#Trademark Objection Reply

[rinkushaw]

How to Respond to a Trademark Objection

Securing a hallmark is a vital action for any kind of company seeking to secure its brand name identification. Nonetheless getting a trademark registration objection can be a traffic jam in this procedure. Recognizing exactly how to successfully reply to such arguments specifically when managing a ""trademark objection record "" is necessary. This overview will certainly aid you browse the complexities of resolving a trademark objection consisting of particular circumstances like a "reply to trademark objection under area 9" as well as a "respond to trademark objection under area 11."

Understanding Trademark Objections When you make an application for a trademark registration analyzes the application to guarantee it follows lawful demands. If any type of concerns are recognized, an argument is increased. These arguments can be based upon numerous premises usually identified under various areas of the Trademarks Act.

Area 9: Objections under this area are typically based upon the absence of distinctness of the hallmark, showing that the mark is not efficient in setting apart the products or solutions of one business from an additional. Area 11: This area take care of arguments based upon the capacity for the trademark to cause with existing trademark or pending applications, or if it is considered deceitful or complicated to the general public. Steps to Respond to a Trademark Objection

Examine the Trademark Objection Report The primary step in resolving a trademark objectionis to meticulously review and also recognize the trademark objection report. This file details the particular factors for the argument consisting of recommendations to pertinent areas of the legislation.

Determine the Grounds of Objection: Determine whether the argument drops under Section 9 Section 11 or one more component of the Trademarks Act. Evaluation the Cited Precedents: If the argument is based upon prior trademarks examine the pointed out trademarks to assess the credibility of the objection.

Gather Evidence and Prepare a Response When you have a clear understanding of the argument collect all required proof and also prepare an extensive action.

For Section 9 Objections:

Proof of Distinctiveness: Provide proof that your trademark has actually obtained distinctiveness via usage. This can consist of sales numbers, marketing expenditures, consumer reviews as well as marketing research. Historic Use: Document the background of your trademark's usage in business to show its acknowledgment out there. For Section 11 Objections:

Comparison with Cited Trademarks: Conduct an in-depth contrast of your trademark with the pointed out hallmarks to highlight distinctions in look audio, as well as significance. Marketplace Differentiation: Show exactly how your items or solutions vary from those related to the pointed out trademarks minimizing the probability of complication.

Draft a Reply to the Trademark Objection Your reply to the trademark objectionought to be clear, succinct as well as well-supported by proof.

Organized Format: Follow an organized layout dealing with each factor increased in the trademark objectionrecord. Lawful Arguments: Incorporate appropriate lawful point of views plus disagreements to sustain your placement. Sustaining Documents: Attach all sustaining files and also proof to enhance your reply.

Send the Reply Send your reply to the trademark objectionwithin the stated time frame. Hold-ups can cause the desertion of your application.

Display the Status After entry, on a regular basis check the condition of your application to remain educated regarding any type of more interactions or needs from the trademark workplace.

Tips for a Successful Reply to Trademark Objection Specialist Assistance: Consider speaking with a trademark attorney that has experience in managing Trademark Objection. Their knowledge can be important in crafting a solid reply. Thorough Evidence: The even more thorough as well as detailed your proof the much better your opportunities of getting rid of the objection. Clear Communication: Ensure that your reply is simple to comprehend with clear plus sensible debates. Typical Pitfalls to Avoid Incomplete Responses: Failing to deal with all factors hoisted in the argument can bring about being rejected. Absence of Evidence: Insufficient proof to sustain your cases can weaken your action. Missing out on Deadlines: Not sticking to due dates can cause the desertion of your Trademark application. Conclusion Reacting to a trademark registration objection calls for a critical technique and also a detailed understanding of the lawful premises for argument. Whether you're crafting a reply to a trademark objectionunder area 9, area 11, or resolving various other worries increased in the trademark objectionrecord complying with the detailed actions will certainly aid you properly browse the procedure. Bear in mind specialist assistance can dramatically improve your opportunities of an effective end result guaranteeing your brand name stays safeguarded together with unique in the market.

By meticulously assessing the opposition record collecting durable proof and also preparing a well-structured reply you can properly respond to any kind of arguments together with progress with your Trademark enrollment. This persistance not just protects your brand name however additionally enhances its identification as well as worth in the affordable market.

[eazystartups]

Before the Registrar accepts your registration application, you are required to adhere to certain guidelines. For Best Trademark Registration Process Online, contact us.

[fayes-fics]

An Artful Arrangement

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome)

Summary: A private art lesson with Benedict becomes something else when a Viscount is your subject...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, MMF threesome, no incest. Very mild restraint with hands, sensation play, smidge of breast play, vaginal object insertion, vaginal fingering, oral sex (M to F), masturbation, vaginal sex, voyeurism/exhibitionism.

Word Count: 7.7k

Authors Note: Request fill for Anon, who wanted Anthony as a life model for one of Benedict's private art lessons. This request is from last year and I started writing it before the whole Benedict gives up art thing of s3. I hope artist Benedict returns in s4. Anyway, thank you to @colettebronte for beta-reading this monster. Enjoy! <3

“I’m not sure about this, brother,” Anthony frowns, surveying the jumbled art studio at Benedict’s London townhouse. 

Sunlight is streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the rear of the property, but Anthony is grateful for the translucent voiles that drape over them; at least there will be some privacy from the surrounding buildings for this embarrassment.

“Too bad,” Benedict shoots back, bemused, fiddling through a pile of paintbrushes.  “A bet is a bet, and you lost.”

“You do not need to revel in my misfortune quite this much, though,” Anthony pouts.

“What can I say? The mallet of death does not always ensure victory at Pall Mall,” Benedict chuckles, readjusting one of the two easels in the room. “And I can assure you, this student will be worth your efforts,” he adds enigmatically as his trusty valet appears in the doorway.

“Ms y/l/n is here, Mr Bridgerton,” Mr Smith announces. “Should I see her in?”

“Certainly,” Benedict nods brightly, observing in the periphery of his gaze how Anthony’s interest is piqued at that announcement.

“A Ms?” Anthony echoes quietly as Smith slips away. “I did not think you offered private art tuition to the unmarried lady,” his voice filled with concern, patently preoccupied with the Bridgerton family reputation should Benedict be inviting innocent young women to his bachelor lodgings unchaperoned.

“Do not concern yourself,” Benedict sighs, knowing exactly where the Viscount's thoughts have gone. “I indeed do not do that. I would not wish for that reputation. Widows who have reverted to their unmarried name, however….” Benedict trails off.

“Oh… right….” Anthony nods in understanding. 

That, indeed, is an entirely different prospect.

—

You enter the room and suspect you may have interrupted a private moment between the two men before you. Both turning towards you, Benedict looks happy to see you once more; the other man - you would recognise his older brother, the Viscount, anywhere - seems taken aback, but you don't miss the tiny uptick in the corner of his mouth, hopefully also pleased to meet you.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” you nod courteously and move towards Benedict, allowing him to take your hand and kiss the back of your glove in greeting.

“Ms y/l/n,” he rumbles, “it is so wonderful to see you again.”

“Likewise, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, enjoying the warmth of his lips through the silk, that trademark flare of exhilaration in your ribcage when your flirtation with him rears. 

This is your fifth private lesson with Mr Bridgerton, and while art has been a wonderful new pastime, you do wonder how much of your enthusiasm correlates to your tutor’s attractiveness. He has been nothing but a gentleman in his actions, almost to your chagrin, although sometimes his glances have felt heated and laden with something that makes your insides glow.

You turn towards Anthony. “Viscount Bridgerton, it is a pleasure to meet you finally. I have seen you from afar at many an event.”

You take a few paces and offer your other hand for him to kiss, but it takes him a moment before he returns to himself and amends his frozen look of surprise.

“Miss y/l/n, the pleasure is all mine,” he replies, and there is something just as velvet in his tone as his brother's, his lips also warm and plush as he kisses your other hand.

Oh, my goodness. They are both entirely too charming and handsome.

“I apologise. When my brother informed me I would be modelling for a widow, I did not assume such a person as yourself,” he explains, his cheeks sporting a delightful dot of colour.

“I was widowed at age 24, my lord,” you explain, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “My late husband, 10th Earl of Pembroke, was a great deal older than me.” 

“Should we not address you as Dowager Countess?” Anthony checks, concerned at any potential faux pas.

“Please do not,” you instantly respond. “It is why I reverted to my unmarried name. I have no wish to be addressed as such. The title lives on in his eldest son, the current Earl, and his wife. Who are indeed older than me. I was my husband's second wife. A companion for his senior years after his first wife died.”

Anthony nods in understanding. “It must have been an interesting union,” he offers politely.

“I was seventeen, and the man was nearly sixty,” you sigh. “My parents saw an opportunity to climb the social ladder and took it. I did not dislike the man completely, but I cannot say I was particularly distraught at his passing,” you explain plainly. “I am, of course, grateful his estate provides for me now.”

Having explained your situation as thoroughly as you wish, you turn back towards Benedict, who appears thoroughly entertained by your bluntness.

“Is this my easel?” you enthuse, pointing to the one nearest the windows.

“Indeed it is,” he returns with a smile as he strides past you and clicks the door closed.

“Now the question is, would you prefer your model be clothed or unclothed? You have not done a piece yet on the naked human form,” he points out.

You look over to see Anthony’s face morph into a thousand reactions.

“That was not part of the deal, brother,” he warns lowly through gritted teeth.

“Maybe not, but I think the lady should get to decide, do you not, brother?” Benedict challenges in a tone laced with amusement, his eyes sparkling.

You can see the war on Anthony’s face and decide to offer an olive branch. “I would not wish to make the Viscount uncomfortable in any way…”

“It would not,” Anthony cuts in very quickly. “I was just pointing out it was not my expectation to do so,” his gaze softening as it slips from his brother to you. “However, if you wish it, Ms, I shall remove my clothing.” something in the way he says it causes a frisson down your spine.

You have only seen one naked man in your life. And that is your dead husband—a portly man of advanced years. Something about the look of the Viscount’s tailored clothing suggests his naked form would be very different. More akin to the rugged gardener you have occasionally seen topless at your country home and, yes, touched yourself while thinking of. You are not sure you could keep your wits about you to paint such a fine specimen of a man.

“Let us just remove our jackets for now, brother,” Benedict suggests. ”The lady may then decide if we shall proceed further,” his tone conciliatory as he removes his.

You smile at his gentlemanly offer. 

“Now,” he continues, rolling up his white shirt sleeves distractingly. “You may choose to pose your model as you see fit.” 

Anthony is doing the same with his shirt, and you find yourself staring at him as well, at the play of muscles in his forearms as he rolls the material. Behind him is an emerald green velvet chaise, and you ask him to sit upon it. He does so and then looks at you expectantly for further instruction.

“Perhaps place one forearm on your thigh,” you suggest, but the pose he adopts isn't quite what you had in mind.

“You can place him in the position you wish,” Benedict chuckles, seeing the knit in your brow, gesturing for you to go to Anthony.

Your heart skips a little as you approach the Viscount, his eyes almost trepidacious as you place your hands tentatively on his shoulders. They are so broad and warm through the thin white cotton of his shirt. You position his arms, noting the latent power in his biceps, fingertips lingering on the material, eager to trail your hands down onto the dark hair dusting his forearms. 

“Would you mind raising your chin, my lord?” you ask quietly, and when he tilts his head up, you almost gasp at the intensity of his gaze boring into yours.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

“Yes, please,” you whisper back, “the light catches your face perfectly.”

“Much as it does yours,” he returns softly and something warm spreads under your ribs as you drink in his handsome facial features, almost glowing in the sunlight—a want to run your fingertips over his cheeks, trace the lines of his strong jaw dusted with a trace of afternoon stubble.

“Are you happy with your placement?” Benedict’s voice rings out, cutting into your reverie.

“Yes, Mr Bridgerton,” you reply but do not move, seemingly rooted to the spot.

“Then please return to your easel,” he tutors, with a hint of sharpness you have not heard before. 

Part of you is tempted to spin around and ask if he is jealous, but instead, you shoot Anthony a tiny smile that he returns before withdrawing. 

You round behind your easel and pick up your charcoal, sketching an outline, as Benedict does the same. A few minutes pass pleasantly as you draw, glancing at Anthony around the edge of the easel to ensure accuracy. You could swear every time you do so; his lip twitches in amusement, almost as if he is trying to distract you.

“Benedict,” you call softly when you think your rough outline is done, “please could you check my sketch?”

It's a flimsy excuse you have used more than once now—a wish to have your teacher move closer. He doesn't disappoint. He takes a few strides and then stops close to your back, assessing your canvas.

“I would say that is an excellent start,” he assesses, his exhaled air wafting through tendrils of hair near your ear. “Except maybe here…” His arm curls close around your side, ghosting your dress, and taps the canvas where you have sketched Anthony’s left arm. “I think you flatter my brother with a shoulder that broad.”

“Perhaps…” you concede, and then your tongue runs away with itself. “It may indeed be easier to ascertain the correct proportions for the Viscount were he in less clothing.”

They both chuckle at your bold assertion, so obviously a flimsy excuse. But there is a vault behind your ribs as Anthony rises to that challenge—a glint in his eye as he stands up and plucks open his waistcoat, shucking it quickly from his shoulders, staring you down. 

You swear you can feel the heat radiating from Benedict behind you as Anthony unwinds his white cravat and then, with a smirk, tosses it towards you. It lands draped over your easel; you reach out unthinking, grabbing an end, caressing the fine silk absent-mindedly as you stare covetously now.

Anthony is indeed built like your gardener, possibly even more sculpted. A dark thatch over his chest tapers to a line of hair over his abdominals and trails temptingly into his trousers. You want to see where it leads to. You suspect something much better than you have ever encountered before. With a hint of swagger, he retakes his seat in the pose you had put him in, the stance making his bicep bulge out.

“I do not think I was very incorrect in my proportions, Mr Bridgerton,” you opine tacitly, turning your head a fraction so your temple is brushing Benedict’s jaw, knowing you are goading him.

“Then draw what you believe you see,” he returns, his voice a low whisper, his lips so close to the shell of your ear that your heart pounds in your chest.

Your eyes hold Anthony’s as you daringly glide your fingertips over the back of Benedict’s hand, lingering on the raised tendons before you push the charcoal between his knuckles.

“Perhaps you can guide my hand?”

“With pleasure,” he hums.

The charcoal glides over the canvas in guided unison for a few laden minutes as you draw under Benedict’s tutelage. Anthony’s chest rises and falls steadily as you glance at him every few seconds—a tension in the air that is portentous, crackling. Your traitorous mind wanders—a jumble of images of you laying with both of these men, bringing you untold pleasures with their mouths and hands.

“Are you even paying attention to the artwork?” Benedict's rich voice lilts in your ear as you realise your hand is almost limp under his.

“I… I must confess, my thoughts may be elsewhere, Mr Bridgerton.”

“Tell us. It could be something we would be most pleased to hear,” he posits duskily, his breath hot on your cheek, letting slip that he likely suspects.

“I am thinking… of other artful arrangements of human bodies,” you offer somewhat opaquely.

“Whose bodies?” Benedict presses, this time his lips grazing your earlobe, as you spy a vein throbbing in Anthony’s temple, looking like he wants to stalk over and claim you.

“The three of us,” you confess breathily.

There is a noise from both men that is a beeline straight into your core, and there is a mouth on your skin. You gasp, eyes closing as you sway backwards into Benedict, his lips travelling the column of your neck as your back collides with his solid chest. The gentle suction and warm wetness set your skin afire, tingles running down your arm. Your lashes flutter open, and your blood runs hot to behold Anthony’s face like thunder until you bite your lip and, feeling emboldened, you mouth to him…

‘Your turn’

Instantly, his mien morphs into one of desire, jumping to his feet as you slide a hand into Benedict's thick hair and grab a handful, making him groan into your skin. 

“You are entirely too clothed compared to your brother, Mr Bridgerton,” you coquette, untangling yourself from his arms and spinning to look back at him with a raised brow, backing away without looking, knowing you will soon collide with Anthony.

Sure enough, you inhale sharply as toned arms haul you into a firm embrace, the hair on his chest tickling the skin above the scooped back of your dress.

“The lady is not wrong, brother,” Anthony provokes, his tone smug now that you are in his arms instead.

Teeth nip lightly on your earlobe while you watch Benedict fight with his waistcoat, almost wrenching it from his torso. Anthony is more taciturn than Benedict, communicating with his fingertips instead, raking over your dress, silently telegraphing his desire through the gauzy layers. Benedict’s stare is heavy upon you as he unfurls his cravat, you melting into Anthony’s lips skimming down your throat. Benedict makes quick work of removing his shirt, throwing it aside, his smooth chest heaving slightly as he advances upon you. Then his lips descend and claim yours in a breathtaking kiss. 

If this is the Bridgerton boys competing for your affection, then you would do anything to keep provoking them. Sandwiched between their bare torsos, Benedict's tongue opening your lips, lathing yours, as Anthony’s mouth skates your shoulder. The taste and feel of them both has you suddenly impatient. To do things you never thought you would even moments ago. A forbidden fruit too tempting to resist. It makes you desirous, unbounded, a keening want to be reckless.

“Take off my dress, gentlemen,” you implore urgently as you and Benedict break apart, twisting to capture Anthony’s mouth now. 

