#but there are those glimmers of light that come from creating

[azullumi]

IN THE DESCENT OF MADNESS CALLED LOVE !!

premise — he’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair that mirrors falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you; alternatively, phainon is everything warmth and kindness embodies, and when he stumbles upon you, a person who just wants to get out of this very hell but can’t, the both of you get caught up in the mess created by your very own hands. content tags and warnings — pairing: phainon x gn!reader | alnst!au, kind of a toxic relationship, graphic descriptions of death, wounds, and blood, cynical and hater reader meets golden sunshine boy, a lot of physical touching and intimacy, religious themes and metaphors, love is cannibalism, some things about anakt garden is up to assumption, comfort/fluff if you squint, rocky start but they get bad before they get better then worst, angst, not proofread | wc: 5.0k

note from me — i did not write this with a sane mind at all but its fun exploring this kind of dynamic lol also this week i learned that i have scoliosis ?

i.) cast the flames and shatter your heart, you are nothing without the ache of your hands

Anakt Garden is ugly.

It’s suffocating and abhorrently quiet despite the echoes of laughter and feet stomping and stumbling on the grassy grounds. It’s detestful how some humans treat it as paradise when it actually is a warm embrace before death takes you, a preparation for something equally repulsive as the lights on stage or the collar on your necks. 

You’ve stopped caring about it, about everyone else. 

You’re a few minutes into your granted free time, and you’ve decided to sit by the trees near the lake—not a lot comes here, after all, so you can finally have some peace.

You’re halfway through sketching a single fish when a shadow looms over you. You don’t look up, disregarding the presence as another measly child who is simply too curious.

You finish the sketch, take out the crayons, and begin coloring. Minutes pass; you hear some shuffling and rustling, then finally, a voice, gentle and clear as the crafted melodies you have sung.

“Can I color too?”

You look beside you where the sound came from, where you see a blur of blue and white. It’s a boy—there’s a boy sitting right beside you and peering over your sketchbook and you cannot see his face.

Either he had mistaken you for a close friend of his or it’s normal for him to be this friendly to a total stranger.

“No.” You simply answer, before scooting a little away from him and resuming your work. You add details to the fish on the left, adoring it with sparkles and a reddish pattern.

The boy follows and keeps the same distance.

“Why not?” You don’t answer, so he pursues like a relentless fire. “I’m not going to ruin it.”

This time you finally look at him and you see it—hair, the reflection of snow, and a pair of eyes that holds the skies within. It’s a beautiful blue, adoring and soft; the kind of hue you have heard your provider tell you when she mentions this place called ‘ocean’. You’re sure you can see yourself in them too as he keeps his gaze on yours.

“It’s not about ruining it.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know you.”

Not like you know anyone here, though. You’ve always kept your distance from everyone, nothing good is going to ever come out of making bonds in this grand play of life and death. You look back to your artwork. 

Silence falls in the small space between you and him, in the gap between that can be easily closed if he were to push a little closer, but he seemingly abates and you’re about to let out a sigh (of relief?) when he speaks once more.

“I’m Phainon.” He beams a grin at you when you look at him again. “Nice to meet you!”

It feels like there are floating flowers and stars surrounding him when he speaks, and you’ve come to realize and accept the fact that this stubborn child is not going to give up. So you simply just relent and give him the boxes of crayons, bringing the sketchbook closer to him.

You don’t see him but you feel it—the sparkle in his eyes and the utter warmth that clings to his smile. You think you never want to see it.

“Ah, you smudged it.”

“Oh, wait. Let me fix it quickly.”

“You ruined it even more!”

“Oops, sorry.” He looks at you while scratching the back of his head, his somewhat insincere face completely rendering his apology useless.

“Don’t look at me like that. We can just do this,” he picks up a different crayon, one that stands out from the background, and begins doing whatever he is planning while you watch. It’s not like you don’t have the energy to stop him—and maybe you actually do—, but curiosity triumphs over you as your eyes follow the movement of his hand. “Ta-dah! I present to you: Fishnon!”

There’s another fish standing beside the one you have drawn now, except this one looks a little messier—mixed in the blur of colors and blue, laid on top of the hues like a coveted stain, but it stands out in the array of pigments, nevertheless.

“Fishnon…?” You don’t know why you question it nor what you are even questioning for, but your eyes are glued to the paper, specifically to the newly-added fish with a sword. Oh, and the two fishes are now holding hands.

“Yeah, Fishnon! It’s Phainon and Fish combined.” 

He’s rather enthusiastic. And it’s stupid. Like extremely stupid.

Phainon’s art skills are not much developed compared to yours and his fish persona looks ridiculous standing beside the one you have drawn. But for some reason, the tight knots in your chest eases just enough to make you breathe again. You don’t realize you’ve been holding it.

“It looks just like you.” You say, adding details to Fishnon.

“As it should.”

And somewhere between here and there, in this moment under the carefully drawn skies, he calls for you in a kind tone (you don’t recall ever telling him your name) and you can feel something shift deep within you. Something soft, warm, slowly unraveling itself.

It’s high time in noon, meals are being served, and it feels like a curse has been cast on you.

Ever since then, your eyes betray you—always seeking blue, and whenever you find it, it’s already gazing back.

The thing that has you scratching your head and wishing to slap yourself is that it always follows with that stupid smile—that stupid grin with that dumb face and those annoying eyes that crinkles into crescents.

You stab your fork harshly on the pea that it scratches against the plate’s surface. It bursts under the tines, its guts smearing the porcelain. The poor vegetable colony probably cripples in fear of being the next victim.

“Is this seat free?” 

You don’t look up. You don’t need to. His voice is unmistakable—honeyed and light, like the choir’s song before they curdle into screams.

“Yes.”

“Can I sit beside you?”

This is why you never try to know anyone. Not only is it a waste of effort but it will do nothing but harm. Bonds here are rotten fruit born from a splendid tree, dangling from a branch just to be plucked and crushed underfoot. The Garden’s love is a slow poison, and Phainon gulps it down like communion wine. You’re not sure who to blame here, but is there really anyone to do so? Was this a sin?

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is:

“Go ahead.”

It all feels so foolish. Like pull-your-hair-out stupid, what-the-hell-did-i-get-into foolish. Despite averting your eyes away, your gaze only returns to him soon after like a pair of magnets that can never be separated—and perhaps he simply was just like that, how irritating he may be even if doing nothing. There was a certain fascination in how he can remain rather optimistic and happy despite the circumstances he is in.

Your gaze drags back to him. Always to him.

Phainon eats like someone who still believes food is a gift, not fuel. He peels the crust off his bread, arranges his carrots into a smiley face, hums between bites. Alive. Too alive.

“Are you always eating alone?”

You shrug, “I’m used to it.”

He leans in, elbows on the table, breadcrumbs clinging to his lips. "Let’s always eat together," he declares, as if it’s that simple. 

He’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing but another pretty corpse onstage, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of stolen skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair like falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you.

"Suit yourself," you mutter, but your hand is already stealing a carrot from his tray.

He laughs, bright and startled, and you hate how it settles in your ribs like a second heartbeat.

ii.) let it consume you, it must consume you, allow your body to return to ashes

You’ve noticed this before but Phainon is really well-cared for.

In every moment he had pestered you —leaning into your space with that infuriating grin, humming off-key hymns—and in every moment that you had indulged him, you have never seen him unkempt clothes or tattered fabrics. He appears to be pampered, meticulously attended to and looked after—it almost feels like every joint of his are strung, his movements controlled and calculated. Everything about him is so well-maintained it practically exudes that he is beloved by the aliens.

But not now.

Not with the bruise blooming across his cheekbone like a stain, not with his shirt torn at the collar, rust-brown blood smeared down his chin, dripping on his pristine-white shirt.

Your eyebrows knit into one, “What did you get yourself into?”

He had never struck you as someone who would get into meaningless squabbles. 

Earlier, whispers slithered through the halls: A scuffle near the dorms, a group of boys throwing punches against one another, a chorus of gasps. You ignored it—until you couldn't and you found yourself with your hand on his wrist and running away with him. And so here you are, inside one of the vacant art rooms—your art room, the one reeking of turpentine and stolen solitude—tending to his wounds with a careful efficiency like handling a porcelain vase.

You dig through the kit that you retrieved from your room: half-dried alcohol, cotton balls pilfered from the infirmary, bandages fraying at the edges. Supplies you’d hoarded for yourself, for the days when the weight of the Garden’s hymns threatened to crack your ribs open. 

You’ve never thought that you were going to use it in this way. I mean, sure, they are eventually going to be used to clean up wounds, cuts, or whatever, but you’ve only done it to yourself.

Doing it for someone is different. This—closeness and something unnamed that sinks into your bones, that engraves warmth in your lungs, that makes your hands tremble—is different.

He laughs—a nervous and embarrassed sound as he darts his eyes to the side. His collar is red. “Let me explain.”

You work in silence, dabbing at the split skin of his lip and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“They started it.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“They called you a freak.” Your hand doesn’t falter, even as your pulse stutters.“They called me one too, but that’s whatever. Then they dragged you into it, said you were—”

You press particularly hard, shoving the cotton into the gash of his knuckles. squeezing alcohol out of it that seeps directly into his wounded skin. He yelps.

“—OW! Okay, okay! Mercy!”

“Don’t do that ever again.”

Don’t make it so easy.

Don’t let them see you bleed. Don’t let them hear you care. But he does, he always does, and that’s what makes it devastating—like a tragedy waiting to be written with the ink of your blood and papers of your flesh.

Phainon’s smile is lopsided, a fractured thing, too bright for this rotting world. Blood is still trickling from his lip. "Worried about me?"

You want to strangle him. You should have let him bleed out on the floor, should have let the surveillance catch him and apprehend him, you could have.

You tape the bandage over his knuckles too tight, relish the way he grits his teeth. "I’m worried you’ll get us both in trouble."

He leans in, close enough that you taste copper on his breath. "Too late for that."

Outside, the tree’s shadows stretch long across the fields, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself loathe him. Loathe the way his lashes catch the light like gilded wire. Loathe the way his pulse jumps under your fingertips, alive and reckless and his. Loathe that he’s here, now, ruined—for you.

He is a cosmic masterpiece carved by the stars themselves.

A divine joke, what a terrible sense of humor the universe has. A boy built from sunlight and sonatas, now bleeding onto your hands because he thought your name was worth defending.

You press your thumb to the bruise on his cheekbone, smearing the violence deeper. This is how love feels, you think: like swallowing a shard of glass and calling it sacred. Like watching a god kneel in the dirt and knowing you are the blasphemy that brought him low.

“What are you thinking?” His voice is soft, mingling with your tangled breaths.

“Nothing.” You say, closing your eyes and inhaling the scent of the crushing abyss that awaits for your fall.

You will remember the exact shade of red his blood makes against your skin, long after the stage burns his voice from the light.

“Did it hurt?”

Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, wrenching it aside to reveal the jagged letters carved into his skin. PHAINON—a filthy scar that glares at you, one that should have never existed.

You were subject to an excruciating procedure of having your names burned into your skin, a brand that will forever remain in your being, a foul stain. You don’t like it, you don’t like the pain, the screams that only the walls and machinery can hear; everything about it was disgusting.

Phainon tilts his head back so you can see the engraving better. “Not really,” he simply says, like he’s discussing the weather. “I didn’t feel anything at all.”

“You’re a bad liar, Phainon.” Your thumb gently glides over the engraving and his breath hitches—just once—when you trace the A, the I, the N, as if you could rewrite him with your hands.

“Okay, yeah. It hurt a lot.” A shadow flickers across his face—there and gone, like a fish darting into deeper water. “But it’s just skin anyway,” he murmurs.

Just skin. As if the both of you don’t know that skin is the first thing they take from you.

You release his collar with a sigh, “Whatever.” But he catches your wrist before you can retreat, his hand wrapped around right above where your name is engraved. He smiles, tilting his head like a curious hound: “Why do you care?”

The question hangs between you, sharp as a guillotine. You could lie. You could say it’s disgust, that it’s nothing else beyond the warmth that spreads on your skin that touches his, that it’s fear and repeated nightmares of his blood on your hands.

“I resent you.”

His thumb strokes your inner wrist, right over the vein. “I know.”

Of course he knows. He’s always known.

You resent the way he grins through bloodied teeth, the way he hums and runs around like everything is just a mere game. You resent that he chose you—a hissed sit with me, a crayon shoved into your hand, a thousand tiny violations of your solitude that you allow anyways.

Hatred, you’ve learned, is the closest thing to love this place allows.

This rotten land doesn’t teach you how to cradle someone’s face gently—it teaches you to bite. It doesn’t teach you whispered confessions—only how to carve your devotion into flesh, letter by letter, until the wound never closes.

"You’re disgusting," you say, and your fingers dig into his engraving like you want to peel it off his bones.

Phainon laughs, breath hot against your cheek. "Yeah." His other hand slides up your spine, nails catching on fabric. "You too."

It almost feels like a vow.

You hate him. You hate the way his breath hitches when you claw at his back. You hate how he licks the blood off your skin, how he steals food from the cafeteria trays to leave in your room, how he burns brighter every time you try to push him away.

Most of all, you hate that he’s right—that this is love, here in this rotting cradle.

Love is teeth breaking skin, it is holding someone’s heart just to feel how hard it struggles, it is watching the aliens mark him for slaughter and thinking, Mine, mine, mine.

“You shouldn’t have followed me that day,” you mutter.

“You were drawing a fish,” he says, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does.

The air between you is thick with the scent of something cruel and soft at the same. His grip tightens, not enough to bruise, but enough that you feel the ridges of his fingerprints like another brand.

“Does yours still hurt?” he asks suddenly.

You could lie again. Instead, you yank your wrist free and press your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. You lightly push him away, glaring, “Yes.”

He exhales, sharp, like you’ve stabbed him. Then he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. “Good.”

Phainon does not believe in love the way they tell it, in the way endless adoration and worship is tangled into one golden thread that ties you to another person, but he believes in you, in this anger, hatred, warmth, in the way your nails dig into his engraving like you want to peel his name from his flesh and swallow it whole. 

It’s ugly. It’s his.

And that’s close enough for him.

(He will adore you for a very, very long time.)

It’s starving, gnawing.

The guilt is a living thing inside you—a parasite with needle teeth, chewing through your ribs, gorging itself on the soft pulp of your shame. It festers in the hollows of your lungs, swelling with every breath, until you choke on the stench of your own rot. 

You want to claw it out. You try—digging your nails into your sternum, as if you could peel back skin and snap your bones apart to reach it. But it’s slick with bile, writhing deeper every time you grab hold, leaving your fingers glistening with the proof of your sickness.

Every thought is a crime.

You should have pushed him away harder.

You should have let him hate you.

You should have been cruel enough to save him.

But you weren’t. And now, the competition looms like a guillotine blade, and all you can taste is the sour tang of regret on your tongue, the way it coats your teeth like rust. You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to tear your own skin off if it means escaping the weight of what you’ve done—what you’re still doing—by letting him stand this close, by letting him believe, even for a second, that you can protect him, that he can protect you, that you are safe in this tight space you have molded for yourselves.

“You’re not going to die!”

This was the first time Phainon has raised his voice at you.

It cracks through the air like a whip, raw and desperate, and you flinch like he’s struck you. His hands are fists at his sides, trembling, his knuckles white with the force of it. There’s something wild in his eyes—something terrifying, something alive—and it makes your stomach twist.

"Say it," he demands, stepping closer. His foot knocks against yours and your vision spins as you fall back into your bed, your body welcomed by the soft mattress. He hovers over you, hands caging the sides of your face: "Say I’m not going to die."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

The silence is worse than a lie.

Phainon’s breath hitches, and for a single, horrifying moment, you think he might cry. But then his jaw sets, his shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for impact, and he laughs—a sharp, broken sound that scrapes down your spine. It dies like a record slowly breaking down and he pulls you up in his arms, cradling you close to his chest, his face buried in the crevice of your neck.

“I can never understand you at all.” His words vibrate against your neck, warm and damp with something too close to tears.

You chew the inside of your cheek until copper floods your tongue, your hands trembling by your side instead of embracing him too. You don’t offer any words of comfort but you allow him to pull you close, let him hold you—you allow this. This fragile, fractured closeness where your shadows merge into one grotesque shape on the wall, a two-headed creature bound at the ribs but never at the hands. 

Yet it is not enough, it feels like you’re still far from him, like you could easily slip away from his grasp, and it makes him scared.

“Do you want to leave?”

“But where do we go?” There’s nothing else for you out there. Perhaps there was a time, a spur-of-the-moment decision when you had run away with him, slipping through the cracks to be greeted by crimson skies, vastly different from the perfect cerulean illusion you are used to seeing. You'd run until your lungs burned, Phainon's hand welded to yours, both of you laughing like the world couldn't catch you, but that was it.

“Anywhere.”

“There’s no ‘anywhere’ for us.”

“Then the rebellion, I’ve heard—”

“And what, Phainon? What happens after that?” Your voice cracks like dry earth. "What happens after that? We trade one collar for another? Die faster?"

The words linger between you, sharp as the scent of ozone before a storm.

Phainon's fingers dig into your waist, his breath hot against your skin he begins trailing his mouth up your neck, like he’ll eventually meet god at your lips. A salvation, a small prayer.

"We could fight."

"We are fighting," you snap. "Every single day. And look where we are."

The competition looms in three days and you can hear the ringing in your ears, the humming, and you cannot ignore it. You will lose yourselves one way or another, and that is a tragedy, a certainty, that had loomed over you, that had awaited you.

The only thing you could do was to lie there, tangled in each other but impossibly separate, his heartbeat thundering against your chest where yours should be answering. 

Phainon's hand slides up your spine, pressing you closer like he can fuse your skeletons together. "Tell me to stay," he breathes.

"Why?"

"So I have a reason not to go."

Your fingers finally move—not to push him away, but to clutch the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric until your knuckles bleach white. The cotton stretches taut between you, threads straining like the last fraying ties to sanity. His warmth seeps through the thin material, burning your palms, but you hold tighter—as if you could stitch him into your skin with just your desperation alone.

