#Zenith caste | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

weaselandfriends · 2 months ago

Text

Lucky☆Star (Anime)

How does art age?

There's a joke in Lucky☆Star where the four main characters fill out a questionnaire that asks them what they want to be when they grow up. Konata, the otaku, puts down "Brigade Leader," which draws as punchline an eyeroll from her sarcastic friend, Kagami.

The core of this joke is that Konata has taken a serious question and answered it with a fictional "occupation" from an anime she likes -- specifically, The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, which was monstrously popular at the time. Almost everyone watching Lucky☆Star in 2007, when it first aired, would understand this reference. That understanding would then foster a sense of kinship with the work, the feeling of "being seen," the long yearned-for ideal of niche nerd subcultures laughed at by society at large.

Despite its incredible influence on moe aesthetics and anime culture in 2006, Haruhi Suzumiya is virtually forgotten now, unwatched even by diehards and unrecommended by the old weebs who were around in its heyday. I've never seen it myself. It's my next watch, with another friend who is even more of an anime neophyte than I am; our third friend, who did watch it in 2006, refuses to rewatch with us. It's too cringe, she says. The suggestion I get is that, if we were to modernize the what-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up joke, Konata might instead put that she wants to become a Skibidi Toilet.

Haruhi Suzumiya haunts Lucky☆Star like a ghost. She is in almost every episode, as either a poster or figurine or manga cover or cosplay or karaoke rendition or even, once, a voiced commercial. She has more presence than most of the supporting cast, the majority of whom do not appear until the 14th episode (but who also haunt the show via their unexplained presence in the OP). Konata is voiced by the same actress who voiced Haruhi, a fact that launches an armada of arcane metafictional injokes, including a scene where Konata sees said voice actress in concert. The sheer magnitude of these references wash over the 2025 viewer. They are meaningless. Haruhi Suzumiya is dead and buried. She is seen more by the shadow she casts in this show than anywhere else.

The inscrutability of this massive swath of the show suggests that Lucky☆Star itself has not aged particularly well. Indeed, compared to its zenith in 2007, it's not faring much better than Haruhi today. The sole advantage Lucky☆Star has, in fact, might stem from the "Out Of Touch Thursday" meme, which keeps some small shard of it alive in the anime community's consciousness. Even if you take the time to research the references, needing to research them at all gives the ultimate impression is that Konata is no longer the trendy otaku she once was, but passe, lame, dated, cringe, Out Of Touch. It's only the thin line of competent verbal skills that keeps her from becoming her dark mirror, Tomoko Kuroki.

But Haruhi Suzumiya is by no means the only obscure reference the show flings out, and some of these references I can only imagine were unknown even to the teenage-skewing anglosphere anime culture of 2007. At one point, Konata makes a reference (Timotei, Timotei) to a Japanese commercial for a Finnish shampoo brand from the 1980s. Karaoke segments feature Japanese pop songs from the 70s (with Kagami sarcastically asking Konata "How old are you?" whenever she puts them on). The entire Lucky Channel bit that appears at the end of each episode is an extended reference to a Japanese-only radio show that ran concurrent to the original airing. Even within that context, the fact that Lucky Channel co-host Minoru Shiraishi is a real person playing himself (and the other co-host, Akira Kogami, is not) is lost on anyone without highly specialized knowledge. That the credits sequences of the show's second half feature the real Minoru Shiraishi in live action is equally easy to miss. The bleeding edge transience of the references culminates with the show recursively referring to its own fame. In one scene, Konata reads a fortune at a Kyoto temple that says "Konata is my wife"; this is a reference to real-life otaku going to a temple in Saitama, where Lucky☆Star is set, and leaving the same prayer.

The show requires footnotes. It had them, on the 2007 anime forums where the show accrued so much buzz, entire Bibles breaking down every reference; it truly wasn't understood even when it aired. It makes perfect sense why Lucky☆Star wouldn't age well.

Yet, watching the show for the first time in 2014, long after its cultural moment, and again in 2025, I have found it extraordinarily timeless. In fact, I liked it better in 2025 than 2014, despite an additional 11 years of watching anime that enabled me to understand exactly 0 things I didn't get the first time around. And there are a lot of things I didn't get. The references I detailed earlier are only the ones, in complete befuddlement, I bothered to look up; so many more continue to elude me.

In many ways, Lucky☆Star is aware of how inscrutable it is and compensates for itself. Wikipedia describes Konata as the "main character" of the show, and to the otaku audiences of 2007 she was the most relatable of the cast and by extension the most popular character by far (something outright stated in one of the Lucky Channel segments, which reveals the results of an actual character popularity poll), but in terms of screen time, she is not appreciably more present than either of the Hiiragi twins, Kagami and Tsukasa. It's not as though Lucky☆Star has anything resembling a plot, either, that would frame a particular character as the "protagonist"; at best the cast can be described as ensemble. This decentralization of perspective enables a wide variety of ways for the viewer to connect with the show. Konata's authentic (in 2007) otakuism made her the darling of that audience, but the show itself does not innately weigh her so highly. In fact, even when her references are inscrutable, it's the confused response of Tsukasa, or the sarcastic response of Kagami (who tends to call Konata the 2007 equivalent of "cringe"), that provide a contextual framework for what the joke is supposed to be. I don't need to know what the SOS Brigade is when Konata expresses her desire to grow up and become a Brigade Leader, because I can understand through Kagami's biting remark that it is some frivolous anime horseshit.

More importantly, the show's equivocation in terms of perspective makes it possible to empathize with Kagami's position over Konata's. The simplest comedy dynamic is the comedian/straight man, but the reliance of most narrative comedy on some form of social stakes -- either in the form of argument, humiliation, physical or psychological pain, or so on -- generally leads to empathy with one of the duo over the other. The straight man might be a put-upon everyman who is unfairly forced to deal with an obnoxious oaf, or a too-serious curmudgeon who is getting what they deserve from a guy who's just having a little fun. In the first case, the straight man is the point of audience empathy; in the second, the comedian is.

Konata and Kagami follow this comedy dynamic to a T, with Konata an aimless slacker and Kagami the uptight perfectionist. But in Lucky☆Star, divorced entirely from anything resembling a narrative -- episodic, situational, or otherwise -- there are zero social stakes to their conversations. Nobody ever "loses." Nobody is ever hurt. Nobody is wrong or right. Nothing happens at the expense of one character or another. As such, it is possible to watch the show and see the joke from the perspective of any given character at any time. If Konata says some arcane reference you don't get, Kagami's clapback becomes the joke. If Konata says something and you do understand it, the reference itself is the joke.

This comedic ambivalence is structurally remarkable (jokes typically have rigidly defined punchlines, moments you are "supposed" to laugh at), but comes with the price of the jokes not really being very funny. What it does do is create comprehensible and even "relatable" situations out of incomprehensible bits of referential information. Not understanding the reference is not an impediment to understanding Lucky☆Star. As such, Lucky☆Star functions as both a hyper-specific time capsule of 2007 anime subculture and a work that can be engaged with on its own terms even when completely divorced from that context.

The advent of the internet has led to an explosion in the spread of information and the ascendancy of the niche. It has also led to shorter shelf lives for information and an increased focus on the immediate. Memes burst into prominence, linger a month or two, vanish. Media is buzzed about in some section of society, is unknown everywhere else. A social media influencer has millions of followers and yet is a complete blank in the wider cultural eye. How can a work of art reflect this reality without rendering itself incomprehensible in a year, ten years, twenty? Is it possible to make timeless art in such a milieu, without stripping away as many signifiers of the world we live in to rely solely on "universal" and thus generic themes such as love, death, etc.?

I've seen many ways of attacking this problem. Infinite Jest's famous footnotes are one, as is the genre of "hysterical realism" itself, which attempts to create the suggestion of information density via massive novels with tons of characters spanning many countries and even time periods. Homestuck builds its own internal language of memes (I warned you about stairs bro!) that the reader will always understand no matter how many arcane applications those memes receive throughout the work. (Hence why an audience of teens in the 2010s were able to laugh uproariously at jokes about the 90s action flick Con Air that none of them had ever seen.) Multiverse movies, from Everything Everywhere All at Once to Into the Spider-Verse, depict the density of information horizontally rather than vertically, with unlimited variations on the same core theme. Even if you have never read whatever obscure comic run Noir Spider-Man comes from, you can understand him immediately based on his relationship to a sort of Platonic ideal of "Spider-Man".

These are all highly controlled forms of conveying the idea of "current day information density" without actually wallowing in actual current day information density. What's remarkable about Lucky☆Star is both that it actually does engage with the incredibly niche memes of its exact moment in time, but that it does so through the complete ceding of narrative control. Lucky☆Star functions because, not in spite of, the fact that it has no protagonist, no plot. It doesn't even have situations, like an episodic sitcom. It is not especially concerned with being funny, or dramatic, or heartwarming, or any particular emotion.

As a sort of thesis statement for the show, its first episode opens with a six-minute scene in which Konata, Tsukasa, and Miyuki discuss various ways of eating different types of food. There is no buildup, no joke, no emotional payoff, not even any of the references I've spent this entire essay talking about. There is no progression. The girls discuss how to eat one type of food, then move onto the next. In a way, this scene is a more aggressive challenge to the viewer than the niche references it employs later on. It is a complete surrender to banality.

Even within the context of the slice of life genre, which is full of comfy shows about Cute Girls Doing Cute Things, Lucky☆Star achieves phenomenal laxity. Other popular examples revolve around a specific theme that creates a sense of progression toward an ultimate goal; in K-On!, for instance, the girls are members of a band and work toward a successful performance, even if they spend a lot of their practices slacking off. Alternatively, without a clear theme, these shows might use surreal characters and situations to elevate the show above the mundane, such as in Azumanga Daioh, where a main character is a 10-year-old genius in high school. Or, in the case of Clannad, there might be a romantic angle to the laid-back character interactions.

This is all gone in Lucky☆Star. It has been stripped down past the basics of storytelling, akin to an abstract work of art that is three colors on a canvas. (Or four, in this case.) In this context, even Konata's deep cut animanga references sink to the level of banality, their impenetrability both an abstract confusion and a level of verisimilitude that other works can usually only suggest or evoke when they attempt to grapple with the reality of subculture. (To this end, Lucky☆Star is massively advantaged by its adaptation, as studio Kyoto Animation also made Haruhi Suzumiya and was able to mine its cultural relevance without the usual fear of copyright reprisals, in a prognostication of Ready Player One/Space Jam 2-style pan-brand media crossovers.) Similar to the best abstract art, there is an odd, ungraspable power to the starkness of Lucky☆Star's composition; also similar, much of this power emerges out of the work's context. Not simply its hyper-specific 2007 cultural context, which I've already discussed, but also the way it contextualizes itself internally.

Because I lied when I said the first episode of Lucky☆Star opens with a scene of three girls talking about how they eat different types of food. I'm not even talking about the actual first scene, which is a 10-second quick gag where Konata tells Tsukasa she doesn't join a sports team because it would cut into her free time to watch anime. No, Lucky☆Star opens in episode 1 the same way it opens every episode, with this:

The ambiguous 3 cm? Does that mean it's plushy? Wait! The wrapping is a uniform, argh, it's not an act, pooh Gotta do your best, gotta just do it That's time to catch n' release, eek Between sweat (whoop) sweat (whoop) Darlin', darlin' FREEZE! Kinda lethargic, something's kinda comin' out I love you... oh wait, one of those was different Worrywarts, high metal bars Tasty thoughts... and that's enough! The heated body of that flying you-know-who It's what you'd call a normal girlie Am I the only one surprised? Seconds on pork-bone broth ramen with wire-hard noodles Da da da da da! [Several seconds of indistinguishable chatter] Pom-poms cheer squad Let's get cherry pie [this line is in English] Happy fun welcoming party Look up! Sensation [also English] Yeah! Feeling of existence, dot dot small planet Collided and it melted away, in total awe Go all out to sing, shi-ranger! Take it away! I should be the one who'll be laughing in the end Because I have the sailor suit ← This is my conclusion It's only Monday! Already in a bad mood? What to do? I really prefer the summer outfits ← kya! Wah! Good! (cute!) <3 Until we approach 3 pixels, no hesitations please ☆ Do your best, be energetic My darlin' darlin' please!

The lyrics of Lucky☆Star's OP are nonsense, both in translation and in the original Japanese (and if you don't believe that, the English line "Let's get cherry pie" should be evidence enough). At best, they are a mishmash of schoolgirl concepts and oblique anime references, which at the very least is an accurate reflection of the content of the show. But the presentation is frenetic, erratic, aggressively at odds with the show's lassitude, without any contextualizing remark from Kagami to make it make, even in the abstract, any sort of sense.