His kiss is just as demanding, equally fervent, your heart racing as four hands trace the contours of your figure. You are not sure of who undoes the buttons down your back or who pushes the loosened fabric from your shoulders. Both unlace your stays, tugging almost impatiently until the garment relents and are certain both of them pull your gathered chemise loose, it falling from your shoulders to form a circle around your light summer shoes. Both make a noise as they realise you are now naked. It was supposed to be a little illicit thrill for yourself, foregoing stockings and underwear in Mr Bridgerton’s presence—little did you know how provocative that choice would be. 

As you toe off your shoes, the atmosphere seems as heated, the sun’s rays upon your back through the translucent window covering. There is a moment where you exchange laden looks with them, their eyes slipping down your naked body before Anthony leans in and retakes your lips.

“Touch me…” you implore, twisting briefly to address his brother before returning inexorably to Anthony’s hypnotic kiss.

Benedict's fingertips ladder up your ribs from the dip of your waist, his lips dragging hot over your bare shoulder blades. And then you gasp into Anthony’s searching mouth as those large hands seize both of your breasts, covering them entirely, your nipples snagging between his elegant knuckles.

“Here perhaps…” Benedict rumbles as you tear away from Anthony to meet his captivating gaze.

“Yessss,” you hiss hungrily, your breath catching as he plucks gently, tweaks that send a zinging bolt between your legs. You cling to the back of his sturdy neck and crash your lips into his. 

“Have you ever laid with two men before?” Anthony’s voice is like velvet in your ear as his warm hands grasp the flare of your hips, his teeth nipping at your neck.

“I have only laid with one man,” you admit as you pull back from Benedict's kiss. “And he looked nothing like either of you.” Your hands rake greedily down both of their honed outlines, a yen to see and touch more.

They puff with pride at your words as Benedict's fingers loop behind your left knee. He roughly pulls your legs up around his hip, surging into you so the rigid mass of his cock, straining in his trousers, presses your mound, making you gasp. Anthony pushes into you, too, his equally sizeable cock passing over the cleft of your bottom, so hot through the fine wool. 

“Did he worship you like you truly deserve?” Benedict queries, his cadence achingly seductive.

“I am not sure what that might entail…” your intentional evasive provocation makes him smile crookedly and lean in closer, his eyes glinting enticingly. 

“Did he feast on the bounty between your legs with his tongue until you screamed for mercy?” his words dripping from his lips like dangerous weapons, heat pooling rapidly right at that very spot.

“H-he did not…”you stutter over a slightly laboured breath.

“Oh, my poor lady,” Anthony tuts sympathetically. “You deserve to know true pleasure,” he adds, surging his hips again but also taking your hand and kissing your knuckles tenderly. 

“Lay down here,” Benedict smiles as he leads you back to the plush chaise. 

Both offer their hand to assist you in reclining, the velvet a plush tickle under your spine as you settle down, looking up at them towering over you, your hands itching to tug open their trousers and find what lies beneath, the fabric straining temptingly.

“What do you have in mind, brother?” Anthony asks, his eyes following Benedict as he turns away and appears to grab something from the bench at the side of the room, the sunlight dancing across the freckles across his back. When he spins back around, he is holding three clean paintbrushes.

“I think a sensual experience…” he replies, looking down to gauge your reaction.

“I thought our art lesson abandoned, Mr Bridgerton,” your gaze fixated upon the brushes of various sizes and bristle lengths.

“With my brother as the subject, I concede maybe so,” he remarks casually. “But I believe you to be a much more interesting prospect anyway….” his voice smoky as he looms over you, his eyes raking over you in a way that you can feel fizzling on your skin.

“Agreed”, Anthony chimes in, taking a proffered brush from his brother as they kneel on either side of the chaise, a silent exchange between them.

You want to ask what they will do, but the words die in your throat as Benedict's tongue darts out and wettens the end of a fine-tipped brush. Then, the damp bristles are upon your clavicle, tracing the arc of bone, leaving a thin, wet streak cooling rapidly, goosebumps erupting over your sternum, nipples pebbling. Without needing prompting, Anthony drags a dry, fanned brush over your ribs, tracing each contour. The sensation is different, ticklish, to the point your abdomen ripples, and you instinctively curl up a fraction, biting your lip to tamp down a giggle. Anthony smirks casually as a large hand wraps around your shoulder and pushes you back flat.

“No, no.” Your clit pulses at the warning tone Benedict employs, his hold secure but not painful, staring you down as Anthony repeats the same move upon the other side of your ribs. Your body rolls yet more, rebelling and pushing against his grip. “Stay still. Or he may desist.”

You bite your lip and exhale shakily as Anthony continues teasing brushstrokes over your stomach, each one a flick that makes your skin shimmer. Benedict releases his hold to paint his wet brush across your other collarbone, leaving a trail of his saliva along its ridge and then continuing down over your breastbone. Your breath catches as he trails under the curve of your left breast, just as Anthony’s brush sinks lower. Your instinct is to clamp your legs shut, a sudden wave of timidity, but both men grab your knees and pull your thighs wide apart. Air swirls around your slit as Anthony leans over and captures your lips in an enticing kiss.

“Do not be shy now….” is Benedict’s hot whisper in your ear, his teeth capturing your earlobe as Anthony’s tongue rolls with yours, swallowing your moans as his brush caresses the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs before he glides it between your legs, passing over your clit. 

Just that featherlight touch is enough to make you arc upwards off the chaise until again Benedict holds you down, brush stored expertly between his knuckles as warm fingertips press upon your diaphragm, and he hushes you. You have to bite the inside of your cheek as Anthony flicks a few strokes, his warm eyes blazing right above yours. The motions have you throbbing, desperate for more, and you can only gasp as he slips lower, pushing just a fraction of the brush into your soaked pussy. When you do not protest, he grins and pushes a fraction deeper as you bite your lip, wanting so much more for it to be his cock. You whimper as instead the paintbrush withdraws, and Anthony makes a show of bringing it to his mouth, sucking its dripping tip covetously.

“Delicious,” Anthony offers silkily, his face inches from yours, a thronging need low in your pelvis, aching for relief, something you never felt with your late husband. His lips are on yours, lust burning in your belly as you taste yourself in his mouth. 

Benedict chooses this moment to swirl his wetten brush tip around your areola, and that has you moaning into Anthony’s kiss, your fingers raking into his lush hair as your other hand shoots out to grab Benedict’s bicep, a need to touch them both at once.

“Please…” your voice cracking, greedy for them both.

“Please, what?” Benedict chuckles darkly, his lips brushing your hairline, again holding you down to Anthony’s sensual onslaught.

“More…”

It's all you can say, tilting to look into his hazy eyes, clouded with lust, enjoying watching you squirm and pant and blossom under their attentions.

“Greedy…” Benedict volleys light-heartedly before kissing you, both of them dropping the paintbrushes, clattering to the floor.

Anthony’s fingers slither back down your centre line, tracing over the sensitive skin beneath your belly button but not stopping until they rest tauntingly over your weeping slit. You gasp into Benedict’s mouth as Anthony pushes a finger into you, his approving groan into your shoulder as you leak down his knuckles has you clenching around his invading digit. He adds another and begins to pump slowly, rocking his fingers rhythmically as your tongue parries with Benedict’s. 

Benedict breaks the kiss to brush his lips down your throat, hot kisses over your collarbone, lower still until his mouth is on the swell of your breast. Anthony adds a third finger, wet, filthy sounds from between your legs as your pussy clings to him, feeling so filled. His thumb hooks under your clitoral hood and starts to flick your sensitive nub in time with his finger thrusts just as Benedict's tongue swirls around your nipple, making your back curve up from the chaise, pushing your breast into his open mouth.

“I could watch this for hours…” Anthony asserts with a wicked little quirk of his eyebrow.

You squirm under them, so achingly aroused you feel on the edge of reason. One of them would be more than you have ever experienced before; both at once is almost lethal.

“Me too…” mirth laces Benedict’s response as he trails the point of his nose over your nipple. 

They glance at each other, telegraphing ideas silently. Benedict swaps to your other breast as Anthony moves, the angle of his fingers changing inside you, twisting as he rearranges between your splayed legs, pushing your thighs wide open, draping them on either side of the chaise.

The muscular swipe of Anthony's tongue through your slit has you crying out his name, a spike of pleasure so rough it catches you unawares, this act entirely new to you, something so intimate about his whole face buried into the wet heat between your legs.

Benedict kisses his way back up your neck as Anthony’s strong arms wrap around your hips, the solid mass of biceps curled into you as he drives you relentlessly, his tongue a spear lashing your swollen clit. Benedict swings around from kneeling at the side of the chaise to leaning over the curved back, fingers spidering down your skin from your shoulders towards your breasts.

“Is this the artful arrangement of bodies you envisaged?” His words are whispered hotly into your ear, your eyes fluttering closed at the decadent, smokey cadence.

You mumble something incoherent, the rush washing through your system stealing your thoughts, just as Anthony’s fingers start to move inside you again as he feasts upon you, closing his mouth around your sensitive nub and sucking hard with his lips.

“What was that?” Benedict chuckles, a teasing lilt that has you nuzzling your cheek into his lips, his fingertips dragging agonisingly slowly lower, over the round of your breasts, your nipples, still damp with his saliva, pebbled painfully even in the warm room, tingling for his firm touch.

“Yessss…” your reply is a sibilant rasp; he must know this is even better than what you had imagined, but he seems to enjoy hearing your affirmation regardless. Such investment in your pleasure amplifies your need.

Your hand shoots down to tug Anthony’s luscious hair, pushing your pelvis up into his face as he groans his approval of your wanton actions, chasing pleasure covetously. His fingers are buried deep inside you, curling and dragging over a spot that has you climbing so fast. Then Benedict roughly pinches your nipples, throbbing in sync with your clit under Anthony’s tongue, and you are sent stratospheric dizzyingly fast, a touch of rough treatment just what you need to push you over the edge you have been skating.

Benedict swallows your screams as you ride Anthony’s face in a wave of pleasure, clenching hard around his fingers, trying to expel them as he fights to stay inside you. Benedict's mouth is hot, possessive over yours, not letting you up for air in a way that only heightens your pleasure, a tingle zipping over your scalp as you burst and fracture under them.

For a few seconds, everything is blotted out, just a rush of blood in your ears and white-hot pleasure coursing through you. Their touch turns softer as you float down, Anthony’s fingers withdrawing from you with a wet noise as you lay dazed, utterly overwhelmed by the sudden intensity.

“Now that was a work of art…” the filthy poet opines velvety, a handsome, lopsided grin claiming his face as you stare up at him hovering over you, your view upside down. 

You are still too stunned even to form words, a stuttering noise that sounds more like a whimper, the only thing escaping your trembling lips.

“I think we may have stolen her power of speech,” Anthony observes wryly, crawling up, dropping pecked kisses onto random spots of your dewy skin.

He settles his muscular body over yours, his chest hair tickling your nipples, his face glazed with your arousal, and his sizeable cock brands your thigh through the material of his trousers. He moves in to steal a kiss that tastes tart, rolling your flavour onto your tongue, seemingly wanting you to savour it as much as he does.

“I've never enjoyed losing a bet more…” he rumbles enigmatically as you break apart, your brow knitting in confusion.

“He would not have been your art model today if he had not lost a bet,” Benedict supplies, his fingers massaging your scalp soothingly, dropping a kiss onto your forehead.

You smile blissfully, head swinging to look at them both, knowing it will broadcast your response, as well as anything spoken could.

“You might be right about the power of speech, brother,” Benedict jests gently as they rearrange on either side of you.

Hands running lightly over your arms and torso. You just assumed, as with your previous husband, that they would immediately move on to pursuing their pleasure, so when they do not, you are slightly confused, especially as their unhurried, sensual caresses reignite that flame deep in your core. After a few minutes of gentle intimacy you are unable to censor your curiosity any longer.

“Will neither of you take me?!”

You don't mean it to sound quite as indignant as it does, even though a large part of you enjoys their shocked expressions, neither expecting such boldness. But then both of their faces morph into a dangerous, smouldering look so similar you can see their shared genetics. It has you biting your lip on instinct.

“We both will if you employ that sort of tone with us…” Benedict threatens sonorously, leaning in so his lips graze your cheek, giving away that is precisely what they want too, a shiver running down your spine at all the possibilities, your soaked clit throbbing anew.

“Is that a promise or a threat, Mr Bridgerton?” You volley back, raising an eyebrow, this new play far too beguiling to resist.

“Insolent little thing…” Anthony growls.

Hands clutch you tightly, blunt fingernails digging into your soft flesh, both of them demanding a kiss, pulling you in each direction to plunder your mouth in turn. A thrill zips all the way from your head to your toes with this sudden change of pace—the gauntlet of challenge you have thrown down, unleashing something primal in them both. 

Before you know it, Benedict is standing up, and the sound of buttons popping open makes you inhale sharply around Anthony’s tongue, wanting so much to crane to see him stripping off, but your entire field of vision filled with the powerful Viscount, his hand seizing your jaw.

“Look at me,” Anthony demands, perhaps a tinge of jealousy that you may even dare glance elsewhere when he is kissing the life out of you. Your eyes meet, all blown pupils and damp lips, and it's blazingly intense like he is peering into your very thoughts. “Oh good girl…” he drips praisingly, and something hot and molten unfurls behind your ribs. The smirk that engulfs his face tells you he knows precisely what those two little words have done to you, lust roaring back to life in your veins. “Such a live wire…” he breathes, and you can see it is nothing but admiration. “I will be back…” his promise trailing off as he withdraws, your eyes tracking his movements away from you, taking a seat in a nearby wingback chair, that handsome smirk still there. It makes you want to reach out your hands and beckon him back, a slight pout that he has left you so soon.

But you inhale sharply as warm, ropey thighs part yours, and your attention is pulled back to Benedict, prowling over you on all fours, naked now. The glimpse of his rigid cock bobbing between his legs catches your breath before he claims your mouth and lowers himself upon you. So much heat and lithe, supple musculature. He doesn't even ask; your knees spreading wide is the open invitation that he takes, angling his hips and slipping into your waiting weeping pussy with one decisive thrust that has you grasping his shoulders and calling out. The blistering stretch is unlike anything your previous husband could achieve, and you are grateful for just how aroused you are, the feeling just the right side of painful. He holds still buried to the root, his handsome face rightfully smug as you adjust to this novel feeling of utter fullness.

“Is that what you needed?” He leans down and whispers those words in your ear, your breasts crushed under his smooth, hard chest. The tone is doused with brazen provocation that you can't help but rise to, one of your hands sliding covetously down his back.

“I think you know the answer you seek. Impress me, Benedict...” you incite as you grab his shapely rear, his responding groan vibrating your entire being. He withdraws and surges back in, your toes curling into the light fuzz on the back of his calves, what you have fantasised about for many weeks now, better than anything you have idly thought during each art lesson with him.

Benedict nuzzles into your neck and starts to set a rhythm that has you panting with each stroke, your back chafing the rich velvet fabric of the chaise, engulfed in his heat and woodsy scent, caged around you, his hands hooked under your shoulders, pulling you down onto his invading cock, his lips murmuring encouraging words onto your throat. 

Movement out the corner of your eye distracts you, and you twist your head a fraction to see Anthony naked now, too. That dusting of dark hair on his chest tapers over his toned stomach, a thin trail leading all the way down to the patch around the base of his cock. He has taken himself in hand and is watching you intently, eyes trained on you as his brother fucks into you over and over, rolling with him.

‘I want you…’

You mouth to Anthony, a need to have him desperate and wanting. His nostrils flare, and he bears his teeth, his grip on his cock vice-like, speeding up, a glistening bead of moisture squeezing from his tip at your very words. 

“Call her a good girl,” Anthony snarls, an instruction as much as a suggestion.

“Why would I when she is looking at you while I fuck her?” Benedict scolds satirically, and that has you swinging your attention back to the man inside you, a little flare of guilt in your gut that you are unable to divide your attention between them, wanting them both. “There she is,” he teases gravelly as his lips ghost the shell of your ear. “There’s my good girl….” he adds for good measure, the lowest register you have ever heard from him, and you cannot help your body’s response.

You clench around him, and he groans long and low, his grip on you harsher, snapping his hips so forcefully his hip bones dig deep into your splayed thighs, your eyes rolling, his tip grazing your hilt.

“So fucking perfect…” he curses, his mouth opening yours, raiding you, setting a pace so punishing now you can only cling to him, moaning loudly, him nudging your swollen clit with each stroke. The chaise squeaks under the onslaught now, feet scraping hard on the polished wood floor.

Still, you cannot stop your stolen glances at Anthony as Benedict huffs into your neck. He looks so majestic, knees splayed, eyes trained on you. You want to climb into his lap and ride him until your teeth are rattling. You can feel yourself climbing higher, each jolt to your clit another step closer, a gentle flutter in your pussy you know Benedict can feel, him emitting little groans with each involuntary constriction.

“You are so close. Come for me again; I need to feel it,” Benedict pleads breathily, pulling up to meet your gaze, a sheen across his forehead as he ploughs into you, never faltering in his athletic pace. 