"Stay," you whisper.

It's too much. It's not enough.

There’s a wet, broken sound—and suddenly his arms are crushing you against him, his face buried in your hair. You feel the exact moment his resolve shatters; the tremor that runs through him, the way his shoulders curl around you like he's trying to shield you from the world, from himself, from the inevitable.

You are so terribly, devastatingly alive together.

Alive in the way open wounds are alive—raw and pulsing and too tender to touch. Alive in the way a noose is alive when it snaps taut. Alive in the only way the world has allowed you to be: achingly, horrifyingly, beautifully alive, even as death crouches in the corner.

iii.) until the world stills, until you weave your hands into mine, until death embraces you

Inherently, every human is afraid of dying.

You’ve watched him on the big screen as he performs, as he tramples over every single person he is faced against, as his numbers rise higher and as it declares his win; his victory flashing as he smiles—that brilliant, broken smile—and bows like the good little performer they've molded him to be.

But you always see what they don't.

The way his fingers twitch at his sides when he thinks no one's looking. The barely-there tremor in his shoulders as he walks offstage. The single bead of sweat trailing down his temple that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the knife's edge he's balancing on.

He does the same for you, he watches every single one of your performances with a glimmer in his eyes, like pride and adoration, but something else also stains the hues—fear, anxiety, and everything that makes his fingers tremble and his mind muddled. It’s raw and rancid.

It's in the way his breath catches when you hold a high note a second too long. In the way his lips move silently, mirroring your lyrics like a prayer. In how he searches and reaches for you after every round of yours, his trembling fingers skimming your wrist, your jaw, the pulse at your throat—as if to remind himself that you’re still here and alive, and the knowledge sits between you like a third body in bed.

The screen glimmers, your profile and his beside each other blinks mockingly. It’s like a death sentence. No, it is a death sentence.

The air hums with static as you walk toward the stage, each step heavier than the last. Anakt Garden's constraints had been suffocating, but this is akin to drowning in open air.

You've always thought Phainon would die under these lights. That his blood would be the one to stain the stage crimson, his final note ringing through the speakers as the audience cheered his demise. You'd imagined it so often the scene played behind your eyelids every night—his blue eyes going dull, his snow-white hair matted with red, his hand slipping from yours as the life left him.

Perhaps you’ve changed by now.

The bars of your scores compete against one another, numbers flashing across the screen in a cruel mockery of choice. You’ve cut your lines short, fallen into a note lower than you’re supposed to sing; you'd practiced this for weeks in empty rehearsal rooms—how to make imperfection look accidental, how to falter just enough.

Then you feel it—something cold punching through your neck, sharp and sudden. A gasp tears from your throat as warmth spills down your skin.

Phainon's eyes widen in dawning horror as your fingers twitch in his grasp; you swear you could hear him calling your name out in panic. He sees it before you do, before you even realize what is happening—the dark bloom staining across your clothes, the way your lips part to speak but only blood spills forth. Your knees buckle, and he moves without thought, catching you as you collapse against him.

Oh, you think, distantly amused. You’re dying.

And, oh, you are dying. The realization comes with startling clarity, with something almost like relief, and it feels euphoric like warm honey flooding your veins. It makes your chest ease as if you could ever breathe again—like the time he had shown you his ridiculous art piece with pride. Because you are the one dying, because you are the one bloodied and the crimson staining the stage is yours. You are dying, desperate and violent, but it’s you.

His arms tighten around you, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your temple. The audience's cheers fade to white noise as he presses his forehead to yours, his tears mixing with the blood on your lips. "We're okay," he chokes out, the words a desperate incantation. "We're okay, we're okay."

You can feel his heartbeat where your chests press together, wild and frantic and alive. So alive. More alive than you'll ever be again. The thought should terrify you. Instead, it settles in your bones like peace.

You kiss him instead of answering. His mouth tastes like the candy he stole from the cafeteria, like the salt of your shared sweat, like last chances. And when you pull away, his sob cracks through you like gunfire. You want to tell him it's alright. You want to tell him to run. Instead, your fingers find him, twining together one final time as the world narrows to the blue of his eyes, the warmth of his hands, the sound of your name on his lips.

You and him could have done so much more if you were on earth, instead of whatever rotten, disgusting stage this is. The thought comes unbidden, sharp as the pain radiating through your chest. 

You could have had lazy mornings in sunlit kitchens, his humming drifting over sizzling pans. Could have traced the constellations on his skin without counting the scars. Could have stood before stained glass windows, vows spilling from bloodied lips not in desperation, but devotion.

Instead, you get this: his tears hot on your cheeks, his voice breaking around your name, the metallic tang of your last breath clinging to his tongue.

You don’t want to die, you never wanted to die—perhaps the feeble attempts of not caring whether you’ll end up bloodied either on stage or on dirt were simply just things to lessen the growing void of fear that gnaws at your heart, to make it painless. But it hurts, it hurts so bad, you can feel it; your body feels cold, everything feels cold, your eyes are becoming blurry, and everything around you is fading into nothing. You don’t even feel Phainon’s arms wrapped around yours, gently cradling your existence within his grasp as if you’re going to slip away—because you are.

It all dawns on you. You feel selfish, you’re being selfish. Stupid, reckless, selfish. You’re going to leave him alone in this hell, with nothing but the memory of your blood on his hands and the echo of your voice in his ears. The realization claws up your throat, bitter as bile. You want to take it back. Want to scream. Want to beg for more time—just one more second, one more breath, one more chance to tell him—

“I know,” He presses his lips to your forehead, lingering like he could imprint himself there. “You’re not being selfish, I know.”

Of course, he does. He’s always known you like the back of his own scarred hands—known the way your bravado cracks at the edges when the lights dim, how your "I don't care" always meant "I care too much." Known that beneath all your sharp edges and bitten-off words, you were always the one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant he could stand in the light a moment longer.

“Please,” You plead for the first time in your life, and it hurts to speak but you still do, fingers tightening weakly in his shirt. “Forgive yourself.”

The both of you had made this decision knowing it won’t end well. 

And you murmur it: the three words that have caused all of this mess, the confession that started your slow descent to madness. They taste sweet as stolen sugar on your dying tongue, bittersweet as the candy he used to slip into your palm. His arms tighten around you like he could rewrite fate through the sheer force of his embrace, and he wishes he could.

PHAINON WIN.

BRO IS NOT MIZISUA

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[jellykyunnie]

˗ˏˋ Jinwoo x Isekaid! Artist! Reader ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

・┆✦ Entry : 044 ✦ ┆・

[Tw: I think this fall under depictions of depression and panic attacks. Please, if you're not in the headspace, do not read this. ]

╰┈➤ ❝ [ My Muse] ¡! ❞

Isekaing to Solo Leveling is one thing, but living in this world is just... Way too brutal for your poor heart.

Why is that? Anxiety is a major enemy.

What do you mean everyone else is living normally not having little paranoid moments that lead to panic attacks with overtaking at the possibility of a gate opening somewhere near you and monsters would come out?

Sung Jinah's school wasn't even safe. How are you gonna live?

Anyway.

You have a job to do.

Even though you just wanna spend all of your time crying in the corner of your room and praying to god to protect you when technically you aren't even religious.

But what are you to do?

It's not like Sung Jinwoo will swoop in and save you from misery.

...Hahah, if only.

You are one of his more delulu fans, like every other girl in this country— You are a big fan.

Well, except the fact that you know far more things about Jinwoo since you came from a world where he is fiction.

The flex you have is that you know how awfully adorable that petty bastard is when he was still an E-ranker. Those Jinwoo simps will never know the fact that Jinwoo has the fluffiest and softest looking cheeks ever.

Not to mention, you have all of his powers memorized to even the titles those powers have. You can name a lot of his shadows.

Of course the easiest to name are Beru, Igris, Bellion, Kaisel, Tank,.... And the easiest,... One, two, three, four.... Yeah, you get it.

But why are you being so smug? As if you 're not the same fool who secretly buys Jinwoo polaroids. Coming from this country full of fangirls is a haven for you since there is quite... The plethora of Jinwoo trinkets.

And you, being a lovestruck fool, went all in and took "Take all my money" to the next level even though the man you're obsessing over is 10x more richer than you.

But ah, this isn't the time to fawn over your Jinwoo merch paradise.

You have work.

Thankfully enough, this world has given you mercy. Despite it preying on your paranoid self, it gave you the blessing of living the life you've always wanted.

And that is to be a freelance artist.

Not doing your average 9-5, crying about the lack of fame you receive that hinders the pathway to making a successful art career, not having to listen to family members berating your love for art as low as a drug abuse.

In this world, no one is going off about your craft, no one is belittling your passion to something akin to a crime.

Like it's just a pathetic hobby and there's no meaning to all the hard work you put in the past years improving your skills, there's no value to being able to draw squares and circles more impressive than others, there's nothing note worthy of being able to pick and choose colours— There's none of that.

To be honest, there were even lots of moments where you wanted to give up, where you realized maybe they're right.

Even if you had starved yourself just to save up for your art materials, even if you work hard micro-analyzing your artstyle, even if you spent hours studying the algorithms, even if you shed blood sweat and tears just for the glimmer of hope that maybe you can turn your art into something more— It's all just delusions.

Like how you hope to be one of those big artists who inspire other people to create their own pieces. Like how you secretly hope that maybe your artworks can bring a smile to anyone's face if they come across it. Like how you silently pray to every single star that may your wish come true.

You wanted to keep hoping, for the slim chance of having a single magnus opus that will instantly put you in the limelight— You wanted to keep having your hand outstretched to that tiny light.

But everyday, with each piece, you start to realize that your dreams are all for nothing.

You had been so focused on art that it's the only thing you have that defines who you are as a person and as an individual.

Art is what made you human.

Slowly, your innocent dreams molded itself into a twisted and vile poison that ate you from the inside out. Your love for creating backfired and now it's a blur if your passion stems from adoration or you just ran with it because it's the only thing that made you feel relevant in this world.

Maybe you should give up.

Even if there is a drastic improvement in your art with each piece, what good is it if it can't guarantee that career you oh so desperately want? The big artists say that you should make art for yourself, well yeah, they're right. But what if even if you do that it doesn't work?

Colour theory, shape language, line language, composition— All of those improved out of sheer love to learn. You've seen other people around you get careers out of it so it will happen to you?

Right?...

Right?

You're not a problematic artist, you don't make trouble, you don't make enemies, you don't participate in drama, you stay humble and eloquent.

Surely it will work... Right?...

Hahah.

In that world?

No it didn't.

It did not.

You died in your deathbed after being involved in a hit and run.

And after a long period of slumber, you have awoken in this world where somehow you are a renowned artist.

It felt shallow, really.

Suddenly having all of that in a snap of a finger through death?

Hah.

It felt like it mirrors Jinwoo's life. Except he had rightfully earned the glory of his powers.

Truthfully, you love him because of that.

What was it?

Ah yes.

"Because I was rock bottom, I longed for the highest peak."

That was the line that made you love him.

As someone who had no future in your art career, it was that line that made your heart yearn for him.

Two unfortunate souls who struggle in the same thing in different dimensions, except one managed to create that dream into reality.

Sure, you have the glory now. And although it made you so happy, it still felt so shallow because you didn't achieve this through hardwork. You just had to die.

You had to be dead.

It took dying to be given the mercy of having your dreams be granted.

And that just made you feel so... So awful.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

With a canvas on one hand, your painting materials neatly arranged in a bag in the other hand— You take a deep breath and enter the party.

Brilliant golden lights twinkle above your head coming from the magnificent chandelier hanging above. Cameras flashing, the clinking of glasses as hunters and celebrities discussed amongst themselves dressed in luxurious outfits and blinging jewelry.

The sight made your stomach sink and a lump in your throat forming.

This is an entirely different world you knew from the lonely greys and blues.

You look around frantically, almost panicking at the overwhelming chatter and blinding lights.

"Ah, you're here" A voice snaps you out of it.

You turn to see your sponsor, Choi Jong-in flashing a polite and handsome smile. You bow your head politely.

"Please," Jong-in simply shakes his head, "No need to be so polite. I am pleased that you have arrived in time. Champagne?"

He extends a glass towards you and you shake your head, sheepishly saying "O-oh... I'm not really an alcohol enjoyer. I'm fine."

"Ah, I see" He nods apologetically before gesturing you to a clearer space.

Jong-in escorts you to a less crowded area of the ball, the lessened crowd and noise calming your accelerated heartbeat down.

"If there is anything you need, please feel free to call me or the waiters" He says kindly, "You are also free to eat food."

"Thank you, Mr. Choi" You bow politely.

Before he could even reply, Jong-in was called over by a beautiful blonde girl you knew all too well.

Cha Hae-in.

She's as lovely as she was in the manhwa panels, with that red dress and her neatly tied hair— She was a sight to behold.

But as soon as you see a tall man clad in black, you feel a distinct thump in your heart, a twisting kind of small pain that made you feel like it stopped beating along with the way your lungs stopped breathing— You knew who it was.

"A guest?..." He inquires, making your heart thump even harder at the sound of that deep voice you only heard through the speakers of your phone and laptop.

"Mr. Sung, I'm glad you could make it along with my vice master" Jong-in hums, "This is an artist I'm sponsoring, I thought it would be a good idea to commemorate this important event celebrating humanity's win against the gates"

"Ah, I see" Jinwoo's handsome grey eyes would sweep onto your anxious form who is fidgeting uncontrollably in her hands. "I'm Sung Jinwoo,"

He extends a hand, making you look up at him with an even nervous look. It took you a while to extend your hand, and the moment your palm touched his— You felt as of you're touching someone from a different species. Something too unreal and divine.

You barely had even managed to speak your name out with how much of a nervous wreck you are. Shaking his hand didn't happen if it weren't for Jinwoo gently doing it and letting you pull your hand away.

Your palms may have been trembling, but now it's even more erratic as you step back, not meeting his gaze.

Thank gods Jong-in decided to start a conversation to pivot Jinwoo's attention away from you.

As you attempt to calm yourself with a persistent panic attack, you feel a soft tap on your hands.

"Thank you for coming, I-I hope you enjoy your time" Hae-in says in her hesitant voice.

And you, who cant mutter a single word after your very first encounter with Jinwoo— Only muster a polite nod at her as she turns away to join Jong-in and Jinwoo in their conversation.

You were on a trance for almost five minutes, before finally deciding to set up your easel and canvas. You took out two different mason jars and filling them up with water; the gouache paint you will be using as a medium; the ceramic palette you have been using for quite a while now; and finally gently arranging your brushes.

Jong-in didn't specify what you should be painting for this event. But decided to paint the stage. An hour into the event, Jinwoo would start giving his speech as he is the main hero of the war against the gates and monarchs—As well as the person this whole event is dedicated to.

You had to pause in your process of painting the canvas, just to give respect to Jinwoo.

Your idol.

Your role model.

The man of your dreams.

His words aren't even registering as you can't help but be lost in a trance as he continues with his speech. Unconsciously, your hand raised itself and started to paint carefully, your eyes fixated on the hunter as your hand moved with a mind on its own.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Jong-in was extremely worried for the artist he had hired, he could tell from earlier she was having a panic attack with the hesitance. And when Jinwoo came into the picture, it seemed to frighten her all the more. He quietly called for his secretary to add at least 40% more of the initial payment that was planned to compensate for the unintentional distress he had put her onto.

While Jinwoo was giving his speech, he couldn't help but check on her by glancing from the distance.

In that canvas, he saw the stage, and in that stage was Jinwoo.

The artist was carefully painting Jinwoo.

Delicate strokes despite her eyes not on the cloth and brush. She was just mindlessly moving her hand as she looks at Jinwoo.

"Ah... I see it now."

Jong-in quietly smiles to himself.

It wasn't that she was frightened of Jinwoo's intimidating presence. No way does someone scared of a person have that same intense look with such dilated pupils.

With a determined hum, Jong-in knew exactly what to do.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

It had been three days since that event, and Jinwoo was attending to paperwork when he was informed of Jong-in's visit.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a bit of worry that his 'senior' might scold him for renting out gates in territory of Hunter's guild.

To his surprise, Jong-in entered carrying a rather large thing into his office.

"???" Jinwoo cocks up an eyebrow, silently inquiring Jong-in at what is the thing he brought in.

"Take a look, hunter Sung" Jong-in simply says and the hunter reluctantly stood up from his chair to approach the item his senior placed down.

When Jinwoo pulled off the protective cloth, he was met with a brilliant painting that felt like it was straight out of a renaissance era painting.

The red curtains were blood red and shaded softly. The wood is delicately painted, with even tiny specks that indicates the painter's exquisite attention to detail, but most importantly— His eyes were drawn to the middle, where a man stood center.

It was him.

His face was delicately painted, even his tousled black locks were intricately painted to imitate the way his strands behaved, his body language was painted in a relaxed but still managed to somehow translate the undertone of authority and power he held over the crowd that was purposely painted in a blurry manner to give more focus to him. Even the lighting of the stage was expertly imitated on the canvas.

The piece looked as if its goal was to put emphasis on his—the man who is standing in the golden limelight. As if it were trying to put him on a divine pedestal, to show him off as this some sort of god woth the painting.

"Who?..." Jinwoo finally manages to inquire.

"The artist chose you as her muse for the painting" Jong-in says, fixing his tie as he does so. "Quite the talent, no? Even us hunters who have quite the skill in the art of combat, are taken aback by such craft. It was as if she had magic on her very fingertips despite being just a civilian."

"Her muse," Jinwoo repeats, not knowing what to feel about it.

"It would be... Quite indecent of me to keep a portrait of a rival in my guild, no?" Jong-in coughs out, making Jinwoo awkwardly nod. "Consider it as a gift and a thank you for assisting my guild in jeju raid as well as your role in the war."

"I have quite the awards really, no need" He shakes his head.

"Yes," Jong-in glances back at the painting. "But I think that you, as the painter's muse, must see for yourself this piece created on your image."

"Mn...."

