#being your true self at all costs

[the-joy-of-knowledge]

25 Laws of power for women

Conceal your goals especially the ones that are appealing. Losing weight, reinventing yourself, marrying wealthy. Instead talk about your altruistic goals - to help children, invest in education, this will chase insecure people with vile intentions.

Do not give anyone your source of power: Was is a book that changed your life? a mentor? a movie? Never give up your secret to success. If forced to do say allude to God, the universe, the a random phenomenon

Use the patriarchy to your favor; we live in a world that is, only associate with men who have power, use that power for good.

Never appear too perfect but be selectively vulnerable when needed. Only share something that you will be comfortable saying. You might say “I forget my keys all the time,” “I don’t know how to perfectly park a car “. But never disclose something you are not comfortable with just because you are afraid of being perfect.

Maintain distance in relationships. Friends are the best and you need them. But if you feel that they are becoming too dependent, see them at your own will. But also the reverse could be the case. Your friend may keep a distance, and that is the way of life. You have got to move on from it.

Develop your own style that makes you unique, beautiful, and elegant. Avoid trying to fit in the crowd of people who claim to care less about their style yet have too many opinions about other women’s style

Avoid male friends at all cost, you will have male colleagues, male bosses, male acquaintances, business partners. Keep it that way. You do not want a Truman Capote divulging your secrets to the world. Do not keep a man who does not fit your standard.

You do not have to win at every game. Pick and choose what is best for you and leave room for others. And step down if you have attained that level of success, do not let the society do it for you.

Trust people but remember that we are all humans. So trust with discretion!

Confuse people with kindness; people are not always comfortable with beautiful and intelligent women. That power is too intimidating so confuse them by being genuinely generous, curious, kind, and passionate.

Keep your strong opinions to yourself.. if you support a movement, a way of life, do so silently.

We all have dirty laundry, wash them privately, don’t expose yourself. Remain silent when people try to attack you or shame you. Whatever is not confirmed is not true. You are the only one who knows all the truth about you.

Don’t attract pity or praise: People who pity you do not help you, in fact they might think that you are weak and could mock you at their annual gossipping meeting. And if you are doing things for the sake of praise you are wasting your time.

Choose yourself all the time; never put any one’s feelings above yours.

Trust your own intuition if you feel someone is being malicious towards you, giving you back handed compliments then you should let them go

Never speak bad of another woman. Do not lazy around gossipping. Keep your hands clean and your conscience clear.

Avoid women with low self esteem they will bring you down. For some reason they do not like seeing other women who are doing better than them

Be careful who you seek validation from. Not everyone needs to be pleased. If they are in no way capable of contributing to your life in the ways you prefer, then don’t ask them for their opinions or please them.

Do not compete with other women, if you do you are only putting them on a pedestal. You are making the the standard by which you measure your progress. If you do compete, begin digging your grave.

Do not give unsolicited advice, do not share the inner workings of your mind, If your mouth is very charitable you better start journaling.

Be well-rounded and interesting. It attracts people. It also keeps you busy because you are continually improving and learning. An idle mind is an easily subdued one.

Avoid women who want to live vicariously through you; they want to know who you know, shop where you shop, befriend who you befriend, wear what you wear.

Pay attention to the source of your discomfort; get rid of them. You tell them your dreams and they remind you of all your hindrances. They ask why are you dressed so fancy as though fancy isn’t subjective. They undermine you interests and goals. They will also be quick to bring you down because they are afraid of your potential.

Do not fear power or please power. When we see powerful people we try to hard to befriend them, to be close to them but you need to be comfortable without them. Don’t push yourself in the name of friendship, do not try too hard to be in their inner circle. Your independence of mind is the most important. Instead become a powerful woman, aloof to the presence of power but aware of its importance. Be an ingenious and intelligent and use your creativity to uplift yourself. When you do so it will be hard to ignore you. Even the powerful will become an ally.

Enjoy moments of solitude. Use that time to develop yourself, improve your body, learn new skills, create with your mind, read widely, become more elegant, then launch yourself.

Remember the most powerful women are the most intelligent. Inspired by Robert Greene's 48 Laws of Power. Use at your discretion.

[comicaurora]

Hey, sorry if you’ve been asked this before, but I have ADHD and I’ve been following your comic for years and just now have started to write my own comic (partially because you really inspired me). But I’m really struggling with staying on the project even when it’s boring and getting myself to work on it in the first place. Do you have any tips on how to keep your brain invested or just to make yourself do the work at all?

I have excellent news, I literally just figured out something really important about this.

So when you're an ADHD kiddo or otherwise have difficulty staying on task in a structured environment where Task is the Priority, the main way people try to MAKE you stay on task is by removing your access to anything that is not The Task. No phone, no TV, no doodling, no going outside, etc. In practice, this just makes us miserable because it takes the boredom that's always simmering around a 2 or 3 and cranks it all the way up to 11. In the same way that you would have difficulty staying on task if you were in physical pain, this crushing existential monotony makes it very difficult to work. The work might get done simply because you have no other options, but it will not be done quickly or well, and it will take a while to recover from how much it hurt.

What I realized earlier this week is I caught myself doing this to myself. I had 42 pages of background colors to do, and I thought to myself "this sounds really tedious, but I suppose I have nothing better I can do." And I realized what I'd just thought, and got very alarmed.

Because back when I was an ADHD kiddo imprisoned by school scheduling and a million little factors that keep children immobile and restrained, I couldn't stop thinking about how big and exciting the world was, and how much I wanted to be anywhere but here. When I was feeling really crushed in I'd pick a random spot on the maps on my wall and just imagine being there instead of my bedroom. This was the impetus behind almost all of my creative energy. I've said it before - anything is a prison if you can't leave, and being in a prison makes it easy to imagine how amazing things could be outside of it. Aurora's initial worldbuilding was forged in the crucible of fifth grade misery. My enthusiasm for art and my creative drive are inextricable from my sense of wonder and yearning for excitement in the real world. Not escapism, but appreciation. Wonders unimaginable are out there, and I gain just as much joy seeking them out as I do conjuring them up in my head and sharing them with all of you.

So now that I'm a grown-up with actual freedom in every way I've been able to get, the idea that I was staying on task by making myself believe the world was small and not worth seeing was extremely alarming. It could keep me on task for an afternoon, but at the cost of slowly extinguishing the thing that made me want to make art in the first place - the hunger to experience and draw inspiration from all the myriad complexities in the world.

So what I've been doing is I've been purposefully and intentionally taking excursions whenever I catch myself thinking "I could take a break but it wouldn't be worth it, it's the same outdoors as always, I'll be uncomfy and unproductive and tired." Because that is never true. Every time I've put down the stylus and gone out, I've been renewed in one way or another, and when I come back to comfort fully recharged I get a lot of shit done. Because it is easier to work on anything if you remember why you wanted to make it in the first place, and it is self-defeating misery to just lock yourself in with it and tell yourself you're a bad person if you can't get it done.

I honestly don't know how widely applicable this is. I have worse wanderlust than anyone I know, so for me this has always been modeled as imprisonment vs freedom. I've also been extremely lucky to find myself in a profession that lets me set my own pace on literally everything I do. But I genuinely believe that when it comes to making art with ADHD, you need to give yourself freedom to move laterally, not just in the direction of obvious forward progress. We don't think linearly in any other part of our lives - art is no different.

[reidalert]

IT’S OKAY NOT TO BE OKAY | spencer.reid

| spencer reid & fem!reader 3.1k words

| content: a case has you feeling helpless and guilty, and no matter who consoles you, nothing helps. maybe all you need is to take a break, but what if the break is being risky with dr. reid?

| warnings: mentions of death/kidnapping, flashback to the case, reader feeling vulnerable

| author’s note: i haven’t written in a longgg time and boy does it feel good to finally get these words out of my head. it feels like a privilege to get my writing spark back & i can’t wait to share all my ideas with you. i hope you enjoy reading <3

| masterlist

feedback and comments are highly appreciated!

You have thick skin.

Well, that’s what you say to anyone who asks if you’re okay.

But after today? After this case? You’re not sure if that’s true anymore. You don’t get affected easily, not when it comes to blood and gore. You’ve homed in on keeping your reactions and feelings at bay when it comes to that… but what happened out there? It’s made you feel helpless.

You knew from the minute JJ briefed you back at the BAU that this case was something you hadn’t dealt with before. Even Agent Hotchner had asked if you wanted to sit this one out.

But you said no. You wanted to get more experience to become a better profiler and a better agent. And it came at a cost.

You feel like an outsider. Like you’re watching yourself from an outside perspective as you go through airport security. The endless whir of machines and planes landing and taking off in the background do nothing for the thoughts racing in your mind.

You’re the last to be cleared and you know the others are watching you. Their eyes burning through your skin and doing what they do best. Profiling.

You don’t meet their gaze. You know as soon as you make eye contact with one of them, they’ll be asking you questions and it’ll make you torture yourself about whether you’re fit for this job. So, you make your way through the long and endless corridors until you’re at the gate for the jet.

The dull whirring of the jet engines helps you zone out. The leather seats are a cool comfort to your heated self.

Logically, it would make sense to let them know you’re not doing okay and that you need some time to yourself. But who are you kidding? You’re a thick skinned woman who can do anything… so you’ve made them believe.

You’re sitting on the farthest seat in the jet, right in the corner away from everyone else. You can’t deal with the questions you know they’re going to ask you.

But apparently, that doesn’t stop Agent Hotchner from taking the seat opposite you.

“I know what you’re gonna say.” You break the silence but continue staring out the oval window. The city lights below turn smaller and smaller as you progress through the flight.

“And what’s that?” Agent Hotchner asks. You’re not happy he’s here, invading your little self-pity bubble, but you do appreciate the way he keeps his voice quiet.

You shrug. “That something has upset me. Or that I’m too in my head about this case. Along those lines, anyway.”

Agent Hotchner regards you for a moment. You can feel his eyes staring at the side of your face as you purposefully stay looking out the window.

Because you know the second you make eye contact with him, he’ll see what’s going through your head. And he can’t.

“I gathered something was wrong.” His voice is low, a nice baritone that doesn't annoy you. “I know when someone in my team is different. And you’re different.”

You fight back the scoff that’s threatening to spill. “And what is that supposed to mean, Agent Hotchner?”

“Just…” he sighs. You’re very similar to Spencer Reid; in a way that you both struggle to admit when you need help. “If something is bothering you, I am here to listen.”

“Who says something is bothering me?” You kind of regret asking that question as you know damn well he’s about to go into an explanation of how he can see you’re upset.

He sits up a little straighter, hands clasped over his crossed knees. “You’re avoiding eye contact with me, your knuckles have turned white from how hard you’re gripping the arm rests—”

“That’s nothing—”

“You’re interrupting me. You don’t like being analysed as it makes you vulnerable. You haven’t eaten anything in the past,” Agent Hotchner checks his watch. “Six hours. Your stomach is warring against your emotions and you don’t like that. You’re sitting in a corner trying to push yourself away from other people.”

“Okay.” You bite out, now finally giving in to looking him dead in the eyes. “You’re a great profiler. No need to showboat.”

“I’m not showboating.”

You roll your eyes, “Sure seems like it.”

A minute or two pass in silence. Agent Hotchner is still staring at you and you feel incredibly small under his gaze. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything.” He fixes his shirt cuffs, acting so nonchalant as if he didn’t just profile one of his team members.

You grit your teeth. “Fine. Today messed with my head. That case was… it was wrong. So wrong that I can’t stop thinking about how I could have helped that family.”

Agent Hotchner leans forward, gently placing his hand upon your own on the arm rest. You feel your grip loosen and you fight back a grimace at how cold his hand feels against your warm one. “It’s not your fault. We all know we could have done something different out there, but sometimes the unsub takes a surprise route. Things like this happen and it’s unfortunate, but don’t blame yourself.”

You shrug again, avoiding eye contact once again. “Yeah.”

He stands, pulling his suit jacket to fit more comfortably. “If you need to talk to someone, come to my office.”

You only offer a silent nod in answer.

“Oh, and Agent L/N? Stop calling me Agent Hotchner, Hotch is just fine.” He offers a small smile and you shake your head, going back to staring out the window until your eyes feel too heavy to keep open.

“Why is there so much paperwork?” Your voice comes out all agitated as you rifle through a stupid amount of folders and loose paper.

Emily peeks over the cubicle dividing and raises an eyebrow. “You okay there?”

You sigh, slumping down onto your desk chair, spinning until you’re facing her side of the cubicle. “Do I sound okay to you? Who in their right mind decided to give me the goddamn paperwork for that goddamned case?” You glance around the wide room, trying to find JJ; this has to be her doing.

Emily purses her lips, “Doing paperwork isn’t that bad, Y/N. I mean, I guess there’s a lot but it’ll make the day go by quicker.”

“Oh, please.” You scoff, feeling yourself grow more annoyed by the minute. You know you need to get yourself in check, but the past 24 hours have ridden you like the Grim Reaper is taking jockey lessons in Hell.

“What’s got Little Miss Thick Skin so angry today?” Derek Morgan walks up to your desk, a hot mug of coffee in his hand. A brief thought had you biting your lip— it’d be wrong to spill it on him.

“Don’t start, please.” You rest your elbows on your desk, hands holding either side of your face as you stare at the paperwork. The names of the family you couldn’t save stare right back at you. Your stomach drops and you’re not sure how long you can stay in this office.

“Hey,” Derek places his mug on your desk before crouching down to your eye level. “What’s wrong, girl? If you don’t want to do the paperwork, I can take it off your hands. No big deal.”

You shake your head, “Don’t bother. I’m fine.”

Derek watches your face and you turn your head to look at him. “If you start profiling me, Morgan, I swear to God that coffee mug will end up in a place you really don’t want it.”

Derek chuckles and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, girl. Just tryna help ya out.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need help. I’m fine.” You scoot your desk chair closer and grab the closest pen, tapping it against the top of your desk to distract you from the fact you have to relive this case just a day later.

You don’t catch it, but Derek and Emily share a knowing look. They’ve seen this before. It’s not hard to notice someone you spend days on end with is struggling.

Derek grabs his mug and pats you on the shoulder. Emily sinks back into her cubicle and makes sure to keep an eye on during the day. If she finds you with smoke coming out of your ears, she’ll go get the fire extinguisher.

Your hand cramps as you write your final notes. The computer screen has turned too bright for your eyes and a headache begins to form behind your eyes. It’s been a long day.

Clicking the pen closed, you lean back against your chair with a deep sigh. You close your eyes just to rest them for a brief moment and scenes from yesterday plague you.

It’s like you can’t escape.

Your heart rate picks up speed. You’re not sure how it turned into a game of cat and mouse, but you’re adamant on putting a stop to it.

“What does he think he’s doing?” You’re standing with your palms pressed against a conference table in a police station in Washington. The projector casts a live shot of the news— a helicopter is chasing after the unsub in a car. The family you’re trying to protect is with him.

“He’s trying to flee.” Agent Rossi says, so matter of factly that it has you turning your attention to him instead.

You squint at him. “You saw this coming, didn’t you?”

He gestures to the screen. “You didn’t?”

“No, I did not.” You grit your teeth, moving so you’re now standing up straight. “I predicted he’d do something out of the blue. We all did. But we didn’t know he was going to kidnap them. That wasn’t part of his game.”

Rossi shrugs, “I’ve been in this job longer than you have, kiddo. It takes experience to know something like this. Don’t blame yourself.”

“What?” You let out a disbelieving scoff. “Listen here old man—”

“That’s enough.” Agent Hotchner cuts through your words, ending your little spat with Rossi. “We’re all here to do a job. So let’s do it.”

Faint footsteps sound behind you. You’re not sure who’s still in the office, but considering how late it is, there’s only a few people that come to mind.

“Hey, what are you doing here so late?” That all too recognisable voice makes your heart swoop. Spencer appears in your line of vision, his man-bag crossed over his torso. He looks ready to leave. “It’s nearly 7PM.”

“Oh.” You glance at the clock mounted on the wall. You didn’t realise that you were doing the paperwork for the Washington case for nearly 10 hours. “Guess I lost track of time.”

Spencer regards you for a minute. “Everything okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” You offer a weak smile, not trying to be bitchy to him like you were to the others earlier. You make a mental note to apologise to them tomorrow.

“It’s just— nevermind.” He shakes his head.

Your brows furrow, “No, what is it?”

“Ever since we got on that plane yesterday, you’ve been hostile.” Spencer rocks back and forth on his heels. “I know you don’t like to be profiled, I don’t either, but I know something is wrong.”

You twist in your chair, facing your computer screen with your hands hovering over the keyboard. You don’t want to talk about it, you just want to figure it out on your own.

“Y/N?” Spencer says your name and you look at him over your shoulder. His eyes all sparkly, his cheeks smooth, his lips… perfect.

You blink slowly. Your head isn’t in the right place, but your heart (and hormones) are.

You internally say fuck it and reach for the strap of his man-bag to pull him down to your level. Your breaths mingle and your eyes dart in a triangle from one eye to his lips to his other eye. And lo and behold, the triangle method actually works because Spencer leans in and you feel his lips ghost over your own.

And nothing.

He just stays in that position. Hunched down in your grip, lips mere millimetres away from your own and he doesn’t finish the job.

You breathe in a deep sigh, your senses being filled with his scent. “Why aren’t you kissing me?”

“I— I think it’s because I know you’re not yourself. It feels wrong.” Spencer's breath is minty as it fans over your cheeks and neck. You want to say something snarky, but you know he’s right. “I do want to kiss you, though. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now.”

You lean back a little, your eyes staring into his pretty brown ones. You don’t see a sign of a lie and your heart skips a beat. “Would it help if I admitted what’s going on? Would you kiss me then?” God, are you really that desperate to get kissed by Spencer Reid? Yes. Yes you are.

Spencer lowers into a crouch, one hand grips the armrest of your desk chair, whilst the other splays across your knee with a gentle squeeze. “If it helps you, then it’ll help me. Talk to me. Let me inside your pretty head.”

You reach out for his tie, fiddling with it to help your nerves. “You know I don’t like talking about how I feel, but this is something I can’t keep to myself anymore.”

Spencer nods, his hand on your knee giving you another squeeze. But this time in a reassuring way. That’s your go ahead sign to lay it all down.

“That case we did. The family where we couldn’t save them, where I couldn’t save them, keeps replaying in my head and I don’t know what to do to stop it.” You take a breath, your fingers still playing with his tie. “If we got there sooner, I know we could have stopped him from hurting them. From killing them. I feel like if I did or said something right or helpful, I could’ve saved them. I hate feeling like this because I know it isn’t my fault, but I just can’t help but feel guilty.”

