things? I know he has to be feeling at least something.

“There’s one last thing I’d like to do before the night ends,” Jinu says softly, “I saw a sign for an aquarium on our way here.”

“You want to go to the aquarium?” The thought of Jinu wanting to look at aquatic animals makes my chest tighten. It’s such a cute request, how could I say no?

“I’d love that.”

And that’s how we ended up at the aquarium. Thankfully, they had an evening/night opening for people to come and see all the animals. I’ve never been to the aquarium after the sun has set, and it’s like it has a whole different feel to it. Sparkling lights create a glowing path to the next section, and the only other people I see walking around are couples. It’s as if the mood shifted from family-friendly to romantically charged. There are a few couples who seem to think they’re the only ones here, with how they’re kissing and touching each other. Those poor jellyfish have no choice but to watch.

Jinu and I make our way to the dolphin section, and I watch as two dolphins swim around each other in what seems like a dance. The area is dimly lit, and the glow from inside where the dolphins are is the brightest source of lighting in this section. Jinu steps close to me, our shoulders brushing against one another, and a sharp tingle shoots down my arm. My eyes lock on Jinu’s dark ones, and the way he’s staring so deeply into my irises tells me he also felt it. That shot of electricity between us ignites a fire that neither of us will extinguish.

The dark-haired male caresses my cheek gently, his fingers soft and yet slightly rough as he runs the pads of his fingertips along my jaw and hooks them behind my ear. Jinu steps closer, our chests brushing against one another as we breathe in heavily. My eyes broke away from the depths of Jinu’s chocolate eyes to look down at his lips, which were a few inches away from mine.

“Thank you for making today the first day I’ve truly enjoyed in my entire existence.” Jinu’s voice comes out deeper than normal with a slight rasp to it, and his fingers that are cradling my head gently stroke my hair.

I glance back into Jinu’s dark orbs, my voice breathy as I speak, “You deserve to feel this way.”

Once those words leave my lips, Jinu crashes into me. His mouth fits against mine perfectly as our mouths move together in perfect harmony. Kissing someone has never felt so euphoric before. In my past life, I kissed a handful of people, but never really felt anything with those people. In this life, I’ve been too busy to think about dating or having fun with other people. Jinu is technically my first kiss here. Our patterns glow brightly as our kiss deepens. Jinu’s body pressed flush against mine, his large hands gripping my body like he wanted to be closer to me, but after a few moments, he broke the kiss.

He rested his forehead against mine, and my chest heaved up and down as I caught my breath from the intensity of the kiss. I can’t believe that just happened, but every part of my body, my soul, is screaming that it was meant to happen.

Jinu walks me back to our meeting place, hand in hand, and gives me a soft kiss goodbye as he vanishes into a cloud of smoke.

The next few days are crazy as the girls and I are busy fighting demons, and everything that has our faces and the Huntrix name on it is replaced with the Saja Boys. It is disheartening to have something you worked so hard on get pushed to the side and overtaken by something new and shiny. Or something that’s wormed its way into the minds of the people. Even though the Saja Boys are our enemy and we’re fighting against them, I still make my way to the secret spot where Jinu and I meet up every night. These past few nights we’ve done less talking and a lot more making out and groping. It’s bad. I need to not get sucked into the sexual tension and stick to my plan!

He’s just so hot! And when he looks down at me with those dark eyes, his gaze holds sinful thoughts that I’m dying to figure out. Yeah, we can’t keep our hands off each other, and all I think about is how I can’t wait to see him again. To feel his body pressed against mine, our lips locked together as our tongues swirled around one another, and the way I can feel his excitement pressing against me while I’m straddling his lap. Oh God, it’s such a distraction that it's hindering my demon-hunting skills. That’s it; from now on, I won’t be kissing him until after I free him.

——————————

It’s the day of the fan meet, and the girls and I are hyping ourselves up for a day of interacting with fans. Events like this are important because they help grow our bond with the fans, which then creates an even more powerful experience when they listen to our music. But obviously, I know the Saja Boys are going to crash our meet and greet, and I plan to use this opportunity to the fullest by showing Jinu how much the fans genuinely love him. He still hasn’t told me whether he feels like he could live as a human again, and I plan to get an answer from him soon.