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Jinwoo quite frankly grew curious of the little painter he met and made him the centerpiece of her painting. He was honestly worried at first, she was so small compared to him and she was trembling at the sight of him. It didn't help that he noticed how she grew more shaken after they exchanged pleasantries.

Maybe he had gripped her hand a little too much.

Beru on the other hand, was visibly very pleased at the painting as well as the other shadows who wont shut up about it.

Throughout his monotonous days and hours, Jinwoo would often think of the painter.

It feels... Weird to be in someone's painting.

It's unreal even.

But ah... By chance, he met that pleasant little painter again.

She was in the bookstore, picking up several heavy books. When he approached her, she was flustered and nearly dropped the books she was purchasing if it weren't for him assisting her.

Just like their first meeting, she was clearly bashful and anxious. So Jinwoo made space between them and made small talk.

Somehow, their small talks would develop into long and meaningful ones with the days passing of them having frequent encounters.

There is this tiny, tiny warmth in Jinwoo's heart whenever he finds himself in the presence of his painter.

His heart whom he thought had lost its capability to harbor affection— Is beating fast whenever he crosses paths with her.

There is... Something about her.

Her little habits, her never ending curiosity, her childish habits and her love for everything beautiful. Somehow, everything in her eyes has the potential to be a piece of artwork.

Jinwoo was never a creative soul, he's only ever creative at insults maybe.

So to see someone so dedicated to her own craft, to see someone so full of love for something... It's like peering into a different world he never thought was there.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Go Gunhee decided to visit Jinwoo, it was to thank the hunter again with coffee beans and two— Just to visit Jinwoo.

"Ah, hunter Sung," Gunhee smiles as the person he waited for appears. "I hope you don't mind, I just wanted to pop in"

"Not at all, director" Jinwoo smiles politely.

"That piece," The old man's gaze drifts to a painting hun by Jinwoo's side. "What a magnificent work of art. I heard Hunter Choi gifted it to you after the artist he hired decided to put you as the centerpiece. Truly such remarkable talent by a younger lady."

"Yes, hahah" Jinwoo awkwardly rubs his nape.as he serves Gunhee a cup of tea.

"My father told me that artists have a special kind of love" Gunhee hums, reminiscing. "He told me that having an artist love you is different. A writer glorifies you into pleasant words, a musician translates your beauty into compelling music and a painter immortalises all of you in a single painting. A blank canvas is a tool by painters that they use to communicate. All the ugliness of the world can be put into ink, and all the beauty into wonderful pops of pleasant colors"

He continues, "And through my years, this is one of the few most magnificent pieces I've ever seen that shows the painter's love for it's muse"

"Her muse," Jinwoo repeats it, "I've been told the same thing."

"A lovely feeling, no?" Gunhee chuckles, "To be loved by a person so full of love."

"...So that's what it means"

"..."

The old man's face wrinkles into a happier smile.

Young love, truly beautiful, isn't it?

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

"That colour is really pretty" You mutter absentmindedly glance at the flowing water underneath, as if trying to ingrain the memory and behaviour of it.

"Thinking of a new artwork, again?" Jinwoo asks, glancing down at the direction you were staring at. "I can't wait to see what you'll make."

"Your pieces are always so beautiful"

It felt as if something struck an arrow at your heart, you glance at Jinwoo— Completely frozen in state.

When he noticed the heavy silence, his eyes would befall on you before his mouth going a little agape.

You're crying.

"Did... I say something wrong?..." Jinwoo asks and you panic, immediately tearing your gaze away.

"No, no, no" You shake your head, hiding your shameful tears from Jinwoo.

Compliments with your art were never really foreign, but you, being the insecure sad soppy excuse of a human being would always downplay it most of the time.

You were never truly satisfied with yourself and anything you ever made. Mostly because you came from a household where everything is never enough.

Ultimately, that system has been fully ingrained into your body that it became your personality.

Colors are muddy, the lines aren't steady or too thick or thin, the anatomy is off, the composition isn't fluid and the harmony is all over the place.

You were always, always, critical of yourself.

Nothing is ever enough.

Your works aren't beautiful enough, and you thought they never will be.

But when Jinwoo told you your art was beautiful, it caused something to crack inside and burst open.

Maybe it's because you loved him so much. Maybe it's because he is the person you admire the most in your sorry, lonely life.

It was always Jinwoo who was in your mind whenever you had those bad episodes of just having silent mental breakdowns.

It's his image that became your most beloved saviour.

Perhaps you're sobbing because you're finally able to hear the words you've imagined he would during the times you daydreamed about him.

Or maybe... Your body reacted because you knew deep down that Jinwoo was never a liar.

That he didn't say those words out of empty praise, that he said your crafts is beautiful because they simply are.

In your broken, shattered heart a heavy yet soft warmth swelled. Swelling so much that you felt so overwhelmed and couldn't control your emotions.

That kind of validation just felt like it washed away all the doubts that plagued you for years.

As you cried uncontrollably, Jinwoo would instinctively reach his hand out and pull you in for a searing kiss. His tongue gently nudges your lips before shoving itself into it.

One flick.

Two flicks

Three flicks,...

Until you yourself cant even count it anymore.

He pulls back slowly, but still not far enough for you not to feel his hot breath fanning over your cheeks.

"I only said your paintings are beautiful and yet you are crying like this, sarang?" He rubs his nose against yours, "Just what happened to you that you're this emotional, hm? Did you not think what you make is stunning? Did you never once think that your pieces are captivating? Why are you crying like this? How hurt have you been that it feels like you're crying out this kind of sorrow I can't seem to understand?"

"Why does your sobs feel like you've been dealing with such loneliness that a simple sincere compliment breaks you to this extend?"

"Everything about you is beautiful. All of you is beautiful." Jinwoo says in that ever so gentle voice of his, "Never doubt that for even a single second."

꒰ 🪼 A/N: what started as another simple fluffy idea turned into something more... Personal :'DD. Sorry guys hahahahsheshdg. Idk when I will have the free time to make the second half of the cai bots yet but please look out for when I do. ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧･ﾟ: ~♡ — All stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[obsesssedblerd]

being the jjk villains' favorite 🖤🩸

incl: toji x f! reader, geto x f! reader, and sukuna x f! reader

smut under the cut [MDNI]

toji knew that you were tracking him long before you even found him. he was dangerously good at what he did. usually, he'd kill anyone that even dared to track him down, but oh, you were so pretty. he had to have you. within a few days, he let you find him at a bar. he had to bite back his chuckle at how excitement glimmered in your eyes. you truly believed that you, a beginner assassin, were going to be the one to catch and kill toji fushiguro. fuck, you were so cute.

he spent the entire night flirting with you, obsessing over how you slightly fumbled over your words and tried hard to hide how flustered you were. he could tell that you were attracted to him, especially with the way you were gently pressing your thighs together. eventually, he leaned over to whisper in your ear, "you can either continue with your hopeless plan to kill me," he enjoys the small gasp you let out when he reveals that he knew what you were up to the whole time. "or you can come find me later so i can help you with your little problem. your choice, doll."

that's how you ended up against the wall of his place with your legs wrapped around him, crying out his name as you cum on his cock multiple times. he mocks your whines, degrading you as he savagely thrusts into you. "dumb slut. can't even focus on your job 'cause all you were thinkin' about was getting your pussy filled. wouldn't be surprised if this was your plan all along." when you figure out that he's about to cum, you sink down to your knees, looking up at him expectantly as you stick your tongue out. "attagirl," he praises as he strokes himself. "didn't even have to tell you." he cums in your mouth with a grunt, and you swallow every drop, despite your body still trembling from all of your recent orgasms. "oh, you're filthy, i like you," he chuckles as he grabs your chin. "think 'm gonna keep you, doll."

---

suguru knew that it if he wanted all you, he'd have to change your mind first. despite him stealing you from jujutsu society and keeping you close, you were so stubborn; so deeply committed to saving non-sorcerers. that's okay. he was patient. he'd change your mind, and he was excited to do so. (one of my fav hcs is that he has a corruption kink.) he knew that you loved him, and he intended to use that to his advantage.

every time you begin to snap at him for killing non-sorcerers, he would just interrupt you with a small kiss. it's feather-light, but enough to fluster you and stop your mind from working properly. then he'd gently push you back so you were lying underneath him, giving you an easy smile. "aw, my love, did i make you upset?" of course, he doesn't care about the monkeys that he's killed. he only cares about you. before you know it, he's tugging your pants down and spreading your thighs, his thick fingers rubbing where he knows you're sensitive. his smile grows when you begin to moan. "there you go. let me make it all better, yeah?" getting you to forget what you were mad at him about was too easy.

soon, he's fucking you deep, whispering every filthy, depraved thought in your ear as he does. how he's not gonna stop what he's doing, how beautiful you are completely ruined underneath him, and how he's never ever letting you go. he chuckles when your body twitches, and your pussy begins to flutter around his cock, eventually making a wet mess on the sheets. "aw, did that make you cum? i knew it would." he puts two of his fingers in your mouth, and you suck without a word. "you're not actually upset about those monkeys. you just needed me to fuck you, didn't you?" satisfaction rushes through him when you nod, too fucked out to protest like you did earlier.

when he cums, it's deep inside of you, with his hand against your tummy. he imagines it swelling with the child you'll give him once he's finished creating the perfect world.

---

sukuna wanted you from the moment he saw you through itadori's eyes, and his blood would boil each time he saw you wrapped in satoru gojo's arms. the first night he fought with you, he had you pinned to the ground, and he whispered in your ear that you'd be his eventually and that he'll devour you once he gets rid of gojo. he enjoyed the way you'd blush anytime he teased you with flirtatious and sometimes lewd comments.

the day he does get his hands on you, he keeps every filthy promise he made. he makes you cum within two minutes with his fingers, then makes a mess out of you with his tongue. with four arms, it's so easy to hold you down and maneuver you into any position he wanted. "you've cum four times already, and i haven't even cum once," he says, watching your breasts bounce deliciously with each thrust as he fucks you. "such a greedy little thing, aren't you?"

he makes you watch your reflection in the large mirrors he takes you in front of so you could see how beautiful you are when you're all fucked out. if he's not showing you off to audiences in lavish clothes and jewelry, then he's fucking you in front of them, enjoying their jealous stares. every sorcerer and every curse on the planet will know that you belong to sukuna.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Hi hello! I can’t get enough of your work! But you know what I’ve had enough of? A submissive reader. Don’t get me wrong a stay-at-home wife in a frilly apron is cute and all, but I’m bored of a damsel in distress reader being rescued by the task force men.

It’s always about the men not having enough time for reader BUT- what if it’s the other way around? Imagine a successful reader, makes TWICE their income, the breadwinner, is a part of an esteemed circle or something who’s so busy managing her work and events she’s invited to she barely makes time for her boys BUT pampers THEM to make up for it? How do you think the boys with cope with a dommy sugar mommy?

Have a wet smooch and a nice day 💋

You Work For Me Now

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Language, soft dom/sub themes (reader dom), light angst (clingy boys), suggestive tones, emotional softness, pampering, minor tension, domestic fluff, reader is rich as hell

Author's Note: I am feral for sugar mommy reader and clingy Task Force men. You’ve created a monster, and I am thriving. Maybe I should do one where the boys get possessive when a foreign dignitary flirts with you at a gala next? I don’t know, I’ll need thoughts on if y’all want more!

Summary: You’re busy running your empire. They’re busy missing you. But you always come home to take care of your boys.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The city lights glimmered against the glass of your penthouse windows, but it was the dim lamp glow pooling across the living room floor that made you exhale in relief.

Finally, home.

You slipped your heels off first. The click of them on the marble floor echoed too loudly. Gold earrings came next—tucked into the crystal bowl on the entry table. You had just gotten back from Geneva. Your speech at the economic summit was already making headlines. Your phone was still buzzing in your clutch, vibrating with more invitations, more requests, more praise.

But none of it mattered tonight.

They were all there.

John was on the couch, half-asleep but still pretending to read the paper. He was wearing the cashmere joggers you bought him and his favorite dark green long-sleeve that hugged his broad chest a little too well. Kyle was beside him, wearing nothing but boxers and one of your silk robes—black with silver trim, the one he always stole and claimed was “comfy as hell.”

Johnny was lying flat on the carpet, head resting on a pillow pulled from the couch, eyes closed, earbuds in. Your playlist was playing. The soft jazz one you made for decompressing.

And Simon?

Simon was in the kitchen, silent. Mask off, hair wet from a shower. He was stirring honey into your favorite herbal tea. He knew you’d be tired. Knew your voice would be hoarse. He had a plate of those little shortbread cookies beside the mug, perfectly arranged. Of course he did.

The sight of them—comfortable, waiting, half-irritated and half-relieved—made something behind your ribs soften.

You didn’t speak. You simply walked past them all, slow and quiet, and placed your handbag on the counter. The gold clasp made a sharp click as it closed.

Johnny cracked one eye open.

“Oi. Look who decided to grace us with her presence.”

Kyle snorted. “She remembered we exist.”

John didn’t look up. “Thought maybe we’d been replaced with a new batch of pretty boys.”

Simon didn’t say anything. But when you looked over, he was staring straight at you, unreadable and still. He placed the mug down on the counter and leaned against it.

It was rare to see them like this. Out of uniform. At ease. Waiting for you. And you knew it wasn’t fair. You’d been gone twelve days. Missed two dinners you promised. Barely called.

But you had empires to run.

You poured yourself a glass of wine and leaned back against the counter, one brow raised.

“You four kill people for a living, and you’re sulking because I missed bedtime?”

“Don’t act innocent,” John muttered. “You haven’t looked at your group chat in three days.”

“I sent memes,” Kyle said with mock offense. “You left me on read.”

Johnny groaned dramatically. “She didn’t even open the voice note I made.”

You took a long, slow sip of your wine. Watched them all through half-lidded eyes. When you set the glass down, it made a soft clink. Then, you smiled.

“Strip.”

Kyle blinked. “What?”

You pushed off the counter, your voice low and smooth.

“Clothes. Off. Now. Upstairs in ten minutes.”

The room went still.

John straightened up. Johnny sat bolt upright. Kyle gaped.

“You’ve been neglected,” you continued, walking slowly between them. “I’ve been a very bad girlfriend. You’ve all been so patient.”

Your hand brushed over Kyle’s shoulder, feather-light. “So good for me.”

Simon’s jaw twitched. You saw the way he gripped the edge of the counter, hard enough for the muscles in his forearms to flex.

“And tonight,” you said, voice curling with amusement, “I’m going to take care of you.”

Johnny flushed. “Like… pampering?”

“I bought new massage oils from Milan,” you murmured, glancing at John. “The kind that warms on skin.”

A beat of silence.

John grunted. “How much were they?”

You smirked.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take it out of your allowance.”

——

The bedroom smelled like eucalyptus and amberwood. The lights were low. The speaker played soft classical piano.

Kyle was wrapped in a towel on the bed, eyes closed, a cooling mask on his face while you rubbed lotion into his calves. Johnny was in the oversized bathtub, neck deep in lavender-scented bubbles, sipping water through a silly bendy straw. Simon sat obediently on the stool in front of you while you combed conditioner through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow, careful motions.

John was lying face-down on the massage table. Shirtless. Already snoring.

You moved between them like they were delicate, precious things. Because they were. Your killers. Your soft boys. The men who held guns for a living but came home to be held instead.

You used your thumbs to ease a knot in Kyle’s ankle. He murmured something you didn’t catch.

“What was that, sweetheart?”

“Feels nice,” he slurred, half-asleep. “You’ve got magic hands.”

“Mm. I know.”

Johnny hummed from the tub. “You gonna join me in here after?”

You leaned down and kissed the top of his head, brushing damp curls back from his forehead.

“I’ve got one more boy to spoil first.”

Simon said nothing, but his breathing had deepened. His shoulders were loose. The tension he always carried in his neck was gone. You moved your hands slowly through his hair again, then gently tugged his head back to look up at you.

“Feel good, baby?”

His eyes flicked to yours.

“Yeah,” he rasped.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

“I missed you more.”

You kissed him. Soft. Barely there.

He leaned into it like he’d been starved.

——

Later, you lay in the middle of the bed while your boys curled around you.

Kyle was tucked against your right side, head on your shoulder, legs tangled with yours. Johnny was sprawled over your stomach like a weighted blanket. Simon had one arm thrown over your waist from behind, face buried in your neck. And John? John had your hand in both of his, pressed against his chest like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

The windows were open. The city was quiet. Your phone was somewhere downstairs, long forgotten.

“You know,” Johnny mumbled, sleep-drunk, “we’re kind of obsessed with you.”

You smiled, eyelids fluttering shut.

“I know.”

Kyle laughed softly. “You ever think about quitting? The speeches, the events…?”

You opened one eye.

“Are you offering to be my sugar baby?”

“Not opposed.”

“Absolutely not,” John grunted. “She’d still be richer than all of us combined.”

Simon snorted. “Maybe we should be the ones pampering her.”

“I’ll allow it,” you said, voice heavy with sleep. “On my next day off.”

“Which is when?” Kyle asked.

You yawned.

“Three weeks from now.”

They all groaned.

Johnny propped his chin on your chest.

“You’re lucky we love you.”

You kissed his forehead, eyes finally drifting shut.

“I know.”

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[madaqueue]

SCULPTOR'S DILEMMA

to love him is to remember him, to immortalize him in this moment, in his perfection, in his lust

pairing: veritas ratio x f!reader

themes/content: smut. there is no plot to this at all it’s literally just riding him idk there's like a little bit of thigh riding + jerking him off (wk: 1.4k)

a/n: 'i don't want to fuck this guy' <- guy who wrote 1k words about explicitly fucking this guy

Stone and statues could never compare, you think, to the planes of Veritas’s chest; more grand than any marble, more magnificent than any granite. He should be immortalized in this moment, in the heavy rise and fall of his ribs, the smooth planes beneath your fingers.

It took so little to get him here, too. Nothing more than a firm embrace (one he could break out of if he wanted to; he never wants to) and hushed words of, “You’re so beautiful, Veritas.”