One of his hands sweeps down your flank, long fingers squirrel between your bodies, unerringly finding their target, a scream ripping from your lungs at the extra stimulation. A few flicks from him, and you are gone for a second time, hurtling towards the stars, bowing upwards, tensing hard, each muscle snapping taught as body and mind are flooded with ecstasy. 

Distantly, you hear Benedict growl, more animal than man, a litany of filthy praise you can barely decipher tumbling from his lips as he pulls out abruptly, you whimpering at the sudden loss, your pussy bereft, rippling around nothing now as his hot seed spills onto your belly.

He collapses onto you for a few beats; his weight is heavy and cloying, his lips meeting yours in an artless kiss. Then you feel him climb off of you slowly, a soft rag dragging over your skin as he cleans you of his seed and mingled juices. He kisses your cheek chastely, but his words are interrupted by Anthony calling out across the room. 

“Are you ready for more?”

Your attention immediately snaps across to the Viscount. Without thought, you are springing to your feet, gait uncertain, like a newborn fawn finding its legs as you take a few shaky steps towards him, an exquisite ache between your thighs from all that has transpired.

“Are you coming to me?” Anthony coos impressed, his hands shooting out to steady you, gripping your waist.

You nod enthusiastically, utterly drunk on the tide of pleasure coursing through you, which greatly entertains him. You climb into his waiting lap and draw him immediately into a filthy, wet kiss. Your tongues tangle as you shuffle forward into the wide, comfortable chair, his hips sliding forward to meet you, and without preamble, you rise fractionally and sink onto him, your puffy, swollen channel suctioning onto his thick veiny cock with a filthy sound. He groans beautifully as you sink, taking him into your pussy, the stretch of him just as mindblowing, perhaps even a shade thicker, like his physique. You stutter a curse, eyes to the ceiling, wrapping your arms tight around his neck, your nipples pressed into the fur of his chest, his balls pressed between your bottom cheeks as you sit speared upon him. 

“Are you going to ride me?” His question is rich like chocolate, buzzing against your chin where his mouth is now hooked open, his teeth grazing the bone there.

“Yes,” you slur, tilting your gaze down to look down at him, already knowing you would do it until your body gives out, so desperate again to feel that high only they can provide.

“Good girl.”

They know it's a weapon now and deploy it with gleeful abandon. Reflexively you contract around Anthony’s cock, both of you calling out, his muscular thighs tensing under your weight, his toes lifting from the floor. He utters a curse, too, a hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, then cupping the back of your head, tugging the hair at your scalp between his knuckles.

“Ride,” he commands, low and slow, a menacing tone that has you stuttering with restoked arousal. A burning need to please him, to do precisely what he tells you to. And so you push up until his head is just inside your pussy, then drop back down, shuffling your stance wider to get a better range of motion. He watches you with a hooded, scorching gaze; a devastating quirk of his eyebrow has you moving steadily. Pressing all of yourself into him, with each pass, his hard abdomen scuffs your distended clit, your pussy lips so puffy now with so much arousal and repeated blows.

He nudges your face aside so he can teeth your earlobe. “You feel exquisite. All swollen with lust,” he croons, his breath gusting hot, his choice of words making you flare hotter, driving onwards with renewed vigour, a slight burn in your thighs as you rise and fall upon him, feeling yourself dripping down onto him, needing to cling onto him to keep seated.

“Could we do this on the floor?” you murmur into his stubbled cheek, realising your range of motion is slightly restricted by the shape of the chair.

His response is immediate; without leaving your body, he effortlessly takes your weight, wraps an arm around you and somehow manoeuvres smoothly onto the floor, his spine now resting on the front of the chair cushion—so much vigour and athleticism from both of these men. 

“Turn around, sweet girl,” you startle and whip your head over your shoulder.

There sat on the chase, lower half now wrapped in a drape of crisp white fabric, looking like a Grecian statue made flesh, is Benedict—a sketchpad and charcoal in hand. 

“Turn around so that I may draw you in the throes of passion,” he clarifies, that dangerous crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You look back to Anthony, suspecting from the twitch of his lip he is more than happy about this development. Silently he spins you both around and lays prone on the polished floor underneath you, still rock hard and buried deep in your pussy. Placing your hands on his chest, you lean forward slightly, take a deep breath and then start to ride again, slowly, the slight discomfort of the hardwood under your kneecaps heightening your pleasure somehow. The range of motion possible now allows you to experiment, to test the delicious drag of his cock by tilting your pelvis in each direction, then in a circular motion, hitting a spot inside that has you hissing and your nails scraping through the thick thatch of hair there.

“Take what you need…” Anthony advocates through gritted teeth, reading your every signal. 

Your eyes ping up from his imploring expression to Benedict, his gaze holding yours daringly as you start to fuck his brother again. Wantonly, luxuriating in the rapt audience you have. A liquid cascade of heat deluges you, the scrape of charcoal on the page spurring you on—to be more daring, leaning back to grab Anthony’s knees as leverage for your movements, your breast pushed high into the air, more performative knowing this carnal moment is being committed to paper.

Benedict mouths words of encouragement as you glance down to see Anthony’s eyes now screwed shut, his biceps bulging in stark relief as his hands clamp your waist, and his hips rock upwards with each downstroke you take, chasing his peak with the same vigour you are, each press of his cock better than the last. Your muscles scream from all the effort, but you do not stop, a bead of sweat sliding down your spine as you ride roughly, with abandon. Anthony’s eyes are open again now, his hands cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples so hard you stutter. Greedily you mash his thick cock right against that same spot that has your mouth slack, head tilted up, and fingers curling into his flesh, shocked at how close you are yet again in such rapid succession.

“Say it,” you grit out, staring up to the ceiling, not looking at either, not sure even you know who you are even asking. 

“Good girl..” it's in perfect unison, and that is what pushes you into oblivion.

You grind to a halt, pussy contracting in waves around his cock as he writhes under you, him gasping loudly as you again float far away, that blissful cloud almost making you miss his urgent call, him eventually hauling you off of him, just in time for him to paint your belly with a thick arc of seed, his whole body jerking with the almost violence of release.

He collapses under you, quivering, utterly spent, and you do the same. Faceplant into his chest, rubbing your nose into the musky dampness of his chest hair as you huff breaths, bone-deep but sated exhaustion from the exertion.

Pliantly, you allow Anthony to slip out from under you and you feel him pick you up bridal style as you curl into him, fatigue lapping your edges. He places you onto the chaise, and then both men are flanking you, limbs tangling and gentle kisses as they entwine around you. It’s a few quiet, tender moments before curiosity again gets the better of you.

“May I see it?” you query quietly, abashed, pressing your nose into Benedict’s shoulder, not willing to meet his gaze.

His laugh is rich and resonant, reaching around to grab his pad and show you. There, in elegant charcoal lines, is a scandalous but beautiful rendition of you, naked, your peaked nipples standing proud, head thrown back. The detail is perfect, even down to the patch of downy hair at the apex of your thighs. There is no rendition of Anthony, but at one glance, you can tell it is a depiction of an erotic capture of a woman riding a man. The very picture of passion, just as he promised.

“It is stunning,” you gasp.

“It is yours,” he rushes out.

“I… I want it to be yours,” you confess ardently, your hands sliding to grasp Anthony’s arm draped over your belly. “Both of yours..” you confirm.

Warm lips kiss your cheek on either side. 

“We will treasure it.” Anthony asserts as Benedict nods sagely.

You stifle a yawn and nuzzle into their warmth as Benedict suggests you all retire to his bedroom upstairs. 

“Tis only 3pm...” your protest is nominal at best, and you allow him to pick you up, wrapping you in another sheet as Anthony does the same, trailing behind you as Benedict ascends the stairs.

“When is your next art lesson?” Anthony queries as the door to an opulent bedroom swings open.

“Tomorrow?” you riposte cheekily, and they both chuckle as you add: “If you will have me…”

“I do believe that can be arranged,” Benedict confirms fondly as he approaches a handsome four-poster bed.

“Artfully…” Anthony adds wryly as you share a laugh with them both, falling into their welcoming joint embrace.

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[verinarin]

How Ratio handles his reckless partner during a mission

I wrote this as a character study to better understand and illustrate how he treats people he respects and trusts (*´꒳`*)

So fluffiest fluff ever; in Ratio’s standards ofc

Please tell me if you guys want a part 2 of this ٩( ᐛ )و

Part Two ψ(｀∇´)ψ - Part Three (о´∀`о)

Support me on Ko-fi ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

“I often wonder how does the IPC’s HR department handles the recruitment process,” he sighs as he walks towards your body slumped to the floor as a result of your trademarked clumsiness

He stood there beside you waiting for you to sprung back to life like you usually do “How rude, for your information I aced my test,” you huff as you dust off your hands

“Is that so ?,” he replies candidly, he continues to leave you behind without much thought, he knows you possess some qualities that’s befitting for a investor but still you’re too clumsy and reckless at times

Hence why the higher ups assign him as your supervisor or so to speak, he acknowledges your lack of experience as well as your potential that’s why he agreed to be your supervisor

But he didn’t sign up to be your babysitter….

“Wait up would ya?,” you whine as you quickly jog to be by his side

He tilted his head to the side, studying you from afar to assess any damages on your body from the fall earlier “Time awaits for no one,”

“Please do think before anything else, stop making a fool out yourself while representing the IPC,” he continues his statement as he paced himself to be slightly slower for you to catch up

You huff feeling a little bit dejected by his statement but it’s the truth and from this past year of working beside him, you knew he always have your best interest at heart, well even though most of the times he verbally bullies you

“Yes yes of course Mr. Ratio,” you smile as you walk beside him, you notice that he slowed down his pace earlier, it made you smile to know that behind that rude demeanour he does care a lot

He steal a glance at your expression before resuming to look at the road ahead, he can’t help but to feel comfort in knowing that you didn’t seem to take his words to heart

He always finds it hard to express his truth towards others because to be frank the truth hurts, yet the pain itself is a important element to achieve improvement, pain used as a motivation of sorts

Most people deemed his truthful nature to be harmful yet you’re astoundingly adept in his true nature, you easily read between the lines and see his objective clearly

“Can I ask you something ?,” his sudden inquiry surprises you, it is usually you who do the asking, you deem this as a pleasant surprise

“Sure go ahead,” you reply casually while masking your excitement, he rarely does this so you’re ecstatic

“I know you’re both emotionally and intellectually intelligent, but I can’t seem to grasp why you’re so reckless at times,” he smiles as he ask this question, he’s mostly likely to remember a gamble you took a few weeks ago

Well granted you almost lose your life by gambling your life away in a literal sense to gain a dictator’s trust towards the IPC, but at least you won

Ever since that stunt, Ratio seems to respect you more although afterwards he berated your gamble for two hours straight

“Audaces fortuna iuvat,” you reply as you stare at his face, his merely scoffs as he took notice of the philosophy behind your statement

In a sudden trance he leans down towards your face, ardently reading through your flustered expression caused by the sudden close proximity “Fortune favours the bold, that’s very true to yourself,” his voice deepens as it is drenched in sultriness

Well this is an uncharted territory between you both-

He then leans back towards his previous position, smirking as he relish in your dumbstruck expression, he gently strokes your hair as a sign of acknowledgement something you didn’t knew you enjoyed before

“Now then we should get going, our next meeting is due in approximately 13 minutes,” he stated as he retracts his hand away and leaves you behind yet again but this time speechless and flustered

“H-hey !, what was that about ?,” you huff as you try to catch up with him, not knowing that he’s currently blushing himself underneath that cold exterior of his

“What have I done..” he mutters as he covers his face with his alabaster head

[kefiteria]

💌 Mess and Mellow Moments

• Rafayel, though he grumbles about chores, ends up showing his affection in the simplest way after a long day of cleaning.

💌 Sylus 💌 Zayne 💌 Xavier

It was a lazy afternoon, and you had decided that it was finally time to clean the house. The clutter from the past few days had accumulated, and there was no escaping it. Rafayel, however, was not thrilled by the idea.

“Cleaning? Ugh, I thought we were supposed to be relaxing today.” Rafayel groaned and flopping dramatically onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling as if the very thought of tidying up was a personal betrayal.

You chuckled and grabbed the cleaning supplies. “It’s not like we can leave the house a mess. You do live here, you know.”

Rafayel still lounging on the couch, gave you a sidelong glance, his trademark smug grin making an appearance. “I live here alone, and you just… exist here~” he shot back, raising an eyebrow as he stretched dramatically. “But fine, if you insist on doing chores, I’ll supervise. It’s what I pay you for, right?”

“Oh, you’ll supervise? How very helpful of you.” You raised an eyebrow at his antics.

“Exactly~” he said, leaning back and striking a pose with his hands behind his head. “Now get to work.”

“You know…" you said slowly glancing over at him, “don’t blame me if I end up throwing out some things you really need.”

Rafayel’s eyes widened for a split second before he quickly recovered with a pout. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” you replied with a grin tugging at your lips.

As you dusted the shelves, Rafayel half-heartedly picked up a broom, holding it awkwardly like it was some foreign object. He gave it an experimental twirl before putting it down with a huff.

“This is so beneath me…" he muttered, though you could tell he was mostly just being dramatic.

“Then why don’t you go sit back down?” you teased, still working on wiping down the counters.

“Who said I was sitting?” He looked at you with an exaggerated pout, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m just waiting for you to finish so I can admire how clean you’ve made everything. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Sure, Rafayel. If it wasn’t for you, I’d never get anything done~” you said with a grin, knowing how much he secretly loved the attention.

After a while, you both got caught up in the task. Rafayel, despite all his grumbling, ended up vacuuming while scrolling on his phone with one hand. Sometimes, he’d toss in a sarcastic remark, but it wasn’t long before he started to take it a little more seriously.

You caught him trying to clean a shelf with a rag… but the rag was completely dry. “You’re not supposed to clean with a dry cloth, Rafayel.” you pointed out, chuckling at his effort.

“Who needs a wet cloth?” he snapped, looking defensive. “I’m just… um, air-dusting.”

“Fine, I’ll fix it. Happy?” He rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed at being caught, but there was a small smile tugging at his lips. Though you can't help but burst out laughing at his attempt to cover up his mistake.

“Very.” you said while wiping a tear from your eye. “But I think you’re the one who needs cleaning now.”

Rafayel narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

“Look at your hands.” you pointed out, and with a mock gasp then added, “Oh no, you have dust on your fingers! Whatever shall we do?”

He glanced down at his hands in mock horror, only to realize he’d gotten dust on his fingers from handling the rag. “I knew this was a bad idea!” he whined, dramatically rubbing his hands together, trying to get rid of the evidence.

“Well, maybe next time you’ll think twice before handling cleaning supplies.” You crossed your arms with a smirk, watching his theatrics.

Rafayel froze and his expression faltering. “W-what?” he stammered, his face turning slightly flustered.

“Admit it~” you grinned, leaning in playfully and pinching his cheek. “You secretly love being a little messy, don’t you?”

He pouted, holding up his now-dusty hands with a groan. “Great, now I look like some pathetic excuse of a person who can’t even clean up without making a mess…" he muttered, shaking his hands in the air dramatically. “How am I supposed to look dashing now?”

You stifled a laugh, watching his exaggerated pout. “You’re just full of complaints today, aren’t you?”

“I look like a disaster!” he complained, wiping his hands on his shirt in a futile attempt to clean them. “How is this supposed to be charming? You’re lucky I’m handsome or this would be a catastrophe!”

He crossed his arms and turned his head, pretending to be unimpressed, but the small flush on his face said otherwise. “Pfft, whatever. Don’t get all smug about it,” he muttered, but his grin betrayed him. “We’re done now, right?”

“You bet. But just remember, you're not as perfect as you think~” you teased, picking up the last of the supplies with a mischievous grin.

“Not perfect? ME? Clearly, you don’t appreciate genius when you see it.” He gave you his usual exaggerated and dramatic sigh, his lips forming a small pout as if you’d just insulted his very existence.

“Sure, sure, Rafayel. You can keep pretending you're perfect.” You chuckled with raising an eyebrow.

He stuck his tongue out at you and made a face, his pout deepening. “I don’t have to prove anything to you. You already know I’m right!” he grumbled, though there was a playful edge to his tone.

Before you could respond, Rafayel suddenly moved behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist in a hug. His head rested gently on your shoulder, and his pout turned into a soft grumble. “Fine, I’ll admit it. I’m not perfect. But I’m still better than everyone else.” he muttered against your neck, his voice laced with that familiar mix of arrogance and affection.

Feeling his arms around, you decide to leaning back into his embrace “That’s the Rafayel I know.”

With the house now clean and the teasing settled, the two of you simply sat there, wrapped in each other's arms. The chores were forgotten, the day winding down to its perfect, quiet end.

[katyahina]

Gwyn's family tree members references and genetics (! slight update on 12/30/2024)

(An ask reply to an anon)

(A graph for convenience)

Alright, I will go with what we can certainly make out of the family tree! ...almost. There are definitely some missing links! You don't have to accept all of my suggestions here and only focus on 100% confirmed ones, but I will explain why I added them! Let's start in order!

Gwyn, his mother, his uncle Lloyd and... sister? cousin? fifth known child?

Unfortunately, yes, we can't be sure of Gwyn's eyes color since it appears to be just reflection of fire, nor of his hair color as he looks pretty aged!

