#divine the centre point

[scoplot]

Exploring the Best Locations for Commercial Plots in Gurgaon

Gurgaon, also known as Gurugram, is a thriving city located in the National Capital Region of India. Over the years, it has emerged as a hub for commercial activities, attracting businesses from all over the world. The city offers a plethora of opportunities for entrepreneurs, and investing in commercial plots in Gurgaon can be a profitable decision. In this article, we'll explore the best locations for commercial plots in Gurgaon.

Golf Course Road

Golf Course Road is one of the most sought-after locations for commercial plots in Gurgaon. The area is home to some of the most prestigious companies in the country and is easily accessible from major highways. The location is also surrounded by top-notch hotels, hospitals, and retail outlets, making it an ideal place to set up a business.

Cyber City

Cyber City is a commercial complex located in the heart of Gurgaon. The area is home to several IT companies, MNCs, and other businesses. The location is well-connected to major highways and has easy access to the metro station. The area is also surrounded by residential complexes, making it a perfect place for businesses that cater to residents.

Udyog Vihar

Udyog Vihar is one of the oldest and most established industrial areas in Gurgaon. The area is home to several manufacturing companies and small-scale industries. The location is easily accessible from the National Highway 8 and the Gurgaon-Delhi Expressway. The area is also surrounded by residential areas, making it an ideal location for businesses that require a workforce.

Sohna Road

Sohna Road is a growing commercial hub in Gurgaon. The location is easily accessible from major highways and is well-connected to the rest of the city. The area is surrounded by several residential complexes and retail outlets, making it an ideal location for businesses that cater to residents.

MG Road

MG Road is a bustling commercial plot in Gurgaon. The area is home to several restaurants, retail outlets, and offices. The location is easily accessible from major highways and has easy access to the metro station. The area is also surrounded by residential complexes, making it an ideal location for businesses that cater to residents.

In conclusion, Gurgaon offers several attractive locations for commercial plots. It's important to choose a location based on the nature of the business and the target audience. A well-placed commercial plot can give your business the boost it needs to succeed in today's competitive market.

[satorena]

✧.* BUT I LASTED TEN ROUNDS LIKE A FREAK !?

featuring. g. satoru, f. toji, n. kento, g. suguru, k. choso

warnings. explicit content, foul language, lots of unrealistic expectations (note. title itself), overstimulation (m+f), dickdrunk!reader, dumbification, usage of toys, squirting, spanking, very light spit play, anal, 69 position, breeding kink, unprotected sex, toji’s kinda mean and choso can’t tell the difference between pussy and an asshole. if i forgot anything else my bad !

rena’s note. BUT I LASTED TEN ROUNDS LIKE A FREAK !!! LIKE A G !!!

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔.

“fuh—fuck, oh shit, hah fuck— ‘ts so fuckin’ good!”

you bounced up and down his cock, surface of your palms pressed at the planes of his chest. you enveloped his length entirely, every single inch, in your pulsating pussy, driving the both of you to madness.

it’d been hours, and for whatever was in the air tonight, you both fucked like wild animals. your thighs burned from over-exhaustion, but you were relentless. you were desperate for another orgasm, the slide up and down his inches effortless due to your juices soaking his thighs and his cum from having nutted inside you multiple times prior.

gojo’s firm hands grabbed at your ass, fingers gripping tightly into your soft flesh, grounding you in position so you wouldn’t run. as if you would anyway, tongue lolled out and drool leaking from your rosy tongue and dribbling down his bottom lip.

“that’s it,” he encourages you, a faint smirk at his lips as he guides you down his length. the fucked out look on your face, your dazed eyes crossing to the centre of your face serves a huge ego boost. “my pretty girl—fuckin’ ride this dick baby, ‘s all yours—mmh,”

the sinful sound of your pussy squelching, folds latching at the tip of his dick before ramming yourself down, the lustful melody of your skin slapping against him in addition to the firm spanks of encouragement on your ass, with your high pitched mewls and squealing sounded like divine music to gojo’s ears.

you rocked your hips back and forth, grinding down, went back to bouncing up and down, made circles and figure eight shapes on his length, mindlessly dragging your hips wherever felt fit. you were so far past a point of euphoria you weren’t even sure if liquids could come out of you for the rest of the night.