The venue doors open, and all our fans excitedly line up to finally meet and interact with us for a couple of minutes. When a small group of people comes to the front of the line in sleeping bags, the corner of my lips twists up, and I have to fight the laughter that wants to break out. I wonder if they stayed out all night waiting in line just so they could make this appearance. As they take off their sleeping bags, the crowd goes crazy at the sight of the Saja Boys. Bobby calls for another table to be added, and I quickly suggest that they put the table with ours. I look at my girls apologetically as the boys come to sit with us.

Jinu slides into the chair next to me, and I look at him with a playful smirk. “So did you guys camp out overnight just to be first in line to see us?”

“Maybe,” the dark-haired male leans into my side, and his eyes roam down my body. Deep roses bloom on my cheeks from the way he’s looking at me, and it’s corrupting my mind with images of his body against mine. His arm is resting on the back of my chair, and he leans in more to whisper in my ear.

“Do they know your secret?” His breath tickles my ear.

I whip my head around to make eye contact with the demon male sitting next to me. The gears were turning in my head about what he could mean. I thought Jinu and I were on good terms, that he wouldn’t be threatening me all ominously like this.

“They already know,” I say sternly, all the bubbly feelings inside of me now replaced with anxious tremors.

“I’m not talking about your patterns.” The sound of Jinu’s voice causes a knot in my throat, and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe. The dark-haired male reaches into my pocket and pulls out my phone. Opening up the camera, he places the phone in front of me so I can see myself.

The face looking back at me through the camera is one I’ve almost completely forgotten about. (H/c) hair, (e/c) eyes, and (s/c) skin.

“(Y/n), that’s your name, right?” Jinu purrs into my ear. If I weren’t so freaked out and feeling like I was going to throw up, I would’ve melted at the way he said my name.

I glance over at the other Huntrix girls to see how they’re reacting, but they don’t seem to notice that I’ve changed into a completely different person.

“Don’t worry, only you and I can see the way you look right now. To everyone else, you still look like Rumi.” Jinu leans back in his chair, a sinister smirk plastered on his face, looking proud of himself.

The fan event goes on, but I’m stuck in a void. I’m unable to be present with my fans and give them the interaction they deserve. How does Jinu know about me? Did Gwi-Ma somehow figure it out and is now using it to get Jinu to turn on me? Of all the plans that I came up with, this wasn’t a variant. Will this change everything?

I shut myself in my bedroom once we got back home from the fan meet. Too many thoughts are going through my head, and every time I peek in the mirror that hangs on my wall, I still look like my past self. What did Jinu do to me? How come every time I look at myself, I see (Y/n) and not Rumi? Did Jinu mean it when he said everyone else still saw me as Rumi? I finally gave in and just stood in front of the mirror. The outfit I wore during the signing was still covering my body. I shrugged the jacket off to see if the patterns were still marking my arms, or if they had disappeared. My arms were bare; nothing was etched into them, and for a moment, I felt relief. If I go back to my past self, does this mean I won’t be half-demon? But as I turned my arm around, the patterns popped out one by one like they were hiding from me, and I finally found them.

“I guess I’m just meant to be cursed no matter what,” I whisper.

I plop back down on my bed and roll into the fetal position. What do I do now? I need to rethink all the plans I made, but most importantly, I need answers from Jinu. Has he always known and was just using me, or did he just find out? I groan into my arms. My heart aches at the thought of him not actually caring about me, and just using me like the demon he is. I tore my guard away in hopes it would help us get closer, but I probably should’ve left at least a few walls up.

Derpy slowly emerges from the ground with Magpie sitting on his head. I glare at the creatures, knowing exactly why they’re here.

“So he thinks, after the way he acted today, that I’ll just meet up with him, forgive him, and then suck face again,” I hiss at the demon animals. “Hell no!”