Spencer stays quiet, letting your words sink in. “You’re right, it isn’t your fault.”

You sigh, dropping his tie and moving your attention to his face. To his lips.

“I wish I could go back in time and help.” You admit, feeling a small weight lift from your shoulders.

“I wish for that, too.” Spencer admits as well. Both of you find comfort in knowing you feel the same. It makes feeling like this just the little bit easier to deal with. “Thank you for sharing how you feel.”

You let out a small laugh. “Thank you for not dismissing me.”

“I could never dismiss you.” Spencer’s voice is soft and warm. His fingers slowly trail up and down your calf, sending a shiver through your body. “Would you like that kiss now?” The smirk on his lips has your stomach flipping and you want nothing more than for his lips to be on yours.

“I would very much like that kiss now.” You smile at him, leaning in and already feeling your body succumb to him. When your lips meet, you sigh. You’ve missed being able to be physical with him; it’s hard trying to stay colleagues when all you want is to be wrapped up in his arms.

Spencer lets his hands travel— up your thighs, round your back, cheekily up the hem of your dress. You moan lightly into his mouth and he swallows it.

Your hands grab for his collar to deepen the kiss. “More.” You mumble against his lips and he complies. Spencer bites your bottom lip to elicit a gasp from you so he can dive his tongue down your throat with ease.

You feel yourself involuntarily squeezing your thighs to quell the ache forming between your legs. God, you’d do anything to take him home with you right now.

Before you get a chance to start undoing his tie, a loud and clear cough comes from your right.

You stop moving but Spencer keeps going. Trailing open mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, you now get a perfect view of Hotch standing outside his office with his arms crossed. You can’t make out what his face is portraying.

“Spence.” You tug on his collar, but he thinks you want him to go further. You feel his tongue lick a stripe up the column of your neck and you have to fight back a whimper.

You’d die on the spot if you let Aaron Hotchner hear you moaning.

“No. Spencer.” This time you push at his shoulders and the look he gives you makes you feel bad. But if you let him carry on, both of you would never be able to be in Hotch’s presence. Ever.

“Are you okay?” Spencer brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Did I do something you didn’t like?”

You shake your head, your fingers quickly straightening out Spencer's tie. “I loved it. You were good, but, um…” your eyes drift off to where Hotch is still standing.

It’s as if Spencer was zapped by lightning. He shoots back away from you, and somehow manages to hit every piece of furniture around him. You want to laugh but this situation doesn’t call for laughing. You’ve been caught by your boss making out in the middle of the BAU.

“Reid, L/N. Care to explain?” Hotch moves slowly down the stairs, his aura too strong for you to look him in the eyes right now.

You twiddle your thumbs. “He was just helping me finish this file report from the case yesterday.”

Hotch looks at Spencer, knowing that he’ll blab the truth. “She was upset about not being able to save them and I wanted to help ease her pain and—”

“That’s enough.” Hotch raises a hand. “Since it’s past working hours, I’ll make a one time allowance for this behaviour.”

You have a big sigh of relief and Spencer lets out an audible groan of embarrassment. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right. It won’t.” Hotch checks his watch and frowns. “I’m late for something. Finish that report and I’ll see you both tomorrow. Behaving correctly.”

You nod your head and Spencer keeps his head down staring at the floor. You watch Hotch leave the office and you finally let out your cringing grimace. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know he was here. I thought he left already.”

“I can’t be mad. I got to kiss the prettiest girl in here.”

“Shut up.”

Copyright credit to @reidalert as of 2024-present.

[vaguely-concerned]

the more I play the more I think lucanis basically knows it's illario who betrayed him right from the beginning (he's had a year in the ossuary to think. not that many people knew where he was going. when you ask him 'did Illario know you'd be on that ship' his only answer is the hardest flattest 'yes' you ever heard). so it's not so much about figuring out who the traitor is (because that's ludicrous. we all know. immediately. they didn't really bother to hide it lmao) as about methodically closing off every single avenue of denial lucanis has clung to that whole time with as much or little gentleness as you might prefer until he has no choice but to admit it. because the moment he has to admit it, he'll have to do something -- feel something -- about it. and that's such a catastrophic event in lucanis' inner landscape (he has had TWO people in this whole entire world up until now and will do anything to hold on to them with a heartbreaking child-like desperation, even at and especially through the detriment of his own self) that he'd rather just. not. what if we quite simply. didn't. what if we just stayed here in the emptiness where we can both pretend you didn't hurt me in a way I should never forgive. I have so much practice in that with caterina already it's always worked out great for everyone so far. (press x to fucking doubt but that's trauma logic for you lol)

after everything illario did, so much of the storm of lucanis' emotions around it is 'what the FUCK did you get yourself tangled up in this time and how do I get you out of this mess safely'. what's worse: the fact that your brother murdered you, or that he put himself in horrible danger doing so and thus exposed you to the risk of losing him forever. lucanis' heart certainly has an opinion here and it's fucking unhinged (affectionate)

the themes of dissociation in lucanis' character in general makes me feel nuts. allllll these contradictory messy things he needs to cut off from each other because they can't coexist or be easily reconciled inside him. but all remain stubbornly true separately anyway and will have their due one day. love and resentment. tenderness and fear and rage. terror and longing. love and freedom don't coexist. the burned out golden child anthem is playing in the background. he was always caterina's favourite and he has to keep striving to deserve that dubious honour with every breath he takes and then, presumably, mercifully, some day he will die and be excused and can rest. and until now he's suppressed all the -- natural, healthy, protective! -- negative feelings that threaten the few attachment relationships he actually has, at the cost of ever actually having his needs for connection and safety met and leaving his core self imprisoned and compromised. and spite goes 'what. no. that's dumb fuck that' (*spite voice* I do not understand that and even if I did I would not respect it) and does not allow him to fall back into that, which I think is what saves his life, ultimately. it took being possessed by a demon for lucanis to even contemplate telling anyone he loves 'no' in any way, but hey. whatever gets you there right lol

lucanis is dealing with the freeze response allll the way down baby. and he was even before the ossuary, that just turbo powered it and brought it to a breaking point way before it could happen naturally. but something was going to break eventually no matter what, and I'm just glad that in the end, through the power of friendship and also pure spite, it doesn't have to be him

[princessbrunette]

ᡣ𐭩 ｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅PRINCESSBRUNETTES SCREAM SALON INTRODUCES … ໒꒰ྀི ˃̵ ࿁ ˂̵ ꒱ྀིა

THE BOY IS MINE ࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

♩ ariana grande — the boy is mine ♩

pairing: mayor!rafe x catwoman!reader.

cw: supernatural abilities, hybrid!reader, a whip, leather, violence, drugging, sexual content, dubious consent.

you are responsible for your own media consumption. welcome to kinktober day one.

mayor rafe cameron was a fascination.

he had a way of captivating an audience, without necessarily being smooth speaking and self assured. there was something… off about him. confident in himself, dare you even say arrogant — but with each press conference his eyes dart around, pupils enlarged, tongue poking out to lick his lips and he would often grow passionate and jump over his words. each night when you’d tune into his speeches on the television, claw grazing the static of the screen you would wonder — how could someone so untouchable seem so… human?

“and uh, to target this rat infestation across the city… we will be releasing the stray cats.” he speaks into the podium microphone, illuminated by the flashes of the paparazzi and press.

“yes, you will.” you whisper, face so close to the screen you could hear the buzzing of the electrics. he was just perfect.

you’d always figured ‘love potions’ were a little phony. how could a feeling induced by oxytocin and noroadrenaline be replicated with a drug? how could it replace the feeling of first locking eyes, or the warm tingling feeling in your stomach when you hear their laugh? desperation costed you sleepless nights in your apartment, failed scientific concoctions upon failed scientific concoctions until you reached a breakthrough. perhaps it wasn’t to be so phony after all, but you had one perfectly crafted dose — and there was only one way to find out.

you don’t like to waste time, so the next thing you know you’re standing in the pouring rain, suited up in skintight black, feeling free. you’d let your true self take its form, fangs glimmering in the city lights and twitching ears perfectly cupped by your suit hood. what was the point in hiding? if all went to plan, rafe cameron would love you for you.

leaping across the skyline, you travel to what can only be described as the most luxurious penthouse in new york city — the perfect place for the man of your dreams to rest his head. you figured it would be harder to find his address, but for someone who could create a love potion from scratch — it was child’s play. you wondered if you could see this place being your home too, resting your head on the pillow beside him, perhaps curling up on the windowsill.

the large window looking into his warmly lit apartment allows you perfect access. your heart pounds so fast with excitement that you think you might pass out as you squat over the view, large pupils darting about the room until they fall onto him. the mayor, in the flesh, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

he wouldn’t think to look up and see you there, watching him. of course not — what human being would be able to scale a building just to gaze through his window? he should have been perfectly safe.

should have been. it was a good thing you weren’t human. not fully, anyways.

you gaze over him as he goes about his nightly business, blazer removed and top button undone now as he looks over papers and sips at his drink. you take a moment to groom yourself, tongue rolling over the back of your knuckles to lay down the fur on the back of your ears over your hood out of habit as you practically salivate over him. rafe cameron was even more gorgeous in person, especially candidly, more relaxed, when he thought no one was watching.

he wanders off to the bathroom, and you take your opportunity, slithering in through the window he’d left open. he always did like the sound of the pouring rain, there wasn’t so much of that back in the outerbanks, where he was originally from (according to his wikipedia page, anyway.)

it had been a rough day for rafe, dropping his glass down on the sink counter as he leans against it — staring down his visage in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. he wasn’t always sure if he was cut out for mayor. really, releasing the stray cats to tackle the rat infestation problem? there was a myriad of reasons that could potentially create more problems, bring disease and an even dirtier appearance to new york city — but he was lost on what to do. times like this, he wondered if this was what he truly wanted to do rather than what he knows his father wished for him.

he cups his hands beneath the running water, leaning down to flush his face with the cool liquid. another problem for another day, he decides. for now, he could clear his racing mind with none other than the beloved white powder he told himself he was quitting. who cares, today was a special occasion.

rafe stands up straight, and before he can bother to fix his messy curtain bangs, now a mess and haphazardly stuck to his wet forehead — he could have sworn he’d seen a dark black mass lurking by the doorway. it disappears as quickly as he’d spied it, and he blinks the droplets out his eyes as he stares through the mirror. he couldn’t tell you what he saw, its appearance too quick for him to comprehend — but it had unmistakably existed.

“hey…” he drawls, wiping his dripping chin with the back of his wrist as he edges towards the door. one footstep, another, he continually creeps through the hallway until he’s back to his large, luxurious bedroom — now the scene at which you sit, ever so casually on his bed. just… smiling. “wh— who the hell are you, huh?” his voice trembles. he’s even more gorgeous close up.

“you shouldn’t leave your window open, mayor cameron. might let in a stray.” you practically pur,

he looked like his soul left his body. you expected that, expected some pushback — it’s why you had the dosage ready, the syringe of abnormal pink potion sucked up and ready to deploy into his delectable veins.

“alright look, i’ve got security armed to the god damn teeth downstairs okay so — so i suggest you get the hell out.” he licks his lips, irritation that you’d even try to invade his space crawling up the back of his neck in a wave of frightened heat. your clawed hand curls around the whip tucked into your side, tilting your head with a mischievous smile. he’s too busy taking in… you to notice, and just as he does you take action — cracking it right at him, the leather coil curling forcefully around his ankle and with a yank, he’s falling.

“jesus— the hell do you want?” he hollers as you drag him closer, closer. you’re walking to meet him halfway now and his eyes just won’t leave you. everything about you is so feline, down to the way you walk— hips practically rolling in a hypnotising fashion side to side. if he wasn’t so frightened, well — he just might fall in love organically.

“c’mon mr mayor cameron, be nice t’me. i wanna play.” you pout, and his struggles stop in awe once you lower himself over him to straddle him, his big body encased by your leather clad thighs. in all honesty, he was too confused and entranced to fight harder. rafe always had that weak spot with women. “hands by your sides or i’ll slice you open, handsome.”

he reluctantly does as you say, but when you present the syringe, he starts to struggle again — so you tighten your legs around him. “hey, hey— wh—what is that?” he raises his voice and you furrow your brows, a clawed finger pressing to his lips, surprisingly silencing him.

“shhhhh, shhhh.” you hush, before your finger slides down to his chin, grazing the skin with your claw. it slides lower and he daren’t move now, the extension of you so sharp that he fears it could slit him if he wasn’t careful.

“think you’re gonna get away with this, huh? breaking in like this?” as your claw slides directly down to his chest you smile, so casually — not a care in the world. you rip his shirt open, buttons clattering against smooth wooden flooring and his eyes widen, just so you can access the skin over the hard planes of his chest.

“you wouldn’t turn me in.” you tell him confidently, and he actually huffs out a laugh of disbelief, jaw tense and eyes wild.

“oh i wouldn’t huh? alright uh— and why the hell not? who the hell are you?”

you pierce his skin with the needle and his jaw drops, injecting the potion directly into his heart.

“the love of your life.”

rafe cameron’s eyes flutter shut, and it’s only a few hours later when he comes to— laying in the centre of his bed.

“hu—huh wait uh—” he croaks the second his eyes flutter open, only to be silenced by a claw over his flushed lips just like before. it was dark now, all artificial lights cut — you always preferred the light of the moon anyway. his eyes hadn’t adjusted and yet he knew it was you, felt your familiarity, your warmth all around. he pants, and you shush him.

“shhhhh, shh shh shh.” its like dragging your fingernail along velvet — soft, addictive, feeling each tiny feathery bristle caress the vulnerable skin beneath your nail. he stares, wide eyed and parted lipped, somewhat aware of the fact his hair is a mess. he doesn’t care to fix it.

you’re straddling him, all of your body weight and yet somehow you’re feather light — knees pointed upwards, the leather of your suit glowing and catching the light.

“you’re finally awake.” you hum, a vibration behind your voice, a true purr — like the hum of an engine. something below ignites, his crotch heats.

he’s overly aware of the fact he doesn’t mind you there, wishing nothing but to observe you for the moment. you lean back, bone coloured claw hooking into the zip at your neck as you drag it down, lower and lower — revealing the glow of soft skin beneath. rafe can’t look away, you’re like nothing he’s ever seen before. you’re beautiful. you’re… beautiful? the woman who trespassed onto his property? he urges himself, with everything in him to fight — and suddenly he’s catching you off guard, gripping your neck and flipping you onto your back.

you seem taken aback, a break in the confident routine as you blink up at him, the colour of your eye no longer visible, overtaken by inky black pupil. as your back hits the mattress, your plush tits bounce with the movement, now nearly completely exposed by your unzipped catsuit, cool metal zip below your belly button. at the sight of this, rafe winces — overcome by his desires and can’t help but press his erection harshly against the mound between your legs.

“the hell is goin’ on, alright — who — what did you do?” he emphasises with a hard squeeze to your neck making your eyes flutter, and yet your smile — all curled and deranged and your canines glimmer in the low light, the purring sound only getting louder.

“dont fight it, mr cameron. just do what feels good.” it comes out strained from the way he’s squeezing your neck and he lets go, sitting up on his knees but making no move to leave. dragging a hand down his jaw, he results back to staring. “cat got your tongue?” you whisper, sweetly amused. he licks his lips instinctually, moving to choke you again, stop you, but his hand rests there lightly — the two of you locking eyes. angrily, he leans down and kisses you, wet and sloppy.

you take the opportunity to lock your legs back round his waist and flip him back onto his back, grinding your crotch down onto his, making him groan.

“thats better, can’t have you trying to kill me again.” you tease before pushing his ripped shirt open to touch his skin. he winces, irritated and overwhelmed when you drag claws down his chest hard enough to leave chemtrails of pink skin down the muscled planes.

“yeah? thought you cats had nine lives?” he grumbles, gripping your hips and grinding you harder on his lap, causing you to mewl — digging your mouth into his shoulder and sinking his teeth in. “jesus— okay.” he squirms, unsure if you bit hard enough to draw blood.

he decided he didn’t care if you did. what was he so mad about again anyway?

[ivesambrose]

PAC : YOUR AUTUMN BLESSINGS 🍁

1. 2. 3.

May the remaining months of 2024 lead to a favorable plot twist for all of you reading this 🖤

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Picture 1

• A lot of you will be blessed with foreign travel to a destination that heals this restlessness in your heart. It seems as though you had been fighting against the odds for so long and have also accumulated so much mental strain and grief because you've felt like you couldn't grow where you're at and you're right. You're going to feel the most alive you've felt in a long time. Don't turn down the opportunities that come your way. • Unexpected wealth or income from an unknown or foreign source. • Venturing out of your home or comfort zone. A change in perspective as well. • The sun rising after the darkest hours of your life. It's amusing that it's happening during fall when things usually wither away that you're getting your color back. You may feel like you're Venturing out alone or that your journey is a solitary one. You aren't too bothered because you're so used to it even as it terrifies you. But along the way you'll find people who want to walk beside you even as the cold threatens to sink into your bones. You might just find your soul family this fall. Perhaps home isn't confined to four walls but rather, the people and the places you've yet to step foot into.

Picture 2

• You'll be blessed with finding a balance in your life that earlier was bound to topple over no matter what you did and how hard you tried. You'll confront certain habits and behaviours that you have and actively choose to work through them. Some of them have been hindering your growth and costing you your own peace of mind as well as relationships. • Improvement in health. As well as recognition and reward in your workplace or emotional fulfillment via the work you do or your lifestyle changes. • Heightened intuition and foresight. Trust your instincts over fear mongering from others. • Possible expansion in social circle or connecting with people you can learn from without being ridiculed. You'll be introduced to people or spaces with a more positive outlook to life and circumstances rather than the ones who have a cynical approach to everything. • A better self concept and increase in confidence. Do not allow anyone to walk over you or be little you in any shape or form. • you may also get the confidence or the money to shop for certain fashion items you had earlier been stalling on or might be gifted the same.

Picture 3

• You'll be blessed with something rather abrupt. You may not even consider it as a blessing at first till realisation dawns on you. • I significantly see a blessing that's financial in nature something that will aid you in the long term. You might be too fixated at things going wrong at first. Please don't do that. When the opportunity arrives please have the courage to reach for it and make it yours. You may have the tendency to worry to the point that anything good happening for you is too good to be true. Thing is you tend to be blessed in rather unconventional ways. Certain things you may have quiet literally looked over for months or years. This autumn take some time to reflect on certain aspects of your life and how regardless of what was going wrong or what wasn't 'working out' for you had been in your favor all along. The more you bring in your awareness to that the more of these blessings you'll receive. • A lot of you do struggle with mental health as well as sleep issues. You're rather artistic however but may have kept your arts and crafts aside for a long time. You'll be revisiting things that have brought you joy in the past and feel happy this time instead of feeling performative. • Lastly, allow good things to happen to you.