UPDATE 01/12/2025: There is a datamined image of Gwyn without facial hair by kingborehaha on Bluesky ( x ):

So, he had a really strong and square jaw XD Might or might not get inherited by Nameless King?

However, Lloyd is his uncle, as well as certain locations connected with the Way of White stuff (Sunlit Altar, altar in Undead Paris that Reah prays at, and altar in Catacombs where you find Darkmoon Seanse ring) all feature a statue of a woman in a crown, that holds an infant with a sword:

I do not believe it is mother of Nameless King at all, since 1) statues of his were destroyed, so why keep the infant one? 2) his trademark weapon is spear, not sword, but Gwyn's IS sword and 3) this statue appears to be some 'common' object connected with Way of White!

UPDATE 01/11/2025: Found this concept art, that also confirms this statue IS of a Goddess, and also shows it in better detail!

Now, I am going to do something I normally dread to do. I am going to..... *swallows nervously* quote the text of the items descriptions in this post, instead of posting screenshots. :s Okay this will be VERY trying, but I have to do it to fit within images limit per post!

WHITE SEANCE RING

A divine ring entrusted to the head bishop of the Way of White and apostle to Allfather Lloyd, uncle to Lord Gwyn. It grants additional attunement slots. The head bishop of the Way of White is the guardian of law and caste, and one of the great royals of Thorolund.

LLOYD'S SWORD RING

Ring given to knights of the Way of White. Depicts Allfather Lloyd's Sword of Law. Boosts attack power when HP is full. Much time has passed since the worship of Lloyd was common in the Way of White. The clerics of Carim had always strongly asserted that Lloyd was a derivative fraud, and that the Allfather title was self-proclaimed. (Japanese script has 'collateral relative' (傍系) rather than 'derivative fraud')

GOLD COIN

Coin made of gold, with Allfather Lloyd and his white halo shown on its face. (...)

Lloyd have been a very relevant figure amongst clerics, taking Gwyn's role after his death until Gwyndolin grew some backbone, and 'white halo' is basically a symbol of the Way of White! However, as an uncle, he'd have to be a brother of either Gwyn's mother or father (I choose mother), and Gwyn's parents are never mentioned... I assume they died earlier. Maybe, like the statue with Gwyn in infancy suggests, too early and Gwyn was basically raised by Lloyd!

We will get to Seath and Shira properly in due time, but in Japanese, Seath's description uses 外戚, which means in-law, related by marriage to a (female) relative of Gwyn! I don't think it is Gwynevere; she is only ever stated to marry Flann, besides, Yorshka calling Gwynevere a sister while also being child of Seath feels like a dealbreaker to me! I don't think it is Fillianore either, since she was given away to keep Pygmy away! But, Shira is a "daughter of the Duke", and also can use lightning that can be a gene if both Gwyn and NK owning it is of any indication!

The thing is... I am not sure who this mysterious relative of Gwyn is, specifically. Sister? Cousin? Unmentioned child? (if Gwyndolin and Filianore were never "showcased" unlike NK and Gwynevere, maybe someone else was dodging the spotlight? heh) Lloyd's element appears to be simply sheer, clear white light, in it's purest form, whereas Gwyn's element is sunlight and lightning, so I feel like this relative at least has to be of the same generation as Gwyn himself or below (like NK)! But, yes..... this family tree is really weird, right?

Nameless King / Faraam

(This ( x ) video by Crest)

He is another character with whom I am not sure! It appears that he not always had his wonderful mane, but I am not certain whether his hair always were white or not! Unlike other known children of Gwyn, that appear to combine Gwyn's traits with second parent's, NK is also kind of just "Gwyn at home", having nothing much to stand out by his own...? Gwyn's hair is most likely grey from aging, and this could apply to NK as well since he lived for a very long time. He also looks like a husk now!

On the other hand, white/grey hair might be an actual gene running in the family that doesn't depend on age! Just write NK down, this is something that will be useful later! Remember about the jaw shape tho

+ I played around with the idea that Velka could have been his mother since crows are following him too until I got a better idea, but this would be just a fun headcanon! Here ( x ) is a short post if you want to read, but in simple words; Caffrey Goddess of Fortune might have been his mother, to which he owns the chance to rebuld as God of War Faraam instead after having lost everything, who is also a sister of Velka as someone connected to birds too with the wings!

Gwynevere and her mother Fina / Nehma

Thankfully, Gwynevere HAS decent references, and could even shed a light (ba dum tss) on some genetics!

Her eyes look rather orange, just like the sunlight associated with her healing miracles (Bountiful Sunlight and Soothing Sunlight), yet there is a little grey circle at the pupil! x) It might become relevant later! Fun fact: she has distinct moles on her body ( x )! Though you can observe from her textures too:

As for Fina, I really think she is a SUPER likely candidate for her mother!

Notice how her symbol is Estus Flask, and Gwynevere is strongly associated with healing! As for why Nehma = Fina:

NAME-ENGRAVED RING

A special ring that can be engraved with the name of a god. Becomes easier to connect to worlds of players who chose the same god. There are countless vestiges of long-lost gods in the ruins of Drangleic. Or perhaps they are the very same gods as ours, only known by different names.

Another case right here is Pharis being named Evlana in Drangleic! Similarly, Fina got another name, since she IS Goddess of Love!

EMBRACED ARMOR OF FAVOR

Armor of Lautrec the Embraced, representing the goddess Fina's love. The goddess's arms wrap around it, as if to embrace the wearer.

^ This line makes me wonder whether Fina was not a regular humanoid God, but had literally golden body! There is a nameless and faceless Blacksmith Deity in the setting whose death gave birth to Titanite Demons, so why not another atypical God like this? I can imagine her being mostly non-physical save for some... obvious places

ESTUS FLASK

The Undead treasure these dull green flasks. Fill with Estus at bonfire. Fills HP. The Estus Flasks are linked to the Fire Keepers. The Dark Tales also make reference: An emerald flask, from the Keeper's soul She lives to protect the flame, And dies to protect it further.

^ Lautrec kills Anastacia and takes her soul, and his next destination past that point is Anor Londo, but specifically the hall that leads to "Gwynevere's" chamber! He made Fina's love his whole guidance, Estus Flask is a symbol of Fina in Dark Souls 2 menu, Estus Flask is made of a Soul of a Fire Keeper, Gwynevere seems to be very much connected with love and healing too, and he goes to where "she" is! I would not put it past him that "Gwynevere" messed up his radar, he seems to act irrational in his delusion about being "loved by Fina", but you can see everything about this questline is thematically connected! ...there is also the fact that if Lautrec's armor is of any indication, Fina was wearing a crown! Gwyn was the king, so another one crowned would be his wife, right?

I think whereas Gwynevere didn't inherit Fina's (presumed) golden body and turned out a regular humanoid deity, the orange glint of her eyes might be Fina's gene, a color of healing (the liquid in Estus Flask)! Gwyn's eye color might actually be grey and only show in her eyes vaguely! (This is a surprise tool that will help us later). Brown hair might belong to either Fina, or to Gwyn when he was way younger! Or.. to Gwyn's parent? Put a pin on this!

Rosaria, Anri and Horace

I think Rosaria's line is the furthest diluted from the divine ancestry, since having children with a human resulted in JUST humans, not sort of Demigods! Also, Irithyllian preset does say these humans have "features of old gods"!

(Video by Bonfire VN ( x ))

Unfortunately, Rosaria doesn't have eye texture! Grey skin looks cool, but oh well. I suppose it is more fair to take the look from the final version, which is just normal, if only slightly less saturated!

Her hair appears to be not black but actually just dark grey, like Filianore's, however, Anri, Horace and average Irithyllian appear to have black hair!

(From this ( x ) page, without Hollowing filter)

dggsdfsfd Yeah I know, most of Dark Souls 3 face data is just bald, and their hair color data is just black, but! I think it is kind of "legit" since you can see their eyebrows, that are black too! Sorry for a cursed joke about Artorias though, he does have black hair and I just thought it was a funny idea that he did sleep with Gwynevere at some point- look, Gods were wery proud of his accomplishments against the Abyss and even gave him that medal ok? fsjjfd xD

Why Anri's Hollowing is "regular" and Horace's is green-ish that was introduced in Drangleic is another topic tbh. But, I think that Anri takes more after Rosaria, whereas Horace takes more after Aldrich! Anri's grey eyes are from Rosaria, and I think Aldrich would have blue eyes like Horace's! look it is thematically appropriate right?

Also an idea: maybe Anri's gender thing should be taken at a face value? Although basically just a human at this rate, they are still a kid of a mother of rebirth, so maybe they legitimately can have either biological gender for the purpose of being able to have children with any person? Just an ability inherited from Rosaria, because this is what Rosaria's power is about! What do you think?

Flann and Dancer of the Boreal Valley

Flann was a God of Fire, and Dancer is stated to be a direct descendant in the royal line!

RING OF THE SUN PRINCESS (DS1)

This ring is granted to those who enter a Covenant with Gwynevere, daughter of Lord Gwyn and the Princess of Sunlight. This slightly warm ring boosts the synergy of miracles. The Princess of Sunlight Gwynevere left Anor Londo along many other deities, and later became wife to Flame God Flann.

SUN PRINCESS RING (DS3)

(...) Gwynevere left her home with a great many other deities, and became a wife and a mother, raising several heavenly children.

I think that the place the Gods of Anor Londo left to was Heide in Drangleic, and even there we arrive long past its ruin! Not certain where they are now and how many generations of these children appeared, but at least some direct children or even descendants returned into Lordran continent! Aldia, Creighton and Gilligan travelled from Drangleic to Lordran continent, so why not some of these relatives too? (Considering how oddly nobody in Drangleic knows shit about Lordran continent despite it being literally there oversees, I take it as it got concealed for undefined time, and maybe these descendants of Gwynevere, along with some other Gods, opened the path back to it?)

SOUL OF THE DANCER

Soul of the dancer. One of the twisted souls, steeped in strength. Use to acquire many souls, or transpose to extract its true strength. The Pontiff Sulyvahn bestowed a double-slashing sword upon a distant daughter of the formal royal family, ordering her to serve first as a dancer, and then as an outrider knight, the equivalent to exile.

(In Japanese, 旧王家の末裔 - 'descendant of the Old Royal Family')

DANCER'S CROWN

Crown worn by the Dancer of the Boreal Valley. The mirage-like aurora veil is said to be an article of the old gods, permitted only for direct descendants of the old royal family.

Dancer can conjure fire in her hands, which the Pontiff and Fire Witches who use the Profaned Flame can't do, which might imply hers is all natural, and does this smoke-like thing when using her dark magic sword (which is, again, unlike the Pontiff's actual arsenal with HIS dark magic sword). Considering Flann is God of Flame, her capacity for using fire and ash "naturally" convinced me that she descends from Gwynevere and him!

Unfortunately, nothing to latch onto considering her or Flann's appearance, really.. But I'd suggest that if she takes his abilities more than Gwynevere's, whatever you imagine Flann looking like, she'd look more like him as well!

Queen of Lothric, Lothric, Lorian, Oceiros and Ocelotte

Well, first things first: I do not think Queen of Lothric IS Gwynevere! There are no damning evidences for this!

For one, Gwynevere's name is not forgotten or obscured by the events of Dark Souls 3, it is mentioned in descriptions and by Yorshka, so why would it be omitted under just 'Queen of Lothric'! Second, Gwynevere is still referred to as a princess consistently, she never queened-up! The only exception from this is illusion of Gwynevere calling herself a queen, and... well, it was needed, to support the legend. :p Third, Rosaria is also linked to items associated with Gwynevere, same as Queen of Lothric, so this is just descent, really!

But what truly cemented my opinion is that in Japanese script, Queen of Lothric is said to be compared with 'the' Goddess of Bounty and Grace! (Taken from this ( x ) document by Last Protagonist, it is for Bloodborne but it has a Dark Souls WIP folder). Why would Gwynevere be compared with herself? :p

(Upper image of the ribbon in statue by Lokey's Lore ( x )) The ribbons seem to miss in the concept art, but I feel like they got added to further hint at descent rather than to... well, add a plot hole...? x) Miyazaki initially wanted Gwynevere to have motherly vibe and the design we have now only exists because the guy who drew that concept liked it too much, so maybe his initial idea for her got a second chance in another character?

Like I said, the grey in the eyes WAS important, because, look! The brothers' eyes ARE grey! :p Their hair is actually very grey as well; with a very slight hint of blond for Lothric and slight hint of brown for Lorian, but you can tell game's lighting makes their hair look way more saturated than they actually are! Lothric's eyes are also blind of course, you can more clearly see from the texture that the pupil is ruined..

Ocelotte's model is a cut content, but he really has grey skin, and some crystals! Notice that Oceiros is also lacking scales, but is growing fungi-like things that are otherwise found in Vagrants!

In Dark Souls 2, essence of Seath lives on same as Gwyn's, Witch's and Nito's but in a form of nearly an "element", and corrupts the Duke of Tseldora into madness, driving him to indulge in mad experiments and create weird beings! It is possible that this happens again in Dark Souls 3 when now the vessel of "Seath" becomes Oceiros instead and similar descent into madness repeats! Very ironically, Seath DID reach immortality if you think of it, but he no longer realises that he did fhdfhds As for Vagrants, I wonder whether it was intentional too, since Seath did experiment with marine life forms quite a lot (Pisacas, Giant Clams)...?

I think the grey eyes and hair is linked to Queen of Lothric; the orange hues must have weakened over generations, and it is not the last of grey hair you'll see x) Really have no idea what Oceiros would've passed onto them, though...? Ocelotte's grey skin is most likely a dragonic trait.

Gundyr, Gertrude and their parents

GUNDYR'S HELM

Ancient helm of a set of cast iron armor, belonging to Champion Gundyr. Modeled after a former king. Gundyr, or the Belated Champion, was bested by an unknown warrior. He then became sheath to a coiled sword in the hopes that someday, the first flame would be linked once more.

古い王 - king from long ago, king from the past, etc

Gundyr doesn't appear to be one of Oceiros' children, but I've been thinking about it for a while.. I figured out what made the most sense for his story is being a collateral relative to the twin princes, considering he was sent out to replace Lothric (well, this is what he was told..) It will be a tangent to explain, so here ( x ) are my conclusions on what exactly happened with Gundyr!

Granted, I might end up making him more of a distant relation than her direct son from previous marriage- it'd be even better, to be honest! But, this is a base draft of the family tree. His helmet resembles his ancestor, that, again, would work better as someone several generations apart from him!

UPD 12/30/2024: I did decide it made more sence if "ancient king" was... well, ancient fdgfdsd And appeared to be ancestry of Oceiros instead, with Gundyr being collaterally related to Oceiros! I am not strong with familial terms so I am not sure what this relation is called now if I move him further than being half-brothers with the twins and Ocelotte :o Just thought it worked better!

BOUNTIFUL LIGHT

Miracle taught to knights of Gertrude, holy maiden to the Queen. Gradually restores a large amount of HP. The Heavenly Daughter is said to be the Queen's child.

DIVINE PILLARS OF LIGHT

Miracle of Gertrude, the Heavenly Daughter. Brings down multiple pillars of light in the vicinity. The Queen's holy maiden Gertrude was visited by an angel, who revealed this tale to her.(...)

The fact that her own daughter is simultaneously described as her servant of sorts gave me an impression of being the bastard child! I guess one thing Gwynevere certainly passes down to her descendants is sleeping around, except this is ACTUALLY Fina's fault hdhfshfgsdh

Seath, Gwyndolin, Filianore and Priscilla

I think this is apparent that Gwyndolin is a child between Gwyn and Seath, as serpents in this lore are "imperfect dragons", and Seath himself is inherently connected to Moonlight element (Moonlight Butterflies he created, Moonlight Greatword being literally made from a part of his body)!

COVETOUS GOLD SERPENT RING

The serpent is an imperfect dragon and symbol of the Undead. Its habit of devouring prey even larger than itself has led to an association with gluttony. This gold ring, engraved with the serpent, boosts its wearer's item discovery, so that more items can be amassed.

MOONLIGHT GREATSWORD

This sword, one of the rare dragon weapons, came from the tail of Seath the Scaleless, the pale white dragon who betrayed his own. Seath is the grandfather of sorcery, and this sword is imbued with his magic, which shall be unleashed as a wave of moonlight.

And, yes, needless to mention that Gwyndolin is a sorcerer. Sorcery is THE Seath's thing!

I would actually take Aldrich's render with a grain of salt; right, we don't know what Gwyndolin's eyes were like in Dark Souls 1, but also Gwyndolin has white/greyish skin, when Aldrich using this body has a pretty much human skin tone! The hair on Aldrich also appears to be way more white (a trait of being corrupted by Dark, check Four Kings or Abyss Watchers), not grey like Gwyndolin's 🤔 I guess his look is more of an approximation than literally just using Gwyndolin's body! Though, pale eye color can still be used as a headcanon! Just maybe less dead looking..?

Filianore also has this grey hair with a very slight hint of brown that might as well be neglected! Her eyes also appear to be corrupted by sort of wooden texture, and after time runs wild, she honestly reminds me of what Elana looks like...? Turning into wood is a common sign of devolution in this setting as everything that isn't a Dragon evolved from the trees! But... furthermore, connected with darkness.