Likewise, on the opposite end of the show is its concluding bookend, the Lucky Channel segment. This segment also sharply juxtaposes the show's core content, first in tone -- being far more cynical and meanspirited -- but also in structure. Lucky Channel engages in the exact stakes-driven comedian/straight man dynamic that the show eschews. When the Lucky Channel co-hosts Akira Kogami and Minoru Shiraishi banter, the results are either Minoru's physical or emotional abuse at the hands of Akira, or Akira's humiliation as a failed but narcissistic idol constantly upstaged by the unassuming Minoru. Lucky Channel also has another concept anathema to Lucky☆Star: narrative progression. Minoru grows bolder as the episodes draw on, Akira more violent; in a late episode, a mental breakdown leads to the destruction of the set, which remains destroyed in the final few episodes as Minoru and Akira finally and without reconciliation descend into blistering hatred of one another. At the same time, these segments are the location of some of the show's most indecipherable and multilayered injokes, injokes almost defined by their transience as most stem from a real-life radio show lost to time if you weren't right there listening to them as they went live. This segment is probably the most consistently funny part of Lucky☆Star; that's not because its jokes make sense, but rather the blunt slapstick and Akira's dramatic shifts from ultra-cutesy child idol to chain-smoking world-weary industry cynic.

The effect of the OP and the Lucky Channel segment is to sandwich the sedate, relaxed, mundane central content of Lucky☆Star between chaos, nonsense, and irony. Thus, the inner show contextualizes itself as a retreat from the storm of information and self-reflexivity, despite the fact that it deals directly with these topics. The show's indolence renders them harmless, comprehensible, and nonthreatening. Lucky☆Star is a world where the unknown can be easily and pleasantly demystified; the show's fourth character, Miyuki -- sometimes nicknamed Miwiki -- is an encyclopedic fountain of knowledge whose primary role is to exhaustively explain oddities on the fringes of Japanese culture with a polite and friendly smile. Miyuki is clearly secondary to Konata and the Hiiragi twins in terms of screen time, which gives her the feel of a supporting character despite her main cast billing, with an emphasis on the word "supporting"; like a servant, the other three will, after a conversation among themselves, call her to define some term or idiom. (That this obliging sense of service comes from the richest and most aristocratic character of the cast is another matter.) In Lucky☆Star, information is not chaotic and confusing, the way it is at the show's fringes, or in the "real world", but something that stimulates curiosity and kinship. So many scenes begin with a character saying, "I wonder why...?" followed by speculation and finally an answer. In the absence of plot, progression, or even humor, it's this sense of curiosity that renders Lucky☆Star's mundane scenes compelling. And it is their tonal juxtaposition against chaos that renders them so comfortable, so soothing.

As the internet grows older and more central to everyone's lives, as the headlines everyone talked about last week are forgotten today, Lucky☆Star's expression of retreat and reorder will only continue to become more emotionally satisfying, even as its 2007 references become more dated. What I find most potent in Lucky☆Star, though, is the steadily growing sense of wistfulness it fosters, not through any one scene or tone shift, but through a collection of tiny ones. New cast members are introduced in the second half, which dilutes the presence of the main characters and thins the tight-knit sense of friendship that unified the work. The characters increasingly ruminate on their futures (despite the lack of progression, time does pass linearly, and the show ends with the end of high school on the horizon), always suggesting a "real world" of adulthood lurking behind the corner. The show's artifice is explicitly exposed by the Lucky Channel segments, which metafictionally describe the show as "the show" and the characters as "actors." ("They must all hate each other once the camera stops rolling," Akira cynically suggests.) The ED of the show's first half features the four main girls in a karaoke bar; in the second half, though, this is replaced with live-action footage of the real-life actor Minoru Shiraishi from the Lucky Channel segments. Reality infringes on Lucky☆Star at its corners, slowly creeping inward. Its calm fantasy, a fantasy founded on verisimilitude rather than imagination, is gradually exposed as fake, a production. (Which it always was, no matter how real, how relatable it felt. For all the verisimilitude in its tone, these are characters who are more moe than moe, blobs of cuteness and distorted proportions beyond even the average CGDCT anime.) It ends, in the final episode, as the characters diegetically recreate the frenetic nonsense OP, with them all arrayed on a stage, the curtain rising to white light. And even more ominously, its final ED ends with Minoru Shiraishi intoning a few plaintive notes as he faces a lone and level plain.

This is Lucky☆Star's final shot. This what awaits outside of the show's dewy comfort. Bye-ni.

#lucky star #essays #anime #reviews

255 notes · View notes

ilium-ilia · 1 month ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Nine: rooftops

For once, the basement is quiet.

Kyle had shut off the music the moment he saw Simon wander into the makeshift gym—or, more accurately, he shut it off when he saw the look on his face. Severe. Lips pressed tight together and fingers curling with the insatiable thirst for popping cartilage.

The two men sit across from one another with spines curled forward and gazes cast towards the floor. Simon’s boots are beginning to stick to the old cement. The whole place could use a good scrub. Yet as his fingers interlace and his elbows rest on his knees, the only thing he can get himself to care about is you and the conversation taking place several stories above his head.

In his heart, he knows John would never do anything to harm you, but this mess is unprecedented. Mixed up with Makarov, secrets coming to life, a broken nose and a bruised stomach. Simon has always been John’s first choice when it comes to dealing with situations such as these, but now he’s thrown aside. A naughty dog, locked in his kennel.

“Shit,” Kyle murmurs. He wipes at the sweat leftover on his brow as he adjusts himself on the seat to the lifting equipment. Simon’s just finished telling the story that took place at the restaurant—your broken nose, Aelin’s injury and pregnancy—and each word he speaks only seems to make the man across from him grow more rigid. “How’d Chip even get mixed up in that anyway?”

There it is. The big question.

“Her father. And a brutal set of circumstances,” Simon replies bitterly. “He used to work for Makarov.”

Kyle’s brows rise. “No shit?”

“He got killed in some sort of drug deal gone wrong. Lost Makarov a lot of money. They killed her mum when she refused to pay off the debt, then passed it off onto Chip.” Acrimony sears the inside of Simon’s throat with each word he speaks. He’s always having to think about this story. The retelling of your past and all the brutal things that accompany it. “They’ve been houndin’ her ever since.”

People always say that airing out dirty laundry lessens the stench, but for Simon it’s still noisome in the air around his nostrils. He thinks of all the things he’s holding back for your sake. How young you were when everything happened. The way Marco assaulted you in Tsar Trading. How those very pictures still taint his car.

“This other guy. Marco. What’s his deal?” Kyle questions, attempting to keep the conversation rolling.

It takes all the strength in the world for Simon to hold back his scoff. “He’s Makarov’s shark. Enforces debt payments. He was in charge of my brother’s debt ‘n the cunt nearly killed ‘im. Now he’s doin’ the same for Chip.”

Kyle mulls the information over for a moment before nodding. “What’s his last name?”

“Fuck if I know,” Simon says with a shrug. “Why?”

“Intel’s half the battle.”

From there, the conversation devolves into acrid stories and vented frustrations. Each moment Simon spends stuck down in that basement, he feels more of himself slip away into the unrelenting desire for revenge. It’s so close he can almost taste it. This zenith of vengeance. The blood that will soon be spilt, because he knows something like this won’t be swept beneath the rug—not now that John Price knows about it.

Within two hours of being banished to the basement, Simon is stunned to see John walking down the steps to fetch him. His face is irritatingly plain and utterly devoid of any emotion. It makes his skin crawl. He’s a predator backed into a corner, unable to sniff out the intentions of the man before him as he crosses his arms in the doorway and nods.

“Riley,” John beckons.

Kyle wordlessly watches Simon push himself to his feet, attention now snatched away by his boss. Palpable tension arises in the space between his shoulder blades as he walks to John, jaw growing tight with the impending verbal lashing he knows is overdue.

“I’ll do some research on that little shark of Makarov,” Kyle calls out in a promise, prompting Simon to look over his shoulder. “Mummy dearest owes me a couple of favors.”

Chagrin seeps out of every pore in John’s body, and the stench of it washes over Simon in a suffocating veil as the two men trot up the stairs. He expects to be taken to John’s office, but is surprised when the man continues to climb until they’ve reached the access to the roof. Shaded sunlight peeks through a thin layer of wispy clouds, washing out the stone roof. Things look different up here during the daytime—Simon’s only ever come here after a long shift or when he needs to think. The pile of ash from his cigarettes still marrs the ledge.

John walks out before him, toeing the edge of the building, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as he stares at the city. Traffic has already clogged up the streets, thickening the already imperviable layer of grime that hangs in the air, yet he takes a deep breath all the same.

“Brought me ‘ere to toss me off the ledge?” Simon asks in bleak humor.

John’s chuckle is tight and sour in his throat. “Don’t give me any ideas, Simon.”

“Yeah. Reckon I shouldn’t.” Simon lazily retrieves his pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his trousers before slapping the cartridge against the palm of his hand. He braves a few steps forward once he’s got the filter between his lips. “Smoke?”

Looking over his shoulder, John catches sight of the pack, pupils dilating and fingers twitching in his pockets. He only huffs and shakes his head. “I quit when Aelin got pregnant.”

He doesn’t say anything in response. Only grabs his lighter and begins to puff away before he stands next to John. The tension between the two of them grows so tight he might just jump down to the streets himself.

“Chip’s at the hospital with Aelin,” John begins, voice maintaining an impressive amicability. “I’ll pick her up for you after we’re done here. They say Aelin should be good to come home tonight.”

Simon gnaws at his cigarette filter. “Chip’s scared to death Aelin’s gonna hate ‘er for this.”

“No, no, she could never hate her. Not for that.” Head falling, eyes trained on the desolate pavement below, John huffs. “She told me everything. As much as she could choke out, anyway.”

“You shouldn’t ask her ‘bout the rest,” Simon warns.

“I fucking know that, Simon,” John snaps. He pauses, chest expanding with a deep breath as he shakes his head. “I’m very well aware of what bad men do to girls who are too young to protect themselves.” Turning, he’s looking at Simon now with a tight jaw. “Three hundred thousand. Why the fuck didn’t you come to me?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? How could someone like you ever convince a man like Simon Riley to go against his code? To keep his lips sealed for a simple promise over the obligations of his work? He thinks about the look in your eyes that day when you made him promise not to tell anyone—John and Aelin especially. He recalls how he would’ve torn the earth apart if you so much as asked him to.

“I promised her I wouldn’t,” Simon responds; simple, and honest.

“Piss poor fucking reason,” John snaps. “You think I couldn’t have kept that a secret myself? At least I would’ve fucking known. At least we could’ve worked together to solve this. Now what? Aelin’s in the hospital and Chip’s got a broken nose and that’s not even the half of it!”

“She trusted me. Not you, not Aelin, but me. I promised her, and I was gonna keep that promise.” He’s heated. Blood screams through his veins as he tries to cool off, but it’s hard when you’re the focus of the conversation. “She had all the time in the world to tell you, but she didn’t. Even if I had told you ‘n she never found out, I never could have forgiven myself if I ever betrayed her trust like that. I love her too much for that.”

The noise of the city swallows the conversation as the two men stare each other down—each angry in their own right, struggling in a seemingly fruitless endeavor to protect the women they adore. John crosses his arms, suddenly on guard, but he’s the first to break eye contact. Staring at his feet, he nods as he allows the ghost of a smile to flicker across his lips.

“She was scared, John,” Simon continues, softer now. “You dunno how long it took to get her comfortable enough to share any of that with me. Your bludgeoning would’ve made it worse.”

John’s head cocks to the side as he twists his torso so that it’s faced out toward the city again. Arms still crossed, he rocks back on his heels. “I guess love does make people stupid.”

Well, it’s no praise, but it’s better than getting his head chewed off. Simon flicks a drizzle of ash onto the brick at his feet before he stares at the sputtering embers burning at the tip of his cigarette.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” John asks.

The question makes Simon’s knuckles ache. “Yeah.”

“Does she?”

Simon shakes his head. “No.”

Humming, John turns on his heels, fingers reaching out to snatch Simon’s cigarette out from between his fingers. He takes a long, slow drag before he flicks it to the side, drawing out his exhale for as long as he can.

“I’m headed back to the hospital. I’ll pick Chip up and drop her off at your place. Don’t worry about the money. I’ll get it all sorted.”

“John-” Simon attempts to speak.

“You’re gonna have to tell her. Tonight, Simon,” he says sternly. “If I had more time, I could’ve found someone else, but after everything that happened? Makarov’s only patient for as long as it serves him.”