He grumbled, as he often does when met with praise he doesn’t know what to do with, when it gets stuck in the gears of his mind and they struggle a bit more with each turn. But it’s an easy enough fix, at least for you, at least after all this time.

So, your lips carved a path down his throat, your fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt to give you more canvas to paint with your teeth and nails. An artist known only by your love for him, the only thing you could create; in every form, it finds itself: Veritas.

“May I show you, my love?” It’s whispered into his chest, into the divot of his sternum, a groove wide enough to hold it. “May I show you how beautiful you are?”

A momentary pause, and you're sure he's staring down at you, even if you can't see the picturesque gaze. “As you wish.”

You pretended to ignore the tremble in his voice, the shake within his hands as they came to rest upon your shoulders.

That’s the drawback of this brittleness: it’s all the easier to break.

So yes, it takes very little to get him bare and desperate, although he’d never call it that, even with one of your hands wrapped around his cock, aching and heavy as your hips draw the same pattern across his thigh. Instead, he’d let his sighs and stifled sounds and all the things that go unsaid speak for him, let the raging pulse and burning skin chisel their own meaning.

“Don’t tease,” he says, low and raspy and gods, what that voice does to you, the way it’s sweeter than any honey, riper than any fruit. You’d let it drip down your chin and onto your chest, peel it with careful fingers that are all too quick to turn ravenous.

“I’m not teasing,” you smile back, pulp held tight between your molars. You squeeze his length within your hand. “I’m just taking my time. What is it you always say, my dear? ‘Patience breeds success’?”

He scoffs - or rather, he attempts to scoff. But with the pitched-up sound doing little to convey its intended displeasure, it only makes you giggle.

“Aw, what’s wrong my love?” You offer him a look of innocence, one he rewards with a scowl.

“Just, mm, get on with it already.”

“Okay, okay,” you placate, palms resting on his pecs, steadying, despite the blooming smile that leaks sun beams. “As you wish.”

Your hips strain as you adjust, no longer centering you upon his thigh; as you rise, the muscled skin glimmers under the low lights, proof of your arousal left behind. It was a pretty thing to grind on, nearly enough friction to get the job done, you suppose, but it was never truly your goal - not when his cock lies so beautifully against his stomach.

His own desire sparkles from the tip, pearls of precum dribbling down his length, a worthy reaction to having watched you ‘tease,’ as he so fondly called it. The hand that had been slowly, gently, ever-so graciously stroking his length comes to a stop, instead guiding his tip to your entrance.

“Is this what you desire, my dear?”

This part is always fun, to make him flustered, make him verbalize those ‘filthy desires,’ as he’s so prone to calling them. ‘Don’t be crass,’ he often says when you push it, make him beg a tad too explicitly, but he always manages to choke the words out nonetheless.

“Obviously.” The words likely should have a bite, if they came out as intended, but with the flush painted down his torso and up to his ears, it reads as rather endearing; you hum, and watch his cheeks redden further.

As you sink down, your gaze never leaves his - not even when his eyelashes flutter, not even when his chest stutters, not even when your back arches from how he fills you and your hips nearly pause with the overwhelming sensation of it all. Each agonizing centimeter as he goes further inside your pulsing core, a silent code only he could dare to understand, one ripe with hunger and a carnal need he'd dare to call primitive, if he was any less affected by it.

But finally, finally, you rest atop his pelvis, flush and full and somehow still aching.

The first roll of your hips is languid, measured, while you’re still cognizant enough to hold yourself together. It earns you a warbled groan from Veritas, whose fists have begun to dig into the sheets. Cute, you think, the way he’s trying to maintain his composure, even with the sweat beading down his temple and his cock twitching inside you.

His eyes, meanwhile, struggle to land on a single destination. They roam your face, your neck, your chest, flitting across the inviting space of your body as though he can’t quite make up his mind where to focus. Ah, indecision, the paralysis of a man who can’t stop thinking. But no matter - you can help (you’ll always be there to help).

With your hands placed behind you on his thighs, you lean back, an arch to your spine that lets your head fall. Up, your hips stir, and you whine as his cock is dragged from your warmth.

Through the bottom of your lashes, you catch it: those sunset-rich eyes set their heated gaze on where the two of you are joined, the growing expanse of his skin that glistens from where it had been inside you. His pupils dilate, an ever-expanding eclipse, as he silently watches you lower yourself onto him. This time, you let a moan warm the air until you feel him in your chest.

Oh, and he’s beautiful, lungs heaving and heavier than stone, watching you fuck yourself on him, watching you take him so perfectly again, and again, and again. You’re making a show of it, he knows you are, with the way you refuse to look away, but he can’t bring himself to object.

Veritas is, though, a proud man. Perhaps that’s why his teeth sink into his lower lip until it blooms the same red that’s now swallowed in his irises.

But that won’t do.

“Veritas,” you say, more of a breath, what with the air forced from your lungs with each self-imposed thrust. “My love, let me hear you.”

A flicker of attention to your face, and you almost wonder if he can truly understand you behind the glassy sheen to his eyes, the weak grip on the bedding. When he makes no move to free the flesh from his canines, you lean forward.

A thumb to his cheek. His jaw. His lower lip.

Ah. Finally, he lets the weight of your skin coax his mouth open. You wish there was a sculptor that could capture his beauty in this moment, the oblivious ecstasy of a chronically attentive man; to see him lose himself so entirely, to trust you in his heedless pleasure, is the most magnificent thing, you think.

“There you go, my darling,” you hum.

And perhaps it’s the words, the praise he desperately claims not to need, or perhaps it’s the way you sink down even deeper, slower, sweeter, but the moan he releases is thicker than gold. You hadn’t known he could make such an exquisite sound, nor make it for so long, but it must fully empty the air clamoring to his breath as it spills and spills from his throat.

That is the thing about Veritas, a man of constancy and contradictions (perhaps that is another one in and of itself, too): how could one be so solid, more stable than stone, and yet so alive? The sound he makes vibrates low between your ribs, down your spine, to where the two of you are connected, humming with vitality.

You clench around him, and he twitches inside you again. A living, breathing picture of beauty, one no statue could ever dream to capture.

[lazysoulwriter]

Gifts of Desire - Lewis Hamilton.

wc: 1.8k~

Lewis Hamilton knew how to win races, how to command attention, and, most importantly, how to spoil the woman he loved. It wasn’t about showing off; it was about making you feel adored, cherished, and like you deserved nothing but the best. He wasn’t just buying you things—he was buying you moments of happiness, creating memories together, and treating you like the princess you were in his eyes.

It started subtly, with a pair of sunglasses you’d mentioned in passing, a luxurious bag that caught your attention while window-shopping, or a weekend getaway to a quiet villa. Every gift, every gesture, was an expression of how deeply he felt for you, though he never quite put it into words. Lewis wasn’t much for grand declarations; he spoke through action, through the things he bought for you, through the soft touches, and those long, lingering kisses that always left you breathless.

One evening, after dinner at a restaurant where you’d ordered your usual dessert—chocolate fondant—you both took a stroll along the pier. The cool ocean breeze brushed your hair away from your face as he slipped his fingers through yours.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lewis said softly, squeezing your hand. “What would you want if you could have anything?”

You looked up at him, surprised by the question. “Anything?” you asked, curiosity piqued.

“Anything,” he repeated with a smile that made your heart flutter.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the idea of having anything at all so tempting. “I don’t know... maybe a new camera? I’ve been eyeing one for a while,” you said, always practical when it came to your passions.

His grin widened. “Done,” he said, pulling you into a gentle kiss. You laughed into the kiss, surprised by how easily he had agreed to something so expensive. He pulled away, his forehead resting against yours. “But next time, we’re getting something a little more fun. Something just for you. No practical gifts.”

Your heart skipped a beat as his words sunk in. You had never expected him to buy you something extravagant, but with Lewis, nothing ever felt out of reach. It was the way he looked at you, like you were worth every ounce of his time, every penny he had ever made, and then some.

Later that week, he invited you over to his place. You’d been texting all day, and when you arrived, he was waiting for you by the door, his trademark grin already on display.

“You’re gonna love this,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

He led you to the living room, where an extravagant surprise awaited. On the coffee table sat a large velvet box, but the real surprise was the Tiffany necklace glimmering inside, the delicate diamond pendant catching the light. You gasped, your hand flying to your mouth in shock.

“Lewis, this is... I can’t take this,” you stammered, overwhelmed by the gesture.

He stepped closer, his voice soft yet insistent. “You’re my everything, baby. You deserve it.”

He reached for the box, pulling it out and gently lifting the necklace from its velvet bed. “Let me put it on you,” he said, his fingers brushing your skin as he clasped the necklace around your neck.

As he stood behind you, admiring the way the diamonds shimmered against your skin, you felt a warmth spread through you, not from the necklace itself, but from the tender way he treated you, how he constantly reminded you of your worth. He wasn’t just buying you things—he was giving you a piece of his heart with every gift, every touch.

He kissed the back of your neck, his lips soft against your skin. “You’re my princess,” he whispered, and you melted into his embrace.

The next few weeks followed in much the same way—surprises here and there, extravagant gestures that left you in awe. He’d call you up and ask what you wanted to do, and when you said, “Nothing special,” he’d find a way to make it memorable. He was always thinking of ways to spoil you, to show you how much he cared.

One evening, as you were curled up on his couch, watching a movie, his fingers lightly traced patterns along your arm. His touch was gentle, and you couldn’t help but shiver at the feeling of his skin on yours. Every little touch from him seemed to carry an electric charge, sparking something deep within you.

His lips found your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “I don’t just buy you things because I can, you know. I do it because I want to see you happy. Because you make me feel... everything,” he said, his voice hushed.

You turned toward him, your eyes meeting his. You knew he wasn’t just talking about material things. There was more to it, something deeper, something that had only grown stronger with time. You both had your own struggles, your own lives outside of each other, but when you were together, nothing else seemed to matter.

“I love you, Lewis,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

His eyes softened as he cupped your cheek. “And I love you,” he replied, leaning in for a kiss that started slow, tender, but quickly turned into something more passionate, more urgent.

As the kiss deepened, his hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His lips traveled from your mouth to your neck, his kisses soft but filled with an intensity that made your heart race.

“You’re mine, princess,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You couldn’t help but smile at the way he called you his. There was something so possessive, so full of affection in the way he said it, and it made you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered to him.

He kissed you again, his touch gentle but filled with a need you both couldn’t deny. As he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing heavy.

“Anything you want, you know I’ll get it for you,” he said, his voice low, serious. “Anything, as long as it makes you smile.”

You looked into his eyes, seeing the depth of his affection for you. “You already do,” you whispered, your heart full, your soul content in his arms.

Days passed, and he continued to surprise you with gestures both small and grand. One night, you were on your way home when he called, asking if you could stop by his place. He’d been working late, but you could sense the eagerness in his voice. As you arrived, you found the place lit only by the soft glow of candles. On the dining table was a beautifully arranged dinner for two, with your favorite dish in front of you.

“Dinner’s ready, princess,” he said, his voice soothing, yet with a hint of playful excitement.

He poured wine for both of you, the glasses glimmering in the candlelight. After you had eaten, you sat on the couch, enjoying each other’s company, the comfortable silence enveloping you. He pulled you into his arms once again, whispering sweet words in your ear as he kissed you.

“It’s all for you,” he murmured, his hands resting gently on your back. “Every little thing I do, it’s because I want to see you happy.”

Your heart swelled with emotion, and you kissed him back, the passion between you both building once again. You felt like the luckiest person in the world, being with someone who not only gave you extravagant gifts but filled your heart with so much love and affection.

And in that moment, as his lips met yours again, you realized you had everything you needed—his love, his care, and the certainty that he would always be there to spoil you, to treat you like his queen.

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴘʟᴀʏɢɪʀʟ

Summary: Paul might just have developed an obsession with the camera that you let him have.

Warnings: 18+ MDI

(just a quick little blurb. this is just filth honestly)

You hadn't thought much of it when you had lifted the camera - one of those instant ones that spits out a laminated card of film that you have to shake.

It had caught your attention, because, in a certain way, it seemed important. The man who you had stolen it from, slipping the dark strap from around his limp, bloodied neck and over his head, had come all the way out in the middle of the night to take pictures. Trekking up the high hills that crest high along the ocean just to be able to stand on the edge.

All so he'd be able to take picture after picture of the town glittering in the close distance; the shimmer of the amusement park rides glimmering on the reflection of the water. Not that you could blame him, the view from up there is stunning.

You took the camera fully with the intention of using it, but somewhere along the span of a few weeks, it had wound up forgotten on the old dresser beside your bed. Hidden away amongst all the other tchotchkes and random trinkets that you've stolen throughout the last couple of years.

You didn't think much of it when Paul had asked if he could have it one night, nosily browsing through your stuff like he usually does. Always sticking his fingers where they don't belong.

You had hardly bothered looking up at him from your hand, carefully focusing as you glided a brush, damp with cherry red polish over your nails.

You remember giving a light hum of affirmation, nodding your chin stiffly from where you had it pressed against your knee.

You had hardly heard the delighted, "Hell, yeah," that he had whispered. But even while you idlily flipped through a dated issue of Vogue in between the application of the polish, you could hear the way his voice had gone all somewhere between husky but also light. Pitched with something downright sleazy. You could practically hear all the perverted thoughts rolling around in his head as he plucked up the camera from the dresser.

In hindsight, you should have expected the monster that you had unintentionally created. He's always been a pervert and giving him access to this type of thing was bound to unless a completely new side.

He has a whole stash of photos now. They're all of you, naturally. Sweet candid's that catch you in all the ways he'd like to remember. Immortalizations of your smile; sincere moments that he can tuck inside the inner pocket of his coat and keep held to his chest.

One in particular is always kept there. Hidden and safe like a cherished icon tucked away from unworthy, prying eyes. It's somewhat blurred. Distorted from when the lens had caught you in motion. It smeared around the edges of your hair; the lights of the carousel behind you create a sort of halo effect.

But he likes the carefree expression on your face the most. Bright and free, eyes glittering from when he had caught you in the middle of a fit of laughter. Courtesy of some joke he said - one that he can't really remember now, vague and miles away.

As much as he loves that little candid in his pocket - how casual and content it is, with you clutching onto a half-eaten funnel cake and laughing - he'd be a liar if he didn't love all his other pictures just as much.

He's become a bit of a photographer in the past month, and his portfolio is already packed. Filled to the brim with images that all focus around you in all the best ways possible.

He'd probably be able to make an entire magazine at this point. One that would put Playgirl to shame. All with you on each and every page, centerfold and cover.

God, he'd actually pay money to see that.

The pictures he has are all crammed into rusted toolbox that he keeps hidden away in a narrow crevice split inside one of the cave walls. It's close enough to the floor that he's able to block it from sight with a wooden pallet.

Maybe it's sort of overkill, but the last thing he needs is for someone to go snooping and find something that they don't need to see.

Yeah, he'd either die on the spot or kill someone if that happened, but he's pretty sure that you'd be more than happy to do the killing. You'd probably just end up wringing his neck though, and he'd be more than willing to let you.

The collection that he's got going on is easily one of his most prized possessions, and he's not guilty to admit it. Even if it is a little shameful how many times he's found himself looking back over them.

Shuffling back through the stack of pictures as though they're a deck of cards. But he swears that he notices something new about them each time. They somehow manage to look better and better when that probably shouldn't be possible.

He's jacked off more times that he should admit to the one that he has of you bent over his bike but fuck it's hot.

Between the dark cover of the night and flash of the camera, the background is a void of black. It makes you look as though you've been encased in satin.

There's a glimpse of the bike's handlebars peeking into the shot, a peek of chrome reflecting bright in the image. And yeah, he's not really paying attention to all of that, but he can't pretend that the sight of you bent over his bike doesn't do something for him.

Your skirt is all rucked up in the image, the tight slip of dark fabric bunched over the shape of your hips to shamelessly brandish the flash of your panties. The noticeable wet spot between your thighs, dark against the white material gets him hard every time, and his hand always manages to slip inside of his pants whenever he comes across it in the pile.

Just a small glance at the photo is able to take him back to that night, immersing him in that specific moment, with the warm air brushing over his skin and the sound of your cries melodic and mindless in his ears. You sounded like a pornstar.

His hand is pathetic in comparison to how you had gripped him. It's too rough, too cool. Nowhere close to the way your cunt had clenched around his cock like it was trying to keep him locked inside, stretched and wet and tight on him.

It makes it difficult to narrow down a possible favorite from the pile. There's somehow too many and not enough, and each specific photo has something that he loves, no matter how simple the subject matter might be.

Like the picture he has of your tits. Your bra isn't even completely off in the photo, just slipped down around your ribs just enough to free your breasts. The red lace cupped beneath them, nearly brushing over your nipples. They're perky in the photo, hard from the chill of the cave, glittering softly from the spit he had left behind with his mouth.

He can't count how many times he's fucked his fist to that one. Tracing over the marks he had left behind, the blotches of cherry and plum he'd made with his teeth and tongue; sucked into your skin.

He's held that very picture in his left hand, satiating himself as best as he could while you went off with Star to have a night out on the town - 'girl's night.'

They happen every week and he looks forward to them with all the enthusiasm of someone who's scheduled to get teeth pulled. The pictures almost make it tolerable. Like chasing tequila with a swig of Coke.

But the image of you all splayed out on your bed is a close contender for the number one spot. It was one of those lucky nights where everyone else was out in town, giving the both of you the freedom to actually indulge in each other on an actual bed for the few hours you were afforded.

There's a dreamy quality that had been caught in your eyes while you watched the camera. That dazed, fucked out look that makes him feel just as ruined.

You were completely naked, flat on your back with the sheets and blankets all messy around you; rumpled in a way that seems like a current shifting over water. Your spine was a little arched, pushing your breasts out, making them more pronounced.

You were all kiss swollen lips and ruined hair. He can practically hear the soft little moans that you had been letting out, bouncing off of the stone and back over onto his skin.

But the best thing about it might be how your legs were held wide open, fingers between your thighs to spread yourself open for the camera. For him.