I sit back in my bed and pout. I know I need to talk to him, but I don’t want to see his face tonight. The creatures don’t leave my side and hang out in the room with me as I brood and rethink my plans. But my brain can’t think of anything different from what I already came up with, so I toss my notebook and grab my music sheets instead. It’s time I finished Takedown and see what the girls think.

“A demon with no feelings don’t deserve to live, it’s so obvious.”

I try singing the song, but the anger that’s inside of me bubbles over, and I end up scribbling over the page. A knock sounds on the door, and my eyes dart to the side where Derpy and Magpie are. “You have to go!” I shoo them toward the ground, and they slowly disappear. I watch where I’m going so I don’t knock the trash can over. There’s no energy in me to hide the demon creatures from Mira right now. I open the door to see the pink-haired female leaning against my door frame. Her face is stone cold as always, but her eyes are glazed over with worry.

“Can I come in?” Mira asks.

“Of course.” My voice comes out softly, and I step out of the way to let her in.

“Are you okay?” The older female asks as she sits on my bed, “You’ve seemed weird since the Saja Boys interrupted our fan meet.”

I sit down next to Mira and sigh deeply; “Having them show up like that threw me off, and I know I should’ve handled the situation better than I did.”

“Hey,” Mira looks at me with her intense gaze, “Things are stressful right now, and we’re handling things the best that we can.” Mira glances at the ground and frowns as she sees the sheet music that I scribbled all over. “What’s this?” She says as she picks the piece of paper up.

“I’m sorry,” I say genuinely as I grab the sheet of music from her, “I kind of got angry as I was trying to finish the song. I’ll rewrite it, don’t worry.”

Mira glares at me for a moment. “Is there something else going on that you’re not telling us?”

I fall back onto my back and stare up at the ceiling; “Besides the stress of defeating Gwi-Ma, and getting rid of my patterns? No, nothing at all.” I stare at my arms as the purple markings glow.

“Well, if anything else is going on, you know you can talk to us, right?” Mira grabs my hand and squeezes it.

I smile softly at her, “I know.”

——————————

It’s the next night, and I make my way over to Jinu and I’s spot with Derpy and Magpie following along beside me. The Idol Awards are in two days, and I need to fix this mess before it gets even worse. I elegantly flip my way onto the roof, where Jinu is waiting for me.

“So you finally decided you wanted to see me again?” The dark-haired male says smugly.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. “Look, Jinu, I need you to answer my questions honestly.”

The tall male nods his head for me to go on; “How long have you known about me? And what do you know?”

Jinu steps closer to me, and runs his hand through his hair; “That day when we met up here, and your hair was down. That was the first time I saw you as (Y/n), and I’ve seen you that way since.”

My mind races to find the memories of what he’s talking about, and it suddenly makes sense. I don’t remember putting my hair down because it wasn’t down. My hair was in its normal braid, but when I saw Jinu, it magically fell down. He was seeing me as (Y/n), my hair was how I normally wore it in my past life, and because of that, Rumi’s hair was suddenly not in a braid anymore.

“You’ve known for that long?” So when we had that day together, he wasn’t looking at Rumi; he was looking at me. Does that mean he likes me more than Rumi? I shake my head. Rumi and I are the same; the only difference is our looks. Then, the realization dawned on me. Jinu only told me he knew about the past me, so he could get into my head. He’s trying to trip me up, which means he’s still working toward his goal with Gwi-Ma.

I rip my sword out of thin air and hold it up to Jinu’s throat. My eyes filled with anger and heartache. I bite my lower lip as I try to hold back tears. “What do you know about me?” The dark-haired male stands on the other end of the sword, face composed in a neutral line, and doesn’t answer. “Tell me!” I yell out. My voice came out coarse, causing the Honmoon to ripple. My eyes glance around as fear crawls its way up my throat. I can’t let the demon inside me take over.

Jinu lightly touches the tip of my blade and pushes it away; “I’ll tell you, but you need to relax first.” The dark-haired male takes a seat on the edge of the roof, and I take a few deep breaths before getting rid of my sword and sitting a respectful distance away from the demon male.