[moonagedaydreamsofrhiannon]

Perhaps the wilderness in Yellowjackets is not just a symbol of death. Perhaps it is also—in its own way—freedom.

In the wilderness, Lottie didn’t have to hide her visions for fear of being called crazy. She was exalted as a leader and a prophet. But when she returned, they called her crazy and locked her up.

In the wilderness, Misty didn’t have to be ashamed of her intensity and eccentricity. She was helpful, she was needed, she was important. But when she returned, they called her a freak and exiled her once again.

In the wilderness, Tai didn’t have to pretend to be something she’s not. Her other self was not a weakness but a strength, it gave her power, and kept her alive. But when she returned she had to suppress her urges and hide her other self, or lose everything.

In the wilderness, Shauna didn’t have to be small, and hide the fire inside her. She was angry, and violent, and powerful. But when she returned, she was forced back into a supporting role, forced to contain her darkness and her drive in order to fit a role she never wanted to play.

In the wilderness, Travis didn’t have to put on an act to fit the societal expectations of masculinity. He was feminine, and emotional, and soft—not the man of the group, but just another Yellowjacket in the hive. But when he returned, he was forced back into the cage—back into the closet—isolated, hardened, closed off and separated from the girls once more.

In the wilderness, Natalie didn’t have to feel guilty for surviving. She was the hunter, the provider, and the gun in her hands made her a savior, and a leader, not a killer. But when she returned, she was a killer once again, haunted by guilt, and outcast by society for the things she did to stay alive.

The wilderness gave them the freedom to be their truest and most authentic selves, but the cost was the blood spilled. The cost was their old selves. The cost was a place in the world upon their return.

Maybe the wilderness did not destroy them; it simply changed them into something new, something irrevocably different, something that would never—could never—fit back inside the narrow box of their old lives, and because they could no longer fit, society called them broken.

The wilderness freed them, but it never let them go. Because once you’ve tasted flesh and blood, once you’ve stared death in the face and overcame, once you’ve been to the very brink and seen the true depth of your own capacity for violence, once all the former markers of morality and success have become meaningless, in a world where survival at all costs is the only law, how can you ever go back to a world ruled by pointless, hollow, conventions? Once you’ve shed every remnant of your humanity, once you’ve run with the wolves, and howled at the moon, and become one with the ancient wild gods, how can you ever be a human again? Once you’ve had a taste of complete freedom, how can you ever be satisfied with a fake, insignificant, half-life, made up entirely of half-truths and haunting?

[yoursinfulurges]

Enchantress

Reader x Aemond Targaryen

Summary: You would guard your throne from vultures no matter the cost and so the games begins. In which Aemond Targaryen regrets making an enemy of his wife.

Aemond is a cheating hoe. No one wanted this I just really wanted to write some angst. As always your features and ethnicity is not mentioned, background is not specified but you are a highborn. After the Serpentine series I wanted something spicy.

Word count: 8.1k

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By nature you were a patient person, taking great diligence in ensuring emotions doesn't overcome your judgment. But as the hour grows late your forbearance for your husband had begun to wear thin. It nears twelve and you had been waiting for Aemonds return for well over three hours now. With every passing minute you find yourself drowning in madness as you draw a blank on where or what he was up to. Succumbing to the ill thoughts on your mind as the flickering dance and crackle of the fire floods your senses. You're tired, you're anxious and your ears are ringing yet you still sat unmoving. Why?

There was no doubt that the man in question confused you to no end, nevertheless you still made sure to act accordingly and play the part of his wife. Although you're finding it increasingly hard to upkeep the role of his good little lover when the man is hardly in your presence. It was true that your marriage with Aemond was one out of political leverage, but you still did your best to care for him. Always making sure your relationship was fostered and tended to in the hopes of something blossoming.

You had faith that he would grow fonder of you as the years went on, but with every passing day that thought was challenged. It had been a long journey but without fail you acted kind and loving towards him no matter the expense. Valuing your relationship with Aemond a great deal, you were willing to do anything for him.

Even endure his callous behaviors towards you.

It was no secret that the prince was rather displeased with your union. For a man that preached the importance of preforming duty, he was awfully bad at it. You had been wedded for almost half a year now and have yet to consummate the marriage. Not that you weren't willing to, the problem lies with your husband. It was plain to see behind closed doors that he did not take you seriously.

In his eye this marriage was a joke, you were but strangers at best due to his lack of effort. Now you know not of the origins of his distant behavior but you've tried your best to minimize them. Dragging Aemond off to accompany you on walks around the castle, asking him to join you for lunch; everyday without faltering you tried.

But to no avail, your attempts does little to dull the wall between you two. He doesn't interact with you unless it was mandatory or for show, displayed little emotions past cordial. And god forbid laying a hand on you was the end of the fucking world. Was this who Aemond Targaryen was? Cold and cynical? Deprived of all that makes a person human. Every time you looked at him he was a ghost, fading into the background slipping from your grasp. He was untouchable, invisible. His self-righteous aura creating a vortex around him.

The distance between Aemond and you had started to become apparent to the ladies in court. Everyday without fail they would voice their concerns, asking you if you were being mistreated. Of course you lie, a task that comes easy to you, easier than you thought it would since you had little ties with your husband. Though it makes you wonder if Aemond also found it easy to lie to you....

The thought gets lost on you as an intrusive sound rings through your chambers. Brows furrowing at the disturbance, why would Aemond feel the need to knock on your shared room? The train was rather absurd so it leads you into thinking that it wasn't him paying you a visit. Much to your disappointment. With confusion in your voice, you call out to the visitor.

"Come in." Anxiously bringing your palms together on your lap. Your fingers locked themselves in a manner of worry, squeezing tightly as you prepare yourself. Soon the door opens and in follows Ser Larys Strong. His pronounced way of walking evident as the cane hits the ground harshly. The sound announcing and intrusive, almost counting down the seconds before he reaches you.

"I am sorry to intrude on your private time my Lady, especially when the hour is so late but I fear this matter cannot wait till dawn." He smiles sympathetically although you do not like implications behind it. You notion for him to sit across from you, watching the scene carefully. You don't utter a word as he moves to take his place. Ser Larys's visits are always prompted.... And by the look on his face it reads that he knows something you don't... That fact slightly unnerved you...

"I thought this news would be best heard if it were from me.... From a friend..." Bullshit. Larys always had an ulterior motive, he liked cultivating favors from the court only for them to owe him in return. No doubt that he was a sick man that enjoyed manipulating others, finding power in mind games in a way that he cannot with the sword. You were far from friends but played the game together. He only viewed you so highly because you were one of the only people the didn't fall for his lures and cryptic words.

"I take it this news is not pleasant." Lifting a brow at him in question, you kept your manner strong and imposing. He swallows and nods his head briefly, averting his gaze from you to look at the floor.

"Earlier today.... Prince Aemond was caught indulging a servant girl in Harrenhal." He says the words carefully though no amount of safe keeping can withhold your anger. Larys words were vague but you understood clearly what he meant. Shaking in your seat, you calm yourself. Or at least tried to....

You were going to fucking kill him.

"Ah.... I see... Who else knows?" Your words come out strained. Tone cut and tense, implying that you were holding back an outburst as tears of anger slowly clouds your gaze. What did you honestly expect? Your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, vision tunneling as rage began crawling up your center. For a moment your breath stills, the abyss captivating you before you snap out of it and focusing on Ser Larys once more. He says nothing as he watches the fire burn, avoiding your venomous stare.

"Just you and me." He nods slowly, finally looking at you, only to drop his gaze soon after. He was uncomfortable beyond measure... His mouth opens to say something once more but stops to take in your shape. You clutched at the chair with a murderous grip, nails digging into the stained leather. Slowly he met your unmoving eyes, taken aback by the poison swimming amongst them. Gods be good... That look never meant well. The tension was heavy and for a moment Larys feared for his own life. You were not sad nor disheartened, instead you were seething in hatred. The room fogs with something unpleasant as the walls welcomed the illness like an old friend. Such atmosphere was suffocating as he watched you shake in retribution, no doubt planning your next calculating moves.

Vengeance. That was all you wanted. Many questions plagued your mind, had you not been good enough for him? You've done all that you could to please him and yet he disrespect your name with his adultery. You honestly didn't know what to say, it wasn't like this was much of a shock to you since a part of you always had suspicions. But you dismissed those thoughts as nothing but intrusive and toxicant. Yet to hear the words out loud coming from a reputable man such as Ser Larys Strong was much different than you telling yourself. Larys was many things but he was not a liar. His words always had claim and a backbone, despite how distasteful the intentions behind them may be. You could not care less about what he wants to get out of you, what you want to know is what else he's keeping locked away. And what will it take to get him talking.

"The servant that caught them and sent for a raven was found killed under.... suspicious circumstances... I only received both letters now, of the girls retelling and of her death.... A dagger through the mouth what an awful way to go..." Larys speaks when you don't, watching the way you thought in silence. He wondered what you were thinking, for he was one of the only people that knew your true nature. You were a murderous woman, manipulative, vigilant, and vengeful... Behind those stupid smiles and shy fronts was an enchantress, turning the tides in her favor. And now an outsider trespasses on your waters. Larys knows more than anything that you were willing to guard your throne from vultures at any cost.

You didn't like coming second to anybody, and for a moment he prays for the prince...

"I understand that this must be difficult for you, but if you are ever in need... I'll be sure to be of service in this trying time..." You scoff at that, the sound reverberating through the room. There it was. The bait he dangles so tempting in front of foolish fish.

"At what cost Ser Larys, I am no fool. I know everything from you must always come at a price." Holding your chin up high, you crossed your arms and leaned back into your seat. Having calmed down a little, you plan a rainstorm of hell fire.

"Not this time... You see, this girl that had somehow managed to enthrall the prince.... She is a nuisance on my side so you can insure my allegiance is with you. As Lord of Harrenhal I make it a point to know everything and anything going on in my own castle, even if I'm not present. I can ensure you that I have eyes everywhere." You ignore the way your stomach turns at the thought of someone else captivating Aemond as you thought on his proposal. It would be quite useful to have someone with such connections on your side. Shaking your head as you corrected yourself. There were no sides nor factions, you were not at war with Aemond. Yet.

"Can you tell me the name of this girl?"

"She goes by Alys Rivers, you may know of her...." It was almost comical enough to force a laugh.

A bastard Strong... How truly ironic and cliche. It would seem that the very vendetta he had against his own nephews would be the cause of his own demise. The pain that rushed through you didn't burn anymore, instead it courses through your veins in bittersweetness, fueling your vengeance and need for revenge. You didn't care all that much about closure, instead looking for all the ways you can induce the same pain onto Aemond. You were patient to a fault, all the unwanted emotions manifesting into pettiness and spite.

To hurt Aemond Targaryen you must be precise and conniving, you couldn't afford any spill ups. In truth the stature he built of himself was great; intimidating, undying, a menace. But beneath all that you knew he was still the same little boy that got bullied for not having a dragon. Scars like that cannot be grown out of, especially when they've left such permanent imprints on him. You were not going to evoke One Eye Aemond who rides the largest dragon, but rather the young little boy he held so dearly to his heart. That was the Aemond you wanted to hurt. Not the man that gave you blank stares and barely spoke any words to you. Not the man that dares call himself your husband when he has not deserved the name. The neglected outcast freak, that was who you were going to murder.

How dare he choose her over you. Suddenly it clouds your vision. All the violence, the fire, the insecurities. Your inability to think clear, the pride and pain of being his wife. Your lust and distaste for the man that caused you such pain. It ruptures your heart. You would trade love for greed just to induce the same feelings onto him. Oh how you wanted to ruin him. Ruin her for him. By the end of it you wanted him begging at your knees, crying apologies. Who does Alys Rivers think she was to steal your husband away from you. And who does Aemond think he was to assume you wouldn't retaliate. Or perhaps he knew and simply didn't care... That was a common theme in your husband, not caring about you. He was more of a fool than you thought of if he thinks you were just going to stand for this and take it.

No. You wanted an eye for an eye. Or more plainly, a heart for a heart.

"Her existence threatens you." Speaking lowly as you projected your thoughts onto Ser Larys. You aren't the only one to have a reason to hate the aforementioned wench. You may be hazed with hatred but you are not blind. There was a reason Ser Larys chose to come to you instead of Aemond with this information. Without him you wouldn't have known anything, and surely the favor of a prince would be worth more than you could ever give him. Yet he came knocking at your door.

"I am the sole heir to my fathers title, if that bastard had somehow managed to persuade the prince then my very seat is challenged. An outsider amongst the natives. I need to ensure my status, my lady. Can I trust you on this." His words were frantic almost, his long brown hair falling over his face as he leaned in close. Ser Larys was pleading, in his own way...

"You can. Now, my friend... what will you have me do?" The smile that spread across your face was sinister as you prompted his guidance. Though it was more rhetorical, you knew what had to be done.

"Seduce Aemond. Capture his attention enough so that he begins to question his love for her." Love? Was that burned between them? Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you thought on it more. It wasn't a bad design, far better than you stabbing a knife through Alys in front of Aemond. Only one minor flaw.

"And how shall I manage to do that!? The man can barely look at me!"

"To the unseeing eye it appears that way. Though the amount of times I've caught his gaze lingering longer than it should is great. You are a smart woman y/n, I'm sure you can figure out a way to break through his barrier."

Could it be that all this time you just hadn't noticed him looking at you? Regardless that was irrelevant as you pondered your first move. You and Larys had the advantage, Aemond doesn't know that you knew of his infidelity. And as far as you're aware your image as his good little wife was still intact, so perhaps you would play into that role more. Aemond’s betrayal made you realize that you've grown stiff as a board. It dulls you as you realize that you've come to be the very woman you pray for. Desperately lost in their marriage. Endlessly dreaming, hoping one day Aemond would come around and play pretend with you. He was taking advantage of you without you knowing it. He sees your very being as something he can twist and turn in his palm like one of his daggers.

At a certain point he was bound to get cut.

To hurt Aemond Targaryen you must hurt that little boy. It had been weeks since your night with Ser Larys and silently you had been scheming. So far you remained indifferent, trying hard to make sure you aren't faltering by acting the same. It was a hard task that you've come to dread as you knew the cold truth behind his behaviors. At day he would be with you, by night he would be deep in her. You only began to notice the missing hours in your days and curse yourself for being so foolish. You thought long and hard about how you were going to approach the situation. Dissecting your husband under a magnifying glass whilst hiding behind timid smiles. And soon enough your praying and mute jealousy had manifested into the form of a golden haired beast bearing red and gold.

Ser Tyrin Lannister...

A handsome, charming young lord that has come to pay the crown a visit... Though you saw him for what he truly was, a prideful and egotistical man that's blinded by arrogance. The perfect pawn for your game. Truthfully, you only picked him out because he beared such acute resemblance to prince Aegon. The only difference in appearance was instead of the famed silver hair his was pure gold. You hoped that your choice of companion would strike a nerve with Aemond, seeing that he's spent so much of his youth being tormented by the image of the man.

And by the way he was glaring daggers at you and Tyrin, your expectations fall true. It was easy to manipulate the Lannister with sugar coated words and flirtatious giggles, the problem lied with Aemond taking the bait. Up until this point you were basically going off theory, but now you can trust that Aemond was a possessive man.

Your laugh rings through the room as you giggle at something Tyrin whispered in your ear. The man was indeed charismatic which made talking to him easy enough. If you hadn't diluted him to nothing but a playing piece you would have found yourself actually enjoying his company. You had been acquainted for quite some time now, ever since his first arrival, and everyday without fail you were with him. Slowly but surely you had began replacing Aemond with Tyrin in your life. It was him you went on walks with, it was him you dinned with. There was no doubt that Lannisters had vanity and he was aware of it, he was aware of how his gracious gifts won you over and softened you. Or so he thought. In weeks time you had managed to accumulate a collection of gold and ruby jewelries from the man himself.

Something Aemond has not taken kindly to, seeing the way his jaw would clench everytime you adorned the treasures. At this point you had purposely made a show of it, parading in a red and gold gown with massive ruby earrings dangling from your ears. All while you showcased a brilliant ruby and gold choker around your neck. You looked more like Tyrin's wife than Aemond's and perhaps that was your goal. Though honestly your endgame gets lost on you as you're having so much fun toying with him. No doubt Aemond had begun to pick up on your absence and it was hilarious to see. His worries and insecurities must've gotten the best of him because now you can't go anywhere without him trailing behind. He was always there, watching in silence, perhaps judging you but you did not care. The fact of the matter was, whatever you were doing was working.

"If you stare any longer I'm sure a fire will start to burn." Aegon says dryly from beside his brother, looking down at his empty chalice before placing it down all together. The elder rolled his eyes at the familiar 'hmmm' that escaped Aemond as he opens his mouth to say something but he turns mute. Instead he narrowed his eyes at the sight.

Contrary to popular belief, Aegon was not a complete fucking asshole. Well... sometimes he wasn't... He sensed his brothers discomfort greatly and although he didn't want to pry, he wanted to know what laid within the inner workings of Aemond's mind. Call it care or intrigue, but he loved gossip like an old widowed wife. Fact of the matter was, Aegon Targaryen was painful self aware and it didn't take much to figure out that Tyrin Lannister was him in lions clothing. Of course Tyrin was him if he actually tried and excelled at things. His drunken habits aside, he wanted to know why his sister in law was so taken by him with golden hair....

"He looks like me..." Aegon turns to his brother only to notice him swiftly walking away at his words. He turns to the man once more, brows pulling in contempt. Maybe he should have been born a Lannister....

To say that Aemond was irritated was an understatement. It was all so ridiculous. The fact that you were throwing yourself so carelessly for a man such as that imbecile. All Lannisters were dazzling armors with nothing truly potent inside. They were blinded by shine and glimmer just as much as everyone else was from their looks. He wouldn't admit it out loud but the resemblance Ser Tyrin had to his brother was uncanny. And he wouldn't dare admit that these unbecoming feelings were derived from that fact alone. Call Aemond what you will, a bitter husband, a possessive man, but he did not like what was playing out in front of him.

Over the passing weeks you had devoted your attention to that man and him alone. From the moment you awoke you were dressed in red and gold, throughout the day you were by his side. He no longer saw you and you no longer sought for his attention. He thought it'd be nice, to finally get you off his back but everyday he grows increasingly impatient. Were you not his wife? He knows he doesn't have a proper claim over you especially with how he's been acting but he still owned his emotions. And he was allowed to feel however he wanted to. Although he doesn't speculate any infidelity from your end, mainly because you weren't the type in his eye, it was plain that you were taken by a lion. Whether you knew it or not, you were dancing with a beast and Aemond would not take such defeat.