Simon shakes his head, arms awkwardly hanging by his side as his gaze follows John as he begins to walk back inside. “I wouldn’t let anyone else do this for her.”

“Yeah, and she’s worse off for it,” John calls over his shoulder. “Go home. I’ll call you with details later.”

The door squeals as it shuts behind John, leaving Simon alone atop the roof. His eyes wander to his smoldering cigarette before the breeze catches up to him. Spring looms in budding trees and dreary skies, but the slight chill cuts him straight to his bone.

A beckoning song screams from the ledge. Simon bites back the urge to toss himself overboard.

Once safely on solid ground, Simon shoves himself into his car and races back to the house. It’s a difficult battle keeping his eyes open and on the road as fatigue gnaws behind his eyelids. He spent the entire night watching over you, unable to sleep. He kept your head cradled in his lap, and would gently wipe at the small streams of blood that would come and go in the night from your fractured nose. Fussing over you. Making sure you wouldn’t fracture in your sleep.

The weight of fatigue is nearly unbearable by the time he pulls into the garage. Engine killed, knuckles still wrapped around the steering wheel—he finds his eyes drifting to the glove compartment to his left. There is something lurking in there more foul than anything else he has ever laid his eyes on. It is the child of evil. A product of sadism and leaky maw, wet with a wanton desire for trembling flesh.

Simon flips the compartment open where Marco’s sick love letter and odious gifts spill into the palm of his hand. Though he crumples them as he marches into the house, the images can’t escape his view—your wet face, Marco’s hand on your cheek, the way your mouth opens at his beckoning. They stare up at him as he tosses them onto the counter and digs through his pocket for his lighter. The flint crackles and sparks as he thumbs over the wheel, then sets fire to each photo one by one.

He lets them burn until they singe the tips of his fingers, then tosses the charred remains into the bin once they’ve cooled enough. Then, he gathers the bag until it’s tossed outside; far away and long forgotten. A blight finally purged from your life, even if only for a little while.

Your entrance back home sounds just as Simon begins to nod off on the couch. His body jerks, twitching back into consciousness just in time for the door to shut behind you and you to timidly wander into the living room. The swelling in your cheeks has only gotten worse, and your eyes seem to be stuck in a squinting position, but you smile when you see him nonetheless.

Standing, Simon embraces you. For a long while, neither of you say anything. There is only the sound of his heart thudding through his chest and the sniffling of your too-swollen nostrils. It’s as if the stars have aligned again. You, here in his arms, in his home, right where you belong. All the wear and tear of the last day seems to dissipate now that he’s got you like this—his girl right at home.

“I told Aelin everything,” you offer up once your feet begin to tingle.

“Yeah?” This is good. You’re talking, not shutting down. “How’d that go?”

“Better than I ever thought it would,” you admit. “I always thought she would be angry but… she wasn’t. Not at me, anyway. Her dad, Marco, Makarov, everything she just- she just understood. Honestly, it felt really nice to get it out, even when I thought she was going to yell at me. John knows now, too. I don’t know, it feels like now I might be able to… to fix this instead of continuing to run from it.”

Simon nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy tracing your spine, feeling where your skin dips and curves, memorizing how your body morphs into his. You shift, and it yanks him out of his head and into the present.

“Did… John wasn’t too mad at you, was he?” you ask.

“He was upset, but s’all right, sweetheart,” he assures. He leans back, torso tearing away from yours, in order to look at you. His fingers prompt your chin to tilt up away from the floor and it takes everything within him not to fall into you. To not crash his lips into yours and pretend as if the future isn’t fast approaching. “Let’s sit down, baby.”

Blindly, you follow him until you’ve both reached the couch, enervated bodies sinking into the cushions as if you’ll drown in them and never resurface. He can’t take his eyes off you. Not the curve of your lips or the way your eyes glisten in the adust lighting. Exhausted hands rest on your knees as you begin to worry, brows pinching together as you attempt to read the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“Price is gonna gather the money to pay off the rest of your debt,” Simon finally shares once he straightens out the jittering neurons in his brain.

Your eyes widen as you place your hands over his. “Really?”

He nods. “He’ll get everythin’ set up with Makarov. Sooner rather than later, probably.”

Everything shifts beneath your body, causing you to temporarily become light headed. This notion of freedom has grown so close and yet you’ve only just now noticed how it lies at your feet waiting to be retrieved. Yet, just as you go to reach for it, you notice the line. Thin, pearlescent string. Fishing wire. A hidden hook ready to sink into flesh and drag you along with it.

“But that’s not everything, is it?” you carefully push. “You said before that there would be more, right?” A gauche laugh escapes you. “Eating a cockroach…”

“I’m gonna have to kill someone.”

The bluntness in which Simon speaks with hits your gut, sending your diaphragm sputtering as your smile begins to wane. He sees how several sentences begin and end on the tip of your tongue, smothered behind your hesitation.

“It’s how all of Makarov’s debts are paid. Money is never enough. He demands blood with it, too,” Simon continues.

You wet your lips before shaking your head. “I don’t understand—who are you going to have to kill? Simon, I don’t-”

Shushing you, he pulls your hands into his own where he begins to trace your knuckles with the pad of your thumb. “Makarov sets everythin’ up so that two people who are in debt fight against each other. Sometimes he’ll let people volunteer for someone else, which is what I did with Tommy. It’s what I’m doin’ for you. He doesn’t care either way, the cunt just wants a good show. Besides, it grants you immunity. Marco would never do anythin’ to you ever again at risk of death.”

All moisture leaves your mouth, rendering your tongue sticky and dry. You nearly choke when you speak. “But Simon, I mean… killing someone? What if—like—maybe they’re like me. You’d still have to kill them?”

“Not necessarily," he says with a flippant shrug. “They could always kill me. Either way, your debt is paid, and then theirs would be, too.”

“Don’t joke like that,” you sternly reprimand.

“Sorry, baby.”

“I just- I don’t understand. So many people have already died or gotten hurt because of me, and now you’re… you’re telling me that there’s going to be one more?”

His lips go taut. Small, straight line. His mandible flexes, muscle dancing beneath his skin, widening his jaw for a short moment before he eventually nods. “I’m sorry, baby.”

Your knees jerk. He notes the way your body curls forward, weight displacing, ready to stand, but he pulls you back towards him, refusing to let you run away. The expansion of your chest comes quick—fluttering rabbit feet thumping against the ground, attempting to flee.

“No, I can’t let that happen. I’d- I’d rather be in debt for the rest of my life,” you stutter.

“Chip-”

“I can’t let you kill an innocent person, Simon!”

Silence envelops the two of you like rotten flesh over a festering wound. It’s thick. Suffocating. Noisome and sickening. Simon scrambles for anything he can to keep himself afloat—to keep you from crumbling in his arms. Eventually, his head falls.

“Maybe… Sometimes, we can pick our opponent,” Simon murmurs. “I could try to scope out someone who deserves it.”

“Deserves it?” you choke.

“I’d gladly put a nonce or child beater into the ground, sweetheart, and I wouldn’t feel bad ‘bout it either,” Simon says, sure of himself. Then, he pauses, onyx eyes finally wandering back up to you. “It’s gonna be hard no matter what, but I’ll try to make this as easy as I can for you.”

“I don't- I don’t know. I don’t know what to think of this.”

You’re spiraling. Twisting and falling through the floor as the pressure finally forces you to cave. Simon can see it in your eyes. That panic. Tenderly, he reaches for you, hand cupping the back of your head before gently pulling you into his chest, making sure to watch the sore bump on your nose.

“I know baby, I’m sorry,” he coos. “We don’t have to talk ‘bout it now. You’ve had a rough day.”

“I can’t let you do this,” you murmur, voice drowning against the side of his neck.

“I know, baby.”

Neither of you speak. You’re not even sure what you should say at the prospect of one more person dying in order for you to gain your freedom. It’s a kick in the teeth. It’s the knife that would unravel all the hard work you’ve put into ensuring no one else ever got hurt because of you again.

Simon can’t imagine the emotional turmoil. The sickening truth of your reality finally splaying out before you. Still, he holds you tight and soothes you with gentle caresses because, deep down, he knows you don’t have a choice in the matter.

His mind was made up a long time ago.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader

303 notes · View notes

tacticiankate · 1 year ago

Text

Exalted doodles from a little while ago - had a fancy party so everyone got a dance with Emerald (except the zenith caste who was busy going into limit break and causing problems on purpose) 🦚🌙

#my art #oc #character #exalted #exalted rpg #friends oc #lustrous emerald demise #ttrpg

1K notes · View notes

littlefireball · 1 year ago

Note

can you do a fic with Ateez Seonghwa x virgin reader? Where she never even touched herself, never orgasmed or squirted so Seognwha does all that and they go the full way but she bleeds when he goes in but mother seognwha knows what to say to push her through and get her to the pleasure. From their she squirts on him while he goes rough?

🐈‍⬛

I add some settings on it (⁠ʘ⁠ᴗ⁠ʘ⁠✿⁠) hope you like it

ꜱʜ|ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ (ᴀ/ᴍ)

ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ x ꜱᴀᴄʀɪꜰɪᴄɪᴀʟ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.2ᴋ

In a secluded and desolate village, an inexplicable prosperity has taken root, defying all logic and expectations. The villagers attribute this miraculous transformation to the blessing of a mysterious deity, whose influence has brought life back to the barren land.

However, this prosperity comes at a grim cost - the sacrifice of an 18-year-old virgin every hundred years. The purity and sincerity of the sacrifice are believed to prolong the village's prosperity, as decreed by the deity worshipped by the villagers.

For unmarried women like you, reaching the age of eighteen brings a looming nightmare rather than the promise of adulthood. From a young age, you've witnessed your younger brother bask in the favor and attention of your family, while you remained in the shadows, neglected and unappreciated.

To your parents, you are merely a pawn in their pursuit of wealth. If you marry into a prosperous family before turning eighteen, it's deemed a success; but if you remain unmarried, you are destined to be the sacrificial offering.

Growing up devoid of love, surrounded by loneliness and ignorance, you've struggled against the unfair expectations placed upon you. Despite your efforts to resist, you were met with scolding and mistreatment, leaving you isolated and unheard.

One day, as your entitled brother demanded your servitude, you felt a surge of resentment at his audacity. Reluctantly complying with his demands, you couldn't shake the bitterness that had taken root within you.

Confronting him about his reckless behavior with the family's money, you were met with denial and deflection. Your parents, quick to defend your brother, silenced your attempts to speak up, leaving you feeling betrayed and abandoned.

As you were confined to the cabin, awaiting the inevitable sacrifice on your eighteenth birthday, the weight of injustice and abandonment pressed heavily upon you. The darkness surrounding you mirrored the bitterness that had seeped into your soul, a stark contrast to the prosperity that had come at such a high price.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, laughter still echoed through the halls of your home. They looked forward to the moment you die as it meant they could live a new, prosperous life.

Their words only served to fuel the fire of resentment burning within you but you could do nothing.

You often wondered what your fate would be, knowing that the day of sacrifice loomed closer with each passing sunrise. The thought of being offered up to appease the deity, to maintain the facade of prosperity, filled you with a mix of fear and defiance.

—--

Night fell, casting a cloak of shadows over the altar as the ritual neared its zenith.

"Let us offer our gratitude to the Y/L/N family for their generous contribution!" The priest's voice boomed, the family members standing by, basking in the adulation of others, oblivious to their true nature.

Their affections lay with money and their son, not with you.

"Their daughter shall shape our destiny!" The air was heavy with incense and the eerie chants of the priests, their ominous words sending shivers down your spine.

You knelt at the heart of the altar, adorned in lavish garments but devoid of any semblance of joy. Seeing them pretending vaguely, a surge of resentment welled up in your heart. The unvented anger transformed into tears, cascading down your cheeks and saturating the eye mask, yet no one took notice. Memories of the past raced through your mind as the priest drew near; jealousy, anger, sadness, all negative emotions flooding your thoughts.

You felt yourself unraveling, the echoing laughter pushing you towards the brink of collapse. Desperate to block out the sound, you reached for your ears, only to find yourself restrained; yearning to break free, yet bound by invisible chains.

The priest's approach felt ominous, a foreboding presence signaling impending doom. You shook your head in denial, attempting to resist his advance, but the relentless footsteps shattered your resolve. You didn't want to die, there were still so many unfinished tasks; you didn't want them to prosper, to lead a life of luxury… What you craved was vengeance.

“Offer yourself to our God!”

“No! I refuse to meet my end like this!”

“There is no escape, child! Your destiny is to be a sacrifice! It is your duty!”

“NO! Even in death, I will not let you win! I will not make it easy for you!”