It is Humanity when it is not running wild! Four Kings becoming very tree-like is the quickest example! The void-face type of Giants also turn into trees upon devolving and, interestingly enough, their particular souls have a spot of darkness within! Further clue towards Filianore having some Dark in her by nature is the very fact that she was sent away with Pygmy lords! Would not a God that actually has some Dark/Humanity in them be THE best candidate to keep them in check.... and the one most likely to remain safe there in Gwyn's eyes, you know?

Priscilla has a little scales and eyes, unlike Seath, despite being most likely his child! Seath being white-colored is accentuated, and so is her being "stark-white" crossbreed!

SOUL OF PRISCILLA

(...) Use the soul of this crossbreed bastard child and antithesis to all life to acquire a huge amount of souls, or to create a unique weapon.

LIFEHUNT SCYTHE

Scythe born from the soul of Priscilla, the stark white crossbreed trapped inside the Painted World of Ariamis. Even the Gods feared Priscilla's lifehunt ability, and in the hands of a mortal, its power will turn upon its wielder.

I think Priscilla and Yorshka have to have a shared second parent, since you can get a miracle version of Priscilla's Lifehunt Scythe when Aldrich dreams of Yorshka! At the same time, Gwyndolin is the lastborn of Gwyn yet Yorshka is their younger sister, nor Priscilla or Yorshka are recognised as Gods by the narrative! Basically.. Gwyn got cucked dfggffd I keep telling you all and you don't believe me!!

Okay, but what connects Priscilla to Darkness is definitely not from Seath's ancestry, as Dragons are beyond Light or Dark! I absolutely agree with the idea that Priscilla and Velka were connected; Velka's crow people and some clerics are in the Painted World of Ariamis, Occult Ember is here, Priscilla's Dagger has Occult affinity, in Dark Souls 3 the Crows worship Priscilla, there is a statue of mother holding a child... But, I think Velka rather adopted her than was her biological mother! Another thing is that Velka is a "heretical" deity, implying she made Darkness her own weapon rather than was naturally aligned with it or corrupted by it to the core! What Priscilla inherited though, had to be inherited directly, biologically, naturally and not learned, since her "ability" manifested since infancy:

PECULIAR DOLL

A strange doll in strange dress. There once was an abomination who had no place in this world. She clutched this doll tightly, and eventually was drawn into a cold and lonely painted world.

The Daughters of the Dark in Dark Souls 2 are fragments of Manus' own darkness, and their elements naturally oppose everything about Gods and their world! Nashandra's element is Death and Alsanna's element is Ice/Cold, both opposing Life and Fire respectively! Elana is the devolution into a tree life form, whereas Nadalia is ash - both oppose the concept of time as Age of Fire created it! Elana by devolution, Nadalia by exhaustion as ash is final result of burning, when nothing IS left to burn! And in every game, death more blatantly goes hand in hand with the darkness, too.

Priscilla embodies two of these: Ice and Death! She is even connected with invisibility, too! At the same time, since Gwyndolin's hair is AKTYALY grey, Yorshka's hair is brown and Shira's hair is brown also and was white only in the concept, her white hair might also be result of the Dark settling within, not same as her white fur!

As for who IS that mysterious parent that passed the 'Darkness gene' to Filianore, Priscilla and Yorshka...? Okay, here I will slide a theory about how Caitha of all people fits the role well ( x ) compiled very well by @val-of-the-north, if you want to read! I really liked it and honestly think it fits within lore! Besides, Gwyn sure likes to flirt with the danger, as scared as he is. 🙄 He was enemy of the dragons but let Seath close and kept Midir alive, he feared humans but still trusted Four Kings... would not put it past him to look at someone aligned with the Darkness and go "I should not put my dick in it, however," fhsdhff

Shira and Yorshka

(Shira's face data from this ( x ) page)

Her hair is light brown, or perhaps dark blond, in the final version? Her eyes are also green though, even if not as radiant in color as Priscilla's! Her name literally means 'white' though, and she is 'daughter of the duke'! You can also see the original intention for her was white hair! or..... is it grey hair? AGAIN? x)

I am not sure why she turned out to be so humanoid, not showing draconian features whatsoever! Perhaps how many features manifest is a random chance, and her mom's genes just turned out to be much stronger than Seath's! Though this makes me wonder if Seath's "intended" eye color is green, and that would be the color if he had eyes?

(Images by Moonlight Ruin on Twitter ( x ))

I think Yorshka has her mother's eyes, as they do not have draconian narrow pupil! (Well, if it was Caitha, she very likely has blue eye and red eye, and this is just the blue!)

Seath is not only white, but also cyan/blue/purple/pink, and Yorshka displays these features! As well as taking after the mysterious parent with the 'Dark genetics', specifically with the ability manifesting as Death / Lifehunt shared with Priscilla:

LIFEHUNT SCYTHE (DS3)

Miracle of Aldrich, Devourer of Gods. Steals HP of foes using an illusory scythe. Aldrich dreamt as he slowly devoured the God of the Darkmoon. In this dream, he perceived the form of a young, pale girl in hiding.

All things considered, I feel like brown hair gene comes from somewhere in Gwyn's family, likely from his mother? However, the grey hair gene apparently suppresses it on every occasion!

Dunnel and Painter

I just think Dunnel is a likely candidate for whoever was father of the Painter:

PYROMANCER'S PARTING FLAME

The pyromancy flame of Livid Pyromancer Dunnel that attracts the echoes of the death. When Dunnel lost his hideous spouse, he gave his own pyromancy flame as an offering, which transformed into a parting flame. Not long after, Dunnel became a mad spirit, cursed to wander the lands.

Priscilla is referred to as an abomination within the lore, and hideous spouse is not quite far off! It clearly refers to the context of what life itself fears rather than... well, like, her actual appearance. And Priscilla is connected with Death, whereas combining his flame with her changed it into something connected with Death as well! He also invades in a place that looks a lot like her arena in Dark Souls 1!

Bro just looks like old Patches -_-

(Video by BonfireVN ( x ))

Her skin is definitely more grey and dragon-ish, but I am not sure to which family member I could link orange eye color to :') Just the fact that she is meant to envision the Flame, I guess?

_________________________

Okay, thank you for giving me a reason to organise all this! I thought I'd just dump some references together, but it turned out to be sort of an analysis, and I figured some useful things for myself too! So, my conclusions are:

Grey hair gene is very real, it might even be natural hair color of Gwyn and Nameless King, not reliant on their age! Gwyndolin's hair is also grey, and Aldrich's version having white hair is reasonable since Darkness corruption seems to cause white hair!

Brown hair gene most likely appears from Gwyn's mother, or other relative of his

Descendants of Gwynevere tend to have grey hair and grey eyes, seems like the brightness of sunlight have worn out over time genetically in this family

Dancer is the only known 'apparent' descendant of Gwynevere and Flann, others appear to be either much more diluted or not having ties to Flann at all

There is a 'Darkness gene' running in the family in Filianore, Priscilla and Yorshka that manifests in different forms like it was with Daughters of Dark (ice and death with Priscilla, death with Yorshka, defiance of time with trees/ash with Filianore)

Mixing with a dragon genetically has very random results, from apparent to absolutely indiscernable

Someone GOT to inherit Gwyn's super square jaw shape at some point XD

[deecotan]

There’s a knock on the door. 

Zoro stirs from his sleep. Blinking his one functioning eye open, his mind – still foggy from having just woken up – slowly comprehends the darkness surrounding him. He struggles to gather his thoughts, wondering whether the knock was real or just a figment of his imagination. 

There’s another knock on the door. 

He shifts his gaze towards the digital clock on the bedside drawer. 4:47 AM. He groans; who the hell could be up this early?

He feels the body wrapped in his arms shifting slightly, the figure letting out a soft groan — apparently woken up by the mysterious person behind the door as well. He gently presses a kiss on the messy crown of blond hair, whispering, “I’ll get it.”

Sanji replies with a soft hum. Zoro reluctantly separates himself from his boyfriend and groggily stands up, not even bothering to put on a shirt to cover his naked torso. Whoever’s behind that door should know that no sane person would care about being presentable this early in the day. 

There’s another series of knocks, this time sounding more insistent, as he walks towards the door. Yawning, he peeks through the peephole and sees Luffy standing behind the door. He’s spotting some messy bed hair and is wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, his baggy red jacket, and his trademark sandals. 

Frowning, he opens the door, carefully as to not make a noise, and stares at Luffy with a squinted eye. He definitely didn’t bother arranging his eyesight either. 

“Morning,” Luffy greets him cheerfully. 

“It barely counts as morning,” he hisses, voice rather raspy, mustering the deepest glare he can make in his current condition. “What do you want, Luffy?”

“I’m looking for a pair of headphones.”

Zoro blinks at that. “Headphones?”

“Technically Usopp’s headphones. I borrowed it from him and I’m pretty sure I left it here in your room yesterday,” he continues. Right, he did remember Luffy coming into their room to talk about something with Sanji the day before. He wasn’t really paying attention though, so he couldn’t know if Luffy really did bring Usopp’s headphones and then somehow left it in their room — especially since he didn’t actually notice that object lying around. However, it might’ve as well got stuck in some corner, hidden from plain sight. 

“... you sure it's here?” he asks again.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Can’t it wait until later? Why now?”

“Me, Chopper, and Usopp are planning to go cold swimming,” Luffy grins. “We actually wanted to do it last night but the pool was closed after 8 PM and the hotel staff insisted on not letting us in even though we begged, they said I’ve already made enough mess in their dining area or whatever and they didn’t want any more trouble, so we couldn’t really do anything about it. They said it would open at 5AM so we decided to do it this morning. But Usopp said he won’t come unless I bring his headphones back, so—”

“Okay, stop, I get it.”

“Great! Now can I go inside or…?”

“Just- stay here. I’ll look for it. Fucking hell,” Zoro grumbles, moving inside the room to search for the object. “Where’s the last time you put it?”

“It’s near the sofa, I guess?” Luffy answers. He at least pays enough mind to keep his voice low to avoid disturbing the other person in the room, knowing wisely that doing so would only bring more problems. 

Zoro begins to inspect the sofa located on the corner on the right side of the room, forcing himself to search in the dark since there’s no way he’s going to turn on the lights. Sticking his hand to the back of the sofa, he eventually feels something wedged between the sofa and the wall, and after a little bit of fumbling, he manages to take it out and confirm it’s the supposed pair of headphones Luffy’s been looking for. 

“Is this it?” he presents the headphones to Luffy. 

“Yee-up,” Luffy cheers as he grabs it. “Thanks, Zoro!” 

Zoro gives an unbothered nod. 

“You can join us too, if you wanna,” Luffy offers.

“I'll pass.” Zoro is about to close the door on Luffy’s face before stopping halfway. He peers at the younger man from the slight opening of the door. “...have fun.”

Luffy grins widely, giving him a pair of thumbs-up. 

Zoro closes the door with a soft click before walking towards the bed and then throwing himself into the mattress. Tucking himself under the cover, he wiggles towards where his boyfriend is located and spoons the blond as soon as he touches him. 

“Cold swimming, hm?” Sanji muses. “Let’s just hope they’re not stupid enough to catch a cold after this.”

“M’sure Chopper’s ready to handle that.”

“You don’t wanna join them?”

“Nah,” Zoro replies, “I’d rather stay here with you.”

Sanji let out an amused chuckle. He gently turns his body so as to face the other man, circling his arms around Zoro’s back. “Just say you wanna sleep longer, you big baby.”

“Shaddup,” he hugs Sanji a bit tighter in a mocking attempt to crush him, causing  the other to laugh heartily. “Go back to sleep, curly.”

Sanji's laugh begins to slow down, ending it with a soft exhale. He tucks his head under Zoro’s chin and nuzzles comfortably into his boyfriend’s neck. He let Zoro’s gentle breathing soothe him into sleepiness. Soon, before he knows it, they both fall into a peaceful slumber. 

Notes: I wrote this on a whim in... 2020. Holy shit. I thought maybe this deserves a chance to be put on the spotlight for staying in my drafts for so long. I was partly inspired by my own experience of staying at a hotel with my extended family in the event of my relative’s wedding. There’s just something about the experience of staying in one place with your family or close relatives, the feeling of liminality where you know that moment of togetherness is only temporary. It’s also a moment where you and your similar-aged relatives would get into all sorts of weird shit, at least in my experience. 

[girl-next-door-writes]

Snowfall Serenade

Characters: Loki x reader

Summary: Best friends, winter magic, and a holiday resort straight out of a dream—will a week of snowy escapades spark something more?

Word Count: 1496 words

Prompts: Ski resort. Best friends to lovers. Wearing their clothes.

A/N: The fantastic @savvy-devine666 requested a little festive Loki and who am I to object?

The air was crisp and smelled of pine, the snow falling in thick, glittering flakes that coated the resort like powdered sugar on a gingerbread house. Christmas lights twinkled in the distance, casting a warm glow across the frosty landscape. You adjusted your scarf and rubbed your gloved hands together, staring up at the grandiose lodge that you and your best friend, Loki, would be calling home for the next week.

“This place looks like it belongs in a holiday movie,” you said, nudging him with your elbow.

Loki arched an eyebrow, his dark hair falling just shy of his shoulders, and gave you that trademark smirk that always seemed to hold some secret. “A bit over the top, isn’t it? All the glitz and glitter. Too festive for its own good.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “You say that, but I know you’ll be the first to steal the best seat by the fireplace.”

“Not if you claim it first, darling.” There was a teasing lilt to his voice, but you noticed the faint flush on his cheeks. Probably the cold, you thought. Definitely the cold.

The truth was, being here with Loki already felt like magic. After years of being inseparable friends, this trip had been your idea—a break from the chaos of life and a chance to finally relax. Loki had reluctantly agreed, muttering about “tourist traps” but secretly excited, as you’d caught him researching the best ski routes days before you left.

Inside the lodge, it was even more beautiful. A roaring fire crackled in the stone hearth, and the scent of mulled cider and cinnamon wafted through the air. Loki, ever the gentleman, helped you out of your coat and scarf, his touch lingering a moment longer than usual. You ignored the way your heart skipped at the gesture. This was Loki, your best friend. Nothing more.

“I’ll grab the key for our suite,” he said, his green eyes flicking toward the reception desk. “You find us some hot chocolate, perhaps?”

“On it,” you replied, grinning as you made your way to the cozy café corner.

When you reconvened, steaming mugs in hand, Loki led you to your shared suite. It was charming, with rustic wooden beams, a Christmas tree adorned with silver and green ornaments, and a balcony overlooking the snowy slopes.

“This is... nice,” Loki admitted, setting his bag down and glancing around.

“I knew you’d like it,” you teased. “It’s practically screaming your aesthetic.”

“I suppose it’s tolerable,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

The next few days were a whirlwind of winter activities. You dragged Loki to the slopes, where he proved to be a surprisingly graceful skier, despite his earlier complaints. You weren’t nearly as skilled, but Loki stayed by your side, catching you every time you wobbled.

“You’re doing splendidly,” he said after your fifth near-tumble.

“Liar,” you laughed, breathless. “You’re just saying that so I’ll keep humiliating myself.”

“Nonsense. I’m saying it because it’s true.” His voice softened, and for a moment, his gaze lingered on you, unguarded and vulnerable. Then he cleared his throat and turned away.

Nights were spent curled up by the fire, sipping cider or cocoa while playing cards or talking for hours. Loki seemed more relaxed than you’d ever seen him, the usual sharp edges of his sarcasm dulled by the holiday cheer. You found yourself watching him more often than you should, noting the way the firelight danced in his emerald eyes or the rare but genuine smiles that crossed his face.

You tried to shake it off. He was your best friend. Nothing more.

On Christmas Eve, the resort hosted a moonlit snowshoe hike. Loki was skeptical, but you convinced him with the promise of a quiet night under the stars. Bundled up in layers, you followed the group through a trail that wound around the forest. The snow sparkled under the full moon, and your breath puffed in white clouds in the frigid air.

Somewhere along the way, Loki fell behind the group, and you stayed with him.

“You’re brooding,” you teased as the two of you trudged through the snow.

“I am not,” he replied, his voice defensive but tinged with amusement. “I’m merely... thinking.”

“About?”

He hesitated, glancing at you briefly before looking away. “Nothing of consequence.”

You stopped walking and grabbed his arm, forcing him to face you. “Loki, what’s going on? You’ve been weird all day.”

He sighed, his breath visible in the cold air. “It’s nothing. Truly. I suppose I’m just not used to this sort of... festivity.”

“You mean fun?” you teased, earning a small chuckle from him.

“Yes, fine, fun,” he admitted. Then, softer, “I suppose I worry I’ll ruin it for you. I’m not exactly the ideal companion for such a cheerful holiday.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you said, stepping closer. “Loki, this trip wouldn’t be the same without you. I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.”

His eyes met yours, wide and vulnerable. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he gave a small nod, his lips quirking into a faint smile.

Later that night, back in the suite, you found yourself rifling through your bag for warmer socks. Loki had gone to take a shower, leaving his clothes draped over a chair. Without thinking, you grabbed his oversized sweater and pulled it on. It was soft and smelled like him—a mix of cedarwood and something you couldn’t quite place.

When he walked back into the room, his damp hair curling at the edges, he froze.

“Is that my sweater?” he asked, his voice somewhere between curious and flustered.

You looked down at yourself and grinned. “It’s mine now. It’s warm.”