He remembers kneeling down at the foot of the bed and aiming the camera directly at you. It had taken everything to speak, mumbling out a husky, "Smile for the camera, baby." But just that had taken a effort to say, his throat tight, words snagging like he'd been punched in the chest.

Despite it being more of a joke, a mindless ramble really - because he can't think straight whenever he's got you like that - you did as he asked. Your lips had perked up in a smile, just as dazed as the clouded glint in your eyes. Looking all gentle and angelic while you showed him your pussy, so wet and soaked that it caught the fucking reflection of the fires burning around inside the cave.

It was filthy. Depraved. He's never seen anything more beautiful. It almost feels religious sometimes, as crude as it is, to touch himself to all the pictures he has - photos that you trusted him enough to take.

He doesn't think that he's ever going to be able to stop. He has twenty-one of them already (but who's counting), and it's lead him to become a regular at one of the shops downtown. Visiting as soon as the sun will allow. Just narrowly making it through the door just as it's light safely settles past the horizon around 8:30, always giving him about half an hour to punch it before the store can close.

The owner recognizes him by now. Some innocent looking old man, with a gentle, wrinkled smile who always offers him a Tootsie Roll from the tiny candy dish on the front counter while he rings up the total.

The old man - Ron? Robert? - would probably have a stroke if he knew just why Paul is constantly coming in to purchase film. But then again, there's a lot of things about Paul that would give him a stroke if he knew.

The fact that he's become a regular should be a little telling. Some might call it an obsession, but that's pretty much what a hobby is anyway, right?

He thinks that shitty little camera might be one of the best gifts he's ever received. It's nearly painful how stunning you are in each picture. How hot you always are.

So honestly, he can't pick a favorite at all. Because somehow, it's not the photo of you sucking his cock. Lips glossy with spit and precum, stretched wide in a mouthful with your nose nuzzled all the way down to his pelvis, the point of it pressed into the thatch of hair at the base. Not even with the wide-eyed way you gaze up at the camera, watching him like you were greedy; unshed tears threatening to spill.

He can still practically feel that way your throat had flexed around him then. The soft warmth of your palms massaging his balls while you sucked and licked up the length of his cock until he had cum in your mouth with a ragged groan.

But it's not that one.

And it's not the picture of your riding him, bare chested with your face slightly scrunched, jaw dropped in pleasure from the thumb that he had on your clit. His hand was in frame, just barely visible, but the clumsy grip he had on the camera was just secure enough for him to snap the shot, and it caught the curl of his knuckle on your stuffed cunt.

That still wasn't his favorite either.

It's a shame that he doesn't have one yet. But he guesses that you'll both just have to keep trying until he does. Until he gets that perfect shot. He'd maybe feel bad, but you don't seem to mind in the slightest.

There's something knowing and hungry in your gaze when notice him from where he's sitting off on the couch. He's already holding the old Kodiak in his hands, tracing his fingertips over the corners of the cold plastic while he watches from your place across the cave.

The fire catches in your eyes. It makes you wild looking, like you could eat him alive. Fire lights up in his veins because damn, he really wants you to until he's only bones. He knows that he doesn't even need to ask, but he does it anyway:

"In the mood for a photoshoot?"

Your smile is answer enough.

[the-fiction-witch]

Little Dragon

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Daemon Targaryen Couple - Daemon X Reader Reader - Princess Y/n Targaryen (Neice) Rating - 17 / 18 Word Count - 756

Y/n hummed a gentle melody as she sat at her ornate vanity, the soft fabric of her robe draping elegantly around her shoulders. The forenoon light filtered through the delicate lace curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. As she carefully brushed her long hair, the strands glimmered like spun silver, cascading down her back.

Just then, the heavy wooden door of the bedchamber creaked open and then closed softly behind Daemon, allowing his presence to fill the space. Y/n’s gaze flicked toward him in the mirror, her heart fluttering as a smile graced her lips. She admired the way his tousled hair fell effortlessly across his forehead, and the confident way he carried himself as he stepped further into the room.

“Good Evening, Uncle”

“Evening,” he chuckled, “I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, little dragon.” He leaned down, a tender smile playing on his lips as he gently kissed her hair, inhaling the faint scent of flowers and warmth that clung to her. As he straightened up, his fingers swept beneath the folds of fabric behind him, producing a breathtaking gown.

The gown was a masterpiece, flowing seamlessly to the ground in a rich, deep blood red that shimmered softly in the light. Its intricate design featured gently scaled textures that mirrored dragon scales, The fabric was adorned with soft, luxurious black velvet. Long, puffed Juliette sleeves embellished the gown, their delicate cutouts revealing the smooth black velvet beneath, creating an enchanting play of light and shadow. Glinting accents of Valyrian steel adorned the gown; chains, buttons, and other ornate hardware provided a touch of regality, making it clear that this was no ordinary dress but a garment fit for a queen. The ensemble was an exquisite blend of strength and softness, a true reflection of the essence she carried within.

Y/n gasped, “Huuuu! For me?”

“Yes for you.” he nodded, “Come on. I’ll help you.”

She let out a soft giggle, excitement bubbling within her as she sprang up from her seat. With a quick flick of her wrist, she brushed her hair back into place, trying to gather her composure as she stood infront of him.

Daemon, a mischievous glint in his eyes, didn’t hesitate. He reached out and effortlessly pulled the robe from her shoulders, watching it cascade to the floor like a whisper, leaving her feeling both vulnerable and exhilarated under his gaze.

A slight shiver ran down her spine, not just from the cool air around her, but from the intensity of his eyes as they roamed over her figure, taking in every curve. Heat flooded her cheeks, painting her skin with a rosy hue as she felt his gaze lingering on her.

His fingers, warm and gentle, glided over her body, tracing paths along her tender skin. The sensation sent tingles across her, a mixture of anticipation and sweetness sweeping over her. As he began to help her into the dress, each delicate movement felt intimate. He took hold of the flowing gown, its fabric shimmering softly in the light, and gently guided it into place over her slender shoulders. With meticulous care, he began to lace the delicate ties at the back, ensuring each pull was even and precise. As he worked, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her bare neck, leaving warm, tender kisses that sent shivers down her spine. The intimate moment deepened as he finally finished lacing the gown. Wrapping his strong arms around her waist, he pulled her close, enveloping her in a warm embrace that spoke of both comfort and affection, squeezing gently.

“There we are, now you look the part of a Targaryen Princess.”

“You think so?”

“I see a very beautiful little dragon in front of me.” He cooed, kissing her cheek, “Now, let’s allow those lowly lords a single look at such beauty, remind them just how far they must reach to even kiss our boots.”

“Are- are you sure I’m ready uncle?” she asked turning to face him,

“You are a Targaryen Princess. You were born for this.” he cooed, caressing her cheek and pulling her in for an intense kiss, “Come along, little dragon.” he smirked, taking her by the hand to lead her down to the throne room.

[jvnluaa]

“Tied to a Thunderstorm” — A Life with Killua Zoldyck

You never expected love to come in the form of a lightning storm—feral, fleeting, always on the edge of vanishing. But that’s exactly what Killua Zoldyck was: a flicker of lightning with the soul of a goddamn hurricane. You didn’t fall into love with him. You collided.

It started with silence.

Not the romantic kind—the dangerous kind. The kind that chokes a room before the kill. That’s how Killua moved through the world: barefoot, silent, impossible. The air felt heavy in his presence, as if even oxygen bent to his will. He didn’t smile easily. He didn’t trust easily. He didn’t breathe easily unless you were near. And somehow, that earned you his ring, his bed, and his name beside yours.

Now, every day begins like this:

─────────────────────────

Morning

You wake to find Killua lying beside you—not curled, not soft, but poised. Always. Even in sleep, there’s something predatory about him. His white hair is chaos over your shared pillow, and the silver-gold strands catch the morning light like a blade. His arm is flung over your waist in a way that feels possessive, not tender. His body heat is a warning and a comfort all in one.

You turn, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

His voice, gravel and silk, grumbles, “Didn’t I tell you to let me wake first? You’re defenseless like this.”

But his arms only pull you closer.

There’s always that edge. His love is wrapped in steel wire. He doesn’t know how to be soft. But he learns—with you.

In the kitchen, he leans against the counter, shirtless, scars mapping his back like a cartographer’s sketch of war-torn history. You trace them sometimes. He lets you. No one else ever could.

You cook while he watches, not because he can’t—he just finds a strange peace in the domestic rhythm you create. He never had a real home. You are the closest thing he’s ever known to one.

He drinks black coffee, cold. “Poison tastes better,” he sometimes says with a wink.

─────────────────────────

Afternoon

Killua’s afternoons are rarely idle. He’s restless. Boredom in him is dangerous. It means he needs a fight, a mission, or your body beneath his, clawing something primal from his core to keep the beast within him calm.

Today, he’s on edge.

His footsteps echo down the hallway as he returns from a job—silent, until he throws his blood-stained hoodie into the corner like it offended him.

He doesn’t speak. You don’t ask.

You meet him in the hallway. His eyes—those electric, icy sapphires—lock onto yours. There's storm beneath his skin. Killua doesn’t cry. He bleeds through action.

So, you pull him close, push your fingers through his hair, and he buries his face in your neck, inhaling like he’s suffocating and you’re his only air.

“Still human,” you whisper.

“Barely,” he answers.

But that’s how it’s always been. You are the anchor that keeps him from slipping back into assassin mode entirely. And he hates how much he needs you. It makes him feel weak. But he still clings to you like your warmth is the last thing holding his bones together.

─────────────────────────

Evening

He showers for too long. Sometimes you join him. Not for the romance—but to wash away the blood and ghosts he can’t name.

Dinner is quiet, unless you provoke him into debate. He’s sharp-tongued when he wants to be. Arrogant. Clever. You play the game because you love seeing that glimmer in his eyes—the spark of a killer who thinks, schemes, and loves only you.

“Why do you always cook too much rice?” he asks, smirking.

“Why do you always eat it all?”

“Tch.”

That sound. That little Killua sound. It means he’s smug and flustered. You’ve learned to decode the assassin’s language of sighs, glances, and half-smiles.

Later, he pulls you into his lap on the sofa. His fingers play absently with yours, tracing the bones, always checking for weakness, for tremble. You rest your head on his shoulder.

He whispers, “If anything ever touches you, I’ll erase the entire bloodline.”

You don’t doubt him. He means it. And not as a promise. As a certainty.

─────────────────────────

Night

At night, Killua becomes the boy he never got to be.

Sometimes he can’t sleep. Too many memories slither beneath his skin. Needles. Screams. The quiet grin of Illumi. The suffocating halls of Kukuroo Mountain. You’ve seen the aftermath—when he wakes up in cold sweat, hands crackling with nen, breath shallow, teeth gritted in ghostly terror.

You always reach for him.

“You’re not there anymore,” you whisper.

“I am,” he says. “It’s always there. It never leaves.”

But you hold him anyway.

Because even thunder needs a place to land.

─────────────────────────

Love with Killua

Loving Killua Zoldyck is like loving the storm: beautiful, destructive, rare.

He doesn’t say I love you often. But he shows it in every deadly promise, in every calculated glance when you’re threatened, in every time he lays awake to make sure you’re breathing.

He doesn't need your protection. But he wants your warmth. That’s far more dangerous.

He tells you things no one else will ever hear: the number of people he’s killed. The nightmares he can't shake. The guilt he doesn’t understand. The electric thrill of murder that still hums under his skin like a drug.

He wonders sometimes if he’s still human.

You remind him: “You’re mine. That’s all that matters.”

And that’s enough.

[metalmewtwo-kxb]

Pokédex Update:

Auroreon - the Iridescent Feather pokemon. A flying type. When it fans its wings and tail, it can manifest beautiful yet powerful beams of light in concentrated attacks and healing moves. If it ever opens its eyes, it will unleash its wrath on the unjust.

Notes:

- Auroreon's feathers always seem to glimmer in the light, causing even its body to give off a faint prismatic glow. They are also sturdy, soft as cinccino velvet, and capable of keeping sheltered pokemon warm. If the weather and conditions are right, Auroreon will spread its feathers over the grass and sunbathe (or moonbathe at night). This makes the moisture in the air above it become a captivating blanket of shifting colors. The shiny variation of this pokemon is said to also manifest colors of light that very few humans are able to see.

- The 'eye spots' on Auroreon's feathers serve as a natural statement of beauty as well as a means of confusing opponents. And the halo above its head is a result of the fur's natural light refraction.

From Recovered Texts and Documents:

- Long ago, a king encouraged the use of these feathers for decorative purposes during his reign. This greatly decimated the population of both eevee and Auroreon in their region. Those with dark feathers were considered "impure" and hunted for sport. A few were kept as pets and servants, which was illegal save for those with the king's written permission.

- Some groups of the past believed Auroreon to be among the pokemon known as "the Heralds of Arceus", messengers and light-bearers who served the Creator of Worlds. There were a variety of pokemon believed to hold this title, each described as "familiar yet unique" to each respective species. They were more powerful than their counterparts, and some rarely spotted if not considered an illusion. They were also quite gentle and well-mannered, and their roles involved giving life and healing to the world. However, these pokemon were considered dangerous in times of conflict.

- It is said "the false king" of their home region was single-handedly responsible for the disappearance of the Heralds, the beginning of conflict between humans and Arceus, and the terrible aftermath of the last great war. Rumors spread that Arceus removed the Heralds from the world of humans to save those pokemon from the cruelty that would follow in coming years.

Notes Continued:

- Further research is being conducted, as a single pair of Auroreon were recently spotted in an isolated area with an unusual eevee. One white, and one dark. The gender of each is unknown, though ancient texts suggest that females have shorter capes than males.

- There is no documentation of what their open eyes look like. Texts only say that no one who saw them directly lived to tell the tale, including the false king.

----------------------------

Decided to take my own stab at creating a flying type eeveelution, and potentially add a second typing later on.

I'm really happy with how it turned out, and glad I had another chance to delve into more of the comic's background lore.

[platinumshawnn]

A Union of Ice and Stone (blurb) | Cregan Stark

A/N: I am struggling to find muse to write my fics recently but guess who has random blurbs in the drafts 🤺 enjoy some cregan smut that was based on auois while I work through the next chapters

TW: Smut, implications of prior SA, triggering themes that may be upsetting for some readers — please do not hesitate to reach out should you find the themes lightly touched on triggering, I am more than open to supporting readers who are affected by my content and creating a safe space in which I am either a direct source of support OR I can direct you to the appropriate resources. Please read at your own discretion.

“I’m not going to force you to consummate a marriage you did not even want in the first place,” He grumbled from the settee, “That is not the kind of marriage I want— where you feel you have no choice in the matter.”

“And you actually value that? My willingness to participate in this marriage?” She asked from where she stood over the writing table, a trinket in her hands that she fidgeted with while she watched him. His back faced her, not looking at her as he watched the fire.

“Yes,” He answered.

“And what if I choose never to?”

His head turned slightly, looking at her from the corner of his eye as he then looked down, “Then I suppose that is what your choice to make, my lady,” he said, turning to look again at the fire. A silence befell them, her fingernails picking at the paint of the miniature horse that had been gifted to her as a child; an anxious habit she hated — she did not trust his word, or trust his sincerity that he meant it. No man in their right mind would mean it, that they cared not for bedding their wife — she had heard the horror stories as a girl of men who forced themselves on their wives, regardless of their pleas — a thought that made her shudder. She let out a quiet sigh, setting the wooden horse down back on the table and approaching him, circling the settee he had found respite in, his eyes briefly lifting to look up at her as she stood to his left.

“And does it upset you that I am unable to offer to you my maidenhead, as a husband expects of his new wife?” She asked suddenly.

He lifted his cup, taking a slow sip of wine and looking away again — he was not a man of eye contact she had come to learn, unless it was deemed necessary. Cregan paused, the weight of her words settling between them. He placed his cup down carefully, then finally turned to face her fully. His voice was low, steady, but filled with a sincerity she had rarely heard from a man.

"Then I would expect nothing from you that you do not willingly offer," he said, his gaze meeting hers, unflinching. "I am not like those men you’ve heard of. If all you can give is your companionship and trust, that is more than enough for me."

He let the words linger, his expression softening, "Your worth is not tied to that. I want a partner, not a prisoner."

She warily eyed him, eyes narrowing as she processed the reply — she followed where his eyes had previously turned to, watching the flames lick and stained the stone walls with soot, her chest rising and falling with a deep sigh of air, “You are a kinder man than most, Cregan Stark,” Lysara stated, her voice soft as she moved to take a seat in the small space that remained in the settee; her bare shoulder brushing his as she folded her hands in her lap. She could feel his eyes still bearing into the side of her face, warmed by the intensity of his gaze and fidgeting with her fingers — she twisted the bracket that remained around her right wrist, hold and glimmering in the light; she turned just enough to angle her head towards him and find his eyes.

“I wouldn’t consider it to be about kindness, my lady,” he replied, his eyes searching her face.

Her mouth twitched upwards in a small hint of a smile, “Then what might you call it?”

“Decency, I suppose.”

It was a simple reply, but there was no hesitation behind it; unwavering as he looked forward. She took the angle to eye him up close, her eyes following the outline of his face and drifting down every feature — she followed the strong structure of his brow and nose, his cheeks — past his mouth and stopping at his jawline; soft but masculine in a way that could have made any man envious and any woman lustful. His hair had loosened from its pulled back style, the long strands falling into his face as he drummed his fingers against his thigh. She could have fared worse — her father had tried to match her with men twice her age in her youth, old enough to be her father, aged and scarred and mangled by battle. She sucked in another breath, finding his eyes as he turned to look at her again, his eyebrows twitching curiously. It scared her half to death, the idea of approaching him — but she felt emboldened by his words as she unfolded her hands and moved towards his lap; his eyes following her. Her thighs straddled his hips, hands finding his shoulders and nudging him back to allow her more space while resting his hands on her hips as though it was a reflex.