“What nonsense is this?!” “Just end her life!!”

With a swift motion, he thrust a sword towards your heart, invoking the deity's power.

But instead of searing pain and spilled blood, darkness enveloped you, wrapping you in an eerie silence.

Panting heavily, you realized you were not hurt. Unable to see anything as you were blindfolded, you could only follow the sound.

"Let me see this year's sacrifice," a voice echoed through the church, accompanied by the slow approach of footsteps, causing your heartbeat to speed up because of nervousness.

As the figure drew closer, Seonghwa knelt before you, lifting your chin to gaze upon your graceful form draped in black sheer fabric.

"It seems good, huh? But your resentment is the strongest among all the sacrifices I've seen," he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip and cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. Nervously, you swallowed saliva and made a barely audible sound.

“Don’t want to be mine? That’s nice, you know?” His gaze shifted from your trembling throat to your chest, where the metal bra accentuated your ample bosom. The sheer fabric did little to quell his burning desire. He leaned in and planted a kiss on your chest. This sudden act made you recoil slightly, unable to find a word.

“You hate me, huh?” Again, you swallowed nervously but did not dare to answer. Hate him? Maybe? Were it not for his presence, you would not have been chosen as a sacrifice. But, it was your so-called family members who did evil things. This was a simple question but you didn’t know how to answer it.

"Speak, girl. I hate it when others don’t answer my questions," he demanded in displeasure. Although you couldn’t see his face, you could still feel his anger.

"I… I apologize," you stuttered, fear gripping you and preventing you from relaxing. Seonghwa smirked, relishing in the feeling of others obeying his commands.

“So, what’s your answer?”

“I…hate…I hate them all.” He raised his eyebrows and said provocatively, “So, it's because of me that you hate them. Am I right, girl?”

“I…” You found yourself momentarily struck silent by fear. But upon reflection, you realized there was nothing left to fear - you were already deceased, after all.

“Yes.” After a deep breath, you found the courage to speak. “If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have been chosen as a sacrifice, and I wouldn't be… disliked.” Your unexpected response caught him off guard, as he had never encountered someone who didn't desire his attention.

Determined to sway your opinion, he sought to engage you further.

“What is your name, my dear?” His tone softened, coaxing you to reveal yourself. Surprisingly, he did not react with anger.

“Y…Y/N…”

"Y/N, a beautiful name," His voice, deep and alluring, stirred something within you.

"Relax, Y/N. Why the tension? Tonight, we shall indulge in my desires. But fret not, for it promises to be an enjoyable experience.”

His touch traced a path from your face, down your neck, shoulders, and arms. The cool sensation sent shivers down your spine, igniting a tingling warmth that spread through your body, eliciting a soft, hesitant sigh from you.

“And I’ll change your mind."

His gaze fell upon the handcuffs on your wrists, your delicate wrists trembling slightly, arousing his perverse desire for dominance. He whispered in your ear, his voice extremely seductive, licking and gently biting your earlobe, teasingly grazing your ear.

"Umm…" A shiver ran down your spine as an electric current coursed through your ear, and your body temperature raised, causing your cheeks to redden.

"You're really sensitive, aren't you?" He licked the back of your ear, the sound of his tongue against your skin stimulating your nerves, making you tremble; his lips gradually moved downwards, pecking at your collarbone, sucking on your fine skin, leaving faint red marks.

“Did you touch yourself before?”

“What is touch…?” Smiling, he held your hand while trailing down to your lower core, and slowly got closer to your clit.

“It feels good.” He guided your hand, his slender fingers stroking your clit with a gentle touch, slowly sunk down to your lower core. As both of your fingers entered your cunt, a tingling sensation spread through your body, eliciting soft moans of pleasure. Seonghwa's satisfied smile encouraged you to explore further.

"Come, fuck with me," he whispered. You felt a mix of excitement and curiosity as you pleasured yourself under his guidance. The sensation of his touch, combined with your own exploration, sent waves of pleasure through you.

His hands enveloped your back, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric, soothing your nerves. Your breath quickened, heart racing as he increased the intensity of his movements, his lips trailing kisses along your neck, drawing out soft whimpers of delight.

His velvety lips teased and tantalized your skin, his breath hot against your ear, igniting a fire within you. Your body instinctively responded, allowing him closer as his hands held you close, pulling you into his embrace.

A soft moan escaped your lips, spurring him on, his desire growing with each sound you made. Your body responded eagerly, the climax building within you, your walls tightening around your fingers, urging them deeper. It was so weird but exciting. You could tell there was something inside your body, as you touched it, a numb feeling surged throughout your body.

"You're doing so well, my dear," he praised, a blush rising to your cheeks at his words. “I’m gonna…oh gosh!” You shut your eyes tightly as the climax was about to take over you. “Cum, girl.”With a final, shy moan, you reached your peak, the pleasure overwhelming you.

"Such a good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek before withdrawing. A pang of emptiness lingered, but his question brought a spark of anticipation to your eyes.

"More?" he asked, lifting your chin and drawing you closer. With a nod and a shy smile, you whispered, "Yes, I want more."

"Good. All I can think about is how good you're going to taste." Before the words even finished, he pounced on you, the cold touch of the ground sending shivers down your spine. He reached for the buttons on the back of your neck, undressing you from the waist up, leaving your chest fully exposed.

He buried his head between your breasts, continuously sucking and licking. You keenly felt his tongue swirling around your nipple, causing a tingling sensation. The wet and warm feeling enveloped your left breast, while his hand gently squeezed and massaged your right breast, occasionally flicking the nipple with his thumb.

"Ah…" The stimulation on your body made you shyly moan, igniting his desire even more. He lifted his head and kissed your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave marks on the skin that were no longer pale red but slightly darkened purple.

He admired his love bites while appreciating your beauty. "You're so fucking gorgeous." He growled like a wild animal against your chest, now it's time to unleash the beast inside him.

"Put your hands on your head. You can't put them down without my permission, understand?" You obeyed his command and raised your hands.

He removed all his clothing, kneeling completely naked in front of you, and pressed against your outer lips, occasionally grazing your hole. His erect member has been uncomfortably constrained by his tight pants for far too long.

“It may hurt a little bit. But it's gonna be fun, don’t worry.” He entered your cunt in one go, making you throw your head against the ground. His huge cock was much different from his fingers and tongue─that’s harder, longer, and thicker.

The intense pain was almost unbearable, as if your lower core was being torn apart. Blood flowed, wetting his thick cock and even dripping onto the floor. Your body burned like a flame, sweating all over your body.

"You're bleeding, babe. Does it hurt?" His voice was soft as silk, gently tugging at your heartstrings in a way no one ever had before.

"Yes… it hurts," you managed to reply through the discomfort. "Don't cry, just try to relax." He leaned in to place a tender kiss on your forehead, his simple gesture of concern bringing tears to your eyes. Despite the pain in your lower body, it felt like nothing compared to the past beatings you had endured.

He kissed you gently, offering comfort without any aggression. There were no bites, no invasion of tongues, just sweet and tender kisses. Your lips met softly, filled with warmth and affection. The pain slowly faded, replaced by a growing desire. You wanted him to move, to pleasure you with his gentleness.

"Please, my god," you whispered between kisses, causing him to pause. "I think I'm okay now."

"Tell me what you want, darling. Just say it," he encouraged.

"I want you to move, please," you requested, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.

"Don't hate me now?" He chuckled at your reaction, finding you utterly adorable.

"Kidding," Before his lips met yours again and he began to thrust rhythmically. The pace was perfect, neither too rough nor too gentle.

"Ah, my god!" Every thrust hit the right spot inside you, eliciting a cascade of sensations. Your body responded by producing more moisture, adjusting to the feeling of his cock sliding in and out.

The warmth and wetness enveloped his cock, driving him to the edge of sanity. Combined with the sucking sensation, it was impossible for him to hold back.

"You're so tight, I can't handle fucking it." He wanted to fuck you as hard as possible, but not now. He needed you adjust first. He could see your past─what you have endured, how your so-called family treated you. Horrible memories invaded his mind, and although he wasn't frightened by them, he felt pity for you.

“oh my pretty.” He moved faster but not rough at all. His wet chest pressed against yours, letting you feel his strong muscles and physique. Oh shit, you loved this feeling so much, you felt so tiny under his frame. The pain you felt before has already disappeared far away and replaced by endless pleasure and lust.

Settling your legs around his waist, he entered deeper and you bent even more. He first pulled out a bit, and then pushed in fully, repeated over and over again. Every time he thrust deep, he couldn’t help but whimper as he saw how your chest shook from his movement.

“Moan for me, my doll.” You obeyed his words and moaned loudly, accompanied by the sound of skin slapping, forming a beautiful melody in Seonghwa 's ears. He pulled you up, making you sit on his thighs. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he thrust upward that made you throw your head.

Following his movement, you bounced in a slow pace. He trailed down to cup your ass cheeks to pull you closer. Your lips met again as he leaned down to kiss you. This kiss was like the breeze blowing through the petals, full of tenderness, giving you a numbness.

Seonghwa placed you back to the ground gently before turning you over. "Want me to be rough?" "Be rough with me, my god." In the momentary withdrawal, he turned you over directly, and once again entered from behind. His hands pressed against your waist, controlling the movement of your body back and forth, causing your breasts to violently shake.

“Ahh, please, keep going.” “Of course, my little whore.” He cupped your breast while squeezing your nipples and showered your nape with kisses. The scent of you fills his nostrils, very tempting.

He gradually lost control and snapped into your ass with only raw emotion. Sat up straight again to push himself even closer to your limit. He could feel his cock twitch every time he went deep and you moaned loudly. He was going to cum but he wanted you cum first. He needed it, needed to feel your warmth once again wrapped up his cock.

“Baby, I want you cum, cum for my cock. I need you.” His words and thrusting made you dizzy. Everything was overwhelming. You totally lost in the pleasure as he kept sinking down to hit your g spot.

“Hmmmm…Ahhh…please.” There was one more step to reach your climax. Seonghwa knew it as he slid down his hand to your clit. He continued to thrust while stroking, pushing you to climax.

The stimulation all over your body was like an electric current, which not only sent shivers down your spine, but also made the flame of desire in your body bursted out.

You found that the more you press down on your waist, the deeper his cock could go. Desire had already replaced your thinking. You lowered your body as much as possible and spread your legs so that you could reach climax as his arching member deep inside you.

“Your pussy feels amazing, you do that so well. Cum for me, babe.” ”Ah~my god~” You squirted with a high-pitched groan and Seonghwa came after a few thrusts. Your legs were shaking like a leaf and knees went weak. You fell to the ground, out of breath, your body having been drained of all your strength by lust.

“Are you okay, babe?” Seonghwa gently turned you over and took off your blindfold. The sudden light hitting your eyes made you very uncomfortable, but you quickly adapted. A handsome face came into view, and you could finally see Seonghwa 's appearance.

“I’m fine, my god.” He brushed your hair, gave you a loving smile and slowly picked you up before withdrawing from you. His hand trailed down to caress your lower core, full of his seeds. “Not hurt at all, hm?” You shook your head and replied to him with a smile. He chuckled at your smile, pulling you closer to rest on his shoulder.

“You’re mine now. No one will hurt you.” Seonghwa patted your head and pecked on it, making your tears welled up your eyes. Oh, maybe he was truly a god that loved his people…no, or I should say, his sacrifice. Who tells him love having sex so much?

But there was one thing he couldn't lie about. He was a little heartbroken when he found out about your past. At the very beginning, he thought that was only an illusion but his feelings toward you gradually changed. You seemed to be different from those girls he met.

-----

“Darling?" He called you darling every time because he found you liked this name.

“Yes, hwa?" You turned around to give him a peck.

“I killed all the people you hated. Did I do well?” He wrapped his arms around your waist while inhaling your scent. Your eyes widened a bit as you never expected that he would slaughter the whole village.

"You killed them...?"

"Yes, darling. I can do anything you want because I am your God."

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez smut #ateez x female reader #ateez x reader #ateez x y/n #ateez imagines #ateez oneshot #ateez seonghwa #seonghwa smut

597 notes · View notes

greenwitchfromthewoods · 11 months ago

Text

the arrangement. [part 2] l General Marcus Acacius

[PART 1]

Summary: you have to ask General Acacius for help and you know that only one thing can convince him

Warnings: +18, smut, unprotected sex (don't do that), breeding kink, mentions of death and blood, a bit of sadness

A/N: i didn't plan a part two, but - here it is! if i disappointed anyone's expectations, i apologize. here i tag people who requested it @hidden-poet @stormseyer . have mercy on me.