In all honesty, he's certain you aren't fucking Tyrin. Now perhaps that was just wishful thinking fueling his denial but you weren't exactly the type. All your marriage he's known you as nothing but dull... The perfect embodiment of who his parents wanted him to marry. Kind, respectable, a push over... In his opinion you were devoted to a fault. Seeing you as nothing but mindless doll who had no other choice but to fall in line and agree with whoever owned them. Hence why when seeking companionship he purposely chose some the exact opposite of you. Alys was older by a few years and had all the experience he craved. It was no question why that he sought for her instead of you. Word around the castle was that you were thought to be too pious to succumb to sins of temptation unless duty was in order.

He hadn't meant to grow so attached to Alys but she was exhilarating. Everytime they were apart he yearned for her body. She was captivating and alluring in all senses, intoxicating him. With long brown hair and a figure that could make the gods envious, she held him with a death grip. His Alys. Aemond knew that what he had with her wasn't love but more so addiction, but he didn't care what it was just as long as he got to have more of it. The differences between you and Alys were stark to see, you were at polars end. But what drawned him to her was the fact that she was so aware of her touch. He liked women that knew how to wield a weapon, and he quite honestly couldn't picture you doing the same. They called her many names for her beauty, searing her as a witch for her dominion over man.

If he wanted an enchantress you would give it to him. You would be better than Alys in every way imaginable. If he wanted someone who can satisfy him then you would drive him into the brink of madness with your touch. You wanted to suffocate and flush out Aemond Targaryen till he was no more than a shell. It started off slow. Switching your clothing in favor of another, something more hugging and accentuating. Your old gowns so colorful and modest were now replaced with darker tones that showed off your body well. It was an odd switch but you felt more comfortable this way strangly enough.

Then you traded innocent stares for something more bidden, your once doe eyes turning siren as you realize the effects of you had. Perhaps Aemond cheating on you was a blessing in disguise. You only now realize how good it felt to be wanted. All throughout court, men and women a like would fall in line for you. They would bow if you commanded so. You looked like someone to be taken seriously and not so much like a walking virtue. Everytime you entered a room eyes would be on you, the silent respect your new aura demanded was intoxicating. You knew who you were and what you were capable of, it was time for them now to know too.

It was empowering. You felt Immortal and unchallenged. To have them speak so nervously to you, the shy stares and permanent blushes. Your new change had prompted many curiosities but what captures people so was your attitude. Cunning, sly and quick witted, all the aspects of your being that you suppressed. You had never felt this in control all your life, like the tides were moved by your will.

All your life you've been taught to be one way despite your true wishes. You painted yourself as the image of what a lady was supposed to be without understanding why you were doing it. Or who you were doing it for. Perhaps this is why the change was so liberating, because you no longer chose to hide yourself. Maybe this was who you were all along and just needed a push to embrace it. You no longer felt like you were wearing a mask and truthfully you don't think you could ever put it on again. Not when they all doted around you. Not they all craved for you. Not when you had such power over desires.

They all fell into line... all but Aemond.... but you had something special for him. For now you let his judgment cloud him. You doubt that he's picked up on your facade faltering. It was quite strange to embrace the very values your teaching went against. Sensuality, unkept emotions, temptation. Having been guided to act one way only to realize that people yearned for the other more. To switch from being subdued to domineering. You no longer let people tell you what to do and how truly inebriating it was.

                                           〄

"You are intoxicating...."

You know not how much time has passed, only consumed on Tyrin's lips as he grasped your body all over. Laughing when his teeth grazed your neck, you threw your head back in bliss. Maybe this was what the Septa was trying to keep you away from, the overwhelming sensations of sex. It rushes through you, sending your skin on fire in it's wake. God, he knew how to please you so. Giggling into your ear as his golden locks curtain the sinful things he whispered, Tyrin's fingers expertly yanks your skirt up. You let him pin you to the bed, a stupid smile spreading across your face. If such an act was so bad then why on earth did it feel so good?

How exhilarating it was to be desired, to be wanted and fondled with care. And to think, all this time you had spent rotting away in your bed chambers waiting for Aemond. If he would not satisfy you then you would satisfy yourself, fulfillment taking the form of a rogue lover. Perhaps it was messy to set your eyes on the men of the court but maybe that's what you wanted. You like the thrill of getting caught, liked the rumors that murmured through the halls. Although you hadn't slept with anyone but Tyrin, you couldn't contain yourself from teasing the occasional lord and lady. Naturally, word got around of your effects and of you and Tyrin's speculated affairs. And not so long after, word finally traveled to your dear stupid husband. Though it wasn't until he caught you in the middle of the act did he finally take it seriously. Up until this point they were but toothless claims, not believing his tight laced wife would ever be capable enough to find her own back bone.

"Faster.... faster..." You say through half lidded eyes, blurry vision locked onto the man in between your legs. Your fingers intertwined with his golden hair as you guide his head at your will. Body heaving and grinding up against his mouth. You pull at your skirts more to get a better view of his face.

All was falling into place and you would make your first strike as footsteps approached up the hall. You were nearing ecstasy as your eyes stay trained onto the door. You had perfectly timed everything and in a manner of seconds you would land such a blow so harsh that it would shatter Aemonds views of you. His boring and dull, obedient little wife coming undone by a man that was not him. You suppress a moan as Tyrin slips his middle finger in you, fucking you in and out as his lips wrap around your swollen clit. Almost there, almost there....

Oh it was all too much yet not enough at the same time. It floods you, sending you over the edge as you desperately grasp onto the bed covers. And at the sound of the door opening you let out a series of gasps turned moans as you lock eyes with the cause of your downfall. The look on his face was satisfaction enough, but you wanted more. Eyes closing in bliss as your head falls onto the bed, a laugh so sinister rings through the room. You pull your skirt over to hide your exposed skin as you smile up at Tyrin. Drawing him close to place a long loving kiss on his lips, you nod your head out the door, whispering empty promises of later. Aemond watches the whole exchange, mouth clenched and fists balled. As the man walked past him and out the door Aemond had to physically stop himself from mauling him and setting him on fire.

There was no doubt about it, he was angry. Shaking in place much like you had in your seat weeks ago. He didn't know what these emotions were blossoming in his chest but he didn't like it. It burned in a way so violent he fears that a hole may form in his chest. He does nothing for a few moments, simply standing in place eyeing you like a predator to it's prey. You do the same, putting all your body weight on your elbow as you laid on the bed unmoving. If he expected a stream of desperate apologies to fall from your mouth then he was not going to get it. You looked at eachother with much venom and alcohol. The gratification you got coursed through you as the image he had witnessed stayed forever burned in his brain.

Good. You wanted him to remember that forever. Much like you'll remember his actions towards you for eternity. Suddenly you were angry. Angry at him, angry at his fucking Alys, angry at Ser Larys. Snarling in hate as your gaze hardens you force yourself to speak.

"Get out." The words were cold, and for a moment Aemond flinches as it echoed through the walls. He does what you command, harshly shutting the door behind him and you fall onto the bed once more.

What had you done?

You were getting even. You wouldn't be here if he hadn't have provoked you first. Truthfully, you didn't know what scared you more, the fact that you could have potentially ruined your marriage or how absolutely addicting it was to inflict pain onto him. One things for certain though, you weren't done.

Aemond didn't know what to feel. He was a mess of emotions, lashing out at anything and everything in his way. A part of him knew that this was only fair yet why did it hurt him so bad? He thought he didn't care about you, thought you were a mere pawn in this game but it appeared that all this time you were playing him. All of it is a mystery to him as he begins to think on your relationship more. What parts of you were actually real, which was really you and which was his wife? Were your affections for him true and had he hurt you so? All this time he thought you were playing a role, or maybe you were. Because the girl laying on that bed laughing like the stranger was not his wife.

No, she was a demon. A succubus getting off on his pain. All of it is so confusing, the bruises you left dragging him down into the depths. Yet why did it excite him a little... Watching you like that.... Aemond feels as though he couldn't breathe, the remaining fragments of his heart shriveled at the thought of falling victim to weakness. He would not allow this, he wouldn't allow a man like Tyrin Lannister to best him and steal you away. The sorrow he felt was akin to an old friend, the bittersweetness that plagued his soul reminded him of his youth. This was a feeling he promised himself he would never endure again. The feeling of being less than and not enough. He had failed you. He had failed you so bad that you had to go seeking for another. Now he knew that he was being a hypocrite on that but he was vulnerable.

Being vulnerable was not something Aemond Targaryen was used to.

〄

"You aren't to see him again." Aemond yelled, trailing after the girl as you entered your shared chambers. The space thankfully empty as you ignored his impending attitude. Your breath quickens as you find yourself caught in a rather unpleasant situation. It had been merely an hour since that gurly sight with Ser Tyrin Lannister, and Aemond finds himself losing all remaining composure he had left with you.

"Huh?" There was something rather vexing about your tone that proved to be daggers in Aemond's ears. The way you expressed such profound boredom and taciturn, as if this conversation was an inconvenience to you. You displayed an tired exposure that puzzled him to no end because the confrontation has yet to begin. Your slack demeanor and annoyed undertone was both riddling and infuriating to Aemond.

"Ser Tyrin Lannister, you aren't allowed to see him again!" Deciding to forgo any avoidance, Aemonds tone was cut clean. He told you how it was, and he did not care about preserving feelings when you were showing such childish behavior. You would either accept never seeing that man, or any man for that matter again, or Aemond would turn to more extreme measures.

"Well... who knew it was possible to evoke such emotions from you. And here I thought you were incapable." Aemond's eye widen in shock as you put on an uncharacteristic display of theatrics. You scoffed and silently berated him with your inflection. This was a side of you he's never seen before. It was a tiny probe that was meant to provoke him by angling into his worries in a brash and unnecessary way. Aemond didn't know whether or not you were intentionally trying to anger him, but he couldn't find it in himself to care if it was deliberate or not.

"...I beg your pardon?" His words wry and barren with any emotions, genuinely taken aback.

"Well then kneel and start begging." You turn to him sharply, backing him against the door as he looked down at you in shock, yet you don't back down.

"You can't tell me what to do. But if you wish to keep believing that you have some sort of power over me, I will try my best to be more discreet with my partners." You wave your hand at him, as if done with this conversation but he was far from finished.

"I will not have you acting like a whore y/n! You are my wife and mine alone!" Aemond did not mean to call you that but as the words slip from his lips he soon finds himself regretting it. Watching the way you hesitated for a moment, a flash of hurt gleaming on your face before turning angry. He knew men have called their wives much worse but not him. His mother had always made sure he knew how to treat women. If only she knew how that back fired...

A whore....

He thought that you were a whore......

Normally you wouldn't let such meaningless words effect you so but that was exactly it, it wasn't  meaningless. Not when it came from the mouth of the person you once thought the world of. Aemond used to be everything to you, and to hear that coming from him was disheartening to no end. Yes you knew that he was just angry because you pushed him so, but that fact became irrelevant as you begin to feel claustrophobic from your emotions. You felt frail, burning with a thick blanket of insecurities and rage constricting you, like a greedy serpent, ready to prey and corrupt you whole. You felt like Alice, falling into a dark rabbit hole of anxiety and panic, despair beginning to pull you down. It was all too much, and you suddenly began to feel so small. Your once defiance now subdued and replaced with the image of a shaking girl maddened. You felt afraid... not of Aemond but of your emotions...

Compose yourself, you were not going allow such disrespect and you were not going to fall into your old ways again.

"Don't play the fool, Aemond. You started this. Quite honestly what did you think was going to happen?" You yelled firmly in his face, trying so hard to push your emotions away. But thoughts of Alys tainted your mind. He would never speak to her this way. He would never act this way around her. You let the bitterness hug and empower you. The same need to hurt him reignited.

"I am simply playing the game that you started." You were reticent but in a prolix and unnecessary way. You would not reveal that he had hurt you so. Aemond opens his mouth to say something but doesn't for a few moments.

"What prompted this change..." He sounded desperate, his words breaking as he desperately searched for an answer.

"I don't know! Maybe now I don't feel the need to hide behind a mask anymore." You say to him honestly. This need for revenge and affinity for spite and pettiness, it had always been there. Aemond just didn't look at you long enough to notice it.

"I'm tired Aemond. I'm tired of doing my best to please you only for it to not be good enough!"

It wasn't just about you or Aemond being possessive anymore, it was the fact that you had reached your end. Was it so wrong to want a partner that actually loved and cared for you? Was it so wrong to want to be loved? The more you thought the more empty and hollow you felt. You can feel your soul decaying all together as anxiety crept up on you. He didn't want you.... The little voice in your head spoke. He thinks Alys is better than you..... stop... Why do you try so bad? because I must... You don't deserve to be with him... yes I do... No you don't... The voices in your head taunted, feeling feverish and flushed, you took a step back from Aemond. Suddenly afraid to be too close to him. But it did no help to calm the mean words the whirlwind through your brain. It picked at you, in a way that the thought of Alys couldn't but funny enough it was the personification of her plaguing your mind.

He doesn't think you're good enough...

I don't think you're good enough...

He doesn't think you're good enough...

We don't think you're good enough...

It's not just her anymore, the voice that invades your head is your parents speaking to you..... Then it's the King and Queen screaming... And after that it's Aegon and Helaena laughing at you...

It's Aemond talking down to you, —it's everything, it's everyone, all at once, all-consuming, suffocating and demanding. And suddenly the ability to hear is ripped from you; it's nothing. You're forced into a pliable mass being sullied, your body isn't yours anymore. It's a vessel of flooding anxiety and negative thoughts.

"I want somebody that loves me...." You say, looking at the man with such betrayal.

Be strong....

"I want a happy life with a husband that can actually stand to be in my presence. I want children of my own to fill the hole you left." You spoke after a short minute, your voice small and fragile, pleading... Aemond watches you shake and cry from where you stand. He had done this to you...

"I have spent so long loving you but that love has never served me..." Your words were soft, a timbre of spite concealed with broken confidence. You hated this... hated how you got in your own head and ruined your own self esteem... Pain feeding off your scorched heart and the embers of your love for Aemond. It was agonizing... agonizing to watch him look at you cry like this. But perhaps he needed to see you this way.

He had hurt you so badly and the moment he finally got a taste of his own medicine he ordered you to stop. It was the consuming fear of not being enough for him that killed you so, the thought of not being able to live up to the expectations. And for Aemond to stand there and call you a whore when all you ever did was try to love him.

"Forgive me my dear wife... I did not know that you have been suffering so badly all this time. Had I known...." He softens for a moment, trying to get you to understand whilst failing to consider that you didn't need to, he did.

"But you did! You knew and you still went off in search for something I cannot give you. Had you have known would it have changed anything?" You scream in broken anger and despair.

"No..."

You never learn, hearing it in your own head was a lot different than hearing it out loud. It will never be the same, it will always be ten times worse. Aemond had just confirmed your words. Of course you knew that he thought this way but it hurt a lot more. Just like that night with Ser Larys. Your shoulders slump in defeat, frowning as tears began to prick at your eyes. Aemond takes notice of this, swiftly cupping your cheeks with his large hands and forcing you to look him.

"No, because either way you would have been discontent. I cannot give you the life that you wanted." Yet you can give it to her?

"Why not!?" You yelled with such anger and rage, ripping his hands off you. Your voice echoing through the room as you cussed the boy out. You were frustrated beyond measure and above all else heartbroken. Was it truly too much to ask for? You would lying if you said it wasn’t nice having him treat you like this. Maybe weeks ago you would've swoon at the thought of his hands caressing you. But that was then and this was now.

"I am not made for love..." You fear that you can slay Vhagar with the great efforts it takes you now to remain calm. That was his excuse? A pitiful one at that. He had you standing there.... sad and broken... and all he can come up with was that love wasn't in his nature? Pain is the perfect word to describe this sensation oppressing your chest at those words. This doesn't stop you from peering up at him in question. You felt a calling to yell at him but you couldn't, no matter how badly you wanted to you. Staying baffled, every cry dying in the back of your throat. Your visage contorting in somber at Aemonds blasphemy.

"I don't believe you!" You yell at him, pushing at his chest when he tries to hug you. You break down in his arms, collapsing onto the floor as you weep into him. Aemond desperately held you close, oh what has he done to you.... He felt a myriad of emotions wash over him. Guilt, sadness, shame... He was ashamed he pushed you to this point. So he held the woman he barely knew well enough to call his wife.

"Tell me Aemond! Does your heart belong to another? Tell me now, please and I'll stop." You didn't know what you meant by stop. Stop trying? Stop loving? But if he said the words you would end it so. Aemond looks down at you, hugging onto the portrait that was once his wife.

"No! No one has captured my heart, those who came second to you, they mean nothing. They are nothing..." He says quickly, his words ringing truthful. He didn't know what prompted this new change but he panicked at the thought of losing you.

"Prove it to me." You whispered slowly. Uttering the words in a tone so cold and firm, your gaze locks onto Aemond's. Your wide eyes morphing into something else as a small smirk pulls at your lips. Distraught gone from your face as the water flow of tears halt.

"Bring me the head of Alys Rivers."

"How do you know..." He looks at you in shock for a moment, your expression ridden of distress and replaced with something sinister.... Watching his expression carefully, you place your hands on his shoulders and leaned into his ear.

"Do it and I will be yours again." It came out as a pur, a tempting whisper urging him, and Aemond found himself liking the way it sounded. That was Aemond's cord. He was as possessive as he was jealous. Much like you, he didn't like being second to anyone, but would that be enough. Turning your head to meet his gaze, it would be so easy to kiss you but he keeps a firm hold on your waist.

"If not then I will take it myself." Nodding your head briefly, you remove his arms from around you. Standing up, you walk over to your shared bed, wiping away the rogue tears before sitting down. Aemond's brows furrowed in confusion, you were much more composed now and hidden behind your eyes was a sense of coldness.

"It appears that I have much to learn about you my lovely wife. But If it will please you then as you wish." Aemond stands soon after you, nodding his head as he planned to make amends.

"You're willing to kill her just like that?" Turning your head to him slightly, you questioned where his loyalty lied.

"I told you she means nothing to me... Did you think otherwise?" His sly expression displayed a certain vainglory that caused you to turn away. So maybe you had thought otherwise but your insecurities had to come from somewhere.

"If you're lying to me Aemond I will have your other eye." Threatening may not be the answer but you liked the hesitancy it triggered from him.

"I suppose this is my fault.... you don't trust me." Nodding his head as he walked slow steps towards you, Aemond kneels down in front of the bed and takes your hands in his.