“When we first fought against each other, and I saw your patterns, Gwi-Ma knew instantly that you have his mark, but he doesn’t have control over you. So he did some looking into your past to figure out how you could be half-demon. But he found things he wasn’t expecting.” Jinu looks deeply into my eyes.

“Your mother, Miyoung, wanted to have a baby, but she could not conceive one. When fighting against a couple of demons, the one she was fighting was a higher demon and could see what her desires were. He saw she wanted a child and made a deal with her. That he would give her a child as long as it was his. At first, Miyoung refused, but eventually, she agreed to the deal. She wanted a baby, no matter what the cost would be. When you were born, Gwi-Ma could sense an imbalance in things and summoned your father back. He thought he could overthrow Gwi-Ma by having a child who was stronger than him, and Gwi-Ma didn’t take kindly to being undermined, so he killed him. Your mother died because of the deal she made with the demon, but because it wasn’t a deal with Gwi-Ma, she wasn’t sent to the demon world.”

Tears prickle in my eyes as I listen to the story he’s telling me. I don’t know if I can trust what he is saying, but if Miyoung wanted to have a baby so badly that she’d bear a demon's baby, then that must mean she truly loved all of me.

“While Gwi-Ma was digging into your past, he realized that your soul seemed different from other souls here. He found out you weren’t from this world and gave me the power I would need to see you as you are.”

We sat in silence for a while‌, while I absorbed everything he told me. I can’t fully accept what he’s said, for all I know, he’s lying about the facts. “How can I trust what you’re telling me?” I look into Jinu’s dark irises.

“Talk to Celine. She can confirm my story about your mother.” A flicker of sympathy takes over Jinu’s orbs as he looks into my (e/c) ones.

I glance over the edge of the roof, looking down at the ground that's far below my dangling feet. “If you know about my past life, then you should know you can trust me when I say I can set you free by sealing the Honmoon. I’ve seen how things here unfold, and I guess I can’t wrap my head around why you wouldn’t trust me.”

Jinu jumps up from where he was sitting and stares down at me in shock. “What?” His hands are shaking by his side.

“You know, in my past life, I saw how things work out-”

“No, I don’t know,” Jinu says sternly.

I look up at the dark-haired male and quirk my head to the side. Oh, no. I fucked up.

“So you’ve always known what was going to happen? That means everything between us was just a lie? A manipulation?” Jinu stares at me with disgust.

“No!” I yell as I stand to my feet, “The day we spent together and everything after that never happened here originally. Everything between us is the most real thing I’ve felt since I was reborn in this world.” I step forward to grab Jinu’s hand, but he takes a step back; “Jinu, I’ve felt strongly about you before I even knew you were real, and I always wanted to save you, to set you free. I’ve always known the real you, and that never changed how I feel. You made a mistake, and you’ve paid long enough for it. Please trust me and let me help you.” I didn’t think I would have to beg Jinu, but here we are.

“I-I need some time to think,” Jinu said before vanishing.

——————————

After the intense conversation I had with Jinu, it was hard for me to concentrate on anything else. There were a few people in the movie they showed getting their souls taken, and I planned to show up and save them. I know it’s nothing to the number of souls they’ll take, but if I can at least save a few people who died in the movie, then that’s a win for me. I had to push through all the emotions I was feeling to make sure I was there for those who needed me, but it was hard. At least I still showed up and saved the girl who was getting a drink. She freaked out when she saw me. We took a few photos together, and I even bought her some snacks.

I could save the guy at the bus station without being caught, but I paused in front of the missing persons board. So many posters are piled on top of each other, of people who just disappeared. Their poor souls are being taken, and their families do not know what's happened to them. We’ve been working hard and fighting demons like crazy, but unfortunately, we aren’t able to save everyone.

I make my way back home, shower, and then curl up in bed. Tomorrow is the rehearsal for the Idol Awards, and I want to be well-rested and, hopefully, have a clearer mind.

I couldn’t sleep.