She smoothed her hands along the fabric of his undershirt, the cotton rustling under her touch as she slowly dipped her hands to his chest and found the base of his throat; stopped at his collarbones, her face hovering over his. Despite the gnawing anxiety in the back of her head, threatening to let out a panicked cry, she found herself able to swallow down that fear and trust him fully.

His head had tilted to look up at her from his position, eyes on hers as she paused, unsure how to proceed — suddenly she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his, the kiss something slow and exploratory, gauging his response to her as she leaned forward and into him. His mouth was hot against hers, skilled and confident as she felt his teeth gently drag along her bottom lip; her right hand coming to his nape as she shifted forward in his lap to press flush against him until his back was forced against the back of the chair, broad shoulders being traced by her hands.

His head tipped, forcing her chin up with his nose in order to press her throat with searing hot kisses that elicited a soft sigh of pleasure, fisting handfuls of his shirt between her fingers. His hands crept underneath her nightgown atop her thighs and stopped at her hips, leaving her partially exposed to him — her back arched into him, head lolling back as he pushed a hand up along the expanse of her backside and up her spine until it pressed to the small of her back as her hips pressed into his. His mouth ceased, withdrawing from her and letting out a sharp breath of air as she cupped his face and held it between her hands, his lips parted as he looked at her, “Tell me to stop…you do not have to welcome me into your bed if you do not wish it,” he quietly said, “tell me to leave and I will go.”

She hesitated, her thumb brushing across his lips, “I cannot.”

The words seemed to spur him on, his arm wrapping around her and pinning her against his chest as he maintained that restraint she had come to know him for; his nose brushing hers in the little space she was allowed, “Then tell me to stay,” he said, his voice short and breathless, “please,” He begged.

She didn’t have to hesitate, “Stay,” she echoed.

“Thank the Gods…” he breathed out, a smile coming to her face as his lips brushed up along her neck to reclaim her mouth. Cregan’s hands quickly bunched her down around her hips — she reached down fumbling to put enough space between them and undo the laces of his breeches; shoving them down was the hardest feat of the task, proving difficult as she had to lift enough for them to be pushed down his thighs. Eager hands grabbed the front strings of her shift, yanking to undo them and undo the fabric enough that more skin was exposed to his mouth, teeth and tongue tracing the skin as he cupped her breast in his palm through the fabric, her hand right instantly coming to her mouth and licking her palm before she reached again between them; her hand gently wrapping around the base of him and moving up and down the length of him with a slow steady pace that forced a low moan from his mouth. His eyes found her, mouth agape as she pressed her forehead to his.

He was already breathless, panting against her mouth as he stilled and paused his movements. With all the restraint he could muster, wanting nothing more than to go as slow as he could in case there lingered any trace of doubt or hesitance to have him; he pressed forward and slowly slid his hands up her sides, the fabric bunching around her waist with the movement until his hands cradled her ribs; his firm hold sliding around to her spine — he itched to discard the fabric but halted himself from bunching the fabric further. Lysara seemed to sense his hesitation in undressing her more than was necessary, her hands withdrawing from him and earning a discontented sigh that could have swelled her ego — to see the internal battle between his pride and restraint that held him in place, his hips subtly shifting under her at the loss of contact; she took the fabric of her shift from his hands and stripped it over her head, allowing it to fall to the floor by his feet that planted flat against the marble floors. The room was filled by a soft rustle of fabric, her back warmed now by the heat of the fire behind her, the shape of her hovering over the mountain of a man who sucked in a deep breath and watched her with desperate eyes — it was a subtle change, his usually stoic, reserved facade dropping just a smidge and softening as his eyes scanned down her body; his eyes lingering on her chest and down her abdomen, his right hand tentatively lifting to tenderly brush up along the underside of her breast. His palm enveloped her chest with ease, cupping her and brushing a curious thumb over her nipple, every nerve in her body standing at attention to his touch — it felt pathetic, really, to lean into such a simple gesture; a soft sigh leaving her mouth and closing her eyes — but it felt like it had been forever since she’d known the touch of a man and she hadn’t realized how much she’d craved it.

She allowed herself to relish in the feeling of his hands of her husband, tantalizingly slow and curious like a boy who’d never bedded a woman before — but she knew better. Knew there’d been others, a first and last before her — a wife who had bearded him a beautiful son before — a woman who had known these touches much better than herself. She envied what that would have been like to have been his first.

His fingers traced up her chest, mouth leaning into and pressing to the base of her throat and drawing her back to reality when his mouth found the raised scar between her collarbones. The movement startled her, gasping as her eyes shot open to look at him — she froze, a hand flinging up to his chest as she saw the realization dawn on him, a look flickering in his eyes. Her pulse quickened, holding her breath as it felt suddenly like she could feel his hands on her again — the boy knight’s breath against her neck as he held her in place, threatened by the knife at her throat; feel the weight of him resting heavy between her thighs as he shoved them open, forcing her ankles apart. The feeling nauseated and panicked her, wanting to crawl out of her skin and shove him away.

“I’m sorry, I did not mean…” Cregan said, his voice low. He paused, allowing a beat of silence to pass, his hands on her waist, “I am sorry.”

The only thing that grounded her was the sincere look of remorse in his eyes, his voice a low, soft mumble as he seemed unsure what to do next. She swallowed and sucked in a deep breath that lifted her shoulders, shakily exhaling as she withdrew her hand from his chest, “It’s okay…it’s okay,” she said, voice quiet, “just please…please don’t touch me.”

She wanted to cringe.

Cregan held her gaze, nodding after a moment and withdrawing his hands to his sides, allowing them to find respite against the seat beneath them and its plush cushions. He was quiet and still, letting out a breath that felt relieved, but his eyes held an edge of uncertainty as though he was expecting her to flee from his lap any moment. She hesitated, her hands coming to the hem of his shirt finally and gently pulling the fabric up — he kept his word, hands moving to raise his arms and cautious not to touch her with the movement, his hands falling back to their spot against the settee once the fabric was placed on the chair beside him; her hands gently finding his chest.

Her eyes lowered, fixating on the several little scars that painted his skin — a reminder of the battles and fights he had endured in his short life, ruining the porcelain skin that laid over taut muscles that rippled with movement. She could feel him watching her every move, too timid to find his eye yet as her fingers gently traced each mark, mapping out every ridge and dip, outlining his collarbones and sliding up to his shoulders — there, she found hold, stabilizing herself and keeping her grounded to him. She sucked in another deep breath, finally daring to look him in the eye as she lowered her left hand between them — his jaw clenched, blinking but not moving.

She admired the restraint it took for him not to writhe or flinch as she took him in her hand again, guiding the blushing head of his cock to her slit and lifting on her knees. She caught a flinch then, brushing him through her folds and gathering the slick of her arousal along the tip of him, in his brow; his chest expanding with a deep breath. She slowly sank onto him, the warmth of her walls welcoming him eagerly as she pressed on — inch by tantalizing inch, swallowing him whole until her hips rested flush against his. Her mouth opened in a soft gasp, full to the brink of discomfort and causing a slight stretch that she embraced, his features finally relaxing. His eyelids fluttered, blinking rapidly twice and clenching his teeth as his eyes lowered for a moment, his hands fisting the cushions beneath him as he waited for her to move — a low moan left him, head lolling back against the back of the seat, and withdrawing a sharp breath of air through his nose.

The hand between them lifted, coming to his nape as her hips slowly lifted, sinking slowly again to begin undulating against his — a hot flush spread throughout her, pooling itself in her belly and between her thighs as she pulsated around him, earning another soft sigh. His head lifted from the couch, her hand bringing his forehead to hers with a parted mouth, short pants leaving her mouth. The laces of his breeches pressed into the back of her thighs and rump, a harsh contrast to the smooth brush of his skin, but all the more exhilarating. Chest-to-chest, she thrust herself against him, his chin lifting just enough to catch her lips with his in a sweet kiss that pressed against her bottom lip; she released a soft moan, high-pitched and lewd as it bounced off the walls and reached her ears, her nose brushing his with each movement. A light sheen of sweat broke across her skin, her hips grinding down into his as her eyebrows tugged into a frown of concentration, “Oh gods…” she softly breathed.

He pressed another sweet kiss to the corner of her mouth, a guttural moan rumbling from behind plush lips, an animalistic sound that could have made her eyes roll back. Her hips stuttered, picking up in pace and eagerly using the position to roll her hips against his in a way that caused friction between his pelvis and her bud — she let out a soft cry of pleasure. Her thighs tightened around his hips, holding him in place and attempting to repeat the movement, desperate to once again experience the sensation whilst digging her fingernails into his scalp when she succeeded. Her movements were frantic from that point on, sloppy and enthusiastically chasing that blissful end, her chest heaving with each deep breath she struggled to squeeze in, her moans increasing in volume and frequency with each passing moment as her body grew taut with anticipation.

Her peak washed over her, blinding and searing hot as she let out a sudden cry, her walls squeezing around him as she tumbled forward and into his chest, “Cregan,” she whined.

“Fuck,” He grunted, his breathing heavy and frowning as he slowly worked her throat the tail end of her peak. His hips lifted, thrusting into hers and milking her of every last ounce left within her body.

She blindly grabbed his left wrist, desperate and too dazed by the pleasure to even concentrate on anything more than the desire to once again experience some sort of touch of his. His hand was guided behind her, his palm finding repute against her backside and using the flesh to grip and guide her against him, forcing her hips to continue the roll against his with a mantra of his name leaving her mouth like a prayer. The welcome of his hand emboldened him, sitting upright and away from the back of the chair as his arm wrapped around her waist, his face pressing against her shoulder as he pulled her against him — her hand released his hair to bring her arm around his neck. His hips snapped up, eager and relentless, drawing her close to the brink of insanity as it seemed there was no end in sight, sensitive and screwing up her face. He rutted against her, her nails biting into his shoulder as the heat between her thighs spread like wildfires, her thighs trembling around him, “Fuck- wait…” he muttered.

His face drew back to hers, forehead pressed to hers and closing his eyes. She felt him lift her, attempting to pull her from him, his body tensing under hers, “Nonono…” she breathlessly pleaded.

“I won’t if you do not wish me to,” he muttered.

She forced herself back down against him, his hips hesitating to resume their previous pace as she ground against him, “I want it- I want you,” She replied, “please. I want all of you.”

The simple plea was his undoing, his mouth open in a low groan, snapping up into her with such fervor it sucked the air right from her lungs, clutching to him. Her voice was a high pitched whine, her fingers fisting his undershirt and tensing so hard, every joint in her body ached — her thighs burned, his fingernails biting into her flesh as he flung his right hand back and gripped her backside; Cregan released a sharp grunt, low and carnal as his mouth dropped open with the sound — it was the first time since their first encounter that she saw his resolve break, his stoic facade slipping as he spilled his seed into her.

[yourislandgirl]

*:ꔫ:*ₓₒ SUMMERTIME STRESS ˚ ༘♡ੈ✩ || 김선우 x fem!reader || drabble

— KISS ME, DON’T SAY NO series

summary: feeling the overwhelming weight of your future pressing down on your heart, you were barely present for the relaxing beach day your boyfriend had planned for you, thankfully, sunoo knew how to create the perfect medicine for lingering anxiety using laughter

genres: fluff, romance, non-idol!sunoo x non-idol!reader, est. relationship, ft mentions of other members plus karina

warnings: attempts at humour, swearing/cursing, pet names like once or twice, a little angsty, fear of adulthood, i mention internships in case you’re like .. idk scared of those (i don’t blame you at all), sunoo is king of the sassy men apocalypse and you are not spared

w.c: 2.3k

[archive]

Summer was supposed to be about relaxation. When the days stretched long and far, and you’d wake up without the burden of a schedule or the foreboding feeling of responsibilities. There’s always some sort of beauty in summer, like the glimmer of sunlight reflecting off of window panes or how slushie flavours mix together and colour your tongue. Typically, the emotionally tortured college student would bask in the weeks ahead of absolute nothingness regarding academia. But not you.

No, you were special in a way that felt particularly targeted. Because why, on Mother Nature’s glorious Earth, were you gripping your phone as if it’s overheating metal would sustain your life?

“You hold that thing any tighter, it might explode.”

You flicked your head to the side and gave your boyfriend an expression that read ‘Leave me alone, I’m in crisis’.

more under cut !!

The road to the beach was pleasantly empty, a few cars here and there but for the most part, it was nice. Sunoo had rolled the windows down just a little to let the breeze thread through your hair, a smooth indie tune playing on the radio on your favourite station.

It was instinctual, the desire you felt to sing along, lower the window more and let your fingers stretch out but not too far, take pictures of the ocean as it drew closer and closer. But your instincts weren’t working at that moment.

Your eyes were trained solely on the light pink sheen on your finger nails, picking at them slowly, scraping the nail bed clean.

You didn’t even hear Sunoo sigh beside you, and you barely registered his hand move from the steering wheel to your knee.

“I’m being serious Y/N,” he said softly. “You need to put it away.”

“Fine.” You slid your phone into your bag, your fingers itching to reach for it again but you resolved to simply curl them into a fist and look out the window for the remaining stretch of the drive.

Summer had only commenced for a week, the time ahead was basically beckoning you to embrace it for all its leisure and laze and lethargy. But it was also the last summer before senior year, where things go to shit, classes determine your will to live and every single thing you’ve been working towards will be culminated in the coming semesters. This was it. You were at the start of the end.

Your course counsellor had mentioned offhandedly that internships would be vital to look into — a way to ensure your career straight out of college — you’d left your appointment holding around seven or eight different pamphlets and brochures, your inbox filled with application sites and recommendations.

It was setting in, the cement block of reality, your inevitable future. No more afternoon classes where you’d sit in the back, drawing on Sunoo’s hands. No more late night two minute noodle cups with Jake, Heeseung and Karina. No more hangover breakfast waffles handmade by Jay.

No, you were becoming an adult.

Responsibility wasn’t just an expectation anymore, it was an obligation. There was no room for error, no space for slip up, there was only monotony.

And yet success was just within your grasp, all you had to do was get a head start like the teachers and tutors and parents would always recommend. And that was exactly what you did. Three applications were sent yesterday, you were working on two more and had a final back up in case all else failed.

You were going to succeed. If not…

“Sand in my eyes might be great way to go,” you muttered to yourself.

Sunoo gave you a once over, wondering if he’d misheard you before he went back to parking the car.

You got out of the vehicle, immediately hypnotised by the salty sea air. It tingled in your brain and for just a moment, you felt like you were reliving every time you’d visited the beach — the sight of the ocean would do that a person.

“Pretty, right?” Sunoo had your beach bag slung on one shoulder, his other hand reaching for yours as he gestured to the sea with his eyes. “I can’t want to take photos.”

You took a deep breath in. “Yeah, same.” You didn’t sound convincing, even to yourself. But you were grateful for Sunoo’s simple nod.

It felt grounding to hold his hand as you both walked onto the beach, looking for a pair of beach chairs that were side by side and away from too many people.

It was a little therapeutic to go through the motions of putting on more sunscreen, wearing your hats and taking off your shoes to feel the sand prick deliciously against your bare feet. It gave you something to do, some task to focus on.

Sunoo had stayed silent for the most part, setting your towels against the beach chairs, placing a bag on each one so people knew they were claimed, carefully pulling out the sun spray and holding your arm to spray you first.

It was sweet of him. He was always so sweet. And he was trying so hard to make today worth relaxing for. Your stomach twisted and tugged at you, anxiety running your brain while the little twinge of guilt pulled at your heart.

You needed to make sure Sunoo’s efforts weren’t in vain. “Do you wanna go for a walk on the waters edge?”

His smile could fuel the universe, and even if that wasn’t logically possible, it certainly fuelled your heart.

“Yeah, that sounds perfect.” He pecked your cheek, a lightness in his movements as he pulled you along with him towards the water but far enough that the fast tide wouldn’t splash against the two of you.

Honestly speaking, you tried. You tried your very best. You tried to focus on the sand in between your toes, on the salt in the air, on the sound of the waves, on the words Sunoo was speaking. Nothing registered in your mind. It just kept nagging at you — the incessant need to check your inbox, over and over again.

Sunoo was rambling about the last episode of his current kdrama obsession, its story was so fresh in his mind he could not help but rant about it to you. His thumb rubbed against the back of your hand as you walked in tandem.

“And honestly, I never understood what she saw in the guy,” he said, exasperatedly. His other hand moved in an animated fashion to express his feelings further. “I mean, you remember last episode where he blamed her when— Hey…” He finally noticed your lost gaze.

He slowed down slightly, frowning at the way you slowed down with him as if on pure instinct but remained focused on the sandy ground, deep in thought. “Hello?” He waved a hand in front of your face.

You look up. “Hm?”

Sunoo’s eyes dart back and forth between yours, trying to decipher the muddled string of worries that were tied taught around your mind. He finally pursed his lips and nodded. “Ok, come on. Come with me.”

He made a beeline for your beach chairs, his hand firmly holding yours. When you found yourselves under the adjoined umbrella, Sunoo fished out your phone from the beach bag before moving the bag from his seat to yours. He sat down, shuffling slightly across.

You reached to remove the bags off your chair, halting at the way Sunoo shook his head. “Nope! That’s the beach bag’s seat. Here, sit right here.” He patted the space beside him, arm outstretched to envelope you into a hug as you curled up against him. “That’s better,” he sighed.

He then unlocked your phone and held it between the two of you so you could watch as he refreshed your inbox. Over and over and over again. Repeatedly.

“I— I think I get it,” you muttered, feeling your face heat up as Sunoo giggled.

He placed a soft kiss on your shoulder. “You can’t hang on to this stress because there’s literally no point,” he whispered.

You tried to use his touch and his scent to ground you. “I just… I need to know that I’ve got a shot.”

“You do know! You already applied!” Sunoo squeezed you tighter for a few seconds, hoping to pull that stress out of you through mere contact. “Applying in itself means you had a shot and you took it. Whether or not you pass is now completely out of your hands.”

The seagull squawks and the laughter of children permeated the setting and yet you felt completely cocooned, in the haven of your boyfriend’s embrace.