"You have given me every reason not to trust you." With a stiff lip, you turn from him.

"I know... But let me make it right." Guiding your chin with his fingers to make you look at him, you noticed a hint of regret and shame swimming in his eye.

"The road to forgiveness will not be easy." You tell him firm.

"I know... my love." You ignore the butterflies that awoke from that title and watch as he rose to grab his riding coat. And so it begins...

༺━━━━━━━━━༻༒༺━━━━━━━━━༻

Autho's Note:

Let me know if you guys want more! There's more to this story but I chopped it up into two parts because I wasn't done and I wanted to have something out for you guys. I swear to god I drop fics unannounce then dissappear for months lmao.

- Armoni

[drdemonprince]

A real masterclass from Captain Awkward on the art of navigating competing agendas within a passive-aggressive friendgroup without losing your head. Every word of this needs to be read and internalized by so many people, but here are the highlights:

People often call me diplomatic, and it’s true, but not in the way they mean. Diplomacy isn’t just about being good at de-escalation, peace-keeping, compromise, or finding palatable ways to deliver hard truths. Diplomacy is about understanding power and leveraging what power you have in negotiations, which sometimes includes strategically escalating conflicts or letting them play out. You most likely don’t have the power to fix your friends’ hearts or make your group chats all run smooth, and I don’t have any magic scripts up my sleeve that will guarantee that you can, but it doesn’t mean you have no power in the situation. It’s there, just, I suspect that it’s not where you’re looking for it.

There’s this persistent idea that the *only* right way to respond to shitty interpersonal behavior is to empathize deeply with the shitty person, figure out precisely why they are being like that, and use your own compassion to create a teachable moment that fosters greater self-awareness that results in eventual behavioral change from the inside out, and anything less constitutes a failure of *your* patience & empathy. That’s where the notion that saying any version of “Hey, can you knock it off right now with the housewarming party planning?” would be “rude” and “unhelpful” comes from. If somebody’s being Rude, you’re supposed to Polite at them so hard that they Learn An Important Lesson, Eventually. A couple problems with that: What good does this do for the targets of shitty behavior? What happens if the shitty people never learn? What happens if they learn, but it’s exactly the wrong lesson? “I can be as shitty as I want, and people must be polite to me at all costs, and if they fail to tolerate my bad behavior with perfect grace, it makes them even worse than me and everything becomes actually their fault? Sweet!” What do you win if you successfully erase your anger and annoyance from all of your closest friendships and present only the most accommodating, peace-making parts of yourself? The answer to #1 is “nothing much” and the answer to #2-#4 about what happens and what you “win” is More Shitty Behavior, All The Time, Basically Forever because you’ve robbed yourself of the tools for actually addressing it, tools like, “healthy expressions of authentic emotions” and “meaningful consequences.” My pitch to you is basically, what if we changed the order of operations for dealing with someone whose behavior is out of pocket? What if we administered consequences first, and let the epiphanies sort themselves out later? If people get rapid negative feedback every time they do or say something shitty, maybe they’ll learn to think and feel differently over time, but that slow internal work is none of your business. If people wanna be assholes, they’ll need to do it somewhere else. If they want to hang out with you, there are limits on acceptable behavior.

[megaderping]

I feel like when people compare Akechi to Light Yagami, they fundamentally misunderstand his character. Their similarities really end at their designs, and Light is the kind of person Akechi would despise. Light Yagami lives a pretty privileged life at the start of Death Note. He has a stable home, with two parents and a sister who care about him. He's a successful student. There isn't really inherent tragedy to his life. The whole reason he starts using the Death Note is a mix of curiosity and a jaded worldview, and when it works it empowers him, very quickly goes to his head, as he believes he is one who can be a god of a "new world" once the shock of his initial kills wears off. While his first kill was to help someone, that altruism didn't last. He is in charge of his choices, while Ryuk mostly vibes and maybe eggs him on a little. Fundamentally, Light has something Akechi lacks: agency, and a comfortable life he took for granted. Meanwhile, Akechi is someone who lived on the bottom rung of Japanese society. His very existence is shameful there, between his mother being a sex worker, his status as an illegitimate/"throw away" child, and his mother's suicide. Years languishing in a foster system that is notoriously inhumane, in a country where 90% of the adoptions are grown men for inheritance and patriarchal reasons, while very few children in the system find permanent homes. When Akechi awakens his power, he approaches Shido not because he wants to kill people but for a stupid revenge plan cooked up by a traumatized child who's been nudged along by a malevolent god. He wants to build Shido up so that at the height of his power, he can expose him for the monster he really is, while another part of him genuinely wants to be useful to Shido, as Cogkechi later calls out. His feelings are a mess of contradictions, and so it's no surprise that Shido was able to mold him into his assassin at only 15 years old. It's also worth noting that Akechi only approaches Shido with his ability to cause psychotic breakdowns. Shido is the one who teaches and instructs him to do shutdowns. He's still complicit, very sunk cost with his revenge plan, but as I spoke of here, even if he wanted to quit, he couldn't alone. Shido's cleaner and control of the law and ability to effortlessly turn him in would render the Metaverse his only safe haven. I think people look at 11/20 Akechi and Akechi in the early parts of the engine room and assume that's just his "true self," when in reality it's another mask. Royal makes it very clear because in Rank 7, he outright warns Joker of what's to come via a pool metaphor and offers an out (though he's MUCH happier if you don't take it/stick to your principles), and in Rank 8, he goes on that big "I hate you" speech... while Sunset Bridge is playing. Y'know, the song that plays at the end of most confidants to reaffirm bonds. So when he smiles as he shoots what he assumes to be Joker, that doesn't mean he's genuinely happy. More likely, he's an emotional clusterfuck, given he also is disoriented enough to namedrop "Shido-san" over the phone, and in the subsequent meeting with Shido, tells him not to kill the Phantom Thieves and that Morgana is "just a cat." Yes, he says they'll make them fear for the rest of their lives, but remember, he's talking to Shido. The things he says are likely all incredibly calculated to sound appealing to Shido. And when you consider that he planned to utterly destroy Shido's reputation after the election, the "delay" makes even more sense.

Later, Akechi goes on about how the people he induced shutdowns on were deserving of their fates, but I don't think he believes it so much as it's the only way he could convince himself that it was worth it, and given how much society failed him, and given how many of the people he targeted were likely rivals/competitors or rich fucks, I think he'd be less inclined to assume good faith. Kunikazu Okumura was not an innocent little victim, after all. He was one of the people who requested breakdowns and shutdowns the most. I think Akechi enjoyed killing him not because of how it'd hurt Haru, but because of catharsis. Because Okumura is just as monstrous as Shido, so why should he feel remorse? However, I don't believe he feels the same about Wakaba, as when he discusses her with Shido, he mentions how her fate was because she refused to willingly work for him. It's another justification, but I personally think Wakaba's death was the most painful for him because he was effectively making Futaba just like him. That's why I think his reaction to Sae threatening Sojiro's custody was genuine. Anyway, evil grinning Akechi is just another mask, as I said. Keep in mind, this is someone who laments not meeting Joker years ago, someone who Morgana outright points out is lying about his hatred. And that's the thing. Light Yagami, while a really fascinating character, is not someone who had all this childhood suffering or lack of agency. He does not regret his actions in the slightest and goes down due to his own hubris in both the anime and the manga. While you can argue that Ryuk set him up by dropping the Death Note, Light was the one who picked it up and chose to use it. Any nudging from Ryuk didn't coerce Light into doing it because Light seized the opportunity. No, if Light Yagami is like anyone in Persona 5, it's Masayoshi Shido, not Goro Akechi. Both believe they are god/god's chosen, that they are the ones who will reshape the world to their ideals, and to be frank, both use and abuse women to serve their own purposes. Goro Akechi goes down sacrificing himself for the Thieves and pleading with them to stop his father and again in Maruki's reality when he refuses to let Joker accept a gilded prison of a world for his sake when he knows better than anyone what it's like to have no true freedom. If you max his confidant, you see him in the postcredits, leaving his survival entirely possible, and I think it works because at the end of the day, Akechi was meant to be a victim and a foil. Light is a villain protagonist and a cautionary tale. Though its his POV we follow, he isn't someone we're meant to root for, but I definitely don't think enjoying the character is a bad thing at all. He's really interesting! I just think that a lot of the Akechi and Light comparisons are surface level at best.

[clipartdinosaur]

Griddlehark Fics

I have read an absolutely insane amount of Griddlehark fanfics in the past few months so I figured I could make a like...list of all of my favorites that I bookmarked. I'm not sure if anyone will use this but if anything it will be for my own self-indulgence LOL. Just a heads up, this list WILL contain spoilers up to Nona the Ninth, so proceed with your own discretion. Anyway here we go!

(♥︎ = favorite!)

Short (<15k):

"By the Sword" by JeanLuciferGohard (2.6k)

The Reverend Daughter of the Ninth, Necrosaint, Ascended, the greatest bone adept in an Age, does one push-up, and collapses. Harrow does not beg for her cavalier. Harrow rakes her hair back and snarls, “Nav, I am going to unzip your cranial sutures. One by one. And zip them up again sideways.”

"Your Necro Questions Answered" by Magichorse (8.8k)

Syndicated columnist "Nav the Cav" offers a sympathetic ear to cavaliers across the galaxy and dispenses practical, no-nonsense, real talk advice on how to properly manage and care for your necromancer.

"A Lesson in Bones" by Magichorse (3.8k)

One of the laboratory trials at Canaan House compels Harrowhark to swap bodies with her cavalier. What will Gideon do with the power of the most talented bone adept in generations at her disposal? Nothing good, probably.

"Visions of Gideon" by tothewillofthepeople (13k)

Oh my god they were roommates...

"true love's kiss, or something equally nauseating" by corpsesoldier (4.6k)

She was where she needed to be. She was going to pull her necro out of this godforsaken tomb, end the game of musical bodies they were playing, and then everything would be all right. Harrow would be alive. And Gideon was going to give her shit for approximately the next myriad for not just taking what she’d offered and saving them a whole lot of trouble.

"The Big Warm Dark" by decalexas (haelstorm) (2.7k)

Gideon Nav knows how to swing a longsword, brandish a rapier, bridge the gap between life and death, punch the dead in the face, and maybe overthrow an Empire along the way. What she doesn't know how to do is reach for the girl who made all of this possible.

"carrion comfort, despair (not feast on thee)" by NotAFicWriter (5k)

Some time after Alecto wakes, Harrow and Gideon finally have a moment to speak to one another. Hearts are bared. Teeth are bared. Intentions are bared. It all comes at great personal cost (emotional honesty).

"never exhale all the way" by pigflight (1.2k)

Harrowhark paints Gideon's face.

"such an almighty sound" by CountingNothings (10k)♥︎

“I need you to marry me,” Harrow says, a propos of absolutely nothing that Gideon can see. And, uh, okay, this is not what childhood best frenemies say to each other upon discovering that both of their graduate programs have weird residence requirements. “What,” Gideon asks, “the fuck?”

"A Handsomely Dangerous Thing" by zoicite (1.5k)

Had Harrow ever looked at Gideon and felt pride before? Surely not. It sat like a tumor in her chest, a cancerous lump that had grown where it did not belong.

"How it didn't happen" by Nary (1.5k)

"How did you lose it?" Coronabeth asked, more softly than her sister's shrill voice. The group assembled at Canaan House barely knew her, and yet here they were, asking the most irritatingly personal questions, and acting as if they were being kind and thoughtful by prying into her secrets. "I dropped my pen into a vat of acid and reached in to grab it without thinking," Harrow said dryly. Coronabeth recoiled, screwing up her pretty nose. Ianthe looked unsure whether to believe her or not. Their meatslab of cavalier just stared blankly. "The Daughter of the Ninth House was blessed in this manner from her birth, as a symbol of her strength and power over the mysteries of necromancy," Ortus interjected. Harrow glared at him. "Oh," Coronabeth said, an expression of disgusting sympathy on her flawless face. "But then you would never have known who your soulmate was!" Harrow's glare intensified. "My soulmate is bones."

"Halcyon Nights" by Morike91 (10k)

It was hard to tell what was worse: feeling the full warmth of those unguarded honey eyes fall on Harrow, or watching them narrow in recognition and contempt, their warmth now hotter with something else.  “What can I get you?” It has been at least four years since Harrow last heard the voice of Gideon Nav, but it was still as familiar as her right hand. 

"I completely fucking hate you" by ClaraZorEl (7.5k)

In the coming weeks, Harrowhark learns an unfortunate great deal about Gideon Nav. The kind of porn she likes, the number of bread rolls she can fit into her mouth at once, that she always leans too heavily on her left leg when she fights but can do fifty-seven push-ups in a row without stopping, that her biceps rates 11/10 on the scale of good biceps, that her laugh rumbles like an army of skeletons, and most importantly, that she can’t fucking stand her. Gideon Nav is so grating that Harrow has no doubt she will be her undoing. OR Harrowhark Nonagesimus has been invited to Canaan University's ball. But to successfully represent her house, she needs a cavalier, and unfortunately, her only option is her least favourite barista from her least favourite coffee shop.

"A Thousand Teeth, Yours Among Them" by pipistrelle (7k)

"In the end, she poisoned Ortus; so it was Harrow Nova who walked out to the shuttle a half-step behind the Daughter of the Ninth, the chain of Samael Novenary wound about her offhand wrist, the black blade of the Ninth at her side."

"The Only Prayer We Know" by pipistrelle (12k) [Part 2 of "A Thousand Teeth, Yours Among Them"]

It's like a bad joke: two cavaliers (alive) and two necromancers (one dead) walk into a rebel faction of humanity, looking for a new life -- in every sense of the phrase. What they find is each other, and (in some cases) themselves.

"The Flames of Hell Are Warm" by silverapples (7k)

In which Harrow is a repressed evangelical Christian and Gideon performs burlesque in a lesbian nightclub. Feat. nipple pasties, chewing gum, and a steaming mug of gay coffee (wake up and smell it, Harrow).

"Necro Business" by rnanqo (1.6k) ♥︎

“Gideon,” you said carefully, “I will need to examine your mouth. Various structures, primarily the jaw, but also the lingual muscles—the tongue—” You stopped there. Your cheeks were going red, probably with indignity. “Yeah,” I said, a bit too loudly, “yeah, sure. Do it.”

"Holy Cross, Alaska" by softieghost (10k) ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Harrow meets Gideon. They go through it together.

"my love will be your armor" by TheKnightsWhoSayBook (2.3k)

"The princess has a right to bestow her favor on whoever she wishes to win a match," Gideon tells her. "Are you going to?" "Why would I? I don't want to marry him," Harrow answers bitterly. "Do you want me to win?" Princess Harrow will be engaged to the winner of the tournament, and her only champion is her useless bodyguard Sir Gideon Nav, who isn't going to save her. Unless...?

"The Meaning Of The Word" by pipistrelle (8.4k)

Harrow, along with a good percentage of Canaan University's necromancy students, has the flu. Gideon has a lot of feelings that she is in no way equipped to handle. It's a tough week.

"(i shine only with the light you gave me)" by sashawire (1.7k) ♥︎

God prods, gently, “Even just starting with their physical description, and we can go from there.” “Imagine,” you say, from somewhere outside your body, “the worst shade of orange you’ve ever seen in your life.” * Harrowhark receives her saintly title.

"i will learn to love the shears" by corpsesoldier (4.7k)

The avulsion trial left Harrow's hair in a sorry state and Gideon offers up her expertise with a blade. Or, Gideon gives Harrow a haircut.

"The Titty Texts: A Work of a Stupendous Titty Nature" by EleniaTrexer (3k)

Gideon accidentally sends Harrow boobs. And then just keeps on sending them.

"can we start over?" by breeeliss (10k)

Gideon needs a tutor. Harrow needs someone to get her out of college gym class. All in all, a pretty straightforward arrangement to make with your ex.

"Dark Mode Enabled" by senseoftheday (12k)

Tech Company AU in which a certain Sales bro with no filter decides to ruin Harrow's life (and feature roadmap) by initiating the cross-functional project from hell. At least, Gideon has the decency to work remotely, and Harrow's new office crush makes some pretty great coffee.

"deconsecrated graves" by emotionsandphenomena (4k)

Gideon and Harrow got out of the cult they were raised in. Okay, what's next?

"settle up in heaven" by liesmyth (3k) ♥︎

“Isn’t this arrogance, Harrow?” Kiriona says. “Think you could fix what God couldn’t?”

"Quoth the Maiden" by Sarsaparilla (10.9k)

The bold outlaws Nova Hawk and Gideon meet for the first time on a narrow log-bridge. But is it really their first meeting? Or: what if Robin Hood and Little John were both lesbians?

"twice in a blue moon" by sinshine (8.7k) ♥︎

Gideon snapped out of her depressing reverie and blinked at her. "That's a really good idea." "Obviously," said Harrow, and it was only a little bit condescending. "Step one, sneak out of the party. Step two, acquire the necessary items at a store. Step three–" Harrow gestured vaguely at the deer in Gideon's hands– "And step four, profit." [G&H rush to fix a smashed snow globe that Dulcinea made so that Cam doesn't kill them before the clock strikes midnight at their NYE party. The fact that Gideon is back in her hometown after a long time away and she and Harrow have unresolved romantic tension is secondary and definitely won't be a problem.]

"It Came From Planet Slut" by LockedTombMemes (8k)

Well. Evidently going undercover to an Idan society fling in order to deliver a message to a high-profile BoE agent was a tits-out kind of look.

"Apostate's Yuletide" by sinshine (12.6k)♥︎

Gideon raised one eyebrow comically high. She smiled easily, erasing any hint of the anxiety that Harrow might have sensed. "What's with all the questions today?" Harrow huffed indignantly and fidgeted with the blanket draped across her lap, worrying the frayed hem with her fingers. "I thought your ego would appreciate the interest." "Yeah, but it's weird coming from you. I'm used to you monologuing, not playing twenty questions." "Perhaps it's a Christmas miracle," suggested Harrow, with an expression so absolutely devoid of joy that Gideon couldn't help but laugh. [Harrow and Gideon burn down a church on Xmas.]

"when it's over" by Adertily (2.5k)

Harrowhark had sworn to herself to live to see the girl in the locked tomb awaken. Alecto has risen. Now God is dead, along with everyone who had ever been dear to her - and Gideon has returned as a distorted creature. The war is over. Harrow wishes she could be too. Or: A character study based on Harrow's suicidal ideation and Gideon's determination to never run anywhere unless she absolutely has to.