I wake up the next morning feeling groggy, so I wash my face in cold water, hoping it’ll help me look more alive. But I still look miserable. We make it to the venue where the Idol Awards are going to be held, and we take our places on the stage. We get a couple of hours to go over our performance, and as of right now, we have two songs lined up to sing. Golden and Takedown. We go over our Golden performance, and each practice run goes off without a hitch. My voice is back in its best shape, and my heart swells with warmth each time I sing that song. It holds such a special place in my heart. But as we practice Takedown, that emotion goes away. This song is hateful, and it’s going to make our fans question us. We can’t risk that.

“Hey, why are we stopping?” Mira questions. My body stands still in the middle of the stage as I look out where all the fans will be.

“I just—I don’t think this song is the right one to sing tomorrow. The fans won’t react the way we need them to with this song.” I bite my lip as I wait for their responses.

“Really? You’re telling us now? When the Idol Awards are tomorrow.” The pink-haired female crosses her arms and glares at me.

“Maybe we can fix it! What do you think needs changing?” Zoey looks at me hopefully, pulling up her notebook to look at other lyrics we could use.

“The song is good how it is, but it won’t turn the Honmoon Gold. I don’t think we should perform it tomorrow. It’s too risky.”

Bobby slowly walks into the heated scene while holding a basket of goodies for us, but we don’t even get the chance to enjoy what he brought us because the Honmoon ripples. The three of us quickly take off to where the interference is, and we end up on top of a fast-moving train with a handful of demons crawling around it.

“I don’t understand why you’re having doubts suddenly,” Mira says as she slashes through one demon. “It’s too late to write a new song. The Idol Awards are tomorrow!”

“Mira, please,” I look at the pink-haired girl, begging her, “Just trust me. Everything will still work, just without Takedown.”

“Guys!” Zoey yells, pointing behind us.

A large magenta hole is ripping through the ceiling of the bridge that the train is moving on, and hundreds of demons fall from it, crawling toward us.

“The tear!” I yell out, my eyes widening. I’ve never seen anything like that before. Looking at it scared me, but I had to quickly pull myself together. I can’t show the demons that I’m scared; they’ll use that against me.

“If you think Takedown isn’t the right song, then let's test it.” Mira looks at me with her sharp eyes.

I narrow my eyes and nod in agreement. I have to prove that this isn’t the right song, and the only way to do that is to show that it’s not as powerful when fighting against the demons.

“I don’t think you’re ready for the takedown! A demon with no feelings don’t deserve to live, it’s so obvious.”

And just like I said, the song didn’t work the way we wanted it to. I got my ass thrown across the train, and we had to use every ounce of strength in us to fight the horde of demons. Our chests heaved as we killed the last one, but it just didn’t feel right. Something was wrong. We quickly made our way onto the train, but it was empty. The people who were once here have disappeared, but their belongings stayed behind in their place.

We hung our heads in shame and defeat. The feeling of depression seeped into my bones after that fight. Fuck! How could I let our feelings get so high and risk all those people's souls? Now they’re gone forever. I can see that the other girls are feeling the same way. Their faces look tired, and the once-soft lines under their eyes have grown.

“You’re right,” Mira says softly, “we can’t afford to take risks right now. We have to work hard together to get through this.”

The younger girl nods in agreement, her eyes glued to the ground, and the three of us slowly leave the train station.

——————————

I leave early on my way to meet up with Jinu so I can stop by Celine's. I haven’t had the chance to talk to her about my mom and dad yet, but I need confirmation before I see Jinu tonight. Using my key, I open her front door and walk through the large house. Everything in here reminds me of my childhood. All the wonderful memories, but also all the memories I wish I didn’t have. My relationship with Celine is confusing. I love her a lot, but her presence also pains me. She reminds me of everything that’s wrong with me, and I always feel ashamed of myself when I’m around her.

“Oh, Rumi, what are you doing here?” Celine says once she sees me walk into the kitchen.

“Can we talk?” I take a seat on the stool next to the island.

“Of course,” Celine stopped what she was doing and moved to stand on the opposite side of the island, facing me.

“Why was my father a demon?” I don’t bother beating around the bush; “I don’t understand how my mom, a hunter, could have a baby with a demon.”

Celine stares at me for a moment before sighing, running her hand through her thick locks. “Would you like something to drink?” Celine turns around to open the fridge. She always tries to avoid this conversation.