Crowds of people looking for good entertainment gathered in the coliseum that hot day. You never liked this place, but your position obliged you to appear there, especially when you were invited by prominent people of Rome. It was the same this time.

You hadn't spoken to Marcus since your last meeting a few days earlier. You carried out his orders as he asked you to. Despite the pain, you appeared in the city, you also received a few guests, no one guessed that your heart was shaking. You also didn't meet General Acacius anywhere. You couldn't and didn't want to expose him to any consequences if it turned out that the Emperor would also look at you unfavorably.

"Lady Y/N, I’m delighted to see you here." the voice of one of the senators tore you from your thoughts.

"The pleasure is mine, Senator." you replied, nodding your head slightly. "Wonderful weather for the games, don't you think?"

"Wine, food and beautiful company are enough for me, games are an addition and a whim of the Emperor." the man laughed "I was hoping to see you here. The latest rumors about your... ekhm... slave. Outrageous."

"Thank you. Fortunately, the law is clear."

"Right, right!" the senator took a sip of wine. "Each of us should know our place."

"Wise words, Senator."

The lodge was filling up with more guests invited by the Emperor. More greetings and smiles, the clinking of goblets and laughter. Excitement was reaching its zenith.

"General Acacius!"

A nervous shiver ran through your body, but you decided to only cast a quick glance at the man who had joined the guests. Dressed in white and gold, his skin touched by the sun, his dark hair with a few silver strands gleamed in the rays of the sun. General Marcus Acacius looked like one of the gods' favorites.

Only the appearance of the Emperor with his closest entourage tore the group of people who were delighted with him away from him.

"Lady Y/N."

His warm, quiet voice touched you gently like a pleasant evening wind.

"General." You curtsied slightly to pay him respect.

Your gazes met, and his slight movement of the head gave you more answers than all the words he had spoken could. In one moment, you ran out of breath, and your eyes stung from the tears filling them.

"Don't show it. They're watching." Marcus said, standing so close to you to shield you from prying eyes for a moment, his hand lightly grabbed your arm, this gesture was the only tenderness he could afford in that situation.

It was the first time he had seen you so broken and his heart couldn't bear it. He wanted to take you in his arms, let you hide in his embrace and protect you from all this evil and despair.

However, all he could do was give you a few moments to put yourself back together and show an unwavering face again. But not a single tear scratched your cheek.

"I am grateful to the Gods for seeing you healthy and strong."

Although Marcus could hear a slight tremor in your voice, the people around you couldn't do that.

"Your words, my lady, are the greatest grace." He replied, taking your hand in his and kissing the back of it tenderly. "I’m grateful that I can feast my eyes on your sight today."

He saw you part your lips to say something, but the sound of trumpets tore you away. The show had begun, and Marcus could only pray that you would hold on.

His dark eyes were on you almost the entire time. He could see you clearly, you were like a statue of a goddess in one of the temples. Unwavering, strong, with a mysterious smile that appeared on your lips whenever one of the guests spoke to you. Only once did he see a crack in that wonderful facade—when Margo appeared in the arena and her spirit left her body—Marcus thought you were going to faint, but you didn't take your eyes off the bloody sand of the coliseum.

As guests and spectators began to leave the coliseum, he stood by your side again.

"My lady, do you have someone who could take you home safely?" You seemed distracted to him, and your gaze was absent. "Let me take you to my place. I don't want you to be alone."

"General... Marcus..." his name on your lips sounded like the sweetest melody to him. "Thank you, but I can't..."

"Don't make me beg you here," he whispered. "Please."

After a moment of thought, you nodded and let him lead you to the exit.

General Acacius's house was a quiet and peaceful place. The evening air was cooler and a pleasant gentle breeze blew through the open shutters, filling the rooms.

Marcus made sure that the servants prepared a bath for you and didn't bother you even when you dismissed the women accompanying you to be alone. This was your time, and he wanted to give you as much of it as you needed.

"Marcus..."

He looked up and saw you standing in the doorway of his chamber.

A silk robe gently wrapped around your still damp body. Your gaze was full of pain, but you looked at him gently.

"Y/N, please." he began, approaching you. "I beg your forgiveness, I couldn't do anything. I tried to talk to the Emperor, but I couldn't do anything. He didn't care about her, and our involvement..."

"Shhh..." your delicate hand tenderly stroked his rough cheek. "I have to thank you, Marcus. For everything you..."

"I didn't do anything! I couldn't!" he interrupted you sharply.

"But you tried. I believe in it. I couldn't demand it of you. I don't know what I was thinking, asking you to risk so much for me..."

"I would give my life for you, you know that."

Your hand slid down his neck and rested on his chest. You felt his heart beating hard, his chest heaving with each breath.

"I know Margo was reconciled with her fate. I could feel it looking at her. She was strong, but calm." your voice was calm "Maybe you won't understand this, but she was my best friend. For years. She was devoted and loyal to me. I just wish she didn't suffer."

"Death came for her quickly. Now she's calm and safe."

"Thank you, Marcus."

His hands stroked your shoulders, and his lips kissed your temples lightly. His closeness seemed as natural to you as never before.

"Stay here tonight. I don't want you to be alone with all this." He said, and when you opened your mouth to say something, he added "I know you can, you're a strong woman, but today you don't have to be like that. Let me take care of you."

His eyes were so sweetly apologetic, you knew he would take on everything you felt just to make you feel better.

"You can take my chambers. You'll find comfort worthy of a queen there."

"Marcus..."

"I won't even touch you with a finger. You're safe with me."

"I know."

You trusted Marcus completely. Even when he walked you to his chambers, he didn't insist, nor did he make any move to suggest that he wanted to go there with you. It was you who, before leaving, kissed his lips gently. No words. They weren't needed.

But sleep wasn't a pleasant escape. The minutes passed, and you still felt wide awake. You weren't sure if you had slept for even a few moments. The house was quiet, only the cicadas in the garden keeping you company during the next few sleepless minutes.

No one heard your footsteps. You quietly left the bedroom and made your way through the darkened corridors to the room where Marcus slept that night. The door opened and you slipped inside.

The room was a bit smaller than the bedroom Marcus left you in, but you could smell the same pleasant scent of jasmine and burning candles that brightened the interior. You saw him sitting in an armchair with the shutters open. You thought he was dozing, but when your hand slipped into his tousled hair he stirred restlessly.

"Have mercy on me." he whispered, turning slightly and spotting you behind him. "You would be the perfect assassin, sneaking up on me so silently."

"Is that a compliment?" you asked, a faint smile appearing on your lips.

"I'm completely defenseless around you, so yes, it's a compliment." he replied. "You can't sleep. Me too."

"This house is so quiet and peaceful." you sighed quietly as he took your hand and touched it with his lips, standing up. "I feel like I don't know the words to thank you for what you did for me, then and now."

"I didn't do anything, Y/N."

"You were my rock, Marcus. That's more than anyone else has done."

"But I couldn't save you from the pain."

"Can either of us do that?"

He stared at you intently. His eyes were full of sadness and tenderness. Maybe that night gave you courage, maybe what Marcus did made your heart open to him. But you felt so safe with him that you wanted to be even closer to this man.

You didn't push away his hand that stroked your cheek. It was a relief for his heart.

"I'm ready to fulfill my promise, Marcus." You said calmly. "I'll stay with you in this house, we'll fill its quiet rooms with the laughter of children."

"Don't say that if you don't mean it." He replied, taking your face in his hands. "I couldn't do anything against your will."

"But it's my will, it's what I want. My heart has always been yours, but I was afraid."

"What were you afraid of, love?"

"War. Death. Enslavement. You were the image of all of this." He closed his eyes, probably guessing it. "So I was unavailable to you. I wanted to get rid of this feeling, but you never made it easy for me. You were my daily fear and night dream. Everything I feared and desired. I was sure that you only desired my body..."

"I don't deserve you. I don't deserve even one of your glances, love."

"So why am I here? This is what I wanted. I want you."

You took his hand and slid it down to your chest. Only a thin layer of silk that separated his hand from your soft and delicate breast. When he squeezed it lightly and saw how you parted your lips, he was sure that grace had descended on him.

His lips collided with yours in a kiss, and his warm tongue slipped between your lips, caressing you tenderly. He absorbed you with his presence, and you submitted to him humbly. You clung to his strong body, feeling his desire grow.

The silk robe that wrapped around your body slid to the floor. You stood naked before him, his eyes adoring you.

"You'll make me the happiest man in the world by letting me love you." he whispered.

"I allow you, Marcus."

In an instant his lips were on yours again, kissing you passionately and hard, and before you knew it you were already in his strong arms as he lifted you up and carried you towards the bed.

You felt the cool sheets beneath you, and then your eyes stopped at Marcus. He took off his toga. His body looked like it was created by hands and in the likeness of gods. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. You noticed a few scars on his skin, but they didn't destroy his image. And finally his hard cock, so ready for you.

He covered you with his body, his lips roamed over your stomach and chest, showering your body with kisses. Warm lips found your nipple and closed on it, you felt his tongue teasing you sweetly. Your body arched, and Marcus' strong arm slid under you and you knew you wouldn't get out of this delicious trap.

The tip of his cock teased your entrance, and you felt yourself getting wetter with each of his movements.

"Tell me you want me, please." he whispered, kissing your neck. "I'm begging you."

"I want you, Marcus. I need you more than air. Make me yours."

He groaned painfully, kissing your lips. Strong hands gripped your hips to position you the way he wanted you.

His tip slowly slid into you, filling you completely. You caught your breath, trying to get used to the feeling of Marcus being inside you. He must have felt the same, because you could hear his slow breathing as he buried his face in your hair.

"It's wonderful to feel you." he whispered, looking at you, his eyes as dark as ever before. "I've wanted you for so long."

"And you have me."

One strong movement of his hips, a quiet moan escaped your lips. Gods, he would give his life for that. He began to move faster, more rhythmically, feeling your pussy take all of him. He tightened his grip on your thigh, afraid that he would hurt you, but you didn't even flinch. Your fingers intertwined in his hair, pulling him closer, kissing him like you needed him to be able to breathe, and with each thrust he heard those sweet sighs escaping your throat.

He felt like a barbarian destroying something as beautiful and sacred as you. But you wanted him. He felt it in your every move, saw it in your every look. You wanted him.

"Marcus, please..."

Your velvet walls squeezed his cock harder and harder, and he knew he wouldn't last long. He'd wanted you for so long. But he wanted to see it. A few more hard thrusts and he saw your body arch in the rush of pleasure flooding your body. Your nails dug into his shoulders, and you bit your lip, feeling like you were about to fall apart. But his arms held you tight and steady. You were safe.

And Marcus didn't slow down. The way you squeezed his cock made him closer, and his movements were faster and harder now. You could feel his sweaty body against you, his quickened breath.

"Fill me, Marcus... Let me carry your child." You whispered in his ear.

He came with a loud groan, digging his fingers into your thighs so hard that you were sure you'd see bruises there the next day. Warm streams filled you to the brim.

Marcus made you his. He filled you with his seed, you'd be full of his child. If not now then soon, you were sure of it.

"Tell me you're not just a beautiful dream."

His rough voice brought you back to his arms. You looked at Marcus, his eyes full of adoration for you. He looked so vulnerable that you began to understand what he meant by calling you the perfect assassin.

Even though you were the one who promised him your devotion and loyalty, you were both on the same page.

"What if I was just a dream?" you asked, stroking his cheek tenderly, his cock was still inside you, you could stay like that all night.

"I don't want to wake up then." he replied "I don't want to see another sunrise knowing I can't have you. That would be torture."

"I wish we could stay like this forever. I feel your love and it fills my heart too." You saw his gentle smile "Let's take what fate has given us, maybe we shouldn't doubt anymore."

"So you'll stay?"

"I will. I'll be proud to be your wife, General Acacius."

"You'll be so much more." His lips brushed yours in a tender kiss "My queen, my goddess. I will worship you until the end of my days."

And you knew he wasn't lying. General Marcus Acacius was a man of honor.

And he was yours.

Forever.

☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

#general marcus acacius #marcus acacius #general marcus acacius x fem!reader #general acacius #marcus acacius x female reader #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x f!reader #gladiator 2 #pedro pascal #gladiator ii

541 notes · View notes

winxanity-ii · 6 months ago

Text

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 20 Chapter 20 | divine interlude begins⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

You stared blankly up at him, your breath caught in your throat. It felt as though time itself had stopped, the world around you falling away until there was nothing but the god standing before you.

Your eyes refused to blink, terrified that if you did, he might disappear—that this might all be some cruel trick of the mind, a fleeting dream ready to dissolve into the shadows of the courtyard.