“eyes here princess,” gojo brings a hand to cup your jaw, forcing your head back down to face him. “pretty pussy’s griping me so tight—fuck,”

your sweaty foreheads press together, and you clock that he knew you were on the brink of yet again another orgasm. cerulean orbs peered deeply into yours, his hips jerking up and meeting your bounces, aiming to bring you to that high as quickly as he can.

“sa—satoru!” you find is the only thing that comes up in your mushed out brain, the new angle of the position having his dick puncture your cervix. you felt so fucking full of him, so drunk on the pleasure that you failed to notice the coiling in your stomach snapping.

he squeezes at your ass cheeks as hard as he can, the painful pleasure obliging you to sit and take his ramming. he fucks into you with intensity, each drag of his cock at your walls sending you into a temporary state of immobility. your muscles tense as you feel yourself wash with yet again another white-blinding orgasm.

your jaw drops and your eyes roll back, throat exhausted while nothing yet everything is said. satoru pumps his creamy cum back into your womb, praising you for taking him in so well, for having a perfect pussy that’ll surely carry his children, all snug and warm for him.

“perfect fuckin’ pussy—mine, all mine, gonna fuck her full of my nut and have you carrying my babies, yeah? ‘s what you want, isn’t it? atta. fuckin’. girl.”

𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈.

“whew, would’ya look at that?” toji whistles, barking out a chuckle as he slows his pace, watching your uncontrollably clenching pussy squirt out your juices like a leaking faucet.

the pressure of your squirting is fucking intense, it has your entire body shaking, thighs quaked and the arch that was once on your back rounded. toji can’t help but laugh as tears stream down your damp cheeks, absolutely in love with how greedy your pussy clamped down on his cock.

“daddyyy—fuck!” your nails claw at the damp sheets on the bed, letting your nth orgasm rake throughout your body.

you feel a firm blow at your ass cheeks, the sound echoing in the room and you whine loudly at the stinging pleasure. you feel two big hands grab at your hips, stabilizing your limp body before a hand rises up and pushes your back into that curve.

“nah uh doll,” toji tuts, hips angling at a new position, one that draws a broken mewl from your sore throat. he picks his pace back up, never fully bottoming out, though you wouldn’t even notice with how many inches he packed.

“what’d i tell you?” he reminds you, and you’re too fucked out to answer him as you mumble his name over and over, helplessly taking the stretch of his dick at your gaping cunt.

he slaps your ass harshly again and you cry, fingernails scratching and clawing at the silk material beneath you. your scalp soon stings as he grabs a handful and effortlessly brings you upper body up to meet him.

“answer me when i ask you somethin’ baby,” toji frowns, hot breath fanning the shell of your ear, sending chills of nerves down your spine. “basic fuckin’ manners.”

“suh—sorry, ‘m sorry toji!” you apologize feverishly, and moan in satisfaction when his tongue laps up your drool and tears streaking your ruined yet pretty face.

“tsk, should have you do the work yourself,” toji teases you, releasing the deathly grip on your hair, causing your limp body to flop back to the mattress. as if proof to avoid calling his bluff, he releases his hold on you, opting to cross his arms above his head instead.

“n-no! toji, no, please, said i was sorry—‘m so fucking sorry!” you whine and ramble when you feel the lack of contact on your body, and your gaping cunt suddenly emptying.

you slither your hand between your thighs, grabbing at his girthy cock, pumping it a few times before slipping it with ease back into your welcoming warmth. you moan wantonly, clawing at your sheets as you fuck yourself on his dick, pushing yourself back and forth.

“greedy fuckin’ pussy,” he comments with a chuckle, spitting a glob of saliva down to your cunt, watching it dissipate into the creamy pearly veil of your essence around the base of his shaft.

he collects your slick with his thumb, before slipping his fingertip into your puckering hole, your body jolting at the sudden intrusion.