“Celine, please, just tell me. I’m not a kid anymore.” I say a bit sternly.

The older woman closes the fridge and leans against it. The gears rotate inside her head as she thinks things over. “Okay, I’ll tell you.” She moves into the living room and pats the spot next to her. I move next to her, and she grabs my hands in hers. “Your mother always wanted to have kids. Having a baby to love and raise was almost more important than her duty as a hunter. She was in a serious relationship for a long time, and they felt the time was right to have kids. But Miyoung wasn’t getting pregnant. She went to the doctor, and the doctor told her she was infertile. It broke her. For days, she cried, and the man she loved left. He couldn’t be with her if they weren’t able to have babies.”

“That’s awful,” I whisper.

“After that, your mom still wanted to have kids. She never gave up and was looking into adoption, but they told her the only way they would accept her as a candidate was if she were married. She felt defeated. Not too long after, we had one of our hardest battles yet, and one demon wouldn’t leave Miyoung alone. She let her weakness be seen, and the demon fed off of it. He offered her the chance to have a kid so long as it was his. Miyoung gave in and accepted his deal, and that’s how you came to be.”

Tears are trickling down my cheeks at this point. So, what Jinu told me was true. I wipe my cheeks, smearing the salty tracks across my face. Celine reaches out and rubs the wetness away, and then cradles my face.

“Oh, baby, she loved you very much and cherished every moment she had with you. Rumi, you were the best thing that ever happened to your mother.”

I grab Celine’s hands and remove them from my face. “She loved me despite who I am,” I whisper.

The older woman's face falls. She knows exactly what I’m saying. That my mother loved me despite being half demon, but Celine only loves a part of me. The human part.

“Rumi,” Celine reaches out to me, but I stand up and put distance between us. “You know I love you.”

“Not all of me, but don’t worry,” my eyes fill with tears again, “We’re gonna seal the Honmoon, and you’ll be able to fully accept me.” I turn around and rush out of the house. Celine followed behind me, calling out Rumi’s name, but I ignored her.

My tears are almost fully dried up as I make my way to Jinu. Once I get near our meeting place, I see him leaning against the building instead of on the roof. He’s petting Derpy, and has the sweetest smile on his face. I walked toward them, scratched the side of Derpy’s face, and gave Magpie some love before leaning on the wall next to the tall male.

“So you thought about what I said?” My voice comes out quieter than I meant it to.

“All night, but,” Jinu looks deeply into my eyes, “You really know what’ll happen?”

I nod my head and move closer to the dark-haired male; “Yes, it won’t be easy, Gwi-Ma will fight us, but in the end, we’ll be victorious.” I grab Jinu’s hand. “We can be free to be ourselves, to be together.” I intertwined our fingers. “Don’t you want that?” I look into Jinu’s dreamy dark eyes. Showing him how much he means to me through the look in my eyes. He steps closer, closing the gap, and rests his forehead on mine.

“(Y/n),” my heart skips a beat as he says my name, “You’re breaking through all the dark in me when I thought that nobody could. And you’re waking up all these parts of me that I thought were buried for good. It’s easy when I’m with you, no one sees me like you do.”

A bright smile forms on my face, and I jump into Jinu’s arms, burying my face into his chest; “You’ll do this with me?”

Jinu’s large hands cup my face, lifting my face so our lips are only an inch apart; “We’ll beat him, together.”

Jinu’s lips crash into mine. Our lips move roughly against one another like we won’t be able to breathe unless we do. My feet float off the ground, but at this moment, I don’t even care. Jinu lands us on the roof and lays me down as he hovers over my body. His eyes looked down at me as if I were the only person he cared for. Jinu dips his head down, capturing my lips in a much gentler and arousing kiss. His large hands moved slowly over my body, feeling every dip and curve. Pausing just above the waistband of my sweats.

I break away from the kiss and pout softly. Jinu chuckles at my reaction and leans down to kiss along my jawline; “Is my little huntress wanting more?” He asks in that deep, husky voice that causes my arousal to pool in my thong and then nips at the sensitive flesh below my ear. A gasp leaves my lips, and my hips buck a little.