Apollo chuckled softly, the sound light and warm, like the chiming of bells in a gentle breeze. His lips curved into a boyish smile, the kind that carried an effortless charm, and yet there was something unshakably ancient in his gaze—a depth that made your chest tighten.

"Are you going to keep staring at me like that?" His golden eyes sparkled with amusement, their light so vivid it felt as though the stars themselves had been captured within them.

You wanted to respond, to say something, but the words caught in your throat. All you could do was stare, your heart pounding as he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely soothing. The faint glow that surrounded him brightened as he moved, as if the very air bowed to his radiance.

Even though it was night, he seemed to carry the essence of daylight with him, his golden aura casting faint, warm light over the cool blues of the evening.

Then, to your utter disbelief, he crouched before you. Even in this lowered position, his form towered over you, his broad shoulders and long limbs giving him an almost giant-like presence, much like Hermes.

But where Hermes' energy was sharp and quick, Apollo's was steady and calm, like the sun at its zenith. His crown of laurel leaves gleamed faintly, their delicate edges catching the moonlight, and the soft rose of his cheeks seemed to glow against his pale, flawless skin.

"Much better. I'd hate to think I frightened you, little muse."

The words sent a shiver through you, the term of endearment catching you off guard. You felt your lips part, a small, breathless sound escaping, but you still couldn't find your voice.

Apollo smiled again at your silence, tilting his head slightly as he studied you. His hair, golden and shimmering as it fell in soft waves around his face, and you couldn't help but notice how the faintest movement seemed to catch the light as though the strands themselves were alive. His expression was warm, unhurried, and his presence—though immense—carried no malice. Only kindness. Only care.

"I've always watched over you, you know," he said, his voice impossibly soft, as though he were sharing a secret meant only for you.

Your heart stuttered at his words, the weight of them pressing against your chest. "W-Watched over me?" you managed finally, your voice barely more than a whisper. Your gaze flickered uncertainly, confusion clouding your features. "Why?"

"Because," he said simply, reaching out slowly. His hand—large but gentle—hovered near your face, as though he were giving you time to pull away. When you didn't, he brushed his fingertips lightly against your cheek, the touch sending a jolt of warmth through your skin. His smile deepened as he continued, "You've always been my little muse."

The term repeated, softer this time, and it felt like it settled somewhere deep within you. Your breath caught again, your mind racing to process the sheer weight of what he was saying. Apollo—the god of music, poetry, and light—has been watching over me? The thought felt too big, too surreal to grasp, and yet there he was, looking at you with a fondness that made it impossible to doubt.

"But... why me?" You swallowed hard, your voice trembling slightly as you struggled to find the right words. "I'm just... no one."

Apollo tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing slightly in a mix of confusion and concern. "No one?" he echoed. "What could you possibly mean by that, my little muse?"

Your chest tightened under the weight of his gaze, the warmth in his tone both comforting and overwhelming. You dropped your eyes to the lyre in your lap, tracing its intricate design as if the act might steady your racing thoughts.

"It's just..." You hesitated, swallowing against the lump in your throat. "I'm no one special. I'm just a handmaiden. A servant. I've made mistakes. I've... failed people." The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, and your voice cracked as you added, "How could I possibly carry what you're asking of me?"

Apollo's expression shifted, a flicker of something—sadness, perhaps—crossing his features before he leaned closer. His presence felt even more radiant now, his warmth a stark contrast to the chill creeping into your chest.

"You speak of failures as if they define you, but they do not. Your light shines not in spite of your mistakes but because you rise after them. Because you endure."

His words struck something deep within you, but the doubts lingered. "But what if I can't? What if I'm not enough?" Your head fell, staring at the ground, unable to meet his eyes.

Apollo reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your chin as he guided your gaze back to his. His golden eyes burned with a quiet intensity, their light impossibly steady.

"You are more than enough," he said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "You always have been. The world sees a handmaiden, perhaps, but I see the muse who can shape it with her voice, her music, her heart. You are a melody the world cannot do without, a light that reaches even where shadows try to reign."

The sincerity in his voice struck you like a chord perfectly played, resonating through your very being. Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time, they weren't born of fear or anger. They were something else entirely—an overwhelming mix of gratitude, disbelief, and something dangerously close to hope.

Apollo tilted his head, his amber eyes holding yours as though he were waiting for you to believe him. The warmth in his expression softened slightly, replaced by a faint furrow in his brow as though a thought had just occurred to him. "Do you not recall my blessings?"

Your brow furrowed as his words settled over you, their meaning slipping just out of reach.

Earlier, you and Telemachus had already gone over what seemed the most obvious gift—the effortless way music had always flowed through you, the way instruments seemed to sing under your touch. It had been undeniable, yet even then, the rest had felt fragmented and unclear.

"I..." you began, your voice faltering as you searched for an answer. "I don't know. I thought it was just... music. That was the only thing that made sense."

Apollo blinked, his golden eyes narrowing slightly—not in anger, but in something deeper, something searching. It was as though you had spoken a riddle he had not expected. He said nothing for a long moment, simply watching you, studying you. His fingers, still resting under your chin, remained unmoving, but there was a new weight in his gaze.

A frown ghosted over the sun god's lips, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something strange beneath his golden radiance—hesitation, uncertainty. Not at you, but at the notion itself. As if the idea that you didn't know had never once crossed his mind.

When you spoke, your voice was quiet, contemplative. "There were... more?"

Apollo's eyes widened slightly, his surprise evident. "Of course, my little muse," he said, his tone gentle yet tinged with something deeper. "I have constantly blessed you..."

He trailed off. His sentence, smooth and effortless as all things about him, suddenly cut itself short as though a realization had struck him mid-thought. His golden glow, steady and warm, sharpened slightly at the edges.

For a moment, his perfect face scrunched into an expression that was almost unrecognizable—distaste, perhaps even anger. His brows knit together, his jaw tightening in a way that made his glow seem fiercer, harsher. Not at you, no—it was something else, something beneath the surface.

You shrank back slightly, unsure of what had sparked the shift, but just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. His features smoothed, his golden light softening, as though he had caught himself slipping into something he hadn't meant to show.

The smile that returned to his lips was gentle, reassuring, but there was something lingering behind it, something unreadable. A question he did not voice.

"Do not worry," he said softly, his voice like the first notes of a lullaby. "Whatever confusion lingers will fade in time."

Before you could respond, he lowered himself gracefully to the grass beside you. The sheer radiance of his presence felt overwhelming, but there was something disarming about the way he settled himself at your side, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee.

His warmth was immediate, an almost tangible heat that seeped into the air around him and chased away the coolness of the night. It wasn't oppressive—it was comforting, like the gentle rays of morning sunlight breaking through a chill.

You could feel it in the way the grass seemed to brighten under his weight, in the faint shimmer of light that clung to him even in stillness.

Apollo turned his gaze to you, his smile softening further as he rested an arm loosely on his raised knee. "You don't need to carry all these questions alone. I have been with you from the very beginning, and I will not leave you now."

His closeness felt surreal, his golden presence so overwhelming yet strangely calming. You glanced down at the lyre resting in the grass between you, its faint hum now blending with the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. The connection between you, the lyre, and the god beside you felt undeniable, a thread woven too tightly to ignore.

Finally found the courage to speak. "So... why now? If you've been watching me all this time... why come to me now?"

Apollo's eyes softened, and he tilted his head again. "Because the time is right. Because you are ready to see what has always been there."

Your gaze flickered to his face again, drawn to the quiet intensity in his expression. His beauty was undeniable, otherworldly, yet it was his presence—the warmth, the light, the unwavering care—that left you breathless.

"You are my muse," he said again, his voice impossibly soft, as though the words themselves were a gift. "And there is no one else like you."

The declaration settled over you like a blanket, and for the first time, you felt the faintest flicker of belief stir in your chest. The doubts that had clawed at you earlier seemed smaller now, quieter, as though his very presence had the power to keep them at bay.

You didn't have all the answers—not yet. But with Apollo sitting beside you, his warmth and light chasing away the shadows, you felt something you hadn't allowed yourself to feel in what seemed like forever.

Hope.

The feeling settled in your chest like the faint warmth of a rising sun, fragile yet undeniable. A peaceful silence grew between you and Apollo, his golden presence filling the space like a steady flame. The hum of the lyre at your feet had faded, replaced by the soft rustling of leaves in the night breeze.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to simply exist in the quiet, the weight of his words still echoing in your mind. But the questions lingered. The uncertainty. The need to understand.

Clearing your throat softly, you turned your head toward him. Apollo's attention snapped to you instantly with such focus that it made your breath catch. His expression softened, his brow lifting slightly, and the faint smile that tugged at his lips was filled with quiet encouragement.

"Yes, little muse?"

The kindness in his tone gave you just enough courage to speak. You felt your cheeks warm under his gaze as you stammered, "I... I was just wondering... about the gifts you mentioned. What are they? I mean, beyond... the music?"

Apollo's smile widened, and his entire demeanor seemed to brighten, as if your question had brought him genuine joy. "Ah, my gifts. Of course. It is only natural that my muse would reflect my greatness." His words held no arrogance—only an easy confidence that felt oddly reassuring rather than overwhelming.

"First, there is music." He gestured lightly to the lyre resting between you. "You have mastered every instrument you have touched, haven't you? And not just those that exist now—no. You will master those yet to come, for music flows through you like the rivers of my domain. You make it sing, and in doing so, you honor me."

You blinked, stunned by the sheer weight of his declaration before thinking back to every melody you had ever played, every instrument you had held. It had felt natural, yes, but you had never considered what it truly meant.

"And your voice," Apollo continued, his gaze unwavering. "It rivals even the most revered singers in history. Orpheus himself would weep to hear you."

Your eyes widened at the comparison, lips parting in disbelief. "O-Orpheus?"

"Indeed, though even his songs could not stir the gods as yours will."

The words felt almost impossible to grasp, but Apollo spoke them with such quiet certainty that you couldn't bring yourself to doubt him as he continued.

"And then, there is your connection to healing. To life itself." He paused, his gaze growing thoughtful as he studied you. "You have an affinity for medicine, for soothing what is broken and helping it mend."

"Medicine?" you asked hesitantly, confusion flickering across your face. "I don't... I've never made a salve or prepared a remedy before in my life."

Apollo's expression turning almost fond. "Medicine is not always about plants and salves, my little muse," he said quietly. "Sometimes, simply being there—offering your light, your warmth, your presence—is enough to heal what cannot be mended by mortal hands."

The words settled over you like a blanket, their meaning sinking in slowly. You thought of the times Queen Penelope had sought you out in moments of distress, her gaze softening as she listened to your words or your music. You thought of the animals that flocked to you, their trust immediate and unshakable.

You had never considered these moments as anything more than coincidences, but now...

"You mean... You mean that's... part of it too?"

Apollo nodded, the gentle warmth in his expression never wavering. "Of course. You are a reflection of me, my muse. Music, healing, light... all of it flows through you. It always has."

You looked down at your hands, his words feeling like the final pieces of a puzzle sliding into place, revealing a picture that had always been there, waiting for you to see it, and for the first time, you began to understand.

"I... never realized."

"Now you do," Apollo simply said as he leaned back slightly, his tone steady and kind. "And that is enough for now."

The breeze stirred around you, carrying with it the faint scent of cypress and the sea. The warmth of Apollo's presence beside you felt like a quiet balm, his radiance soft but unyielding.

But as the moment settled, a flicker of memory intruded, unbidden and sharp against the calm. Your mind flashed to the courtyard, to Callias' grin and his panpipes in your hands. The frustration of that day—the way the notes refused to come smoothly no matter how you tried—pricked at you, a faint irritation amidst the revelation of your supposed mastery of music.

You turned to Apollo, curiosity pushing past your hesitation. His golden gaze shifted to you immediately again as though your every movement deserved his full focus; it startled you how easily he gave you his attention.

"May... May I ask you something?"

"Anything."

You hesitated, fingers brushing absently against the grass as you searched for the words. "If... if I'm truly blessed with the mastery of all instruments, then... why can't I play the panpipes?"

For a moment, Apollo stilled, his head tilting slightly as though considering your question. Then he sniffed, an almost imperceptible sound, his lips curving into a wry smile. "Ah, the panpipes," he murmured, his tone carrying a trace of something between amusement and disdain. "A curious little instrument, isn't it?"

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

Apollo let out a soft sigh as he turned toward the sky. "It is not the instrument itself,ut the one who inspired it—a satyr named Pan."

"Pan?"

"Yes," he said, his gaze softening as he looked at you. "Long ago, Pan dared to challenge me—a god—to a contest of music. He played his pipes, and I played my lyre."