"Supernova Bloom!" by sinshine (13k)

"It's just for a week, and then you never have to see me again," said Gideon. "I don't have time to find anyone else." And, "Please." Slowly, Harrow took her hand off the door and cautiously turned around. Gideon watched a dozen unspoken questions flicker across her face. She voiced none of them, but eventually settled on an expression of grim resignation. "I suppose I could suffer you for a week." [Gideon needs help getting her new flower shop ready for the grand opening. Harrow needs cash.]

"I still need your teeth around my organs" by sinshine (7.8k)

Although she was a beloved Daughter and a talented necromancer, Gideon's greatest vice was that she dearly loved to fuck around and find out. Knowing this, perhaps it shouldn't have been as shocking when she lifted one of Nova's hands, flipped it over, and kissed her palm. [4 times Gideon kisses Harrow, 1 time Harrow kisses Gideon]

"cuckoo, cuckoo" by sashawire (1.2k)

What Wake gives it is not a name. To do so would be a moronic, unnecessary cruelty. But she does deign to give it the microscopic dignity of a title, a goal, a purpose. Bomb. Eighteen years later, in the rubble of a once-sacred home, Harrowhark Nonagesimus reaches up and touches Gideon Nav’s grit-covered, blood-rimed face, splits a laugh like the world is ending, and calls her “flower.” * Six times God's unwanted daughter was nicknamed, and once she wasn't.

"my teeth will only cut your lips, my dear" by sashawire (<1k) ♥︎

Gideon chomps into her tongue as hard as she can convince herself, stifling a very dignified squawk. Her eyes water, Emperor’s left tit that fucking hurts, but—it works. Blood weeps from the bite marks, creeping down the back of her throat, up into her nasal cavity, staining her teeth. Okay. She has blood in her mouth. Blood that, somehow, needs to get into Harrow’s mouth. * Step #6: Consume the flesh.

"fifteen percent concentrated power of will" by surreptitiously (9k)

Teaching someone to do a push-up is a love language, when that person is very annoying.

"GHAZAL WHERE I'M BEGGING YOU TO TOUCH ME" by igneousbitch (12k)

You had your body and I had mine, and it was a miracle. Your hands against my face were a miracle. The rest of your meat attached to your hands was a prayer answered and a promise broken, but we were flush and gasping and alive, and Harrow—I really thought you might’ve kissed me then. But I felt it happen. The way your breath suddenly stilled, and your body locked up beneath mine, remembering. How with splintering gentleness, you pushed me away. “I’m so sorry,” was the second thing you said upon waking. The first thing had been my name. Stranded in a safehouse on an Edenite moon, Gideon and Harrow try to put themselves back together.

"catch you on the flip side, sugar lips" by corpsesoldier (4.9k)

Maybe if Harrow's brain runs enough scenarios, she'll find a way to keep what she's lost.

"hand to heart, I swear" by corpsesoldier (5k)

Gideon has a broken heart, and there's only one necromancer who can fix it.

Medium (15-30k)

"If you're doing it right you'll break their ribs" by almostnectarine (22.4k)

"How do you know Nonagesimus has gone somewhere dangerous?" asked Isaac. "Have you wired some kind of alert system?" "It's, uh. It's on the schedule," said Gideon. "I just... forgot. Because of the bread." Nobody was convinced by this, least of all Gideon. "It's a Ninth House thing," Gideon went on, backing away with increasing desperation. This was a slightly more plausible explanation, if only because nobody wanted to look too closely at what fell under the awful skeletal-ribbed and rotting umbrella of Ninth House things. "Gotta go—!" And she was out the door, gone. But it wasn't a Ninth House thing, except inasmuch as it was happening to the only two representatives of the noble and decrepit Ninth House on this quite literally godforsaken rock. Gideon knew Harrow had gone somewhere dangerous—knew that Harrow was back in the lab where they had only just completed a horrible trial—because she could see it, clear as day: an awful overlay on her vision of that terrible dangerous room and a pair of terrible dangerous hands drawing some kind of ward next to the plinth. The hands were definitely Harrow's. This was definitely a problem.

"If Home Is Where the Heart Is (Then We're All Just Fucked)" by JeanLuciferGohard (17k) ♥︎

When Gideon Nav gets a call that her ex-girlfriend, who never bothered to change her designated emergency contact, is in the hospital, she goes against her better judgement and responds. Everything after that just gets more complicated.

"blue gray green lavender" by smolranger (29k) ♥︎

Laser Radial sailor Gideon Nav just wants pass her classes, win a few regattas, and keep her head down. FJ sailor Harrowhark Nonagesimus has grand plans to qualify for the Olympics, preserve her parent's legacy, and save her home town. Despite the ties binding them together, the two have kept their college lives carefully separate for two years. But when Harrow's helm, Ortus, suffers a concussion mid-way through the fall season, their carefully separated lives collide. Harrow needs someone capable of taking Ortus' place for the remainder of the season or her Olympic dreams — and Canaan College's entire sail team — are in peril. And Gideon is her only option.

"Daughters of Hungry Ghosts" by zoicite (24k)

Harrow and Gideon and times they have (and also have not) shared a bed over the years.

"Disney World, Florida" by softieghost (24.6k) [Part 2 of "Holy Cross, Alaska"]

After the events of Alaska, Harrow thanks Gideon the only way she knows how: devotion. -- Chapter 3: The journey concludes. More confessions.

"we've got a good thing goin' " by sinshine (14.6k) ♥︎

“Not to sound ungrateful, but being here makes me wish that you had left me for dead,” said Harrow. Gideon had been staring hard at the face of the fountain’s statue. She was pretty sure that it was carved in the likeness of Naberius himself, but she didn’t want to say it out loud and make it true. She shook her head and turned to Harrow. “Leaving me to live out eternity in your bony sock puppet of a body? Hard pass.” Palamedes and Camilla shared a look. It was the mutual understanding of two people who had been trapped in close quarters with the bickering of Gideon Nav and Harrowhark Nonagesimus for far too long. [Team 69 hide out in Babs's vacation home. Because it's not like he's using it anyway.]

"Cake by the Ocean" by zoicite (15k)♥︎

Okay, so the thing was, Gideon had always been shit at plans. She knew that. Everyone knew that, but this--she really didn’t think it would be this hard! Gideon’s voice was like the least memorable thing about her. Bargaining her voice for a well-shaped set of human legs--that really should have worked in her favor.

"careful fear and (un)dead devotion" by sinshine (23k)

[Gideon and Harrow wake up back in their own bodies but both of them are missing large parts of their memory. Camilla tries not to kill everyone.]

"who ya gonna call?" by igneousbitch (24k)

“Fret not, honeybun.” Gideon shook her red hair out of her eyes, belligerent. “I’m not totally sold on your whole skepticism thing.” “Well,” Harrow said, ignoring the nickname. She turned to the rest of the room, clearing her throat politely before addressing the empty air. “Ghosts, if you’re real, give us a sign. Make a noise. Move something. Send a shiver down our backs. Whisper softly into Nav’s left ear—” “I seriously fucking hate you.” - (Casual sex and paranormal investigation. Not necessarily in that order.) (or: the Buzzfeed Unsolved AU in which Gideon is ready to fight a ghost, and Harrow just wants to be haunted.)

Long(>30k):

"Beneath a Blue and Foreign Sky" by zoicite (35k)

Harrow has a decision to make.

"A Heart Full Of Sutures" by Rohad (40k)

All Gideon wanted was to get outside and ride her motorcycle. No part of that plan had included eight weeks in Canaan Medical Center with a broken Pelvis and the meanest little doctor this side of the eastern seabord.

"Midnight at the Mithraeum" by zoicite (66k) ♥︎

It'd been two years since Gideon Nav gathered her wine key and her gaming license and escaped The Locked Tomb, a speakeasy-style cocktail bar managed by the hateful Harrowhark Nonagesimus. Now, dealing tables at The Mithraeum Hotel & Casino, things were really looking up. So when Gideon scored a date with the most beautiful showgirl in the Gilded Halls of Ida, the last thing she expected was to wake up married to her old nemesis and former coworker. The story starts the night of Gideon's date and alternates between the events leading up to the wedding and the weeks that follow as Gideon tries to navigate life married to someone who claims to want nothing more than to forget she exists.

"Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea" by pipistrelle (90k)

Being the journal of Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus, chronicling the journey of the Emperor's warship Cenotaph on its hunt to slay an immortal Resurrection Beast. Or: the Moby Dick crossover AU that nobody asked for.

"The Darkest Night, The Brightest Light" by eternaleponine (50k)

Harrowhark has known for a long time that her home's financial situation is dire, and not getting better. She has plans to fix it all, but can't implement them until she turns eighteen in a few months. When her parents announce that the best (perhaps only) way to save Drearburh is to marry off its heir, Harrow realizes the timeline has changed and she needs to take action now to save her home... and herself. Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all. Enter Gideon Nav. Detested foe, and Harrow's only hope.

"putting your fist through a thick sheet of glass (i know you don't want to)" by oretsev (46k)

Harrowhark Nonagesimus and Gideon Nav have always been at each other’s throats, and the animosity has only intensified since the death of Harrow’s parents. But when a car accident leaves Gideon without any memories of her past, Harrow sees a chance at the clean slate she’s wanted for years. Becoming involved in Gideon’s recovery assuages some of the guilt, but as she and Gideon become closer and increasingly involved in each other's lives, Harrow worries that some of her secrets may be more than she can atone for.

Ongoing:

"semi-charmed kinda life" by strangedelight (182k+) ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Gideon asked questions. Harrow surprised her with answers. They reached an agreement; they decided to be smart, to be patient. Gideon made a promise, Harrow gave her one in return. Wait and see. OR the year is 1994, and Gideon and Harrow leave their small town for life in the city. OR team 69 roommates au only this time it's the 90s

"Intern the Sixth" by apocalypticTaco (33k+)

ADDRESSING THE HEIR TO THE NINTH HOUSE, OR PRESUMED EQUIVALENT: PALAMEDES SEXTUS, HEIR TO THE SIXTH HOUSE, PRESENTS HIS COMPLIMENTS TO THE NINTH AND REQUESTS A FORMAL ARRANGEMENT WHEREIN HIS MASTER WARDEN AND CAVALIER APPRENTICESHIP UNDER THE NINTH FOR FOUR YEARS IN EXCHANGE FOR THE SIXTH’S SERVICES. *Details to be discussed. Please turn to back page. Timeframe variable. Services and agreements variable upon the Ninth's request. An internship of this caliber is highly unprecedented and likely unheard of, but any information valuable to the Ninth and into the Tomb will remain undisclosed upon request; Primary experience and study is required as the Master Warden has already decided upon such being his final thesis prior to his end studies. No takebacks, no denials. Pleased to meet you. Palamedes Sextus, Heir to the Sixth and Master Warden and Camilla the Sixth, Cavalier Primary and Warden's Hand of the Library

TO THE MASTER WARDEN: FORMALLY REJECTED.

"What's Eating Gideon Nav?" by labyrinthineRetribution (40k+)

After a miserable fifteen years at Blessed Saint Anastasia's School for Girls, Gideon's luck finally changes.

"We Have Always Lived in the Apartment" by labyrinthineRetribution (171k+)

John looks up from his Jack and Coke in drunken curiosity. "What's with the face, Harrowhark?" he asks, genuinely concerned. "Contrary to popular belief," Gideon butts in, "her face just fuckin' looks like that, bitch." She tends to use "bitch" as liberally as commas when off her ass. "You're piss drunk," you shoot back. "And you, my good bitch, are just as contemptible as the day you clawed your way up from Hell." - It is Harrowhark Nonagesimus' birthday, and it only gets worse from there.

PWP (basically):

"I'll hold in these hands all that remains" by corvidlesbian (6.5k) ♥︎

“Do you want me to try?” Gideon said. “What?” “You got all hot and bothered without me trying. Do you want me to try?” Their newfound habit of cuddling gets interesting.

"sting of a wasp" by brightbolt, imperfectlyctor (42k) ♥︎

"You’re a virgin,” Gideon said, testing it out. "Huh." Harrow didn’t like the sound of that huh. She knew Gideon’s noises, and that was a thoughtful, sinister huh. That was the same huh she’d made before putting canned tuna in Crux’s work boots. Her eyes narrowed. “What.” Gideon cocked her head to the side. “Is there a reason you’re waiting?” There was no judgement in the question— only genuine curiosity. Perhaps it was this that made Harrow more inclined to answer. “I don’t have the time to look for someone new,” She shrugged. “And my available pool is… somewhat limited.” “Well,” Gideon said, with just a hint of conspiracy in those glittering golden eyes. “If you ever want to change that, you have my number.” What? What? Harrow blinked. “What?” Or: the five times Gideon and Harrow successfully bone, and the one time they don't.

"Suckle, Honey" by zoicite (7.9k)

“You crave my juice,” Gideon accused. “I do not crave your juice.” “Fuck, you do though. You went off to explore that study alone, without your cavalier, using a key that I nearly gave my life for, and then you snorted some powder that made you crave my juice! Harrow. I never would have let you sniff powder from a ten thousand year old jar.” This was untrue--Gideon probably wouldn’t have noticed Harrow breathing in a puff of jar powder until it was too late--but it sounded like something Camilla Hect might say, so Gideon went with it anyway. Camilla definitely would have stopped Palamedes from accidentally sniffing old as fuck Eighth House jarred juice addiction powder.

"Five Times We Hatefucked and One Time We Didn't" by rnanqo (8k)

“Fuck you,” you said. “Fuck me yourself, you coward.” You ran a hand through my hair, fisted it, and pulled my head up. From here I had a spectacular view of your weird blown-out seething expression, like I was the worst thing you’d ever seen. Also a view up your blood-crusted nostrils. Choice. “Maybe I will, Griddle,” you said. “Maybe I will stop fucking you over and start fucking you." Gideon and Harrow realize, abruptly, that their hatefucking is no longer hatefucking.

"a call to motion" by groundedsaucer (coasterchild) (10k) ♥︎

Harrow and Gideon watch a porno.

"put her canine teeth in the side of my neck" by stranded_star (8.8k)

Harrowhark Nonagesimus is getting a PhD and a divorce. Against her better judgment, she goes out to the bar to celebrate and meets an incorrigible, absolutely ripped salt-and-paprika butch who takes her home and gives it to her good. To her horror, it's the best night of her life, and she sneaks home with her tail between her legs. Harrow has more important things to worry about - like raising her daughter and building the next stages of her career. But when her daughter's favorite teacher, someone named Griddle, turns about to be the Gideon she met at the bar, she's forced to contend with allowing herself (and her daughter) to find the happy ending she never thought they'd have. Featuring MILF!Harrow, Teacher!Gideon, and a very amused Camilla Hect.

"The Wound That Swallows" by seelieunseelie (7.8k)

Harrow can make out an uncomfortable amount of detail about Gideon’s body beneath. Powerful, strong as ever, yet somehow vulnerable for its supplication below Harrow’s. “Are we gonna get this over with?” Gideon says in a voice softly scratchy. She blushes then when Harrow sits on the edge of the bed. “It will hurt,” Harrow says. “Yeah,” Gideon says. “I think I can handle it.”

[devotedlypinkpeanut]

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

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

PAIRING : Lee Heeseung x fem!reader 

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

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

Number of words : ~ 32k

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

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

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AMBOISE, FRANCE — December 1, 1555

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AMBOISE, FRANCE — December 23, 1555

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AMBOISE, FRANCE — Night of December 23, 1555

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

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

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

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

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

And then there's your mask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He only had eyes for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AMBOISE, FRANCE — Night of December 24, 1555

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AMBOISE, FRANCE — Night of December December 25, 1555

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BELMONT RESIDENCE — SEOUL, KOREA — December 31, 1555

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there were the letters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ My star,

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

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

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

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

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

With all that I am, Heeseung. ”

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

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

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

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

BELMONT RESIDENCE — SEOUL, KOREA — January 2, 1556

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HWASEONG FORTRESS — SEOUL, KOREA — January 4, 1556

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taglist : @strxwbloody @wilonevys

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

[caparrucia]

Rings my fucking bell, like a perennial fucking plague maiden:

Center harm, not disgust!

When in doubt (and when not in doubt, just swept by problems bigger than you and assured by someone that they know the answer, so don't think right now, just Do!), center harm.

Focus on what specific harm you're reducing with your actions. Make sure it's tangible and concrete. If your actions are minimizing hypothetical harm at the cost of real, tangible harm on others, 9 out 10 times you're on the wrong fucking side, being weaponized by propaganda.

If a conversation revolves around disgust as a driver for action, you're being radicalized. If a call to action depends on your emotional response, you're being manipulated. I'm sorry, this isn't the 90s anymore, social media has eroded the web of respectability of the pre internet society. The primary axis for misinformation to spread in this day and age is emotional response: half the things you believe are true and share as such are not based on fact, expert opinion or personal research. Social media has conditioned us (all of us! You and me and most dangerously of all, the idiots we put in power) that if something feels true, it probably is.

But do you know for sure it is? Do you think it's true because you have first hand experience or actual time spent on reputable sources learning it to be fact? Or just because it aligns with your worldview and it would be nice for you if it were true?

Are you taking action because you're angry and a group of fellow angry folk invited you to join them? Do you have a plan or is this just catharsis? Are you aware of the consequences of your actions or are you drunk on rage and focused only on the immediate future?

Center harm. Center specific actions and their consequences.

Discomfort is not harm. Disgust is not harm. Hypothetical paranoia is not harm.

The reactionary pipeline is real and your self-image as a progressive is not actually enough to save you from falling down the hole. Radicalization is not hinged on politics alone. Saying you're a leftist is worthless if your thought process and actions themselves are indistinguishable from qanon losers. Conspiratorial thought has literally no politics inherently, and your insistence it does is pure lack of critical thought on display.

Center harm, not feelings, not politics, not group think.

Center harm, and remember that individual actions cannot dismantle systemic structures on their own, so anyone who calls for individual action at the cost of community structures is not actually trying to change anything, and instead actively suppressing efforts to make anything better in any way.

[acciofictionalmen]

fallout in the snowfall ❆ part 3

james potter x female!reader

summary: when james kisses you on an adrenaline high, your friendship is in shambles as the true meaning of "just friends" becomes irreparably warped. you both desperately try to restore the platonic bond that you once shared, but at what cost...

warnings: strong language, sexual references

word count: 3.1k

series masterlist

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

Excited chatter filled the room as people crowded around the centre, eager to hear their name called. You stood with your group of friends, chatting with Sirius and Remus whilst James talked to Lily. Mary was busy reassuring Peter, who looked disconcertingly pale.