“You just need to let it go”

Now that made you pause. You sat up a little, turning to look the man in the eyes while you spoke. “Weren’t you the one that stayed up still three because Ben & Jerry’s said they might discontinue their mint chocolate flavour?”

Oh the debacle of the potential discontinuation. The random songs Sunoo had come up with it, singing them every few minutes like they were some tribute to the art of ice cream making. A whole week of mint chocolate flavoured desserts as his method of coping through the unofficial announcement.

Presently, Sunoo smirked a little, humoured that you brought it up. “It’s called Mint Chocolate Chunk, actually.”

“It’s called glorified toothpaste, actually.” You returned the smirk.

“I think I bring you around the other guys a bit too much, because this is unprovoked slander.” He poked your cheek gently before asking, “And anyway, your point?”

You made an expression like your point was obvious. “You got stressed over ice cream! I’m not judging — clearly, it was a big deal for you.”

“Clearly.”

“But my point is, you signed the petition and you stayed up anyway repeatedly refreshing the page.”

He looked away, a small scoff leaving his lips. “Ok, I’m coming off really embarrassing in this story. You realise that, right?”

“Sunoo, you slept the entire day after that. And you complained about your eye bags for the whole month!” Your laughter fluttered out at the memory. Looking back, it was a lot funnier than you’d realised. But your point still stood; “You didn’t let it go, did you?”

“I know, I know, I didn’t.” Reaching forward, Sunoo played with your fingers, frowning at the way your nail polish cracked and broke off on certain spots, a little of it still stuck under your nails. He sighed, understanding. “You need to know.”

“Yeah.”

He looked up and held your gaze, feeling as if he could only get his message across if he knew you saw his own stress, his own worries, about you. “Baby… Are you really ready to live the next few weeks constantly needing to know? You might use up half of this summer in needing to know.”

“Because it’s the only thing on my mind.” You flopped back against the beach chair, covering your eyes with one hand, feeling the heat radiate off your forehead.

They say laptops overheat when you use too much power at once. You scoffed at the realisation that humans were the same.

Sunoo fidgeted with the hem of your shorts, pulling at one of the threads before he perked up slightly. “How about I propose a solution.”

You groaned. “God, anything. Just help.”

“Any time you want to check your inbox, you think of mint chocolate.”

He said it so assuredly, as if it was the most genius response, a new height to healthy thinking habits, the fix to all forms of stress — mint chocolate.

Even when you gave him a withering expression so deadpanned the dead had turned to ashes, he still smirked and nodded.

“Baby,” you sighed, “I need solutions, not subtle brainwashing.”

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Trust me, I’d rather have all the mint chocolate to myself. But I have a plan.”

“Mhm.” You were not convinced.

Sunoo once again opened your phone and reloaded your inbox. “You see this? No change. This was me at 3am on a school week.”

You giggled into his shoulder, remembering his crazed hair and constant muttering.

Sunoo rolled his eyes but continued all the same. “I was anxious over ice cream flavours, Y/N. I can’t even begin to understand your anxiety right now. It’s about your future. I get that. But you cannot sit in one spot refreshing your inbox every minute because you want that ice cream.”

You frowned, not seeing his point.

“You keep opening that freezer, hoping that the ice cream has solidified and is ready to eat. But every time you open the door the hot air is melting it. It’s gonna taste like shit, babe. I’m sorry.”

“I mean, considering the flavour, it already tastes—”

“Don’t even go there.”

Your smile bloomed like a flower under daylight, for the first time in the day you felt the gradual release of stress, with every little circle that Sunoo drew on your shoulder with his finger.

“You need to let the ice cream get cold,” he whispered to you. “If you want a nice treat, you got to wait till it’s ready to eat. Otherwise, you’re gonna be more disappointed than satisfied.”

You bit your lip, finding his analogy amusing and endearing and oh so Sunoo. “I needed to hear that,” you said softly.

“That’s what I’m here for.” He gently nudged his forehead against yours. “Now I think my genius deserves a kiss. What do you think?”

“Hm… Do you taste like mint chocolate?”

He shrugged, easily. Leaning back against the chair. “Only one way to find out.”

Your shoulders dropped, your head stopped pulsing, your cheeks twinged from the stretch of your smile and you felt the summer air breeze past you. You had all summer to find out whether you’d get the internship. Any internship.

But right now, you wanted to find out what your boyfriend’s lips tasted like on a sunny afternoon at the beach.

a.n: next instalment of the kiss me, don’t say no series !! i finished and edited and uploaded this instead of crashing out about university even tho it would have been a totally valid crash out . anyway, i hope you enjoyed it xx

taglist: @oceanstide — @sheepsgf — @itsrinsdrs — @enjakey

2025 © yourislandgirl

[andy-15-07]

A Lifetime of Laughter and Love

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Word count:2070

Harry Potter Masterlist | request (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Fred and y/n had been together since that very first year at Hogwarts and every day at Weasley Wizard Wheezes reminded everyone that love and laughter were the true magic in life. The shop was bustling with customers excited by the latest prank items when Fred, his eyes bright with mischief, leaned toward y/n with a playful smile. "My love, you see the sparkle in every invention we make today? It is the same sparkle I noticed when I first saw you in the Great Hall all those years ago."

Y/n's laugh was warm and genuine. "And I remember how you made everyone around you burst into smiles with your endless ideas. You promised me a lifetime of mischief and moments that made every day feel like a new adventure." Their words were soft but filled with the energy of shared memories and dreams, spoken as easily as if they were reciting an old song together.

In a quiet corner of the shop, George arranged a new batch of joke items on the shelves while listening to their banter with fond amusement. Moments later, Ron and Ginny strolled in, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and affection. Ron glanced at Ginny and then approached George at the counter. "George, I have been wondering for ages," he began, his tone light and teasing, "how in the world did Fred and y/n manage to stay so deeply in love from very first year until now?"

Ginny nodded, adding, "We hear stories about those early days all the time and now here they are married and still creating magic together. There is something special about them that we all admire."

George gave a slow, knowing smile as he motioned for them to come closer. "It is quite the tale," he said, his voice low and rich with nostalgia. "Let us sit for a moment and I will share with you everything. It all began on a crisp autumn day in our first term when the castle seemed full of secrets and promises. Fred had already earned a reputation for his endless pranks and quick wit. That day, while most of the castle was busy with classes and chatter, fate arranged for Fred and y/n to meet in the common room after a long evening of laughter and stories."

Ron's eyes widened with interest. "You mean it was love at first laugh?"

George chuckled softly. "In a way, yes. Fred's charm was undeniable. He sauntered over to where y/n was quietly reading a book on magical inventions, and without any hesitation he said, 'I believe that a life without laughter is a life half-lived. Would you care to join me in making sure our days are full of wonder?' And y/n, with a glimmer of amusement and curiosity, replied, 'I have always believed that every great adventure begins with a spark of laughter. Let us see what mischief we can create together.' In that very moment, a bond was forged that would withstand the test of time."

Ginny leaned forward. "But how did that bond grow so strong, George? We know that sometimes the simplest beginnings hide the deepest connections."

George's eyes twinkled. "It was not just about shared jokes or pranks. It was about trust and the freedom to be completely oneself. Fred was always there to lift y/n up when classes became too burdensome and y/n was there to remind Fred that there was beauty in every carefully crafted prank. I recall one rainy afternoon when Fred was sulking over a failed scheme that had ended with a soaked suit and a ruined plan. You all thought he would retreat into his humor, but y/n sat by him in that cold, damp corridor and said, 'I adore your wild ideas, even if they sometimes fail. What matters is that we dare to dream together.' And Fred, with those eyes full of gratitude and love, replied, 'I could not have imagined a better partner to turn failures into laughter and misfortune into a fond memory.'"

Ron shook his head in wonder. "It is incredible to think that all these years, while we kept our feelings hidden behind our own secret crushes on Hermione and Harry, you two had a love that never wavered."

Ginny added softly, "We always wondered how you managed to keep your connection so pure and strong, even with all the chaos of Hogwarts around you."

Fred, overhearing the conversation from behind the counter, walked over with y/n close by. "Now that you mention it," Fred said with a grin, "I must say that our secret is not magic at all. It is simply the result of choosing to laugh together every single day."

Y/n reached up to gently squeeze Fred's hand. "Indeed, it is the everyday moments – the late-night planning of pranks, the whispered jokes during long library sessions, and the comfort of knowing that no matter how wild the world around us gets, we will always have each other. Do you remember when we nearly turned Professor Flitwick's hair rainbow for a week?"

Fred laughed heartily. "I remember every detail. I recall your face when the colors danced in the breeze, and your laughter lit up the room like a thousand spells. That day, I learned that our love was built not on grand gestures but on shared delight in the simplest joys."

George continued, his voice soft as he recalled the early days. "There were many moments when you both could have given up on all the risks, but instead you doubled down on your mischief and on each other. When others were afraid to break the rules, you broke them together, always finding the humor in every challenge. Your love was not dictated by the expectations of others; it was born from daring to be yourselves."

Ron exchanged a look with Ginny. "I suppose that is what we have been trying to do too – hold onto something genuine even when our hearts are filled with secret desires for others. It must take immense courage to be so open with each other."

Fred's eyes softened as he addressed Ron and Ginny directly. "Every day is a choice. I choose you, y/n, not just because of the laughter we share but because of the trust and the dreams we build together. It is not always easy, but the joy of living fully together, of creating our own brand of magic, makes it all worthwhile."

Y/n smiled and added, "In our first year we promised ourselves that we would never let fear dictate our actions. Even when the world seemed too dangerous or too complicated, we found solace in each other's arms and in the laughter we inspired. That promise has carried us through every challenge, every prank that went awry, and every moment when we needed to be brave together."

Ginny clapped her hands softly, her eyes shining. "That is beautiful. It is as if every joke and every shared smile is a thread that binds your hearts together more tightly. You two remind me that love does not always have to be dramatic. Sometimes it is quiet and simple and full of everyday wonders."

Ron grinned, adding, "I can see that we have much to learn. Our own feelings for Hermione and Harry remain unspoken because we worry about ruining the magic. Yet, watching you both, I realize that being honest with our hearts might just be the key to our own happiness."

Fred winked at y/n. "I say we celebrate every little moment that brought us here. Whether it was a mischievous note passed in class or a secret rendezvous in the corridors, each moment was a promise of more laughter, more love, and more unforgettable memories."

Y/n's eyes met Fred's with a tender warmth. "Every day with you feels like a grand adventure. I cherish the ordinary as much as the extraordinary because every second is spent with the person who makes my heart soar. I recall how you would hide little surprises in my cauldron during potion class. I would find them later and think, 'This is why I fell for him.' Your surprises were not just about pranks; they were daily reminders that I was seen and cherished."

George listened with a satisfied smile as Ron and Ginny absorbed every word. "You see, my dear siblings, love grows from shared laughter and the willingness to embrace the chaos of life together. Fred and y/n were always true to themselves and to each other. Their journey was filled with obstacles and mischievous challenges, yet they always found a way to come back to one another, stronger and more united."

Ron nodded thoughtfully. "It makes me wonder what small acts of bravery we can share with those we care about. Perhaps it is time to let our feelings be known, even if it means stepping into uncharted territory."

Ginny's voice was gentle as she said, "I think we can learn so much from Fred and y/n. Their love is a beacon that reminds us to be fearless in our own ways. I want to believe that if we dare to laugh together, to support each other, and to be honest with our hearts, we too might experience that kind of magic."

Fred, feeling the gentle warmth of shared understanding, stepped closer to y/n. "My dear, as George has so fondly recounted, every smile we shared and every moment we built together has made this love indestructible. I cherish you beyond words. Every prank, every shared secret, and every burst of laughter is a memory I hold dear."

Y/n rested their hand on Fred's. "I feel the same way, always. We are partners in every sense of the word. I am grateful for every twist and turn that led us here. Our love has been a constant source of light even in the darkest of times. And as long as we continue to see the beauty in every shared moment, I know our laughter will never fade."

George concluded his story with a soft laugh. "So you see, it is not one grand event that holds their love together but rather the countless little moments, the constant dialogue of affection and humor that has carried them through the years. Fred and y/n remind us that love is a choice made every day, a commitment to find joy in each other even when the world seems chaotic."

Ron and Ginny sat in thoughtful silence for a moment before Ginny broke the quiet. "Thank you, George, for sharing this. I will treasure these words and hope that one day our own hearts will be as brave and joyful."

Ron smiled. "Indeed, I have learned that even when we hold our secret affections close, we can still be inspired by the genuine, honest love you two have nurtured. It is a lesson in being true to who we are."

Fred and y/n exchanged a look of quiet understanding as they rejoined the conversation. Fred said, "Let our life together be proof that love built on laughter and mutual trust is a love that endures. I will continue to wake up every day excited to share my life with you, knowing that every smile, every shared dream, and every mischievous plan is a thread in the tapestry of our journey."

Y/n responded warmly, "And I will always stand by your side, ready to face every challenge and to celebrate every triumph. Our journey is filled with unexpected twists, but that is what makes it ours. In our eyes, each day is a new page waiting to be written with love and laughter."

In that moment, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of Weasley Wizard Wheezes, the four young wizards and witches found inspiration in the simple yet profound truth that love is not measured by grand gestures but by the joy of everyday moments. Fred and y/n had built a life together that was as magical as any spell and as enduring as the bonds of family and friendship.

The laughter in the shop rose once again as a customer burst through the door, and Fred winked at y/n before diving into a new prank demonstration. Their dialogue mingled with the hum of conversation, a living testament to a love that had grown stronger with every passing year, a love that promised endless laughter and unwavering devotion.

[thefadecodex]

In DATV, the concept of spirits evolving rather than perishing after corruption presents a profound shift from what was established in DAI. In DAI, when the Spirit of Wisdom was twisted into a Pride Demon, its redemption led to what Solas described as a form of death—a return to the Fade, stripped of its purpose and essence. However, DATV offers a more nuanced perspective: the potential for rebirth and transformation.

Rebirth: A New Purpose, A New Name

This revelation unfolds in the Hossberg Wetlands, where the side quest “Something’s Coming” introduces a haunting encounter with a Despair Demon called Despair Undying. True to its name, the demon reappears relentlessly, no matter how many times it is defeated, until the quest is completed. To resolve this cycle, players must collect three bundles of Broca’s Blooms—delicate flowers that only begin to grow after the side quest a specific side quest is completed.

Upon returning to the site of Despair Undying with the flowers, players find the demon is gone. In its place stands a spirit, Hope Unyielding. The transformation is not simply a return to what the spirit once was but a rebirth into something new. The dialogue that follows encapsulates this evolution:

Despair Undying: Light glimmers the surface. Flowers break through snow. Hope unexpected. I am such. Rook: Is Despair gone? Hope Unyielding: No. But nor was I forever.

This moment introduces a pivotal idea: corruption is not an absolute endpoint. A spirit can transcend its corrupted state, not by returning to its original form but by evolving into a new purpose. 

The Fade Codex speculates that Despair Undying may have originally been a Spirit of Compassion. The journey from corruption to rebirth could have catalyzed its transformation into Hope Unyielding, reflecting growth rather than mere restoration.

This shift in understanding deepens the metaphysical lore of spirits and their connection to purpose. It opens the door to themes of resilience, change, and the enduring possibility of renewal, even after profound darkness. In DATV, spirits are not bound to linearity—they embody the transformative power of the Fade and the infinite potential of purpose reshaped.

The Role of Broca's Blooms

At the heart of Despair Undying's transformation lies the quest "Something’s Coming." Broca’s Blooms, delicate flowers that thrive in adversity, symbolize life persisting in harsh conditions of the Blight. These flowers only begin to grow after players support the Grey Wardens fighting back darkspawn attacking the village and taking out blight boils. After this, broca’s blooms suddenly appear, which is confusing for everyone. By collecting three bundles of these blooms and bringing them back to the spirit’s location, players engage in an act of restoration—not through force, but through care and intention.

Broca’s Blooms are not simply tools; they are symbols. They represent the player’s willingness to interact with the Fade and its spirits on a deeper, more compassionate level. These flowers, growing in a place steeped in despair, signify the potential for renewal. They are proof that even in the darkest spaces, life—and hope—can find a way.

The Player’s Role: Patience and Recognition

Unlike the encounter with the Spirit of Wisdom twisted into a Pride Demon in DAI, the confrontation with Despair Undying does not end in violence or a 'death' so to speak. Instead, the resolution comes from understanding—an understanding that Despair Undying could not simply be destroyed, nor could it be forced back into what it once was.

When the player collects the flowers and returns, they do not "fix" the spirit. Instead, they create the circumstances in which the spirit can choose transformation.

This aligns with Solas's observations in earlier titles—that spirits are deeply tied to their purpose and the perceptions of those around them. This also aligns with comments made by Emmrich how surprised spirits (and maligned spirits) respond to kindness.

By bringing the flowers and offering a gesture of peace, the player helps shift the narrative around Despair Undying, allowing it to see a new path forward.

The Fade and the Cycle of Purpose

Spirits exist in cycles: they are born, they take form, they serve their purpose, and sometimes, they are twisted away from it. In DATV, the cycle does not have to end in destruction or death. The presence of Broca’s Blooms and the dialogue with Hope Unyielding suggest that the Fade is a space of potential. Despair Undying’s transformation was not about erasing its past or pretending its suffering never happened—it was about accepting that suffering and finding a way to grow beyond it.

This mirrors the philosophy present in many interactions with spirits throughout the series. Spirits are not inherently "good" or "bad"; they are shaped by purpose, perception, and choice. Despair Undying's choice to become Hope Unyielding represents a rare moment of agency for a corrupted spirit, facilitated by the player’s actions.

Why This Matters

The transformation of Despair Undying into Hope Unyielding redefines how we understand corrupted spirits in Dragon Age. It challenges the assumption that corruption is always final and that redemption must come at the cost of self-destruction. Instead, it presents a gentler truth: spirits, like people, are capable of growth, change, and transformation, given the right environment and care.

In the end, Despair Undying did not "die." Nor did it revert to something it once was. It evolved. And that evolution was made possible not by force, but by compassion, patience, and the willingness to believe in the possibility of hope—hope unyielding.