The shift was subtle, but you caught it—the brightness in his golden eyes dimming slightly, the warmth of his aura pulling inward as though some unseen shadow had passed over it. His voice, usually fluid and golden, carried an undercurrent of restrained irritation, a sharpness buried beneath the surface like a blade hidden in silk.

"Midas, foolish as he was, judged Pan the victor." The words were light, almost indifferent, but there was something clipped in the way he said Midas. His lips pressed together for the briefest moment, and you swore you saw the faintest flicker of something sharp in his gaze—resentment, or perhaps something darker.

"Needless to say, it... soured my view of the panpipes."

The air between you grew still.

You blinked, startled by the revelation. "So... I can't play them because of that?"

Apollo waved a hand dismissively, his tone lightening, but there was something too fluid about the motion, too carefully measured."Perhaps," he said, a glint of humor returning to his eyes. "Or perhaps my little muse simply doesn't need such a crude instrument. Your talents shine far brighter with the lyre."

His words made your cheeks warm, and you found yourself unable to hold his gaze for long. But before you could respond, Apollo leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes shimmering with interest. "Now, enough about that," he said, his voice softening back into that effortless charm, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "Sing for me, little muse. I've heard your songs from afar, but I would hear them here, now, with you before me."

The way he spoke made it impossible to refuse, his tone a gentle command wrapped in warmth. Slowly, you nodded, your fingers brushing the lyre as you adjusted it in your lap. It felt only right to sing for him—a hymn to the god who now sat before you, radiant and impossibly real.

You strummed a soft chord, the notes weaving through the night air like a whispered promise. The melody was simple, one you had known since childhood, though it carried a weight you'd never fully understood until now.

"Hail to thee, Apollo, bright and fair, Lord of light, whose presence fills the air. Golden archer, healer kind and true, Grant thy blessing, guide us ever through..."

Your voice trembled at first, but as the hymn unfolded, it steadied, gaining strength with each word. The notes carried a quiet reverence, your fingers moving instinctively across the lyre's strings as though the music was drawn from the very air around you.

Apollo closed his eyes, his expression softening as he leaned back slightly, his golden aura flickering faintly in time with your melody. He began to hum quietly, his voice low and resonant, a perfect harmony that sent shivers down your spine. His head tilted gently to the side, his movements unhurried, like a flower swaying in the breeze.

You couldn't help but watch him as you sang, his face bathed in the soft glow of his own light. His hair, curly and golden, brushed his cheeks with every slow sway. The faint curve of his lips, the way his brow remained smooth and untroubled—it was breathtaking.

The sight of him—so at peace, so immersed in your music—made your heart ache in a way you couldn't quite name.

When the final notes of the hymn lingered in the air, fading like the last rays of sunlight, Apollo opened his eyes, the golden depths shimmering like molten sunlight as they met yours. "Bravo." His hands came together in a soft, measured clap, his expression bright with approval. "To hear such devotion from my muse—it is more than I could ever ask for."

Your face warmed at his praise, and you ducked your head slightly, unsure how to respond. But Apollo leaned forward then, his hands reaching out to cup yours where they rested on the lyre. His touch was impossibly warm, his fingers firm yet gentle as they surrounded yours.

The closeness made your breath catch. His gaze held yours, unwavering and so intense that it felt as though the world had narrowed to just the two of you. His eyes glimmered, their light flickering faintly, and you were suddenly acutely aware of every detail—how his thumb brushed the back of your hand, the faint glow of his skin, the way his long lashes hovered just shy of grazing his cheekbones.

"Another."

You swallowed hard, nodding as words failed you. Your fingers, still cradled in his, strummed the lyre again, the soft notes spilling forth like water over smooth stones. This time, the melody came more naturally, your voice lifting once more in song.

Apollo leaned back slightly, his head tilting as he closed his eyes again, the golden glow of his aura brightening as he swayed gently to the rhythm.

For the remainder of the night, the courtyard belonged to the two of you. The stars above seemed to dim in deference to Apollo's light, and your music wove a bond between mortal and divine—each note a thread in a tapestry that only the heavens could witness.

☆

On the other side of the palace, Telemachus stood on his balcony, overlooking the endless sea that surrounded Ithaca. The moon hung high above, its silver light spilling across the waves, making them shimmer like scattered jewels.

The faint sound of the town drifted up from the cliffs below—laughter from taverns, the distant hum of conversation, the occasional bark of a dog. It was all softened by the distance, a quiet symphony of life carrying on as the prince lingered in his own thoughts.

Telemachus rested his forearms on the cool marble railing, his eyes scanning the horizon where the sea met the sky. The night air was crisp, carrying with it the scent of salt and the faint aroma of flowers from the palace gardens below. He let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging slightly as the weight of the day pressed against him.

Since leaving the shed, his thoughts had been consumed by you—by everything you had revealed and seemingly confirmed. He had gone straight to his mother to personally inform her that you wouldn't be attending her that evening, that he had given you the night to rest.

Penelope had been startled by the news, her delicate brows arching in surprise. "You gave her the night off?" she'd asked, her tone laced with a humorus disbelief. "You, Telemachus, who so often remind me of duty and decorum?"

Her words held truth, but he'd nodded nonetheless. "She's been carrying more than we realized," he had said simply, his tone firm enough to leave no room for argument. To his surprise, Penelope had accepted it, though not without casting him a curious glance as she returned to her work.

From there, Telemachus had retreated to his chambers, intending to let the matter rest. But peace had evaded him. He had instead paced the length of his room, his mind churning with thoughts that refused to quiet.

The memory of his conversation with Athena weighed heavily on him, her cryptic words playing over and over in his mind.

"Apollo's favored one."

At the time, he had been baffled. He'd tried to piece together her meaning, running through every possibility. Was she speaking of someone in the town? A warrior, perhaps? He had even considered Pisistratus, his best friend, though the thought felt absurd almost as soon as it came to him.

No matter how hard he tried, every theory felt like grasping at straws—until later, when the answer began to take shape.

He'd seen you then, your form silhouetted against the fading light as you moved through the courtyard, your lyre in hand, its golden frame glowing faintly in the twilight.

Something about the sight had stopped him in his tracks.

The plants around you seemed to lean ever so slightly toward your presence, their leaves catching the last rays of sunlight as though drawn to you. Even the stray animals scurried near in a peculiar calm. The servants who passed you smiled, their expressions softening as though they couldn't help themselves.

And then—his gaze had caught on the lyre. He'd never seen it before. In the dying light, its frame gleamed with an almost unnatural brilliance, the gold too rich, too luminous to belong to something made by mortal hands. It seemed to pulse with its own radiance, as though the strings themselves thrummed with something beyond human understanding. The way you cradled it, fingers brushing reverently over the strings, made something in his chest tighten with unease.

It was as if the world itself bent subtly around you, drawn to your light in ways Telemachus hadn't fully noticed until now.

And then, like a whisper over his shoulder, he'd felt her again. Athena. Her presence was unmistakable, though she didn't speak aloud. Instead, her words seemed to echo in his mind.

"Apollo's favored one."

The realization had struck him like a bolt of lightning, both thrilling and terrifying all at once. And the lyre—it had to be his. Apollo's. That was the only explanation.

Yet, even as he approached you and confirmed what he already suspected, the truth hadn't brought him peace.

If anything, it had shaken him further.

It didn't make sense. It didn't fit neatly into the world Telemachus had known all his life. And yet, it was undeniable.

Now, on the balcony, the rhythmic crashing of waves against the cliffs below pulled Telemachus back to the present. The sound was steady, relentless, as if the sea itself demanded his attention.

You were Apollo's favored one. The truth of it hung in the air like a heavy cloud, impossible to ignore. But what did it mean—for you? For him? For Ithaca?

The thought made his chest tighten, a faint unease curling in his stomach. Telemachus didn't want to admit it, not even to himself, but there was a small, nagging part of him that felt afraid. Not of you, but of what being favored by Apollo might bring.

Apollo was a god of duality: life and death, healing and plague, music and vengeance. The same god who could soothe a battlefield with the beauty of his lyre could also strike down mortals with arrows of pestilence. His favor was never straightforward, never simple.

What if Apollo's light burned brighter than you could bear? What if Apollo's favor come with challenges that Telemachus couldn't protect you from?

The thought made his chest tighten again, a quiet frustration building within him. He didn't want to feel this way—this mixture of unease and doubt—but he couldn't shake it. The unknown loomed too large, and the stakes felt too high.

But even as his thoughts churned, a memory surfaced—of seeing you earlier that evening. There was the look in your eyes when he had spoken to you in the shed—uncertain yet determined, overwhelmed yet grounded.

"You're stronger than you think," he murmured, almost as if saying the words aloud would make them true for himself as well.

Telemachus let out a deep sigh, his breath catching slightly as he rubbed a hand down his face. His head fell into his hands, fingers threading through his dark hair as his mind whirred uncontrollably. "Am I... a hypocrite?"

It wasn't lost on him that he, too, was shaped by divine intervention.

Athena had been a constant presence in his life, guiding him, protecting him, just as she had supported his father through his trials. Telemachus had accepted her favor without question, had trusted her wisdom and her will.

So why did Apollo's favor make him uneasy?

The answer came quietly, dangerously: it wasn't just about Apollo's favor—it was what it might mean to the god himself.

Gods, especially male gods, were known for their whims, their desires, their penchant for pursuing whatever or whomever they wanted without thought. History was riddled with their conquests.

How often had it ended in ruin? How often had those mortals been discarded, their lives irreparably changed because a god had decided they were worth noticing?

The idea churned his stomach, his jaw tightening as his mind wandered further down the path he didn't want to take.

What if Apollo's favor wasn't just about your gifts, your talent, your light? What if the god wanted something more? Something... deeper?

His fists clenched against the stone railing, his knuckles white as the sharp taste of bitterness crept into his thoughts. A crude, sneering voice whispered in the back of his mind, one he hated but couldn't ignore.

Yeah, Telemachus, scared she might actually go with him—might fall for him?

The thought struck him harder than he cared to admit his breath catching in his throat. His grip on the railing slackened, his shoulders stiffening as the whisper echoed louder in his mind.

Would you—could you—be drawn to Apollo's light? Was that it? Was that what truly scared him?

Yes. A part of him was afraid.

Afraid that you might find yourself drawn to Apollo, taken by his light, his attention, his divinity. How could anyone—mortal or otherwise—resist such a presence?

And who was he to compete? He, a mere prince, burdened by the shadow of his father's legacy and the expectations of a kingdom. What could he offer you compared to Apollo—the embodiment of music, healing, and light itself? His mortality, his humanity, his unspoken feelings—they all seemed small, insignificant against Apollo's divine radiance.

Flashes of your soft smile came to his mind unbidden, the way your laughter had filled the courtyard, light and genuine. His chest ached at the memory, a sharp pang he couldn't ignore.

And yet, his own hesitations loomed over him like a shadow. How could he fear Apollo's intentions when he had barely been able to articulate his own?

He exhaled sharply, leaning heavily against the railing as the cool night air brushed his face, carrying with it the faint scent of the sea, but it did nothing to quell the storm inside him.

This wasn't about the gods—about Apollo. Not entirely. This was about you. And if he let his insecurities cloud his judgment, if he let his jealousy fester, he would only be failing you—and himself.

He didn't know what to do, what to say, or even what to feel but all he knew was that the thought of losing you left him more shaken than he was willing to admit.

"I'll protect you," he murmured, his voice firm despite the uncertainty in his chest. "From Apollo, from the gods, from anything."

The resolve steadied him. Whatever trials Apollo's favor brought, Telemachus would stand by you, no matter what. For you. For Ithaca. For himself.

As the waves crashed below and the moonlight shimmered on the sea, he felt his unease quiet slightly, tempered by the decision he could control.

Whatever the gods intended, he would be ready.