Loki’s cheeks flushed, and he looked away, muttering something under his breath.

“What was that?” you asked, stepping closer.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, his gaze darting anywhere but you.

“Loki...”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I said you look lovely in it”

You blinked, startled by the sudden confession. A warmth spread through your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you smiled. “You did. And thank you.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the air between you seemed to shift. He opened his mouth to say something, but then hesitated.

“What?” you prompted gently.

“Nothing. It’s... nothing.” But his tone was soft, almost wistful.

The next evening, Christmas night, the resort held a small gathering outside by the firepit. Guests milled about, sipping hot drinks and chatting. But you and Loki had wandered off, drawn to the quiet beauty of the moonlit slopes.

You stopped by a clearing, where the snow fell gently around you, the world bathed in silver light. Loki stood a few steps away, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his expression thoughtful.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He turned to you, his green eyes catching the moonlight. “I was just thinking how odd it is that I’ve spent so much time resisting things like this. Happiness, connection. I’ve always thought they were... out of reach.”

“They’re not,” you said softly.

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the snow. “Perhaps not. But they’re frightening, nonetheless. To care for someone, to let them in... it’s a risk.”

“It’s worth it,” you replied, stepping closer.

Loki’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, he looked as if he might argue. But then his expression softened, and he reached out, his gloved hand brushing against yours.

“You make me believe that,” he said quietly, his eyes widening as he realised the words had escaped him. “Did I just say that out loud?” he chuckled sheepishly.

Your breath caught as he stepped closer, his gaze searching yours nervously. Snowflakes clung to his dark hair, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. He looked impossibly beautiful, and your heart ached with the intensity of it.

“Loki...”

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You shook your head, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His lips met yours, soft and tentative, as if he was afraid you might vanish. The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you, caught in the moonlight with snow falling around you. When he pulled back, his gaze searched yours, uncertain and vulnerable.

“Was that...” he began, his voice barely audible.

“Perfect,” you finished for him, a smile breaking across your face.

He let out a soft laugh, his tension melting away as he pulled you into his arms. For the first time, Loki looked at peace, his insecurities replaced by the quiet certainty of your presence.

And as the snow continued to fall, the two of you stood there, wrapped in each other and the magic of the moment, knowing that this Christmas had given you something far more precious than either of you could have imagined.

[cu1tsmark]

"Racing Hearts"

Racer Jaemin revved his motorcycle, its engine growling with anticipation, as he eyed his opponent, a mysterious challenger who had recently joined the racing scene. The prize for this high-stakes race was you, Y/N, the object of their competitive desire, though you hadn't agreed to be part of this reckless wager. Your irritation was evident as you stood off to the side, arms crossed and a scowl on your face.

Jaemin flashed his trademark smirk at you, "What's the matter, Y/N? Afraid you'll end up with someone other than me?"

You shot him a venomous glare, "Don't flatter yourself, Jaemin."

The challenger, whose name is leo, stepped forward confidently, his voice cool and collected. "Don't worry, Y/N. If I win, you can decide for yourself."

The race began with a deafening roar, both racers rocketing down the winding street. The thrill of the chase gripped them as they weaved through traffic, a wild dance of speed and skill. Dust and exhaust filled the air as they jockeyed for position.

Jaemin's voice crackled through the helmet's comm, "You're going down, leo!"

Leo replied with equal determination, "We'll see about that!"

The starting signal blared, and the two racers sped off, leaving a cloud of dust behind them. The tension in the air was palpable, and the spectators' cheers filled the street.

As the racers approached the finish line, it was Jaemin who surged ahead, taking the lead. He crossed the finish line first, skidding to a stop triumphantly. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Jaemin sauntered over to you, grinning from ear to ear.

"I told you I'd win," he said, his voice oozing confidence.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't deny the impressed flutter in your heart. However, your annoyance overruled that feeling. "Don't get too cocky," you replied, crossing your arms.

Jaemin leaned in, his eyes locking onto yours. "I think I deserve a reward," he purred, capturing your lips in a surprising kiss.

You pushed him away, flustered and furious. "Don't get carried away," you hissed, though your racing heart betrayed your true emotions.

Jaemin just chuckled and leaned against his motorcycle. "You can't deny that I'm the best," he said with a wink.

Leo then approached and removing his helmet to reveal a handsome face. "You may have won today, Jaemin, but I'll be back for a rematch," he declared. As he walked away after saying that statement to jaemin

You watched the exchange, still fuming but secretly intrigued by the world of racers and the enigmatic men who dominated it.

[the-goldenbunny-diaries]

W.I.A (Wounded in Action)

⚢ Pairing - Jihyo x Reader

✎ Word Count - 2.1k

☆ Genre - Angst

♡ Description - Embarking on a spy mission with your girlfriend Jihyo goes terribly wrong when you get severely injured (A/N: I hope you like this one 🐰 anon)

★・・・・・・★

Months after you first met, you found yourself in an extraordinary relationship with the skilled, brilliant leader of the secret spy organization TWICE: Park Jihyo. Together, you made a formidable team, tackling dangerous missions and growing closer with every challenge you faced side by side.

One day, you were assigned a critical mission that involved intercepting highly classified information related to a sinister global organization known as "The Black Lotus." This organization was notorious for its involvement in illegal arms trade, human trafficking, and acts of terrorism.

The intel you received indicated that The Black Lotus was about to finalize a deal with a rogue nation, supplying them with advanced weaponry and technology. If the deal went through, it could destabilize the delicate balance of power in the region, putting countless innocent lives at risk.

To prevent this catastrophic event, your mission objectives were twofold:

1. Infiltrate the High-Security Facility: Jihyo, being a master of disguise and stealth, was tasked with infiltrating the heavily fortified headquarters of a Black Lotus subsidiary. The facility was protected by state-of-the-art security measures, including retinal scanners, laser grids, and an army of well-trained guards.

Your mission was to guide Jihyo, providing her with real-time analysis and strategic support from a secure location. As an experienced spy, you had excess knowledge of surveillance cameras, could hack into the facility's communications, and process information swiftly.

2. Retrieve the Encrypted Data: Jihyo's task was to gain access to the facility's central computer system and download the encrypted data containing information about the impending arms deal. Her skills as an expert hacker and martial artist would be essential in navigating the complex security network.

★・・・・・・★

The day of the mission arrived, and tension filled the air as you and Jihyo prepared to execute the operation. Jihyo noticed a flicker of concern in your eyes.

"You seem a bit off today," Jihyo said, her voice tinged with worry. "Are you sure you're up for this, my love?"

You couldn't hide your hesitation from her penetrating gaze. "I'll be fine, Jihyo. We have a duty to carry out, and the stakes are too high to back down now."

Her hand gently rested on yours, her touch soothing. "I trust you, but please promise me that you'll be cautious. I couldn't bear to lose you."

"I promise," you replied, mustering a smile. "We make an unbeatable team, and we'll get through this together."

With renewed determination, Jihyo slipped into the role of a Black Lotus operative, blending seamlessly with her surroundings. As she ventured into the heart of the heavily fortified headquarters, you couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and anxiety.

"I'm inside," Jihyo's voice crackled over the communication device. "The security is tighter than we expected, but I'm adapting. Keep an eye on those cameras, okay?"

"Roger that," you responded, your focus intensifying as you monitored the facility's surveillance feeds. "Stay sharp, Jihyo. You've got this."

As Jihyo progressed deeper into the facility, her every move became crucial. Unexpected obstacles and guards blocked her path, but she tackled each challenge with her trademark skill and tenacity. However, the situation escalated beyond your initial intelligence.

"Jihyo, the security protocols are more complicated than we thought," you said, your voice tense with concern. "Be careful. There's a patrol headed your way."

"I see them," Jihyo replied, her breath quickening. "I'll find another route. Just keep guiding me."

Your heart raced as you navigated her through the labyrinthine hallways. Then, the unexpected happened – an alarm blared, and chaos ensued.

"Damn it!" Jihyo's voice was urgent. "I tripped an alarm. They're on high alert now."

"Don't panic," you said, trying to steady your own nerves. "Take cover, and I'll guide you through. You've trained for this."

Ducking into a nearby supply room, Jihyo's mind raced as she planned her next move. The adrenaline coursing through her veins sharpened her focus, and she peered through the cracked door to assess the situation.

The guards, armed with high-tech weaponry, spread out to sweep the area. Jihyo's heart sank as she realized the extent of the challenge before her. She knew that taking them down quietly would be nearly impossible, and she had no choice but to engage in a full-blown confrontation.

"Get ready, Jihyo. They're closing in," you warned, your voice a lifeline in the chaos.

With swift and calculated movements, Jihyo sprung into action. She leaped out of the supply room, surprising the guards with her agility. Before they could react, she disarmed the closest one with a well-timed kick, sending his weapon clattering to the floor.

However, the element of surprise only bought her a moment. The remaining guards opened fire, forcing Jihyo to take cover behind nearby crates. Bullets ricocheted off metal surfaces, and she knew she had to act quickly.

"Look for any advantage in the environment," you suggested, analyzing the situation from the surveillance cameras. "There's a storage unit on your right. See if there's anything you can use."

Jihyo's eyes darted around, and she spotted a rack of pipes and metal rods nearby. Taking a deep breath, she lunged toward them, her agility and combat skills allowing her to evade the onslaught of bullets. She grabbed a metal rod, using it as both a shield and a weapon. 

With newfound determination, Jihyo sprang from behind cover, deflecting bullets with the metal rod as she closed the distance between herself and the guards. With precise strikes, she incapacitated two of them, leaving the rest scrambling to regain their composure. 

But one guard managed to get a clean shot, and a bullet grazed Jihyo's arm, causing her to wince in pain. However, she gritted her teeth and fought through the injury, knowing that time was of the essence.

"Jihyo, you're injured. G-get to cover," you urged, voice strained but your concern palpable. 

Ignoring the pain, Jihyo pressed forward, taking down the remaining guards one by one. With sheer determination, she cleared a path to the central computer system, but the struggle had taken its toll. As she initiated the data download, her injured arm trembled with exhaustion. Despite the pain, she refused to give in. The encrypted data was her prize, a testament to her unwavering dedication and the strength of your partnership. 

 "Y/N, I have the data," Jihyo breathed out, her voice pained from her wounds. "I'm heading to the rendezvous point." She awaited your acknowledgment but didn’t receive anything in return. Even in her weakened state, Jihyo started to panic, rushing to the extraction point to find you.

★・・・・・・★

As Jihyo fought her way through the intensified security, you remained focused on providing real-time analysis and support. The pressure to guide her safely through the facility weighed heavily on your shoulders. In your determination to ensure her success, you inadvertently neglected your own well-being. As she faced an onslaught of guards, you fought with your mind, utilizing your combat knowledge and quick thinking to guide Jihyo as best as you could.

Unbeknownst to you, The Black Lotus guards detected your presence within their facility. Recognizing the threat you posed, they quickly surrounded you, outnumbering you by far. Armed and highly skilled, they launched a coordinated attack, making it difficult for you to defend yourself and help Jihyo.

Despite your valiant efforts, the odds were stacked against you. You managed to take down a few guards, but fatigue began to set in, and your movements slowed. A powerful blow to your side left you staggering, and another struck you on the back of your head, causing your vision to blur. With every ounce of strength, you tried to fight back, but the guards were unrelenting. In a final, desperate attempt to protect yourself, you swung wildly, but a skilled adversary managed to deliver a decisive blow, knocking you unconscious.

As darkness enveloped you, the sound of Jihyo's battle cries faded away, leaving you in a state of vulnerable unconsciousness. Your body lay motionless, and the guards, satisfied with their victory, left you there to succumb to the darkness.

★・・・・・・★

As Jihyo discovered you lying unconscious and injured at the rendezvous point, panic and anguish washed over her. She knelt beside you, gently cradling your head in her hands, desperately trying to rouse you.

"No, no, this can't be happening," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "Wake up, my love. Please, wake up!"

Her heart sank and tears streamed down her cheeks at the sight of your unconscious form. With a mix of worry and determination, she carefully assessed your injuries. Her skilled eyes scanned over your battered body, noting the cuts, bruises, and the gash on your forehead where you were struck. Her hands trembled slightly as she gently touched your wounds, making sure not to cause you any further pain. Jihyo's mind raced, guilt gnawing at her, believing that it was her actions that led to this devastating outcome. She couldn't bear the thought of having put you in harm's way. 

With a trembling hand, she activated the communication device to call for backup and medical assistance. Her voice was steady, but it quivered with an underlying layer of distress.

"This is Jihyo. We have an emergency at the rendezvous point. I need immediate medical assistance. Hurry!"

As she waited for help to arrive, she refused to leave your side. Gently, she brushed a strand of hair away from your face and spoke softly, as if her voice could somehow reach your unconscious mind.

"Don't worry, my love. Help is on the way," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "I won't leave you. You mean everything to me, and I promise to keep you safe."

Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps and the arrival of medical personnel filled the air. Jihyo stepped aside, allowing the medical team to take over. She watched anxiously as they carefully assessed your injuries and worked swiftly to stabilize you.

"I'm sorry," Jihyo said to the medical team, her voice heavy with guilt. "I should have been more cautious. It's my fault he's hurt."

One of the medics placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We'll do our best to take care of them. You did what you could, and they’re in good hands now."

As they prepared to transport you to the hospital, Jihyo insisted on accompanying you. She couldn't bear to be separated from you, even for a moment.

In the hospital, Jihyo never left your side. She held your hand tightly, silently praying for your recovery. Her mind was filled with regrets and promises to never let anything like this happen again.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I can't lose you, not like this. Please, wake up."

As the days passed with you unconscious in the hospital, Jihyo remained by your side, consumed by worry and love. She hardly ate or slept, her focus entirely on your well-being. Her appetite vanished, and her nights were spent restlessly, unable to find solace without you awake and by her side. Her dedication to your recovery was unwavering, and she refused to leave the hospital room, knowing that her presence might be the anchor that brought you back to consciousness. Jihyo's determination to be there for you, regardless of her own needs, was a testament to the depth of her love and the unbreakable bond between you.

As you slowly regained consciousness in the hospital bed, you noticed tears streaming down Jihyo's cheeks. She looked both relieved and distraught at the same time. 

"I'm so sorry," she choked out, her voice trembling with guilt. "I should have been there to protect you from getting hurt. This is all my fault." 

You mustered all the strength you had to reach out and gently wipe away her tears. "No, Jihyo, don't blame yourself," you reassured her, your voice soft but earnest. "You did everything you could, and it was a dangerous mission. We knew the risks. I don't blame you for what happened." 

She looked into your eyes, her own filled with emotion. "But I promised to keep you safe," she said, her voice breaking. "I love you so much, and I never want to see you hurt like this again." 

You smiled weakly, your heart swelling with love for her. "You being here now, by my side, is all that matters," you said, squeezing her hand gently. "We'll get through this together. I love you too, and I know that with you here, everything will be okay." 

In that moment, you found solace in each other's presence, knowing that your love and support were the pillars that would help you overcome any obstacle that came your way.

[foxy-128]

GN!CHILD!READER x Loki x Tony(all platonic of course!) ^^

Title: The Mischievous Kitten

Tw:none i think! ^^

Characters:GN!child!reader, Loki and Tony stark! :)

Note:i made the drawing! ☆◇☆

In the heart of Stark Tower, the sun streamed through the large windows, casting warm rays across the polished floors. You, a curious child with a knack for getting into adventures, wandered around the expansive living room, your fingers brushing over various gadgets and inventions Tony had scattered about. Today, however, your attention was captured by a small, fluffy creature curled up on one of the sleek couches—a little black kitten with bright green eyes.

“Hey there, little guy,” you cooed, approaching it slowly. The kitten blinked up at you, seemingly unfazed by your presence. You reached out, and it nuzzled into your palm, purring softly.

“Looks like you’ve made a friend,” Tony said, walking in with a tray of snacks. He raised an eyebrow, a smirk on his face. “That’s Loki’s new… form. He’s trying to avoid responsibilities, as usual.”

“Loki? The god of mischief?” you asked, your eyes wide with excitement.

“Yup! Just don’t let him trick you into something crazy,” Tony replied, chuckling.

You turned your attention back to the kitten, who was now pawing at your hand playfully. You giggled, sitting down next to the couch, and began to gently stroke its fur. To your surprise, the kitten rolled over, presenting its belly, inviting you to pamper it further.

“Such a cute kitty!” you exclaimed, feeling a burst of joy. “I’m going to take care of you!”

As you continued to pet the kitten, you began to talk to it, telling it stories about your day and all the fun things you liked to do. You adorned it with a tiny bow from one of your hair ties and even found a small toy mouse for it to play with.

Loki, in his cat form, couldn’t help but feel a warm sensation in his chest. He relished the affection you were showering him with, forgetting for a moment about his mischievous plans. In fact, he found it strangely enjoyable to be pampered like this, basking in your innocent adoration.

After some time, you paused and looked up, “You know, if you were a person, I bet you’d be really cool. You could even be my best friend!”

Loki felt a pang of something—something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Before he could dwell on it too much, he decided it was time to shift back to his human form. A flash of magic surrounded him, and in an instant, the black kitten transformed into Loki, now standing before you, his trademark smirk plastered on his face.