“trappin’ me inside—shit, want me to fuck you full of my cum, yeah? leave you swollen and leakin’, dontcha, pretty baby?”

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎.

“‘s too much ken—no more, hah, no more kento!”

you whined and begged, fists clenching as your muscles tensed, back arching off the mattress and toes curling while digging your heel at his shoulder blades. the sound of buzzing filled your hearing, the toy vibrating against your swollen clit ruthlessly while nanami fucked your cunt open with two thick fingers.

“mmh, safe word princess, or else i can’t hear you.” he reminds you, the words ghosting off his lips and sinking into your supple flesh, his lips trailing soft and gentle kisses at your inner thighs.

here he was, giving you an out, and despite claiming enough was enough, you didn’t want it to end just there. with your senses heightened, both your sight and touch restrained, the pleasure emitting from in between your thighs buzzed blissfully and tenfolds through your nervous system.

you released the clench of your hands and opted to scratch at the wood of the headboard you were tied to, projecting your want to touch your boyfriend through the clawing.

“i can keep—hnng—going!” you tell him, legs closing in on the sides of his head. you hear him tut disapprovingly, and you immediately fault your mistake, forcing your legs back open.

“there’s my good girl,” his honeyed voice rings through your ear drums, and it admittedly has you dripping even more on his fingers that curled at your insides. “just need one more from you—can you do that for me?”

you nod your head, bottom lip tucked between your teeth, “mmh, yes—yes i can kento!” you can feel your blood circulation cutting off at the areas were you’re bind, the shortage of blood messing with your already weak body.

the toy playing at your bundle of nerves is painful, having overstepped the boundary of comfortableness and stepping into a new territory of foreign, and you had failed to notice when nanami added in a third finger. you were sure with how much you came just on his hands alone, his watch was drenched in your juices.

those big fingers fuck you open, knuckles pressing into your spongy walls and triggering all sorts of pleasurable feelings throughout you, your stomach tightening into a familiar hot feeling, and you know you’re close again.

“kento, baby i—‘m gonna—fuckkk!” you want to card your fingers through his soft hair, tug and pull and release your pleasure onto his scalp.

“let go for me sweetheart, wanna taste your sweet essence,” nanami swaps the toy for his tongue and flicks at your clit. you feel the dam in your gut release at the sudden warmth exhibiting, and you spray him in pathetic squirts of your juices.

your body trembles as it contracts and gives nanami everything you have left to offer. you squeeze his head in your thighs, moaning wildly as his pace with his fingers never falters, urging you to stay in the state of euphoria a bit longer.

he swaps his tongue out for the toy again, and you wail out a broken cry, body at its limit, still stuck between coming down from your orgasm and greedily wanting another one.

he strokes your slit, collecting all your essence as he licks his lips eagerly.

“good job princess. taste so heavenly, i’ve never had anything like it before. i’ve gotta have another sip, will you let me have another taste, my love?”

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔.

“c’mon, focus sweetheart. do that f’me, yeah?”

you nod your head, mouth too full of dick as you opt to bob up and down. your jaw aches, feeling as though it’s being ripped apart. you force your aching wrist to work up and down geto’s cock, stimulating what you fail to get down your throat.

it would’ve been a simple task for you to focus on, had suguru not been feasting on your pussy like a starved man. he spreads your folds open, tonguing at your insides as if he dug for gold, grabbing both your cheeks in his big hands and spreading you open. he never half assed anything, much less pussy eating.

his skin was soaked in your squirt, orgasms came rolling in and out of you as did the occasional pumps of two fingers into your cunt while he ate you out. you would moan in pleasurable pain, the sounds vibrating on his shaft, which would induce him to moan into you, causing you to moan back on him, the cycle this repeating.

you were greedy—you could complain about how it was too much all you wanted, at the end of the day, you would pause on his cock to grind your hips back and forth on his face, the slip from your slick on his cheeks and nose making the grinding easier.

his nose would bump into your clit and you’d shiver from head to toe, the oversensitivity catching up to you. the free hand at your ass cheek would graze at your puckering hole but never dared to slip inside. all these mixes of stimulations had your eyes crossing, mouth gaping wide which made fucking your throat much easier for geto.