A/N: hey, winxies! just wanted to clear some things up/answer a few questions i've been getting about my spammed updated. I know it might seem like I write super quickly, but I promise I'm actually a very slow writer, lol. let me explain my chaotic process:

1. drafting: I start with a rough outline of the arc or key events (inspired by my daydreams or random sparks of inspiration). these are usually wild, borderline crackfic ideas or pure fanservice moments. 2. best pick: I refine the chaos to fit the narrative and overall plot of the story/project. 3. slow but steady: using the outline, I write in short bursts—200-300 words per day—across multiple projects to keep things fresh and avoid burnout.

right now, i have a little extra free time because i'm on break and aren't working atm, so i've been pulling all-nighters and diving headfirst into my drafts for absolutely no reason other than sheer chaos. 😂 plus, i have prewritten chapters to work with, which makes the process feel faster than it actually is. but trust me, the polishing stage takes forever—adding dialogue (which is so fun because my sister and I rp the scenes—she's the MC/reader, and i voice everyone else! 😭✨), tweaking paragraphs, or expanding descriptions (which often result in my overlywordy/redundant descriptions, but I'm working on it!).

honestly, each update is a mix of excitement and obsession, and it often depends on which fic aligns with my current fixation—which, right now, is 'EPIC: The Musical' and, by default, 'Godly Things'. i'll get stuck on one word or a single sentence for hours, tweaking it until it feels right. other times, i'll go down rabbit holes researching the tiniest details to make scenes more vivid. writing is definitely slow and chaotic for me, but i wouldn't trade it for anything—it's all part of creating something i hope you'll love as much as i do. so, yeah, just wanted to give a heads up if it feels like i dropped off the earth; i'm most likely just writing haha *releases deep breath*...welcome to my writing process.🎉🎊🎉🎈

p.s. all the important characters are introduced, now, the messiness is about to start😈 see you next update lovelies.... p.p.s i may have another divine whispers ready already, i just wanna ask if i post it an hour after this, will you guys be okay waiting a wee bit longer so i can wrap up my other book kne/ as well as cmiyc??? 👀

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight

155 notes · View notes

literaryvein-reblogs · 8 months ago

Text

Some Astronomy Vocabulary

for your next poem/story

Aphelion - For an object orbiting the sun, the point (distance and time) where/when the object is furthest from the sun in its elliptical orbit.

Celestial sphere - An imaginary sphere of great (or infinite) radius that is centered on the earth and is used for practical purposes in astronomical observing.

Dark matter - A proposed form of matter that has mass, but is completely transparent and does not emit light.

Ecliptic - The apparent path of the sun against the sky background (celestial sphere); formally, the mean plane of the earth's orbit about the sun.

Light pollution - The emission of stray light or glare from lighting fixtures in manners that counter the purpose of the light (which is to light what is below); also known as the waste of money and energy in the form of electric light, usually meant in the form of outdoor night lighting.

Luminosity - The energy output per second from some emitting body such as a star.

Occultation - When one object entirely hides another behind it. When viewed from Earth, the Moon frequently passes in front of stars. These stars are said to be occulted by the Moon.

Oort Cloud - A hypothetical region of the outer Solar System that is thought to be the origin of comets with long orbital periods. The Oort Cloud likely contains many billions of small icy bodies left over from the formation of the Solar System.

Penumbra - (Latin for "almost shadow") the outer, less dark, part of the shadow cast onto a body during an eclipse, in which the light is only partially blocked; the distinct outer and brighter part of a sunspot.

Perigee - The point where (and when) an object's orbit about the earth in which it is closest to the earth; only applicable to objects orbiting the earth (not to objects orbiting the sun).

Perihelion - The point where (and when) an object orbiting the sun is closest to the sun.

Perturbations - Gravitational influences ("tugging" and "pulling") of one astronomical body on another.

Solar wind - (also called Stellar wind) A stream of particles, primarily protons and electrons, flowing outwards from the Sun at up to 900 kilometers per second. It is essentially the hot solar corona expanding into interplanetary space.

Umbra - Latin for "shadow". In the context of eclipses, the umbra is that region of space where an observer sees the one body block the other's light completely.

Zenith - The point directly overhead in the sky.

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Word Lists

303 notes · View notes

evil-scientist · 2 months ago

Text

in an alternate universe Undertale Yellow released way earlier and became permanently lodged in the Undertale Fandom space.

There are a million AU versions of Martlet and Ceroba. Starlo has a few thousand (only 20 of them feature the Feisty Four gang as supporting characters). Chujin and Kanako have a few dozen at most. Axis, Dalv and everyone else are practically forgotten.

We could’ve seen Betty Noire vs Zenith Martlet and Undyne the Undying in Glitchtale. Underverse X!Gaster kills X!Chujin in front of Kanako and she absolutely goes berserk, everyone in the fandom either thinks this was a dumb decision or a super badass moment.

In this alternate future Deltarune contains a few cheeky references to Yellow that may or may not have accidentally canonized the game’s cast within the world

#undertale yellow #undertale #undertale au #undertale fandom

73 notes · View notes

simp4eshal · 1 year ago

Text

Ballroom

Count Vronsky x poc!reader/OC(Arabella Von Jaga) (but she's mostly reader i just felt more comfortable giving her a name)

warnings: obsessive behavior, angst ??, smut, yearning, fluff, lemme know if i forgot something

In the dimly lit study of his opulent manor, Count Vronsky paced restlessly. His eyes burned with an intensity that betrayed his turmoil of emotions. It had been months since he had last laid eyes on her, months of sleepless nights and restless days spent yearning for the touch of her skin, the taste of her lips. His heart ached with a longing so powerful it threatened to consume him whole. She was his obsession, his raison d'être, and he would stop at nothing to make her his. Her name was Arabella, and she was the only thing that mattered in his world.

He paused before a large mirror, running his fingers through his unruly hair, trying to tame the wild beast that had taken over his appearance. His once-handsome face now bore the telltale signs of his all-consuming passion: dark circles ringed his eyes, his skin was pale and sallow, and his muscles were taut with unspent energy. Even his once-elegant attire seemed to reflect his inner turmoil, wrinkled and askew.

He could no longer deny it; he was losing his grip on reality. His thoughts were consumed with her, and his actions had become increasingly desperate. He had tried to fill the void with other women, but it was futile. They were but pale imitations of the one he truly loved. Arabella was his sun, his moon, his stars, and without her, he was nothing but a shadow of his former self.

Determined to take matters into his own hands, Vronsky gathered his most trusted servants and issued a decree. He would hold a grand ball in her honor, an extravaganza the likes of which the kingdom had never seen. The invitations were to be sent out far and wide, to every corner of the land, inviting everyone who was anyone to attend. The catch was that the ball would be by invitation only, and the only invitation that truly mattered would be in Arabella's hands.

For weeks, Vronsky's servants worked tirelessly to prepare the manor for the event, transforming it into a veritable wonderland of opulence and excess. Intricate tapestries hung from the ceilings, gleaming chandeliers cast their warm light across polished marble floors, and towering floral arrangements adorned every available surface. A full orchestra was hired to play throughout the night, their haunting melodies weaving in and out of the revelry.

As the appointed day finally dawned, Vronsky paced anxiously before the grand entrance, his heart hammering in his chest. He had spared no expense, had left no stone unturned, and yet he couldn't help but feel that it wasn't enough. He longed for her to be there, to see the depth of his devotion, to feel the weight of his obsession.

Dusk fell, and the first guests began to arrive, their opulent attire casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the ballroom. Ladies in shimmering gowns and gentlemen in finely tailored suits mingled amidst the fountains of champagne, their laughter and conversation filling the air. The orchestra played on, the music swirling around them like a living thing, weaving a seductive spell that enraptured everyone within earshot.

Vrronsky paced restlessly, his gaze darting about the room, searching for any sign of her. His heart felt as though it were being squeezed in a vise, the anticipation almost unbearable. He had invited every eligible bachelor and bachelorette in the kingdom, hoping that one of them might know where she was, might have heard a rumor or seen her somewhere. But so far, there was no sign of her.

Hours passed, and the ball reached its zenith. The guests, their appetites whetted by the endless feast and flowing champagne, had begun to let loose, dancing wildly to the orchestra's stirring melodies. Vrronsky, however, could not join in their revelry. His focus remained fixed on the grand entrance, willing it to swing open and reveal her.

As midnight approached, he grew desperate. He had to know if she would come, if she would accept his invitation. He spotted a servant hurrying across the ballroom and beckoned him over. The servant, out of breath from running, bowed low. "My lord, a messenger has arrived with a note for you." Vronsky snatched the envelope from the servant's trembling hand, his heart racing. With shaking fingers, he tore it open.

The note was brief, but it was all he needed to hear. In her delicate script, she had accepted his invitation, promising to attend the ball. He read it over and over again, the words losing their meaning as tears of relief and joy streamed down his face. He could feel the weight of his obsession lifting from his shoulders, a lightness in his chest that he hadn't experienced in years.

With renewed vigor, he rejoined the revelry, laughing and dancing with the other guests. He scarcely noticed the envious glances that were directed his way, for he was no longer concerned with the opinions of others. All that mattered was that she was coming, and soon she would be in his arms once more.

As the night wore on, the ball reached its climax. The orchestra struck up a new, haunting melody, and Vronsky could feel a shiver of anticipation run down his spine. He glanced at the grand entrance, willing it to swing open and reveal her. Suddenly, a hush fell over the crowd, and all eyes turned towards the entrance. There, framed by the doorway, stood Arabella, resplendent in a gown of shimmering emerald silk that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon, revealing the long, dainty column of her neck. She held a single red rose in one hand, its thorns glinting in the candlelight.

Vronsky's heart skipped a beat as he saw her, and he felt a surge of relief wash over him. She had come. She had accepted his invitation. With a graceful smile, she glided across the ballroom, her eyes never leaving his. As she drew closer, he could see the love and devotion reflected in her gaze, and he knew that she felt it too. They met in the center of the room, and without a word, they began to dance.

The music seemed to fade into the background as they moved together, their bodies in perfect sync. Their hands entwined, their fingers interlaced, and Vronsky felt as though he had found his anchor in the world once more. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, and the sensation was intoxicating. She leaned into him, her cheek resting against his shoulder, and he could feel her breath hot against his skin.

The other dancers seemed to fade away, leaving them alone in their own private universe. Time itself seemed to lose all meaning as they moved together, lost in the music and in each other. Their every touch was electric, every movement full of promise and passion. They danced until the orchestra had finished its final song, until the ballroom was empty and the candles had all burned down to stubs.

Finally, with a deep sigh, Vronsky lowered Arabella back onto the parquet floor and stepped back, his heart racing. She looked up at him with a mixture of exhaustion and contentment, her cheeks flushed from the exertion and the heat of their embrace. "Thank you," she breathed, her voice barely audible above the sound of their labored breathing. "That was... that was perfect."

He smiled down at her, his eyes taking in every detail of her face. Her lips were still slightly parted, her eyes shining with a mix of passion and desire. "I love you," he murmured, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. "You are my world, my reason for living."

Their gazes locked, and for a moment, they stood there, lost in each other. Then, slowly, Vronsky bent down and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was tender at first, a gentle exploration of each other's mouths, before growing more passionate. Their bodies were pressed tightly together, and he could feel her respond to his touch, her hips grinding against his.

With a groan, he swept her up into his arms, carrying her across the ballroom and into his private chambers. The candles flickered against the walls, casting soft shadows as he laid her down on the bed. She arched her back as he trailed his fingers down her neck and over her breasts, helpless and full of desire at the same time.

Their kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as they tore off each other's clothes. Vronsky kicked off his shoes and shucked out of his trousers, revealing his aroused length. He positioned himself between her legs, feeling her hot, wet folds against his skin. With a growl, he pushed forward, burying himself inside her. She cried out in pleasure, her fingernails digging into his shoulders as he began to move, driving deep inside her with each thrust.

Her body arched off the bed, meeting his each stroke with a grinding of their hips. Their sweat-slick skin slapped together in a rhythm that grew faster and more frenzied. The air was thick with the scent of their arousal, and the candlelight flickered against the walls, casting shadows that danced across their entwined forms.

As they moved together, lost in the intensity of their passion, Vronsky felt a building pressure deep within him. His thrusts became more urgent, more desperate, as he struggled to find release. He felt her body tense beneath him, her muscles clenching tight around him, and with a hoarse cry, she shuddered violently in his arms. Her inner walls gripped him tight, and he felt himself spill inside her, his climax overwhelming him in a wave of pleasure.

He collapsed on top of her, their sweat-slick bodies sticking together, his weight pinning her down. For a moment, they lay there, catching their breath, their hearts racing. Then, slowly, Vronsky rolled off of her, their entwined limbs separating with reluctance. He looked down at Arabella, her cheeks flushed and her chest heaving, and felt a surge of love and possession course through him.

"You are my everything," he murmured, trailing his fingers down her stomach and over her hip. "My reason for living, my reason for breathing. No matter what happens, I will always be yours."

Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled up at him. "And I will always be yours," she whispered, her voice still husky from their passion. "Forever."

Vronsky felt a shiver of possessiveness run down his spine at her words. He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, and breathed in the sweet, feminine scent that clung to her skin. "You are mine, and I will never let you go," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "No one else will ever have you."

Their eyes locked, and he could see the heat of desire burning in her gaze. She reached up, tracing a finger down the line of his jaw, her touch sending shivers through his body. "I belong to you, Alexei" she whispered, her voice trembling. "I always have, and I always will."

445 notes · View notes