Christmas break was quickly approaching and, much to the students’ chagrin, teachers began to set end-of-term tests. As it was your penultimate year at Hogwarts all tests were treated seriously. However, there was a different atmosphere surrounding the DADA test: a duel utilising the most advanced spells you’d been taught so far. It was assessed based on who disarmed their opponent first, the length of the duel and the range of spells used; everyone was anticipating it. Some were excited and had disarmed multiple first years that morning for practice, others (namely Peter), had vomited during breakfast.

You weren’t sure into which category you fell. Sure, you were confident in your knowledge, but duelling was different to scribbling information down on a piece of parchment: it was impulsive.

Not only that, your DADA teacher – Professor Halloway – had a reputation for being as harsh as she was skilled. Approaching her one hundredth birthday, she was wise, experienced and beautiful in a sharp manner, with thick black hair she kept stuffed beneath a black, pointed hat. Her face was drawn, tight, her brown eyes always critical. It wasn’t easy to score high grades in Halloway’s classes.

“You’ll do fine.” Remus smiled by your side, noticing your growing discomfort, “I’ve seen you practice. You’ve got this.”

“Yeah (Y/n),” Sirius squeezed your arm, “Just pretend they’re Snape.” Sirius’ eyes darkened as he spied the Slytherin on the opposite end of the room, speaking with the Professor, “I know I will be.”

“Thanks guys.” Your head tilted teasingly, “Try not to accidentally murder Snape then.”

Sirius gave you a concerningly non-committal look.

Whilst waiting, you noticed Remus clenching his fists- anxious to do well. An idea sprang to your mind.

“Wanna be my duelling partner?” You abruptly asked Remus, “Sirius will be desperate to duel Snape, unless James beats him to it.”

Remus gave you a thankful smile, “Yeah, thanks (Y/n). We’ll do that.”

“Of cour-“

“Potter. James Potter.”

The room went silent as all eyes flew to James.

In a manner that oozed confidence, he rolled his shoulders back and stepped into the centre of the room.

Professor Halloway looked disinterested, “Partner?”

On instinct, you turned to Snape. His sneer was more pronounced than usual, and you knew he was also waiting for his name to be called.

“Prewett.”

Your heart dropped. The impact of his name seemed to surge through the room as people turned around in surprise. In a few seconds, Gideon had pushed through the crowd until he stood directly in front of James. Both boys silently assessed each other, both the picture of self-assurance. There was one stark difference between them- James appeared unbothered, his posture relaxed. Gideon, on the other hand, was visibly tense; lacked the ease that had always come naturally to James.

Your heartbeat sped up as you held your breath, trying to ignore the pounding in your chest as the tension in the room mounted.

“Take your positions.” Professor Halloway dictated. The class fell silent once more to witness the interaction. Even Snape was unable to hide the shock from his face.

James stood on the left, closest to you, whilst Gideon stood opposite on the right.

Professor Halloway spoke cautiously, “Remember- this is solely to disarm. No other spells are to be used.” Both boys nodded. “Now, draw your wands and bow… Bow, Potter…”

The irritation on James’ face was almost comical as he sunk into a deeper bow, but you couldn’t laugh. You held your breath as both boys stepped away from each other.

“One… Two…”

You stared, unable to look away.

“Three.”

Lights flashed across the room as both cast spells at an alarmingly fast rate.

It quickly became clear who was faster.

Gideon’s casting visibly began to slow as his spells started to miss their target, his wand movements becoming sloppier against the onslaught of James’.

It wasn’t long before Gideon was on the floor, panting for air. But James wasn’t finished.

“FLIPENDO.” The word rung throughout the room and Gideon was flung backwards. He slammed into the wall with a sickening thud, dropping to the floor.

A hand flew to your mouth. The room erupted into shouts.

People were running over to Gideon, checking he was okay and attempting to lift him off the ground. Professor Halloway was viciously scolding James, his loyal best friends immediately supporting him and by his side. You stood there in the centre of it all, horrified, as people bustled around.

You couldn’t process what had just happened as you watched a Hufflepuff girl shaking Gideon frantically. There were too many people surrounding him to see if he had opened his eyes.

Your shock and confusion at James for taking it too far was quickly replaced by anger. He had recently seemed a little hostile towards Gideon, but you chalked it down to James’ anxiety for the Gryffindor team to do well. This- this was something else.

“He’s okay!” Someone declared. Gideon had stood up, somewhat off-balance, but seemed to be fine. You exhaled in relief, mentally noting to check on him later.

After giving Gideon a quick once-over and deeming him fit to stay in class, Professor Halloway continued her berating. “You got lucky, Potter. If this happens again you will not be welcome in this class. From today, you have a fortnight of detention and will automatically fail this test.”

There were some shouts of indignation from Sirius and some opposing yells that James’ punishment wasn’t enough, but Professor Halloway silenced them with a lethal look as she turned to face the rest of the class.

“Any more of this behaviour in my lessons, and you’ll find that you have no free time for a month.”

That shut everyone up.

She picked up her list and proceeded to call people up. Snape, much to James and Sirius’ horror, called Remus up. But they needn’t have feared: Remus won a decisive victory with a spurt of well-rehearsed spell combinations. You were slightly disappointed Remus wouldn’t be able to duel again now, but you knew Mary would be more than happy to partner up.

Following James’ scolding no more dangerous incidents occurred, and the duels blended seamlessly together. Before you knew it, Professor Halloway had called your name and you were stood by her side.

“Partner?” She asked curtly.

“Mary.” You said, grinning as your best friend made eye contact with you, already making her way up to the front.

“You must think me blind, Miss (L/n), if you think I haven’t noticed how close the two of you are. Duelling is about spontaneity, and I have no doubt you’ve practiced with Miss MacDonald many times.”

Mary froze, and you knew your face mirrored the disappointment on her own.

Professor Halloway continued, “Mulciber, please come up.”

Sirius swore loudly as you froze, feet glued to the floor. Your eyes went to your friends, who all looked worried. But it was James who made his indignation known.

“You can’t have him duel-”

“Silence!” Professor Halloway hissed, “Another disruption from you, Potter, and I’ll see your expulsion through personally.”

You shook your head at James as he fell silent, a frown etched into his face as he watched Mulciber approach you.

Your duelling partner took his place opposite, a sickening grin on his face as his lips curled wickedly.

Mulciber was a Slytherin notorious for his cruel, unforgiving nature, and a friend of Snape’s. He’d once had a brawl in the courtyard with Sirius, and both had left with considerable injuries that even Madam Pomfrey couldn’t heal overnight. He hated the Marauders, and their friends.

All eyes were on you as you bowed, your eyes narrowing at Mulciber as you assessed him. The look in his eyes was wild, one of unmistakeable hostility.

For a moment everyone seemed to hold their breath. You knew your duelling was strong enough to best Mulciber- you just had to stay collected.

“One.”

Your fingers tightened around your wand as you got into a duelling stance. Mulciber did the same.

“Two.”

Your arms went rigid to stop them shaking from the anticipation, the first spell already dancing on the tip of your tongue.

“Th-”

Mulciber blasted a spell your way.

People were already shouting, but you couldn’t listen.

Though he’d taken you by surprise, your blocks were precise. Mulciber’s voice rose in anger, but his spells still were unable to scrape past your unyielding shield.

You smirked as he snarled, spells bouncing off your shield and rebounding across the room as people ducked to avoid his wrath. He neared you, his movements vaguely reminding you of a lion stalking its prey. Your determination intensified; between the two of you there was only one Gryffindor.

But the impact of his spells slamming relentlessly into your shield was beginning to drain your energy, and you knew that in order to win you had to go onto the offensive.

Within a second you dropped your shield and flung a spell at your opponent. He staggered back, surprised, his look of shock morphing into anger. You readied your wand but he was already hurling spells your way. You deflected them too late, stumbling slightly as you struggled to regain your balance.

Panic began to overwhelm your thoughts as your wand slipped in your hand. Your palms were slick with sweat; every time you had an opening to fire a spell Mulciber would easily deflect it, then hurl ten back. You were struggling to find an opening and feeling wearier by the second.

Mulciber’s face was red as you dodged spell after spell, and you faintly registered the loud yells around you. Whatever was said had him gritting his teeth, when he suddenly slammed you with a spell so vicious that you almost fell backwards.

A spell as violent as that can’t have been for disarming. The shouting in the room got louder.

You heard Professor Halloway reprimanding Mulciber, but you barely processed it as he continued to attack you with an onslaught of magic. By now you were clenching your wand tightly, your hands shaking from the strain.

Within seconds his spells seemed to gain a new intensity. You had to cast one final spell and end this. There was a moment, a millisecond, where Mulciber was preparing to attack again, and you momentarily let down your shield to hit him with the disarming charm.

He beat you to it.

The spell slammed into your chest as you choked on air, the impact making your lungs constrict painfully. Before you could properly register it, you were flying backwards. A blinding pain shot up your arm as you slammed onto the ground, a strangled sound escaping your throat.

There were screams, people rushing around you as you sat up quickly, vision slightly hazy. Cradling your arm, the tears in your eyes were a mixture of pain and sheer embarrassment. You felt so humiliated, hating the attention as people repeatedly asked if you were okay. Suddenly Professor Halloway’s pointed face appeared into view as she hauled you up and towards the exit of the room.

Within an instant a familiar voice was speaking up, rough and panicked, “Professor, let me take her to Madam Pomfrey, please.”

You realised with a start that it was James as he shoved people aside to get to you, his eyes wild.

Anger flooded your senses and, combined with not only the pain in your wrist but the humiliation of your defeat, it became rage, “Not him.” You spat, “Anyone but him.” You turned to Professor Halloway, ignoring James as she stared at you thoughtfully.

“Lupin!” She called, and Remus was instantly by your side.

Before you knew it you’d left the classroom. The door slammed shut on James, and the chaos inside.

──── ୨୧ ────

After a gruelling day, lessons were finally over. Curled up by the fire, you basked in the warmth and soft crackles that filled the common room. It was late, so most people had vacated the space to get ready for bed.

You chose to stay behind, in deep thought as you moved your now fully healed wrist.

The quiet didn’t last long as the Fat Lady portrait abruptly swung open. In came James, accompanied by Remus. You screwed your eyes shut, in disbelief that this was happening now of all times.

James hesitated at the sight of you, alone, and nodded to Remus, “I’ll be just a minute mate, go up without me.”

Remus lingered at the foot of the stairs, appearing uncertain, but headed up at the sound of the resolution in James’ voice. You didn’t speak, didn’t bother to face him as you continued to stare into the fire, orange floating in front of your eyes whenever you blinked.

James stood behind you.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, the words sliding out casually.

“Fine.” You didn’t bother to look up at him; your cold tone making it clear that you wanted to be left alone.

James shook his head in frustration. Turning to the staircase, his hand settled on the railing as the first step creaked. But then he stepped back down, turning around suddenly, “What’s the problem? Between us?” His words had a confrontational edge, prompting you to turn and face him as your brows furrowed.

“What?”

James took a step towards you, that stubbornness burning in his eyes as he stared you down, “What’s wrong with you? Why have you been acting like this?”

You stood up, unable to bear the way he was talking down to you and how vulnerable it made you feel. “How I’ve been acting? Did you not almost kill Gideon Prewett earlier after slamming him into a wall for no reason?”

“He would’ve survived worse. He’s annoyingly persistent like that.” His eyes were dark.

“He didn’t deserve it.”

His irritated expression suggested otherwise. James clenched his jaw, crossing his arms. His biceps bulged, briefly pulling your eyes away from his face.

“You’re unreasonable.” You spat; tone accusatory as you moved towards him.

James scoffed, the fire reflecting in his glasses, “And you aren’t? Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or am I expected to grovel at your feet and beg for an answer?”

You rolled your eyes, refusing to take the bait. This had to stop. “Don’t turn this on me, James.” You shook your head, laughing in disbelief, “You don’t get to do that.”

James stared you down, unspeaking. You hated the way he just stood there. You needed a reaction from him, needed to know your words hurt him as much as he had you.

You didn’t know when the conversation had turned away from Gideon, but it just did.

You maintained his gaze, refusing to look away. “Our friendship is ruined because you used me to satiate your- whatever- and then didn’t know what to do with me afterwards.” You swallowed harshly, stifling any emotion as you struggled to conceal how deeply affected you were by him.

His jaw clenched, “That’s what you think of me, is it?” His laugh was joyless as he took one final step, asserting himself over you. The height difference was pronounced as he looked down to speak, “You’re the one who made it awkward. You’re the one who made things different when they were just fine.”

“Maybe I didn’t want ‘just fine’.”

He hesitated.

“Merlin, James, do you ever think about what others want for a change?” You struck where you knew it would hurt.

James stopped you before you could get another hurtful word in. “Don’t act as though you didn’t pull away first, (Y/n). Don’t pretend this is all on me. It’s not my fault that my friendship wasn’t enough for you, that you weren’t satisfied. You don’t get to blame that on me.” His voice got louder as he rubbed his temples, “And what are you mad at me for, exactly? Kissing you?” He paused, waiting for you to respond. You didn’t. “Because if you didn’t like that, you’d be the first.” His voice was harsh, that familiar cockiness slipping out.

You froze, his words smacking you in the face.

Anger shone in the tears that pooled in your eyes. You shoved a hand against his chest, “Fuck you-”

James opened his mouth to speak. You didn’t let him. “-and your fucked up idea of friendship.”

You tried to turn away but his hand flew to your wrist, keeping your palm splayed against him.

You were close now, so close. The red glow of the flames danced on the rim of James’ glasses as you stood your ground, refusing to look away.

His eyes dropped to your lips, and your eyes begged to do the same. You couldn't do it. Wouldn't allow yourself to.

“Don’t you dare.” Your voice cracked, finally yielding under the tension. James’ eyes flicked up to yours again, his breathing heavy. The look he gave you was one of hurt and anger, and something else. “Don’t you dare look at me like that.”

Your words came out harsher than intended and James instantly dropped your wrist, stepping away. Your hand dropped to your side, fingers tingling.

The gap between you seemed to roar with everything unspoken.

“We’ve ruined this.”

James’ response was low, spiteful. “Then stop chasing it.”

“Stop, both of you!” A voice sliced through the tension, causing you to whip around. Mary stood at the foot of the stairs in pink pyjamas, arms crossed as she glared at James.

“We’re going to bed.” She went up to you and took your arm, dragging you away.

“You’ve got a date tomorrow (Y/n), focus on that.” Mary soothed as you disappeared up the stairs, her words intentionally loud so that James would hear.

Mary was James’ friend, sure- and maybe what she’d said was petty, but she could live with that. In Mary’s eyes you came first, and James had hurt you. Badly. He deserved to know that he was no longer a priority in your life.

James stood there; hands clenching and unclenching as his anger began to ebb away. Eventually, the lack of your presence caused the buzzing in his mind to settle.

He cursed, sinking into the armchair closest to the fire. So close, that he had to move his legs away from the flames- the heat bordering on painful. His head fell back, cushioned by the plush material. He hadn’t known why he’d done it, had lost control with his classmate. His teammate. Why he had seen him as a threat.

James watched the logs burn, until they were swallowed by the flames and the fire died out. He sat there, contemplating in the darkness, until the cinders were cool to the touch.

A/N

i really enjoyed writing this part! let me know what you thought i love to read your comments :)

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[myun-saidthoughts]

Reasons Why Water House Synastry Is Karmic and Intense:

In this post, I want to address some reasons why water house (4th, 8th, and 12th) synastry can be very intense, very transformational and why it creates/increases codependency.

(the basis of this thread is the fact that there is attraction and desire within the romantic connection, and the depth of feeling will run more true if you share multiple other intense synastry aspects/past life connections. Friendships/family relations that have heavy 8th/12th house synastry overlays manifest *very* differently)

Each water house has one common factor, and that's with these type of synastry overlays; you will feel seen or accepted. In some way, some form, the severity of it depends (as usual), but

if you struggle with:

4TH House:

Showing your true character to others without the fear of being judged.

Sharing your inner thoughts to others with ease and safeness.

The fact that you never felt/had a safe home, so now you long for that feeling (of being at ease/comfortable with someones presence).

Feeling ease and comfortability within your environment or within yourself, instead you experienced that those feelings came at a cost.

Feeling secure when you're meeting others/being open to others.

Stating your inner thoughts or feelings outwardly and confidently.

Trusting others.

8TH House: If you struggle with:

Self acceptance.

Self worth.

Self love.

Self confidence.

Accepting/receiving love.

Having low respect for yourself (meaning how others treat you may be hurtful but because of lack of validation within, you allow or accept that behavior).

Having a pattern where the way others treat you either gives or takes away validation your inner wounds need.

Deeply craving emotional closeness yet fearing it at the same time.

Allowing yourself to desire love.

The fact you're emotionally unavailable; so you're unsure with how to deal with romance, and yet a part of you still deeply desires a partner.

These also may resonate if you have 8H Placements, Pluto aspecting inner planets/Scorpio placements.

12TH House: If you struggle with:

Emotionally availability/allowing someone to see you, all of you.

Receiving tangible, stable, harmonious, love.

Having a habit to/find it easier to fix or save someone in hopes of changing their self destructive habits or mental health issues. This type of tendency creates an avoidance within yourself especially if you don't focus on your own needs or problems. (it's easier to focus on someone else's pain rather than your own)

Feeling safe with the idea of not being needed, instead you choose to be the giver or other woman since it subconsciously keeps you at a distance of being openly loved (which is something you subconsciously fear)

Holding the deep desire to feel seen past the physical 3D.

Allowing yourself to receive the type of love you're able to give/shower another.

Wanting to fix or heal someone's mental health wounds or problems, you find it safer to be their savior rather than have a true give and take partnership.

(These also may resonate if you have 12H, Neptune aspecting inner planets/Pisces placements)

These are a few examples of how intense these synastry overlays may manifest if you are struggling with the above statements. I briefly mentioned a few indicators, needless to say they are more and each synastry chart or even natal chart will always paint the picture better of how deep these relationships can manifest.

then 4th, 8th, and 12th house synastry will cause internal shift within, whether you want it to or not.

4th House: With the 4th house and when someone walks into your life and they ignite your IC, the part of your character that you readily hide becomes unlocked. If you personally have struggled with being comfortable in your skin, or have struggled with feeling secure with who you are as you are, then this person to you will feel like a comfort blanket. Their presence will shift you into a mood where all you feel is safe, present, and in the moment. With them, you will feel complete in showcasing your inner world and your inner thoughts. Their presence will become this key that you didn't even knew you need. It'll feel easy with them, and there is no hesitation, confusion or worry. You can't feel worry, and it's not because they insistently tell you not to feel anxious, you just naturally won't. You guys will likely share the same humor or communication style, and if there is a Venus conjunct IC then the IC person will feel this romantic pull with showcasing their personality outwardly that they won't be able to shake towards the Venus person. Overall these feelings are especially true if you struggle with letting someone in, if it takes some time for you to allow someone else to see your personality or thoughts, then they will feel like a cure for allowing to let that side of you out and when you're next to them; you'll feel like you're finally home.