“sweetest cunt i’ve ever had,” he groans in between your thighs, bringing his hand to spank at your wet folds, and your arch your back at the stinging pleasure, your toes curling as your body shook.

the slap at your pussy made flicks of your juices land on his face, and so he landed a few more blows while simultaneously jerking his hips up into your mouth, forcing you down on his cock.

it was all too much— it hurt so good, the strikes at your cunt, his tongue lapping your liquids as he scissored your insides for additional pleasure. how was he expecting you to get him to finish for a second time when he was driving you to the brink of yet again another countless orgasm?

“wanna soak in your juices mama,” he speaks, mouth full of cunt, but you still grasp the message. you subconsciously push your hips back into his face, wanting to abide to his request.

“‘m so fuckin thirsty—don’t you dare be selfish with me. cum in my mouth. be the good girl i know you are and share yourself with me—need it, pretty girl.”

𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎.

“y’feel so good, fuck—sucking me in, oh shit baby, never wanna stop fucking you! please, need your pussy always!”

he’d finally gotten a feel of sex for the first time, and he was already hooked. his locks matted to his forehead from sweat trickling down his nose and plopping down onto you.

“wait—slow d-down cho’—hngg!” you moan, nails clawing at his back, scraping and marking the pale skin. you felt your body recoil entirely with each sharp thrust he pounded into your worn out pussy, dragging each and every inch of his length in and out.

your knees were bent at your ears, feet dangling by his head as his hips slammed into the back of your thighs, marking the skin red from the brash contact. the springs from your bed resonated loudly in the room, as did the creaking of your headboard, but nothing topped choso’s loud whimpers.

he’s too lost in his own pleasure, he starts to mistaken to stinging and achy feeling in his gut and loins for a sign to keep going, “never wanna stop—shittt, need to fuck this pretty pussy every. fucking. day.”

you’ve given up on convincing him otherwise, focusing instead on the rise and fall of his hips digging into yours, stretching your pussy open to fit him inside. you creamed around his dick, your essence resting at the hairs on his pubic area, giving him easy access to slide in and out of you.

his arms wrapped around you tightly, refusing to let you out of his grip, one arm beneath your back and holding you from there and the other wrapping around your shoulders. you were stuck in his embrace, bodies moulding into one as you were split open by a fucked out first timer.

in his excitement, he slips out and wastes no time to grab his base and shove it back into a warm tightness, failing to acknowledge your sudden gasp. his mind is clouded with sex, and if he didn’t know better, you were suddenly much fucking tighter, and shit that drove him on edge.

your arms tighten behind his back as you adapt to the sudden intrusion from an area you hadn’t yet explored. “cho—baby wait—mmhm, fuck, that’s my—!”

“‘m gonna cum—fuck y/n, tell me you’re close too. shit, need to fill you up with my cum, please!” the man seals his lips onto yours, panting and begging for this next orgasm, shifting all of his body weight into the hole that keeps greedily latching onto him.

your eyes water as they stream tears down your cheeks. it’s a new and painful sensation, but simultaneously a pleasurable one, and your body granted you the opportunity of yet again another orgasm from the different stimulation. “hah—gonna cum!—make me cum, choso!”

you spray yourself all over, your pussy clenching around absolutely nothing as your ass gets rammed into and fucked like a pro. choso groans and whines against your lips, brows furrowed at the centre of his forehead as he empties himself into your warmth.

“fuck yes—take it all baby, ‘s all yours—need you to milk me and take it all in—your pussy’s the best, i swear to everythin’, shit!”

i am SO tired.

[wolfhoundwitch]

Grounding and Centering

If you haven't already, visit my visualisation lessons for the background info needed for this lesson.