“Did you enjoy my little performance?” he asked, brushing a hand through his dark hair, now a little disheveled.

You gasped, surprised but delighted. “Loki! That was amazing! You were so cute!”

“Cute, hmm? I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” he replied, feigning indifference.

Just then, a large square box appeared in Loki's hand. “But I have something even better for you!” He knelt down, presenting the box to you with a flourish.

“What is it?” you asked, your eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Open it and find out,” he said, his voice laced with mischief.

You tore into the wrapping eagerly and opened the box, revealing a shimmering object nestled inside—a tesseract, glowing with a soft blue light.

“Loki! Is that the Tesseract?” you exclaimed, amazed.

“Indeed it is,” he replied with a smug grin. “But you can’t keep it; it’s far too powerful and dangerous. I just thought it might make for a fun little trick!”

Suddenly realizing the implications of holding such an artifact, your eyes widened in alarm. “Wait! You can’t just take it!”

Before you could react, Loki leaped to his feet, tesseract in hand, and bolted for the door. “Catch me if you can!” he called over his shoulder, laughter echoing down the hallway.

“Loki, come back!” you shouted, your heart racing. Tony, who had been watching the scene unfold, quickly jumped into action.

“Loki! You better not run away with that!” Tony yelled, sprinting after him, and you raced behind, determined not to let Loki get away with the Tesseract.

As the chase ensued through Stark Tower, you giggled, weaving between furniture and dodging Tony as he tried to catch up to Loki. The excitement of the moment was electric; you felt like you were part of one of Tony's superhero stories.

“I’ll get it back!” Tony declared, laughter mixing with urgency.

Loki glanced back, and for just a moment, he looked at you, that same warm feeling returning. “Let’s see if you can!” he shouted, his voice playful as he darted down the hall, with you and Tony in hot pursuit.

The adventure had only just begun, and you couldn’t wait to see where it would lead.

[buttered-baguette-writes]

Fascination, Determination, Obsession

Part 3!

Harry was just a tad grumpy. Just a tad, he swore. He had fallen asleep at the edge of the forest, startled by sudden mass of students and teachers that flooded the halls when he woke and tried to make it to his dorm. He took as many hidden passages as he could, practically diving into the first one to avoid that new DADA professor. By the time he made it to his room, it was empty.

Dragging his feet, Harry changed into his uniform before heading to the great hall.

He was excited for the feast, just not the long ass sorting process.

Slinking through the open doors, he was relieved to see most of the eighth years squishing themselves together at the further end of the table. That left him and the two blondes sitting by the door lots of breathing room.

“Hi,” he said, smiling at Luna as he sat down across from her.

“Oh, you have Scattlewhisks too, Harry.”

“Maybe because we’re rooming?” Malfoy asked politely. Though it was quite obvious that he had no idea what they were meant to be talking about.

Luna had a thoughtful expression. “No, that’s not it.” The tops of her lips quirked up slightly.

“Surely I caught them from this buffoon.”

“You don’t catch Scattlewhisks. Crastes and Plutz though…”

And, gosh, Harry had missed her so much. He felt a little guilty about not getting in contact with her, but he knew she understood. That she didn’t mind. In fact, he heard she had spent a lot of her time off with magical creatures – those known and those not. They both had needed time to themselves. His face was fond as he listened to her, eventually turning to face the boy next to him.

Malfoy stared at him, eyes narrowed, trademark scowl in place as he looked seconds away from doing something questionable.

Harry tilted his head.

“If I find out I’ve caught one more imaginary—”

“They’re real,” Luna politely interrupted.

“—one more creature from you, I will kill you in your sleep.”

Harry tried – and failed – to hide an amused grin. “Sure, Malfoy.”

“I’m serious, scar head. They’ll find your glasses down your throat. Wand too.”

“Uh-huh.”

Before the blonde could retaliate (with physical violence), the first years finally filed into the hall and McGonagall began her speech.

Which, Harry paid no mind to. As soon as the food appeared on the table, his eyes started scanning for those treacle tarts he loved so much. He felt himself pout, realising dessert hadn’t also been put out.

“And now, for our first student…”

Harry glanced to the other end of the hall just in time to see the sorting hat completely ignore the poor, mortified first year. Instead, the ancient thing fluttered its way over to him. Harry mentally cursed himself and the bloody hat as it sat atop his head. Refusing to deal with the wide eyes from the rest of the school, he stared at his empty plate before closing his eyes with a roll.

“Harry Potter,” the hat spoke, its voice loud in the wizard’s head. At least it was a private conversation.

“Hat,” Harry replied, sounding sour.

“No need to be rude, I merely want to check in. A lot has happened.”

“No shit,” Harry grumbled.

The hat seemed amused of all things by the reaction. “If I told you now, that the choice was, once again, between Gryffindor and Slytherin, would you object to the latter?”

“No.”

“Hmmm. Live well, Harry Potter.” And with that the hat fluttered away, resting on the frozen first year like nothing had even happened.

Opening his eyes, Harry very pointedly looked towards the door to avoid everyone’s gazes.  This meant the two blondes were the only two in his view. They both have him a quizzical look that he waved off; the hall already having erupted with murmurs.

“Fucking hell. Just one year was all I wanted,” Harry grumbled, resting his head on the table. He dared a glance at Malfoy, glasses lopsided on his face as the bugger smirked down at him. “What?”

“The saviour is sulking. How, unbecoming.”

“Oh, sod off,” Harry said, but it had no real heat behind it. The middle finger he sent the blonde on the other hand…

Harry had really hoped – needed – this eighth-year thing to be different. For people to pay him less attention. To not be in danger. The almost-week he had spent there without the rest of the students had been nice. Yet the school was full, and every second things felt the same, his magic swirled and itched.

Malfoy’s snarky comments, however, were welcomed with open arms and Harry’s own attitude.

Harry huffed loudly, throwing his homework harshly onto the coffee table. He sunk into the soft chair, regretting his decision to come back to school. He hadn’t studied properly in over a year because he was, you know, on the run for his life. Besides, professors giving homework on their first day back was a cruel thing to do and Harry wanted none of it. Two lessons and already two parchments due within the next three weeks. He only had five classes in total, and it was looking to be both a blessing and a curse.

He fidgeted, chancing a glance over to Malfoy who was sat at his desk, already starting on his essays.

“So,” Harry started. “When’s our next lesson?”

The scratching of a quill on paper didn’t stop as the blonde replied, “Hmm, I don’t know.”

“Maybe today?” Harry’s tone was full of hope.

Malfoy scoffed. “You threatened a plant and then fell asleep during charms. I’m not sure that your brain has the capacity for the Arts anymore.”

“Hey, that Flytrap had it coming!”

Malfoy turned around in his chair, levelling Harry with an unimpressed stare.

“It’s not my fault the charms professor was trying to bore me to death. Besides, I had a bad sleep,” his words mumbled off towards the end. He didn’t have nightmares often anymore, but when he did, the night was long. His mind had been jittery because of the welcome feast, all those stares and whispers.

Something softened in Malfoy’s features and Harry realised he had forgotten to put up a silencing charm.

“Sorry,” Harry blurted out.

Malfoy waved him off. He turned back to his work, quill scratching away once again. “I rarely sleep at reasonable times.”

It was quiet for a minute before Harry spoke up again.

“So?”

“After lunch. In here.” Although the blonde didn’t turn around, Harry could hear the eye roll at the start.

He grinned.

Harry was sat in the same armchair from earlier. They had rearranged the chairs and coffee table slightly, meaning the boy-who-lived was now, of course, bathed in the afternoon sunlight.

Malfoy delicately sat across from him, placing a piece of blank paper next to an ancient Dark Arts book on the table.

“Before I teach you anything else, I want you to learn how to detect Dark Magic,” Malfoy said.

Harry pouted. “Isn’t that like, super basic?”

“Basic doesn’t mean easy. Once you learn it, a lot of other things become much easier. Dark Magic lingers, swirls, and lives in ways that normal magic just doesn’t.”

Harry didn’t know what he as going to say in response originally, because his second thought threw the first one out the window into a dumpster fire. “You said something like that before. About my magic?”

He watched Malfoy flush pink but put it down to the sun that was beaming in through the window.

“Yes. But, it can be hard to see the Dark in someone’s magical aura. Unless you know what to look for in both Dark and normal, they can hide each other.”

Harry hummed. “Can you teach me both?”

“Fine, but we are not talking about anything else to do with the Arts until you get them both. “

“Deal,” Harry said with a smile.

The thing is, Harry Potter isn’t exactly the best example of a patient person, as Draco was very quickly reminded.

During their second lesson of magic detection, the boy who lived twice whinged and whined when he had made zero progress. It was insufferable. Draco told him that it was normal to not have it yet because it was hard and to, “Stop complaining like a child, honestly.”

It took almost ten days before Potter finally started to pick up on things.

Draco had imbued Dark Magic into a plain piece of parchment and had set it next to a regular one. Something he thought was simple. Yet an argument broke out because Potter insisted that he was being messed with. Draco threatened to stop discussing the Arts with him – and also to strangle him. He almost had. The blonde had risen out of his seat and stood between Potter’s legs, poking a bony finger into his breastbone right below the hollow of the gits neck.

Potter had thrown his hands up in defeat, an almost pout on his lips.

Draco returned to his seat, arms crossed. Silence encompassed the pair as he watched Potter try again.

Eventually, the git pointed to the correct piece of parchment, stating that it felt different, but he still couldn’t actually see the magic.

“Good job,” Draco said. He ignored the goofy smile on Potter’s face. “That’s the first step. Now…”

After that, Potter got the hang of it pretty quickly. It was infuriating to a degree. It had taken Draco six months to learn to detect and see magic, but the overpowered git got it within two weeks.

Though Draco had something more interesting to focus on now. He had noticed Potter sat up straighter, or smiled like an idiot whenever Draco gave him any sort of praise. It had proven advantageous for encouraging Potter to stop complaining and keep on practicing. Being the Slytherin he was, he also knew it would prove beneficial for other reasons. But why had he never noticed before? Surely Draco would have noticed something as simple as that with everything going on, especially considering he had noticed practically everything else. Or was it a recent development? Draco was certain he had heard people praise the git before, though he never saw it elicit a reaction.

Well, he had seen Potter get flustered twice – once with Diggory and that Krum bloke. However, one had been Potter’s mentor/idol, and the other was a, quite frankly, kind of intimidating Bulgarian quidditch player. Those both made sense.

(If only he read between the lines).

“What colour is my magic?” Draco asked. He was sitting cross legged, leaning back onto his hands as his fingers dug into the dirt slightly. Potter was laying on his stomach across from him. They were as close to the Forbidden Forest as they could get without a teacher coming to scold them for breaking the rules – which meant no other student was game enough to approach them.

Potter tilted his head that he was holding up with his hands. “Blue and gray,” he said after a moment of staring.

Draco hummed. “What else?”

“Uh…” Potter squinted. “Green?”

Draco smiled. “Correct. Now—”

“Is your element water?”

Draco blinked owlishly at Potter. Then he scoffed. “You have one more guess.” He supposed water wasn’t a bad guess, per say, but he quite liked his element, so he still thought the mere idea was a bit rude. “Now,” he restarted his interrupted sentence. “Which of those colours is ‘normal’, and which is the representation of my Dark Magic?”

Draco was proud of his magic. It wasn’t full of any bright colours, but there were plentiful shades of green, blue and gray. He thought it looked quite pretty, always swirling about, almost mixing but not quite. If he was being honest, he had the nicest magical aura in his entire family.

Potter stared at him, chewing on his bottom lip in thought.

It was distracting.

Draco shifted.

“The green and darker grays are Dark,” Potter confidently said. He grinned up at the blonde when the latter hummed. “I’m a good student, aren’t I?” His tone was cheeky, knowing that the question alone would be enough to get on the blondes’ nerves.

Predictably, Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, Potter. We can move on to a different topic.”

And Potter just kept on staring at him before saying, “Call me Harry,” with a little please at the end.

The blonde stared back.

The thing was, Malfoy had become the most constant thing in Harry’s life. They had four out of five classes together, and Harry always sat with the blonde. They would still squabble in class, but they also managed to work somewhat well together – mainly in potions, as Harry let the other boy take charge. The pair spent most of their free time together in their dorm room, either in comfortable silence or talking or bickering. They had bonded over the Dark Arts and Harry was grateful for that.

The three weeks that school had been back had been more tiring than he thought was possible. Whenever he wasn’t with Malfoy, someone would try to approach him – to question his apparent friendship with the blonde or to give him thanks for his efforts in the war. (Like he had a choice, really.) He appreciated having Luna and Neville there with him sometimes – thankful they didn’t question his relationship with Malfoy – though a lot of people ignored them while trying to get his attention.

The schoolwork was so boring that Harry had contemplated dropping out multiple times. He, evidently, decided against it.

And then there was that new, overbearing DADA professor that made Harry want to commit several crimes. The man was still trying to get him to swap classes even though the year was well underway.

The point was, Harry enjoyed the time he spent around Malfoy.

He kept grinning up at the blonde.

“Ok, then.”

Harry rolled onto his back, smiling at the retreating sun instead.

“We should go inside,” Malfoy mumbled. He got off the ground and dusted off his pants.  After a moment of hesitation, he held out a hand for the dark-skinned boy. “Dinner should be soon.”

The smile didn’t leave Harry’s lips.

Part 2 // Part 4

[soraviie]

you compare yourself to him.txt

━ type: bts x f! reader ━ navigation ━ part II here

━ about: angst! discusses themes of abandonment and inadequacy

━ pictures taken from Pinterest

━ previously posted on soraviii

NAMJOON: "There's honestly no way to undersell your influence," the woman gushes on and it's like you don't exist. Joon is giving her the trademarked, polite smile, one of neutrality. It means nothing. But also at this moment, you mean nothing.

"You went to the White House and the UN, and now you're visiting my little gallery! Gosh, it's such an honour."

"Ah, it's...it was unprecedented. I'm just doing what I love, it's the people I should be thankful for. They helped me to get to these heights."

"Don't be so modest!" she pats his arm, perhaps lingering a tad too long but where once there would be a kindling flame of jealousy, there's nothing now. Her words have poured a bucket of ice-cold water soaked with a certain realization, washing away all happiness of the day.

You can't compare.

You won't ever compare.

"I have a private screening of the latest works. Usually, I wouldn't reveal such a thing, but you're Kim Namjoon!"

He takes a step back, sporting quite the awkward stance. Because this is Namjoon. He's polite. Tries to not show judgement upon anyone else. Like you, for example.

"I was actually preoccupied -" he waves at where you've been standing mute and unmoving whilst whatever this was unfolded.

"Oh, your secretary!" all too confident the owner of the gallery calls out and you can only muster to stand there. No strength left to argue.

"She's not my se-" Namjoon fruitlessly sputters but the lady waves his indignance away.

"Are you familiar with the work of contemporary artists?"

"No," you truthfully reply. They were but colours to you.

"Oh, not very educated in this field, are you?" she coos in a farce of sympathy and blankly you shrug.

"No."

"Well, then, let's go. This level of art needs viewers of...worldly inhibitions."

Her long red nails sink into Namjoon's beige shirt, one you gave him on his birthday, like a reborn harpy of old tales. He looks back at you, eyebrows furrowed in million confused questions but you quietly wish him to have fun. His educated, smart fun, remaining to stand there in the middle of a fancy art gallery. And you can't stop thinking about that shirt and laughing dryly to yourself. A multimillion pop singer, donating his money to art galleries, collecting masterpieces, visiting presidents and here you were gifting him shirts because that's all you could afford.

"What are your thoughts on this piece?" a stranger approaches you all of a sudden probably thinking that just because you were here you belonged here, that you earned your spot here when in truth you were just someone Namjoon dragged along.

And with a carving, empty feeling you don't see any reason at all why would he do such a thing.

"It's beige," you breathe thinly, glimpsing at the painting on the wall and he leaves upon hearing the simplistic answer. Figures.

YOONGI: "Already thirty and still unmarried? Is there no one in your life?"

He looks almost apologetic into the camera. A glimpse lasting a second, travelling through infinite miles as if he knew you were watching.

"No," he lies. "No there is no one."

He lies for your safety because it's what he has to do. It's what you agreed to but right now you couldn't name a worse feeling to have than to be called nonexistent. A ghost. A void, not a living human being occupying space and deserving it.

"No way," your cousin laughs loudly across the table. "No way this guy is dating you!"

"It's true," you object poking at the plate of dinner you have no intention of eating anymore. Her words have created a gaping hole in your stomach, that honestly had been churning away for longer than you had noticed.

"What's he doing with you then? A charity?"

"Keep your mouth shut!" her mother hisses sharply but bolstered by the many wine glasses, she drones on.

"What? I'm just stating what we're all thinking. This is what? Just a reprieve, a cleanser! He'll have his fun with you and then will marry a supermodel or a singer. Cause it's what they all do. No rich person marries a commoner."

Yoongi is not like that. You knew he was not like that. He liked to eat tangerines by your side and fix the broken shelves, night upon night he'd cried how he just wanted to make music but be that as it may his life was set.

And a quiet librarian was in no sort of way part of cameras and red carpets.

And he'll have to say it time and time again that you did not exist.

And you feel like you don't.

The night is empty and cold with the house gone deathly quiet. The water runs underneath your hands as you scrape the dishes - to have something to do, to not be consumed by the gaping wound of being hidden away. Like a scab almost.