[elminx]

Energy Update: April 2025

April is a "4" Universal Month [4 (April) + 9 (2025) = 13 = 1+3=4] in a "9" Universal Year. 4 Months are concerned with shoring things up and creating structure, which is very needed after a complicated eclipse season and two personal planet retrogrades in March.

The Set Up

We begin April with the Sun and Neptune in Aries; Retrograde Mercury, Retrograde Venus, and Saturn in Pisces; Mars in Cancer, Jupiter in Gemini, Uranus in Taurus; and Pluto in Capricorn. There will be major planetary movements this month: the Sun enters Taurus (as usual), Mercury stations direct and then enters Aries, Venus stations direct and then enters Aries, and Mars enters Leo.

The Nitty Gritty

We know that everything is changing when every single one of our personal planets switches signs in a single month. We've been in a personal planet retrograde cycle since November when Mars entered his pre-retrograde shadow in late Cancer with only one week without a retrograde since. In April, Mercury and Venus station direct, and Mars finally exits Cancer for the last time in this cycle. This should provide some relief as, overall, the constant interpersonal shitstorm we've been experiencing since the end of last year finally begins to subside.

Neither of our three personal planets is out of their respective post-retrograde shadows yet, though, so we still have some ground to re-trace and re-imagine before we're entirely out of this storm.

Still, progress is being made.

Our Lights: the Sun and the Moon

As we pull away from eclipse season, the general energy will get much lighter and brighter. We may finally feel like we've entered the easy season of spring. Our Sun only makes two significant aspects all month long: a conjunction with Chiron in Aries, a reminder of the past, and a square with Mars that checks in on our future.

We're in the in-between all month long, and it shows.

The Sun in Aries sextiles Jupiter in Gemini on 4/6, which hints to us that good times are to come - Jupiter is in its exile in Gemini, and we've all been pretty down on our luck for a while now. Now, finally, Jupiter is making moves to exit Gemini, which will drastically improve the odds of anything good happening on this earth - stay tuned for this summer for this positive transition. For now, this sextile is a glimmer - a hint that something good is on the horizon.

Then, we get our first lunar event post-eclipse season, a full moon at 23° Libra on 4/12 that is tightly opposed to Chiron in Aries. This is highly significant if you remember a year ago when our total solar eclipse in April included a stellium of the Sun, the Moon, retrograde Mercury, and Chiron in Aries. This full moon will be a call back to that day, but from a different angle (full moon instead of new). What have we learned with a year to reflect on what was coming up in April 2024?

This last set of eclipses included an Aries solar eclipse, the last eclipse on the Aries-Libra axis that we will experience for the next thirteen years. We are rounding things out, and the endings may pour in hard and fast. This could be a triggering day for some - especially those with personal planets in the cardinal signs (Aries, Cancer, Libra, and Capricorn), and most specifically those found in the last decan that was affected by the solar eclipse a year ago and now this full moon as well.

With Chiron, our Wounded Healer, in play, this will hurt. This is by design. We live in a society that views pain as anathema, but often (in a body that is functioning properly anyway), pain is a signal that we should be paying attention. What is painful needs addressing during this full moon, and it might hit very hard at the core of your ego and who you think you are. This is also the day Venus stations direct at 24° Pisces in a close stellium with Saturn and the North Node, which will bring back some of the eclipse energy even though it's not actively an eclipsed moon.

Things might feel slightly out of control or fated during this time. It looks like the kind of day where the big flex is to hold onto your butt and try to enjoy the ride.

Our Libra full moon is an 8/3 full moon.

7 (Libra moon) + 1 (Aries Sun) = 8. 8 (Libra Full Moon) + 4 (April 2025) = 12 = 1+2 =3. The number 8 is an ouroboros, or infinity sign turned upwards. It often represents a rollercoaster of energy and emotions—ultimate highs and lowest lows, one right after the other. This energy signature is similar to erratic eclipse energy, which Venus's stellium is bringing into play. 3 is our base manifestation number. If you can ride these waves, great (magical) results await you on the far shore.

The Sun enters Taurus on 4/19, which will cause life to slow down a bit as we enter the season of our fixed earth sign. This is a time to sit back and enjoy what spring offers. We are seeing our first spring harvests of fresh fruits and vegetables, and spring flowers are fully blooming. Taurus season is a time meant for enjoyment as the sign of the bull can be, at times, downright hedonistic. As Mercury and Venus are finally in forward motion again, this is when we can rest a bit more and perhaps try to recuperate and recover.

With the Sun now in fixed Taurus, it begins to interplay with Mars in fixed Leo and Pluto in fixed Aquarius to create a t-square in our skies. This is where the shoring up of our "4" month energy comes into play. Although these three fixed signs are all in stressful positions with one another (the Sun squares both Mars and Pluto, who are in opposition), fixed signs have one thing in common: they all require a heavy dose of security to operate at their best.

If you are feeling out of sorts or shaken up by the aftermath of the eclipses and retrogrades, now is the time to take stock of what happened and figure out how to ground yourself into the now. Because it is Taurus season (fixed earth), dirt will be a significant ally during this time.

The Sun squares Mars in Leo on 4/20, a day to question where we are going and what steps we can take to make our dreams a reality. Think big, but map out tangible, achievable steps. The Sun squares Pluto on 4/23, which has the opposite effect: here is a day to think big and focus on what we can eliminate to lighten the load on our journey forward. (Mars directly opposes Pluto on 4/26, which is yet another day to focus on this t-square)

And finally, on 4/27, we have our first new moon after the eclipse season. This is, arguably, the best day of the month as the retrogrades have ended, eclipse season is complete, and we are finally at a new beginning in the oh-so-fertile (dirt fertile, you gutter-minded fools) Taurus. This is a perfect day to pivot in any way you need to and set goals for Spring and the year ahead.

Our Taurus new moon is a 4/8 new moon.

2 (Taurus moon) + 2 (Taurus Sun) = 4. 4 (Taurus new moon) + 4 (April 2025) = 8.

We can see that there is likely still some stressor here, brought in through the repeated "8" energy from the Libra full moon earlier, but we are getting somewhere. And, this day carries "4" energy that echoes the "4" energy of the month. Settle in and take real, tangible steps toward the life you want. And maybe eat some pie. Taurus loves pie.

Mercury

We are most of the way through our first Mercury retrograde of the year, which ends on 4/7 at 26° Pisces. After stationing direct, Mercury enters Aries on 4/16, the third big hit to 00° Aries, our major power point of 2025, and arguably the biggest hit of this point, Mercury-wise. Either of these dates is a powerful day for road opening, pathfinding, or any other type of Mercury magic you might wish to cast.

As Mercury enters Aries, they will conjunct Neptune and sextile Pluto. I wouldn't expect either of these events to be noticed or particularly eventful in and of themselves.

Mercury isn't at its best in Aries, but it is much better suited there than in Pisces, where it was both in its exile and detriment. We should all watch out for speaking out of turn or being too ego-driven in our opinions during this time. We're in post-retrograde territory from 4/7-4/26, so we might fall into that same old hole with miscommunications, whatever that means for you. I'd remind you to think before you speak, but neither Pisces nor Aries is known for doing that, so take that with a whole bucket full of salt.

Communication may finally settle more around 4/26 as Mercury exits its post-retrograde shadow. Notably, 09° Aries was the point of our solar eclipse in March, so things may feel a bit angsty and larger than life as we pass through this transition.

Venus

Like Mercury, Venus will round out the last legs of her 40-day retrograde journey as we enter the month of April. Until she stations direct on 4/12 under the light of the Libra full moon (ruled by Venus), we will be working to reform and rediscover how we interact with others. Venus always gets called the planet and romance, but that is overly simplistic - she rules over how we interact with others diplomatically and not-so-diplomatically. When Venus is well placed in the skies, interpersonal relationships tend to run more smoothly; when she is poorly placed, they are more likely to go awry.

Mars, our other relationship planet, was retrograde from December through the end of February, so we've been in this relationship hole for a while now. Times like this test the strength of our interpersonal relationships (big R and otherwise). Undoubtedly, there have been breakups and big reveals. It's been notable that both Venus and Mars have been poorly placed through each of their retrogrades (Venus retrogrades in Aries, the sign of her exile, and Mars retrogrades in Cancer, the sign of his fall). Everybody has been out of patience, out of time, and too emotionally strung out to be able to do more than the bare minimum for five months.

We deserve a break.

We will get one, but there's still more to iron out before we get there.

On 4/2, Venus conjuncts the North Node at 26° Pisces - this is one of THE fated moments in this retrograde cycle. Watch what comes up during this time or what disappears. This is your cosmic reminder that if a partner says they want to leave you, believe them. Move on with your fucking life. You deserve someone who WANTS to be with you.

Venus is exalted in Pisces, but she still has a shadow side, and that is emotional manipulation. This is a significant stellium between retrograde Venus, the North Node, retrograde Mercury, and Saturn. If Venus conjunct the North Node speaks of fated relationships (I use that term loosely here - no two people are meant to be together) - when you add in Saturn, this is the hammer of fate. Retrogrades are more indicative of endings than beginnings.

This is definitely break-up weather. I know every time I say that, I freak some people out. I want to clarify that breakup weather won't even slow down a couple who's well suited for each other and committed to working through their differences. It does show irreconcilable differences and sometimes forces someone's hand.

Venus retrograde is a reminder that sometimes, love isn't enough.

This is further indicated because Venus is about to make double trines to Mars, our other relationship planet. First, retrograde Venus will trine Mars in Cancer on 4/6, and then she will do so again while she is in Aries and he is in Leo next month. We can see the first as a test and the second as a reward for those who passed if you wish. Trines are overall positive, but a trine between Venus in retrograde and Mars in his fall is so-so, at best.

Then, just to be a stick-in-the-mud, retrograde Venus conjuncts Saturn at 25° Cancer on 4/7. I suspect this will be a hard day, especially for Venusian types (artists/femmes/all Taurus and Libra types). We are being asked to be mature about how interactions with other people - this will piss some people off, for sure. It's worth remembering that Venus in Pisces is the universal lover, she believes ALL people deserve more love, not just who you deem worthy. This can be a hard sell in a divided world.

Things will get notably lighter as Venus stations direct on 4/12, but we still have a lot of ground to cover on our post-retrograde shadows (Mercury, Venus, AND Mars), so we aren't out of the proverbial woods yet.

Venus will do the same thing all over again; she first conjuncts the North Node at 25° Pisces on 4/20 and then Saturn at 26° Pisces on 4/24. It's worth keeping in mind that for this entire time (from 4/1 to 4/24), Venus has only moved 2 degrees, and she has kept this tight stellium to the North Node and Saturn through April. This is where the real meat is, to be a bit gross about it - this is where the sausage is made. This has the opportunity to be a real revolution of the Venusian spirit, and all Venus types (Taurus or Libra Sun/Moon/Ascendant/Venus or Venus conjunct to these points) will feel it hard.

And heavy. Saturn is always very heavy and is amplified by the amorphous depths of water Pisces and the 12th house of the unconscious. If you have hard Venus work to do (and you feel comfortable working with her in retrograde), April is the time to do it.

Finally, on 4/30, Venus enters Aries once more. Again, this is a big hit on that 00° point I mentioned in the Mercury section. But also, Venus is in exile in cardinal Aries, the opposite sign to her home, Libra. Having her further from Saturn and the North Node will feel better, but only just.

Mars

We're a month out from Mar's retrograde cycles, and it's starting to show. Life might, finally, feel like it's starting to pick up speed. We have to deal with half a month more of Mars in the sign of its fall in mutable Cancer, but by 4/18, we are in the clear as Mars enters Leo.

It is over. It is over. It is over.

Mars in Leo is the epitome of the brave lion: perhaps a bit recklessly fearless, even. Do what you need to do - this is good energy, and we could use a fiery Mars placement after that watery mess - but be careful where you roar, if you know what I mean. Mars in Leo tends to make people extra territorial, and some don't have any chill. Take that as you will.

Mars will square off with the Sun and oppose Pluto, but those feel like death rattles, nothing more.

It's smooth sailing ahead - the day Mars enters Leo is the perfect day to do some Mars magic if you've been holding off on working with him while he was retrograde and in his fall.

Jupiter and Saturn

Jupiter and Saturn are making moves to exit their current signs (Gemini and Pisces) and will continue to square off with one another as they do so. This is part of an ongoing cycle that will continue until Jupiter finally pulls ahead of its slower-moving rival.

The only major transit (other than Venus conjunct Saturn, covered above in the Venus section) is that Saturn will conjunct the North Node at 26° Pisces on 4/14. This aspect happens every 18-20 years, so it's a big deal. This is fate meets consequence, plain and simple. These two have similar impacts; combined, they pack a life-altering punch. This is more likely to be felt on a societal level - I would expect to see some significant upheaval occur on a global or at least regional level around the middle of the month.

If you have a personal planet at 26° of the mutable or water signs or mutable lunar nodes, you might want to stay aware through this transit. There is a chance this could hit a bit closer to home. This could, for some, feel a bit like an extra-special eclipse season made just for you. That could go really well or really badly.

Looking Ahead

May is going to be downright pedestrian after the last two months, but there is one big change on the horizon: mid-month, Saturn will enter Aries, completing our first hit on 00° Aries that I have been on about all year long. That will change everything. We'll talk about this more in the May update.

The Details

4/2 - Retrograde Venus conjunct the North Node 26° Pisces 4/4 - Mars in Cancer sextile Uranus in Taurus, Mars in Cancer trine Saturn in Pisces, Saturn in Pisces sextile Uranus in Taurus 4/6 - Sun in Aries sextile Jupiter in Gemini, Retrograde Venus in Pisces trine Mars in Cancer 4/7 - Mercury stations direct 26° Pisces, Retrograde Venus conjunct Saturn 25° Pisces 4/8 - Retrograde Venus in Pisces sextile Uranus in Taurus, Mars in Cancer trine North Node in Pisces 4/12 - Full moon 23° Libra, Sun conjunct Chiron 22° Aries, Venus stations direct 24° Pisces 4/14 - Saturn conjunct North Node 26° Pisces 4/16 - Mercury enters Aries 4/17 - Mercury conjunct Neptune 00° Aries 4/18 - Mars enters Leo 4/19 - Sun enters Taurus, Mars in Leo trine Neptune in Aries, Uranus in Taurus sextile North Node in Pisces 4/20 - Sun in Taurus square Mars in Leo, Mercury in Aries sextile Pluto in Aquarius, Venus in Pisces sextile Uranus in Taurus, Venus conjunct North Node 25° Pisces 4/23 - Sun in Taurus square Pluto in Aquarius 4/24 - Venus conjunct Saturn 26° Pisces 4/26 - Mercury exits its post-retrograde shadow 09° Aries, Mars in Leo opposed Pluto in Aquarius 4/27 - New moon 07° Taurus 4/30 - Venus enters Aries

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[joiigurl]

ur bf jaehyun comforting you after a long day 🧸

genre: fluff

wc: 671

₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚

It had been one of those days where every minute felt longer than the last—a day of relentless work emails, endless to-do lists, and moments when even breathing seemed to cost extra energy. You finally pushed open the door to your apartment, the cool evening air greeting you as you stepped inside. The familiar scent of home wrapped around you, but even that couldn’t completely erase the weight of the day.

As you set your bag down, the soft hum of your favorite playlist filled the quiet living room. Then, almost as if on cue, you heard a gentle voice calling your name from the kitchen. “hi baby, you’re home,” came Jaehyun’s warm tone, filled with a tenderness that always made you feel safe.

There he stood—a comforting silhouette against the backdrop of soft lighting. Wearing his favorite oversized hoodie, his hair casually falling into place, Jaehyun’s eyes sparkled with concern as they met yours. Without a word, he closed the distance between you, enveloping you in a hug that was both strong and soothing. In that embrace, the chaotic buzz of the day began to fade into a gentle calm.

“I know today was tough,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he carefully brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. “Come on, let’s leave it all behind for tonight.” He guided you toward the cozy couch, where a soft blanket and an inviting array of cushions awaited, arranged just so for a perfect evening of unwinding.

A few minutes later, you heard the comforting clink of a teapot in the kitchen. Jaehyun returned with your favorite herbal tea, the steam curling upward in delicate wisps. “Here,” he said softly as he placed the warm cup into your hands, “let this soothe you.” The aroma of chamomile mingled with a hint of lavender, a fragrance that promised relief and comfort with every sip.

As you settled onto the couch, Jaehyun sat close by, his presence a quiet reminder that you weren’t alone. He listened attentively as you began to recount snippets of your exhausting day—the long hours, the little frustrations, and even the moments that made you smile despite everything. Every so often, he squeezed your hand or offered a gentle smile that said, “I’m here with you baby.”

When the conversation lulled, a familiar, playful glimmer lit his eyes. “I think you need something extra to chase away the stress,” he said. His tone was teasing, yet his eyes held genuine concern. In that tender moment, he reached up, gently cradling your face, and leaned in slowly. The world seemed to narrow until it was just the two of you.

Then came the kiss—a soft, lingering kiss that spoke volumes without any need for words. It was a kiss that carried the warmth of his care, the promise of a fresh start, and the unspoken vow that no matter how heavy the day, you’d always have his love to lift you up. In that kiss, the exhaustion of the day melted away, replaced by a gentle, radiant comfort that filled every corner of your heart.

After the kiss, you rested your head on his shoulder, savoring the quiet magic of the moment. The soft music, the comforting warmth of the tea, and the glow of the evening light all combined to create a small sanctuary—a space where the troubles of the day were held at bay by the power of love and care.

“Better?” Jaehyun asked, his voice laced with a hopeful smile. You nodded, the tension easing from your shoulders as laughter bubbled up, light and genuine. “Much better,” you whispered, feeling the simple truth of his words resonate deep within you.

That night, as you both sat in peaceful silence, the worries of the day receded into the background. In the glow of the soft lamp light and the gentle hum of the city outside, you realized that even on the toughest days, love had a way of turning everything around—with just one heartfelt kiss.