Example: you walk into a bar and they make eye contact with you, you instantly smile, they instantly smile, and the conversation that ignites feels as if you just spoke to them. It could be weeks, months even since you last saw them but the comfortability between the two of you oozes out in a way where it feels like they just came back home to you. (especially if you share heavy 3H synastry overlays as well or if their mercury softly aspects your inner planets, vice versa)

The reason why this type of connection can be hard to let go of is because their presence might cause or create a codependent need in you for them in order to feel "safe." All their presence is doing is igniting the secure feeling in you that you wish you had, you finally can look into another's eyes and feel that type of comfortability you've always been scared enough to unlock or accept. Your private thoughts and characteristics feel safe next to them, and because of that, they create this security within you won't know how to let go of. So, all they are doing is unleashing your wish of being your truest self without fearing the consequences of being seen for who you are.

In some cases, 4th house synastry may not run as intense, and some say it can be 'mundane' or boring, especially if you don't struggle with the listed wounds I stated, or if you don't share other intense or cute attraction synastry aspects with them; but in essence this individual will feel like a grounding force.

The bond you can form with them is tangible, it's secure, and it feels real. So, letting them go will feel as though you're letting go the one desire of ever revealing your private inner self with ease, especially if this is a part of you that you've been too afraid to openly show or even accept.

Songs That Relate

Look After You - The Fray

Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol

Control - Zoe Wees

Hey Stranger - Billie Flynn

8th House: With the 8th house, these type of connections are more intense, and naturally so. With this type of synastry, and if you struggle with self acceptance especially with self love or self worth, then letting go of this connection will feel near to impossible. It will feel like life or death if they walk away from you, and it will feel like a part of you dies every time they don't give you the reassurance or acknowledgment your soul wishes for. Their eyes alone, tell you it's time to let that wall down and without effort your wall crumbles. You know that if they leave, a part of you will leave with them but if your wound of wishing to be accepted runs so deep within, you can't help but take that risk. You're aware that the unavoidable low following their absence will cut deep, yet instead of walking away, you prepare yourself for its inevitable arrival.

You allow that pain to embody you because that pain hurts less than not feeling those moments of acceptance that they are able to give you, especially if it's what you've always reluctantly wished for.

With their presence that void of wanting emotional closeness that you've always longed for will feel like it has vanished, their eyes alleviate the long-ignored half-empty feeling, and so the part of you that wishes to been seen, the part of you that wishes to feel accepted, the part of you that wants to be vulnerable won't know how to let go.

You could run into them and it could be weeks, months even and if you still struggle with loving yourself in the way you wish they would, their presence will create this upheaval that will shake within you, this synastry holds cycles, loops, ups and down to the point of where if you don't hate them, a part of you will still want them.

This synastry creates a dynamic where this soul that entered your life is only igniting the parts of you that you, yourself don't accept, love or acknowledge. Their presence becomes this band-aid that somehow soothes the deepest parts of you that have been abandoned, and their presence soothes the part of you that you yourself believe you can't heal. This fear then creates a scarcity mindset that can cause you to become someone you're not, and even if you logically know what is objectively best to do in situations to not create more intensity within the connection; there's just a part of you that can't care.

The reason why this type of connection can be hard to let go of is because their presence might cause or create a codependent need in you to have them in order to feel "seen." Their presence gives you a sense of acceptance where you allow yourself to accept love in. If you struggle with emotional abandonment, or fear love, then their presence will feel like a "skip the line" pass with inner healing the parts of you that feel broken.

The reason why 8th house synastry is discussed so promptly and openly is because these feelings that persist (when dealing with inner wounds) become such catalysts of growth and ego deaths; but that is only because this connection allows in the hope for love you've been wishing for all your life. You want to be held, you want to be cared for and loved in a way that you've never received, and this person presences grants that sole wish. They bring you that one solace feeling that you've never felt and because of that, letting them go is letting go the one key that makes you feel worthy, seen, and accepted.

Their presence creates this codependent need within because they become this one "thing" that you think you need in order to fulfill that self love wound you keep repressing. You'll start to rely on them for emotional clarity or serenity, you'll start to "need them" in order to feel good, and you'll expect them to make you feel "better" emotionally and if they fail to meet those expectations, all you'd be faced with is the unwavering feeling of the lack of self love or worth you're too afraid to self develop.

The love you're so readily able to give them, is what your soul is asking you to give yourself.

*Those who have prominent natal Scorpio or 8th house placements as well as having Pluto aspecting harshly their inner planets or ascendant will feel these trials and errors more*

Songs That Relate:

Locksmith/You Don't - Sadie Jean

Addicted - Kelly Clarkson

Im Yours/Heartbeat - Isabel LaRose

Just a Little Bit of Your Heart - Ariana Grand

Heavenly - Cigarettes After Sex

Is There Somewhere - Halsey

12th house:

This post focuses exclusively on a 12th house relationship between two kind and evolved individuals. While there are other darker themes associated with 12th house synastry — such as deception, substance abuse, hidden affairs (like being the other woman or mistress), lies about one partner’s true nature, or fear that one partner is withholding information or their true self — I won’t be discussing those here. I might explore those themes in a future post, as they are important to note, but for now, my main focus will not include those themes.

“Though I barely know you, it feels as if I do. Your eyes and body language seem to speak your thoughts, even the ones I can’t fully grasp. There’s no visible thread connecting us, yet this feeling remains.” — Planet Person

With the 12th house, this synastry unlocks so many different routes and experiences. Many factors influence how each individual can feel towards this ethereal connection. One way this synastry can manifest is through the tendency for the 12th house to cloud, confuse, and bring hesitancy into the connection. In some cases, Person A (or the person who has heavy Neptune/Pisces/12th house placements) will feel as though they can read Person B in such a deep and subconscious way; this type of knowing may even be hidden from Person B to the extent that they are unaware of their own subconscious emotional needs, thoughts or feelings, and yet (especially if there's care or desire on their end) Person A can read Person B like a book. 12th house synastry can be so thought provoking because of the absolute depth and surreal feeling it can add into the connection. The planet person (or the person who has heavy Neptune/Pisces/12th house placements) will feel this innate drive to be with the house person (or the other partner who isn't as spiritual adept). It's as if one partner, driven by an innate need to give endlessly, is profusely tossing their sole bucket of water into the vast ocean of the other partner's needs. The giver (or the person who has heavy Neptune/Pisces/12th house placements) is so focused on giving that they overlook the importance of receiving, while the receiver remains oblivious.

If Person B remains unaware of the deep spiritual bond between them that can manifest, they may perceive Person A's actions as invasive or unnecessary. Person A, recognizing wounds in Person B that Person B may not be aware of can evoke a sense of fear in Person B, this has to deal with the issue of them not allowing or accepting a form of love that they believe (Person B) doesn't serve them.

If this scenario resonates with you, then this individual is provoking a wound within yourself that deals with the acceptance of receiving authentic love. This innate need to only give highlights your own fear of receiving real reciprocal, stable, tangible love.

In this scenario where one party wants to save, fix, heal or give, highlights that fearful nature within you where you allow to stay in shallow waters. You subconsciously know that you have such passionate love to give, but that thought of giving to someone who in turn might be willing to give back evokes fear and uncertainty within you.

This subconscious block holds more comfortability within you since it allows you to never accept a love where your soul will fully be fulfilled. It's self sabotaging and self written, you naturally already know how the story will end between you two, and so you subconsciously will find a character who perfectly embodies the story you yourself say you try to run from.

On the other hand this synastry (when desired and when it's dealing with highly evolved individuals) can unlock such deep soulfulness between both partners. Between the two parties, it'll feel as if they have found someone that can finally understand them better than anyone ever has, it'll feel dreamy and mystical. It'll feel as if their body language writes stories that you could only read.

In a pure sense, one partner that desires the other very deeply and whole heartedly wants to make sure that their partner is seen, and understood. And this comes from a very sincere place and if the other receiving partner allows that kind of love in while being okay with giving that same love back, that is when this type of connection can be ideal.

Now in this scenario, this type of codependent nature deals with over emphasizing redemption with no boundaries. If there is solid exchangeable love, a part of you may believe there is always more good than bad within them or within the relationship, and so their wrongdoings or unacceptable behavior to you or to others somehow receives justification or more understanding than he or she should receive. (especially if you also share 8th house synastry with them). As well as it's important to understand that if there is this innate understanding given by one partner that's always present when there shouldn't be, that's when the relationship can become overwhelming, or draining. Just because you know, understand or empathize with the other partner's actions or patterns doesn't make their actions okay.

This type of dynamic receives interchanging parts, with the 12th house things can lack a solid foundation and have a lack crystal clear communication, some days you both won't deal with struggling dynamics, then one day Partner 1 acts out, to which Partner 2 cuirasses and holds, then a few weeks later Partner 2 acts out and Partner 1 comes to their aid.

Truly the amount of stories, experiences, how Person 1 will feel vs Person 2 is genuinely so intercomplicated and nuanced. Each story lies within the two parties involved, with this house they are just so many different routes and avenues it can uphold, so this particular post may not cover every ounce of information on 12th house synastry. If you are curious to learn more only about this synastry I have a long updated post titled "Understanding 12th House Synastry" and it's far more in-depth (click the text).

In essence, how the other partner receives this type of boundless understanding calls for them to be a very kind and open individual. It's important to understand and recognize red flags or self undoing patterns. Staying aware of the actual real situation instead of sitting in bed thinking of the "What if's" are key. Their posts may not be about you, that song on their story can be just a song, remember that. Especially if the individual lacks self awareness or care on their end.

Finally, I don't believe water house synastry holds malicious energy or serves as a dictatorship with stating how the relationship will fail. Not every synastry overlay is set for such intense energy or uncomfortable experiences, each planet in a natal chart holds different themes. What truly matters at the end of the day are the two souls involved within the connection. Desire, care, love, and acceptance are all foundational keys for any relationship to last even those with or without water house synastry. Accepting yourself in the purest form when it comes to each water house theme (4,8,12) is key.

Your natal chart when it comes to synastry serves as a mirror within yourself, everything you are feeling for someone else is already sitting within you.

Don't forget that.

[blegh-110]

iv. "i've still got you all over me"

Pairing: older brother's best friend!Sam x fem!reader

Summary: When you try to get over Sam when you were 14 and he was 16.

Warnings: None!

Word Count: 1.9k

Your winter break was a bad time for you. There was no escape from Sam. 

It seemed like every single day he was over at your house, and what you used to think was a dream come true, it was now a slow torture. You barely saw him during those two weeks, but you heard him. His laugh in the living room, his footsteps walking down the hall, just his very presence, and it killed you for fourteen days straight.

And even when he was gone, he was still on your mind. 

You had more than enough of your own sadness by the time break was over. And after the harsh realization that you can’t live your life staying infatuated with a boy who no longer looked your way, you were ready for the upcoming semester. Your focus and undivided attention would no longer be on Sam, but on yourself because you missed being happy. 

This determination came from a sleepless night a few days before the second semester began. You were up late just reminiscing about him when you saw how truly pathetic you were being; what were you doing helping him cut his classes just so he could stay in your life? You put off so much of your own life just for him, and none of it was worth anything. 

So when school began, you immediately threw yourself back into your academics. That meant no more doing the bare minimum when it came to homework assignments, in class work, tests, quizzes, presentations. You did as much as you could for two reasons: to resort back to your studious self, and to distract yourself from any thoughts of Sam. 

Instead of spending your lunch time in the cafeteria, you either went to the library to do some work or went to your next class and ate there, plus more work. And instead of spending your Friday nights and weekends with or thinking about Sam, it became an opportunity to do any extra credit and to get a head start on any assignments. 

And in the midst of reverting back to your former self, you avoided Sam at all costs. And it wasn’t subtle. 

If you entered the living room and saw him sitting on the couch, you left. If you saw him walking in your direction in the school halls, you turned right around and took the long way to your class. If you saw him in the cafeteria, you would leave and buy a bag of chips and a soda at one of the vending machines instead of waiting in line. 

It was difficult to live this way but not abnormal. Before, you were constantly on the lookout for Sam only hoping to see him. But now, you looked around the room just to make sure he wasn’t there as well. And it made you equally anxious and frustrated. When you were actively looking for him he wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but now that you were avoiding him he seemed to be everywhere. It made respecting his wishes to stay away from him a lot harder. Then it got even worse when he suddenly took a strange interest in you, and it once again felt like all your efforts went to waste. 

The first time was when he knocked on your bedroom door to hand you your book that you’d left in the kitchen. It was an interaction that ended very quickly with you shutting the door in his face as soon as he started talking. You didn’t do it with the intention to hurt him, you were over being angry with him, mostly(if you thought about what happened too much then you’d resort to holding that grudge against him). It was because you weren’t a confrontational person and any conversation with him would only remind you of how you acted when he was with his new friends. 

Then he tried the same thing at school when you were just about to enter the library during lunch when he saw you, but he was stopped by the librarian because the last time he came in he spilled his entire bag of chips on the floor and was being extremely loud. 

“C’mon, it was only one time”

“No it was not, Sam. Now go, you’re not welcome here anymore.” She shooed him away with a scowl on her face. 

“Please, I’ll be gone in like five minutes, I just need to talk to my friend real quick.” And he gestured to you. The title made your breath hitch, his friend. Since he’d met you, he hadn’t referred to you as anything. And really you didn’t either. Even though it was nice to hear and it did give you butterflies,  you just weren’t ready for whatever conversation he wanted to have, so you shook your head before you said “I can’t, I have a test to study for.”

You almost turned back when you saw the disbelief in his face. 

Then there was the time you finally gave in to him, but only because it was pouring rain on your walk back home and you failed to bring an umbrella. 

It was hard to hear at first because it was raining so hard, but you heard the rumble of an engine next to you then saw a slightly beat up, faded red car. You would’ve ran if you hadn’t seen Sam in the driver's seat with the passenger window rolled down, when did he get a car?

“Get in.” Was all he said but you shook your head once again.

“I’m okay, Sam.” You really weren’t. You were freezing cold and your shoes were really wet, and you were pretty sure all the papers in your backpack were soaked. 

“(Y/N), I swear to god, get in the car. I’m not letting you get home like this.” It was a bit aggressive the way he said it, but he looked worried sick. And maybe you shouldn’t have felt this way, but you liked that he was so worried about you. The hope that he still cared about you never died. It was miserable at times, like how you thought he’d magically change his ways last semester and you were continuously let down. But at times like these, there was the smallest amount of faith that barely convinced you that this time would be different. Maybe he still cared about you, just a little bit. And it was that small amount of hope that was enough for you to get in. Then you immediately wished you hadn’t. 

It all would’ve been perfect; him saving you from walking in the rain, the warmth, the softest music playing. But as soon as you got in the car, the tension was there, the hurt was still there, and it stopped you from appreciating it all. 

“How’s school?” He asked and you wanted to die. Is that what you two resorted to? Small talk? Months ago you would’ve told him without him needing to ask because you wanted to. But now you were afraid to tell him anything, the fear of being annoying and a burden took all the words out of your mouth. 

“Good.” You whispered.

“That’s good.” 

It was silent the rest of the ride, which was only a few minutes but felt like an eternity. And you were ready to jump out when he parked in front of your house before he called your name.

“What?” You sighed out, exhausted and ready to forget the last seven minutes. Why wouldn’t he just let you go? Isn’t that what he wanted? You to be gone? Why the sudden change of interest? Did he know this was killing you? You just wanted to be left alone. 

“I’m really sorry,” That surprised you, very much. So much that your growing annoyance simmered away and you were left confused, “for what I said to you, and-and how I treated you.”

“Oh, okay.” You whispered the only words that made sense to say at the moment because you were at a loss for words. 

“I know that I treated you like shit, you helped me cut classes and tried to help me with school and I was acting like an asshole.”

What he said was true, but you still believed that you were bothering him and being obnoxious about it. You also thought how embarrassing it must’ve been for you, a younger girl, to be so concerned with him, an older boy. If there was a younger boy breathing down your neck like it was his job you certainly would’ve told him to go away as well. So you couldn’t really blame him for telling you to leave him alone, but Sam seemed to think the opposite when he saw you shake your head in disagreement.

“(Y/N), stop it. You did nothing wrong, I was doing some shitty things and you were just trying to bring me back. I’d do the same thing if I were you,” You got butterflies from his words, “and I promise, if that happens and you totally fall off the rails, I’ll be even worse.”

Maybe it was because you were the forgiving type, which was very unfortunate at times, and you had too big of a heart to fault anyone, but you hated to hear him talk about himself that way.

“I did those things myself though, you didn’t make me.” 

“But I let you do it fully knowing you didn’t want to,” He paused again, “and I know you’ve been avoiding me, and I thought I could ignore it but… seeing you so upset, I don’t know, I hated it.”

You were weak, or maybe you were just young and still so, so in love with Sam and liked the idea of him fighting for you, but you forgave him at that moment. And it was relieving. No more tip-toeing around him or feeling uncomfortable in your own home when he was over. Honestly, you wanted to have this talk with him, but confronting the person who hurt you is never an easy task. And you didn’t think he’d respond well to it. 

“Besides, I did miss you.” You rolled your eyes and shook your head again, but with a smile. It was a wonderful thing to hear but you didn’t believe him in the slightest. You could take his apology and his admittance to being a jerk, but that was something else. It felt too good to be true.

“No, I really did! I like talking to you. Your brother’s cool and he is my friend, but he’s not the most sympathetic person.” Now that you knew. He simply could not sit and listen for the life of him, anytime you tried to tell him about your day or how you’re feeling, he just wouldn’t care. 

It was silent for a moment after, and you resorted back to that nervousness around him that made your heart pound, but in a good way. 

“I, um, have to go now. I have a test tomorrow.” It was true, but you also needed to get out of the car because now you were starting to take in the cozy, warm atmosphere in the small space. 

“Alright.”

“Bye.”You gave a smile and a small wave when you got out of the car. 

“I’ll see you around, (y/n). Y’better not leave the room if I’m in it, okay? I’ll track you down.” He teased. Or was he being serious?

You giggled at his words, “No, I won’t, I promise.”

And with that, he drove off after you got in the house and you went back to daydreaming about him.

divider by @dollywons , next part may be shorter because this is peak drama in their blooming love story. it's all cute from here. and if you guys want to send any thoughts or anything like that to expand upon, i would love them! these two are my babies rn<333