A phone rings.

"How was the dinner?" he immediately asks, sounding a bit rushed. "Sorry, I couldn't make it this time."

Or the time before that and the one before that, and a hundred others in the past, making you seem like a lonely ghost wailing false moans that you were loved by a star. He was an innocent idol onto whom you had delusionally pushed your need of companionship, pictures could be downloaded, and lies could be spun.

And as far as most people knew - you did not exist.

"It was fine," you answer monotonous. There's a wobble in your lip so you have to really frown to not let it spill.

"I didn't mean it. None of what I said. It's just something I have -"

"- to do," you finish for him and your voice wavers. "Yeah, I get it. Listen I have to go, alright."

"Wait, no-!" you drop the phone and lean over the sink, swallowing down rushing tears. Breathing in a determined breath, you wash the remaining dishes in complete silence and no one calls or talks to you for the rest of the night.

JIN: "Yeah, right," the front desk lady sneers. "Get out of here, freak."

"I'm literally handing you my ID. You saw me before!"

If only any proverbs were ever listened to. A wise saying once claimed to not judge a book by a cover. What a wonderful world would it be if it was actually listened to.

Dripping rainwater and mud, you scoffed, frustrated and just wanting to lie down. It had been an exhausting day. The kind where you regret ever waking up.

"Do you not have a register or something? This guy literally is vouching for me."

You point at the gardener of Jin's apartment building and he nods, eyes full of compassion. He was a good guy.

"It's true she was here and the day before that."

"So, you're a hooker. I'm not letting you up. Just look at yourself."

Look at yourself. Those words were like an axe to your head. A dull blade swinging time and time again as you bent your knee at the podium.

Wherever you went they reverberated like ripples in a lake.

"Just look at yourself," one woman sneered while you went to the bathroom at a party with Jin.

"Really look at yourself. You must think you have some sort of inner beauty? People like you make me sick! You're all delusional," and she had stormed off, face warped in such contempt as though you'd done something wrong. But you just stood here.

"Don't listen to her," you told your reflection but the eyes looking back were tired. "You did nothing wrong."

You can only insist that you did nothing wrong but no one listens. Certainly not the cops shoving you in the van on the charges of stalking.

The holding cell is very cold and you're freezing, wet hair seemingly lowering your body temperature even more.

"HOW DARE YOU?" Jin's voice rings even down the hallway. "WHAT SORT OF COUNTRY IS THIS WHERE INNOCENT PEOPLE GET ARRESTED?!"

"We apologize, sir, but the front desk worker phoned in as it was susp-"

"IS SHE THE CHIEF OF THE POLICE?! YOU JUST CARRY OUT THE ORDERS OF SOME RANDOM WOMAN?! LET MY GIRLFRIEND GO THIS INSTANT!"

The doors open and stiffly you clamber out, immediately swarmed by Jin's warm embrace.

"Don't think I'll let this go so easy," he growls at the nearby officer before guiding you away.

"I'm so sorry, honey, it won't ever happen again," he strokes your head all the way home but the cold doesn't dissipate. It's all a blur and you're just so very tired.

"What are you doing?" Jin asks gently opening the bathroom doors where you finished taking a warm shower as he had ordered. You wipe the steam off the mirror. The shoulders are hunched and there's no spark. Just another face in the proverbial crowd.

"Just looking at myself."

HOSEOK: It's nothing that anyone says. They think it, you can certainly tell by the snide glances occasionally thrown at where you're standing, but they don't dare to say it. The rest of the group is here and they wouldn't tolerate any off-hand remarks just as much as Hoseok himself.

But they don't need to say it. No one needs to do anything. You just have to look.

He's swarmed by celebrities, the A-listers, the top of the top, all celebrating the genius of his album and they blush as he pays they some attention. Because he's not just a celebrity, he's the top celebrity, he's what the people above aspired to be. And he wants this, he wants more of this.

And you don't belong here.

You don't belong here at all.

Like a piece of furniture or a fallen decoration, you stand in the corner invisible. The scarce attempts of talking all ended with an awkward side glance. The one given to friends, saying: "who invited her?" They excuse themselves with gritted teeth, sometimes just simply walking away and you stand by the side, admiring and not participating. How could you when this was not your world? But it's his and amidst all the fans and all the meetings, even Hoseok has forgotten you're here.

You don't belong here. You don't want to be here. Didn't want to see anyone ever again.

"Where are you off to?" a voice asks and you peek underneath the table, surprised to see Jin's head poke through. His phone light illuminates the hiding spot with flashing bright colours of a nameless webtoon.

"Just need some air," you answer emptily before pointing at the device. "You're having fun there?"

"Ah, I don't want to meet anyone," he whines and you offer a small, meaningless smile.

"I get that."

He glances up and you think he sees something in the way your eyes gaze grayly around, observing but not seeing. Though in the end, he says nothing and you're free to walk on the street. The music of Hoseok's album party pours out even there but at least it's dull. Another world now.

You push your hands deep into the jacket and not wanting to return to an empty apartment, end up in a 24/7 convenience store. It's cheap and common. Your spot, a planet familiar.

"Rough night?" the guy at the counter asks as you quietly slurp a cup of noodles on a rickety chair nearby.

"You probably had it rougher," you point out at the 2 am flashing on the clock hung behind him. He only shrugs.

"Not really. People leave me alone during night shifts and to be honest during day shifts as well. It's like I don't exist."

You frown at the red noodles and there's nothing but an empty pang in your chest. It's not one of hunger you realize now.

"Yeah. Me too."

JIMIN: The day is long and weary. Your legs ache and your apron is stained with dry milk. You're trying very hard to not cry in the break room and then you see him and you want to cry yourself to death. Be the princess that drowned in her own tears.

He's beautiful, the literal "It" boy of the nation. Kind, gorgeous, determined and you're crying in the break room.

The TV shoved in the corner has no sound but you don't need it. It's plenty enough seeing him laugh generously on the main story of the day, one discussing his success.

"Good day, sir, how ma-"

"Iced espresso," he interrupts and doesn't spare you even a single glance. You're just a machine here to obey. Nothing more.

"Damn, ________, you're still here?" a coworker asks, tying her apron hastily around. "I thought you applied for that new job?"

"Yeah, well, they rejected me," you explain lifelessly, face turned away.

"Is there no one else?"

"Yeah, and they rejected me as well. And all the other thirty places I applied."

She sucks in a breath through her teeth.

"Damn, that sucks. Still, don't keep your nose low, you might end up staying here forever."

Yes, that's just what you might end up doing. Someone had to be at the bottom of the barrel. Someone always had to do the dirty job you just never assumed it'd be you. That it'd be you who'd be the failure.

"She's a surgeon, you know," your mother says on the phone and you scuff your shoe against the tile ground.

"Yes, I know."

"Since this degree of yours didn't work out, you might apply to study something useful you know like a lawyer."

"Mom, I don't want to be a lawyer."

"Do you want to be a barista all your life? Because this art degree is certainly accomplishing that. And you're not marrying a rich man."

"What if I did?" you snap back spitefully.

"Well, then I'd be embarrassed to have a daughter whose such a liability."

"I have to go."

You're trying really hard to not cry but it's not quite working.

"I'm not a liability," you mutter underneath your breath but it feels like a lie in your mouth.

"Hey,______, we need you out here. It's a madhouse!" the frazzled head of your coworker pops in and all you can do is wipe your face and raise your aching legs once more.

"Good evening, ma'am! What would you like-"

"Iced espresso," she orders without looking up from her phone. You nod.

"Can you take the register?" you whisper to your colleague switching places.

"Why?" she furrows her brows.

"Just don't want to talk anymore."

Thankfully, she only nods curtly and you're free to do what is needed, alone and unbothered.

It's evening already but Jimin is still on the news and he smiles brightly as the sun. You don't even remember when was the last time you met him in real life, held his hand in yours. Last time he felt like a real person and not just someone you can look at through the screen.

"This dude really has it all," your coworker mutters underneath her breath whilst counting the register once there's no one in the sight.

"Yeah, he does."

TAEHYUNG: It's nothing but the truth to call jealousy a disease, a fatal one at that. Incurable, unstoppable rot wrecking you from within. Never before had you looked at a video of your boyfriend and felt...felt bad. If bad was even a word to describe the awful hollow that washes the world grey.

The entire Paris screams for him, hell, maybe the whole of France. They talk of Lisa, Park Bo Gum and V. The infamous V. And they talk of Lisa, the A-lister, the star, the face of the fashion, the top girl of the top.

"You just have to work hard, okay," your mother always said. "You work hard and you can do anything."

It was such a comforting lie. Because you did work hard, you worked so hard it nearly crushed you and all it did was land you in an office cubicle, creating documents day upon day. Just like millions of others before you and like millions after you. Just an expendable tool.

You can't help it, because it's a disease, it's wearing down all the kindness in your heart, all your confidence and reducing you to a husk slumbering on the bed. What did they have that you didn't?

As a sick sort of punishment, you continue watching the video. V is getting quite cosy with the other celebrities, the 1%, the people not doing the office jobs, not doing the sowing of the fancy clothes they wore, not serving the drinks like the nameless waiters people treated as mindless robots. You ponder how horrible they must feel, how tired. The video suggests you want this, this is the world everyone should aspire to but it leaves a sour taste in your mouth and the fact that V is there makes it only more appalling. Because that is the fact. He was your boyfriend, Taehyung, the guy from a line of farmers, a simple guy who respected everyone but it's hard to see that Taehyung in V. The fashion icon, the creme de la creme sipping champagne far far away from you. He seems happy. Happier than he was when you parted.

Coincidentally, it's your birthday the next day and there are only three calls - your mother, your best friend and for some reason Jimin. Jimin who remembers it's your birthday before Taehyung or should you say V.

You get yourself a cake. It costs a pretty penny but it's cute and just this once you want to have nice things. Just this once. You take a picture of it, almost upload it on Instagram but then think better of it. Who cares what you post. It's there that you scroll upon a video of V cutting up a cake and you just know it's much more expensive than yours will ever be. This cake he seems almost bored with costs more than your life and it's given to him. Even if he would get it himself he wouldn't have to worry about the cost. It didn't matter how much you work hard, you will always have to worry about the cost.

In the end, you blow out the candle right there in the bakery and the girl working the register is the only one who claps. She asks what wish did you make, you answer none but secretly you just wish he would call. That he would remember of his girlfriend at home as low as she was.

He doesn't call but at least a video floating around the internet tells you he has a grand old time spinning around the pole with Lisa.

JUNGKOOK: "I don't like dispassionate people, I guess. I can't imagine how can one live without a goal. I'd rather die than live without passion."

It wasn't like Jungkook to be cruel and he probably didn't intend to be one as well but it still is cruel. Your own boyfriend just told everyone on national television that he doesn't like you. You're everything he loathes - the dreamless drifter, people who are just here.

"Why are you frowning?" a voice asks and you turn to look at him standing in the doorway with a frown. He must have said something before this but you hadn't heard. The mop in your hands lays still as you finish sweeping. Bam is there as well, his big brown eyes flickering in between both of you.

"Nothing," you reply quietly.

"No, it's something," he insists. "Don't lie."

"Why is passion so important to you?"

The frown on his face deepens and Bam begins to whine from the surging tension.

"I don't know," he laughs, sound falling strained and awkward. Because it's not funny. "It just is. I mean what's the point of life then? Hanging around? That's useless, isn't it?"

"I'm useless?"

His eyes widen for a fraction the second he understood his own words.

"I didn't mean you," he corrects but whether or not it's real or just in your perception, you don't think they sound sincere enough. It's just something he has to say.

"You just haven't found your passion yet."

"Because it doesn't exist!" you don't mean to yell. It upsets Bam, upsets you and most importantly it upsets Jungkook but he's never understood this. Never grasped that it's not the matter of you not finding your special devotion, it's because you simply didn't have one. And you're tired of trying to explain yourself over and over again.

"I don't care for jobs! I don't care about hobbies! I just want to live!"

"Okay," he brushes off passively. Not that he believes you, not that he listens to you at all, he just doesn't want to fight.

"Why is it so hard for you to comprehend that I don't have any aspirations? Yoongi -"

Abruptly he rolls his eyes, arms tightening around his chest.

"Again with Yoongi. Would you stop bringing him up?"

"Because he makes me feel heard! I don't have goals, I don't have great dreams and aspirations! Does that make my life meaningless?"

"What do you think?"

For a while, the only sound are the whines and the scraping of Bam's nails against the floor.

"You think my life is meaningless?" you echo breathlessly. Jungkook merely scowls at the floor.

"Right, who are we commoners against the mighty Jungkook? The millionaire, the young idol, right?"

"It's what my passion led me to," he mutters obstinately and for all intents and purposes, he might as well just have punched you in the gut.

"You won't achieve anything if you're just hanging around."

Exhaling a shaky breath you gather the most strength you ever needed.

"I have a dream, Jungkook, it is to live happily. And I'm not happy with you."

There's really, absolutely no way of knowing now either whether the flash in his eyes is out of fear or anger. They remain only as assumptions but what is an indisputable fact are the words spoken out loud.

"Well, I'm not happy with you, either."

The floor dries as you stand in front of this man, a stranger suddenly, one to whom you're too exhausted to defend yourself anymore.

"No, you can't come with me," you whisper to Bam who tries to squeeze the nose in through the door gap, tail wagging behind him. He must think you're going on a walk. How lovely animals were, they didn't care how you looked, who you were, or what you lived for. They simply were, and enjoyed life at its face value.

"You have to stay."

Bam is a sweetheart through and through but above all he's well behaved. His eyes are brimming with sadness but he does as he's told and steps away.

"I'll miss you, buddy."

"Enjoying the weekend?" the man at the local bakery friendly questions and you cast him a smile.

"Yeah, you know, appreciating the day."

"Ah, preach! It's nice to just enjoy yourself, isn't it?"

As you pay, your phone lights up and a picture of Jungkook flashes in front of you. Briefly, you break and zone out in his eyes. Weeks have passed, you should change it.

"Does that make my life meaningless?"

"What do you think?"

You shake yourself out of it and lock the phone.

"It is," you agree with the baker.

© soraviii/soraviie 2022-23

[cherryshortycake]

Request for a shoto x female reader

Ok here me out for this one, the song is breakin dishes for Rihanna, the reader is newly graduated from UA and was top of her class. She gets assigned a mission, let’s say a drug bust at a popular club or something and they have to go undercover, the whole time shoto is seriously undermining her so when shit hits the fan on the mission the reader totally just is fed up and kicks ass, idk I’m imagining her w like a lightning or storm quirk. Could definitely end in smut if u like the idea

don't know who you think I am

Shoto Todoroki glanced at you, his expression a mix of indifference and mild curiosity. The club's neon lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the scar that had become his trademark. You could feel his silent judgment, the unspoken question of whether you were up to the task. After all, you were both fresh out of U.A., newly minted Pro Heroes on your first mission. The objective was simple: infiltrate a high-profile club suspected of dealing drugs and shut it down.

He think I could never do it, but you can

"Are you sure you can handle this?" Shoto asked, his tone neutral, yet his eyes betrayed his doubt.

You shot him a sharp look. "Just follow my lead, Todoroki."

I've been breaking all dishes in my kitchen

Inside the club, the music pounded, and the air was thick with the scent of alcohol and sweat. You navigated through the crowd with ease, eyes scanning for any suspicious activity. Shoto trailed behind, his pace measured and cautious. You felt a surge of frustration at his reluctance to act swiftly. Every second counted in this mission.

But I ain't gonna stop 'til I see police lights

"Come on, Todoroki, pick up the pace," you hissed, pushing open a door that led to the VIP section. Inside, a group of men huddled around a table, whispering and exchanging small packets. This was it – the drug deal in progress.

I'm about to go on breakin' like I'm breakin' dishes

Without waiting for Shoto's signal, you moved. You charged into the room, your fists flying and quirk activated. The men barely had time to react before you were on them, knocking them out one by one. Shoto finally sprang into action, using his ice to immobilize the remaining dealers.

I'm breaking dishes, up in here

You could feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins as you cleared the room. Shoto's attacks were precise and controlled, but too slow for your liking. You kicked over a table in frustration, sending a cloud of powdery drugs into the air. "We don't have all night, Todoroki!" you shouted.

All alone and ain't nobody tell me nothin'

Shoto looked at you, surprise evident in his eyes. "You're really something," he muttered, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"We need to move. Now," you snapped, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the exit.

I'm breaking dishes, up in here

You made your way through the club, dodging bouncers and patrons alike. As you exited through the back door, you could hear sirens in the distance. The police were on their way. You and Shoto ducked into a narrow alleyway, the walls pressing in on both sides. You could hear your own heavy breathing, and Shoto's was just as labored.

Let me tell you something

You leaned against the wall, catching your breath. Shoto stood close, his body nearly touching yours. In the dim light, you could see the intensity in his eyes. He smirked, a rare expression for him, and you couldn't help but return it.

"We make a good team," he said softly, his breath warm against your skin.

"Yeah, we do," you replied, feeling a surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the exertion of the mission. For a moment, the world outside the alleyway ceased to exist, and it was just the two of you, sharing an intense, unspoken connection.

I'm breaking dishes up in here, all night