“Jinu,” I whine out, “quit teasing me.” I glare at the older male, who’s enjoying my reactions too much.

It’s been too long since I’ve been touched by another person—an entire lifetime, if you will. The only touch I’ve felt is my hand and a vibrator since I’ve been Rumi. I know what it’s like to be with a partner, but being inside Rumi’s body, a virgin, makes everything feel more heightened.

Jinu dips his hand below my waistband and rubs gently against my clothed clit, causing my body to jolt at his touch. He sucks in a sharp breath; “You’re so fucking wet, princess.” He runs the tip of his finger between my folds, pushing the fabric of my thong between them. “Is this all for me?”

I nod my head quickly; “Y-yes.”

“You’re so eager.” Jinu removes his hand from my pants. “Do I need to teach you some patience?”

I glare up at the dark-haired male and shake my head; “Jinu, please,” I push my hips up so my sensitive part brushes against his thigh that’s positioned between my legs. “Touch me,” I beg him.

“How can I resist when you beg so sweetly?” Jinu looks down at me with sinister eyes, and in one swift motion, he pulls down my sweats and thong.

The chilly night air hits my glistening folds, adding a fresh sensation that erupts through my body. Jinu sits up and spreads my legs open so he can look at my pussy. His eyes darken with hunger as he looks at the sight of me lying before him. He rests his hands on my hipbones and grips them roughly, pulling me so I’m closer to him, and then he runs his hands up my stomach, tugging on the end of my shirt before ripping it over my head. I wasn’t wearing a bra, so my breasts were completely on display for him. My nipples hardened instantly as the air nipped at them.

Jinu smirks and makes his way down my body until his face is positioned between my legs. He peppers soft kisses on the inside of my thighs and even sucks a few dark spots onto them. His mouth finally meets ‌my clit, and he flicks it a few times with his tongue. A mixture of a gasp and a moan leaves my mouth with each flick. Once he suctions his lips around my clit, it’s over for me. My body writhes in pleasure, my hand shoots into his dark locks, and my fingers tangle in his hair. His assault on my clit is precise, and he doesn’t slow down once, keeping my body in an overwhelming state of ecstasy.

Without warning, he slips a finger inside of me, a loud moan leaving my lips at the sudden intrusion, and pumps slowly at first, stretching me out a little before adding a second finger. Giving my walls little time to adjust before pumping them in and out of me while still using his mouth on my clit.

“J-Jinu!” I moan his name. My body bucks against him, and the overwhelming feeling is becoming so much that I try to move away. His free arm grips me tightly, keeping me in place.

“Mmhm, baby,” Jinu shakes his head as he glances up at me, “Let me finish my meal.” He slowly licks up my folds while maintaining eye contact. Fuck, how does this ancient demon know how to be so hot? Actually, I don’t want to think about that.

Jinu goes back to what he was doing, and it doesn’t take long before I moan loudly, my body shaking below his, and my juices coat his face. The dark-haired male pulls away from me and licks his lips before hovering over my naked body. “You taste so sweet.” He purrs softly.

My hands run over his clothed chest, and I grab the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. “You have too many clothes on.” Jinu chuckles and watches as I work on his pants next and pull them down. He kicks them off and strokes his hardened member through his boxers.

I bite my bottom lip as I stare at the large bulge straining against the fabric of his underwear. Jinu hooks his fingers in the waistband and slowly slides them down, his cock springing free in release. My jaw almost drops to the ground as I take in the sight of his member. He’s long and thick with a few veins bulging along the length of his shaft. His tip is ‌dark pink and glistening with precum, making my body shudder at the sight.

“Do all demons get this perk, or were you blessed with this cock as a human?” I ask without thinking.

Jinu smirks, pumping himself gently as he looks down at me; “I was blessed.”

Jinu sits up on his knees, grabs my ass, and lifts my bottom. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and my entrance brushes against his swollen tip. Just feeling him brush against me makes my eyes roll back.

“You ready, princess?” Jinu asks, looking down at me with care.

“I’m ready.”

Jinu pushes his tip into my entrance, stretching me like nothing I’ve felt before. A stinging sensation burns through my body, and I put my hands out to press against Jinu’s muscular abdomen.

“Jinu, wait!” I say quickly, not wanting him to push any further; “Fuck,” I hiss in pain, “I- I’m a virgin.” I guess it doesn’t matter that I’m in my past body. Talk about becoming a born-again virgin.

“Do you want me to stop?” Jinu asks, a worried look on his face.

“No, just go slowly.” The pain is already easing up with his tip sitting at my entrance, but I know once he pushes in further, the pain will come back.

Jinu slowly inched his way, taking breaks when he felt me tighten, and pushing further when my body relaxed. It takes a couple of minutes before he’s fully seethed inside of me. Our breathing is heavy, and our bodies are ready to feel more than this agonizingly slow pace we’re going at. But Jinu is being such a gentleman, going slow, and listening to my body. Being that his member is huge and I’m a virgin, we need to go slower so my body can adjust well.

“I- I think you can move now,” I whisper.

Jinu pulls back slowly and begins pumping in and out of me. He’s moving slowly and lovingly, letting my body relax with his gentle movements. Once he feels that my walls have loosened around his large member, he picks up the pace. Thrusting into me faster and harder. The way he has me propped up and wrapped around his waist makes it so he’s hitting the right spot deep within me. Moans fall out of my lips, and my hands reach out to grab at the roof below me.

The dark-haired male takes in my pleased expression as a sign to go faster. He moves at a merciless speed and grips my hips hard enough to leave bruises as he pounds into my soaked pussy. My body is tingling with pleasure, and my moans are becoming so loud that if anyone were to walk by, they would hear me. My mind is fuzzy, and the only thing I can focus on is the way Jinu feels buried deep inside of me.

After a couple more thrusts, my walls flutter around Jinu’s cock, his grip on my hips tightening at this feeling, and he somehow pounds more roughly into me.

“Oh, my God, Jinu!” I yell out his name as my walls clench down like a vice around the dark-haired male's member. My body convulsed under him with pure pleasure.

“Oh, fuck, babygirl, you’re so damn tight.” Jinu breathes out. After a few more thrusts, he shoves his cock balls deep into me, his tip twitches, and I feel the spurt of his seed deep inside of me. Jinu groans out as he leans over me, letting my pussy milk him of every drop. He then plops on top of me, his cock still buried in me, and kisses my forehead.

“You took me so well, princess.” As he slides out of me, I can feel the thickness of his cum seeping out and down my thighs. Jinu grabs his shirt and uses it to clean me up as best as he can, and then he pulls me into his chest.

We stay like that, cuddling on the rooftop, skin to skin, as we look up at the stars for the rest of the night.

——————————

AN: Is it hot in here, or is it just me? What do you guys think of this chapter? It’s a long one! And what do you think of my theory/twist I came up with? The main theory I have for Rumi’s mother is that she fell in love with a demon, and that’s how Rumi came to be. My other theory is much darker, and I would like to think that one isn’t the case. I wanted something different from what I’ve read so far, so I went with theory three for Rumi’s mother, which is that she was infertile but wanted a baby so badly that she made a deal with a demon. In my version of KPDH, only high-ranking demons can make deals, but the human who makes a deal with them doesn’t get sentenced to the demon world like they would if they made a deal with Gwi-Ma; they just die at some point. Then, I also wanted Jinu to experience the reader in their true form to make this a true x reader. As fun as it can be to be in Rumi’s body, it would feel much nicer to have Jinu like you for you. Which he does, he falls for the reader as they are. Also, Gwi-Ma could sense the soul inside of Rumi as being foreign, and could even see what it looked like. Normally, souls look like their outer shell, but Rumi’s looked like a different person. That’s how Gwi-Ma knew the reader came from a different world. When Jinu explained those things, the reader assumed he just knew everything, but really, they had no way of knowing what her past life was like.

Taglist: @acaffeinated-constellation @satansdaughter123

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jezebelblues · 8 months ago

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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.

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