Being able to ground and centre your energy is very useful in meditation and spell work. Using basic visualisation techniques, you can change and manipulate the energy you are putting out, raise your vibration, or bring yourself back to reality after spellwork. Let's go over the specifics and how to do them, but the TLDR is that grounding is connecting to the energy of the universe around you, and centering is aligning this energy with your intention.

Grounding

Grounding can be done before or after spellwork, and it depends on what feels right for you. The idea is to draw neutral energy from the earth and the universe, as the energy within ourselves can often be unstable because of our emotions or other external influences. It can also be used to send excess energy back into the earth, preventing feeling wired or unable to sleep after spellwork. Here are some easy ways to practice grounding.

Visualise tree roots spreading down from your legs, connecting you to the earth, and branches spreading up from your arms into the sky connecting you to the universe. Consider the energy of the universe being drawn into you through these roots and branches.

Consider your energy as running water, perhaps from a tap or a river. To prevent excess energy, visualise this tap being turned off, or the flow of the river being stopped.

When I practice divination or dreamwork, I sometimes visualise my third eye opening before and then closing again after to prevent using this energy constantly.

Eat something or take a shower after spellwork to quickly ground yourself.

You can try standing barefoot in the dirt or even rain as a quick and more literal way to ground.

Centering

Centering involves drawing energy inward before spellwork, allowing us to align this energy with our intention and the mentality needed to carry out magick. It prevents passing thoughts, feelings and distractions from making our energy and spellwork less effective. Where you feel your energy centering is different for everyone - it might be behind your third eye, in your heart, your stomach, or in the palms of your hands. Wherever it may be, the point is to draw this scattered energy inward. Here are some methods.

Visualise your energy fragmented around you, as shattered glass, water droplets, or whatever feels right. Consider drawing this energy towards your centre, as though you are a magnet pulling these fragmented pieces back into a whole.

As you are drawing your energy in, meditate on your intention and the end goal of your spellwork. Or why you are centering your energy - is it to have better control over the existing energy in your body, or to set an intention for the neutral energy drawn in through grounding? The aim is to have a concentration of energy with a specific intention.

Centering can be used for changing your vibration specifically for different kinds of spellwork - where a protection spell would require a different type of energy to that of cursing.

Note: Some people will use these terms interchangeably or to mean one overarching thing, and others will specify whether they mean centering or grounding as I have done here. The two practices are very similar and can overlap, so don't worry about getting them confused. The important thing is to do what feels right for your practice and whatever helps you.

As always, thanks for reading! If you have any questions or suggestions for future lessons, feel free to message or send an ask. Visit my tags for previous lessons!

[whencyclopedia]

Sun Stone

The Aztec Sun Stone (or Calendar Stone) depicts the five consecutive worlds of the sun from Aztec mythology. The stone is not, therefore, in any sense a functioning calendar, but rather it is an elaborately carved solar disk, which for the Aztecs and other Mesoamerican cultures represented rulership. At the top of the stone is a date glyph (13 reed) which represents both the beginning of the present sun, the 5th and final one according to mythology, and the actual date 1427 CE, thereby legitimizing the rule of Itzcoatl (who took power in that year) and creating a bond between the divine and mankind.

The stone was discovered in December 1790 CE in the central plaza of Mexico City and now resides in the National Museum of Anthropology in that city. The richly carved basalt stone was once a part of the architectural complex of the Temple Mayor and measures 3.58 metres in diameter, is 98 centimetres thick, and weighs 25 tons. The stone would originally have been laid flat on the ground and possibly anointed with blood sacrifices. When it was discovered, the stone was lying flat and upside down, perhaps in an attempt to prevent the final cataclysm - the fall of the 5th and final sun - as the Aztec world fell apart following the attack from the Old World.

At the centre of the stone is a representation of either the sun god Tonatiuh (the Day Sun) or Yohualtonatiuh (the Night Sun) or the primordial earth monster Tlaltecuhtli, in the latter case representing the final destruction of the world when the 5th sun fell to earth. The tongue is perhaps also a sacrificial knife and, sticking out, it suggests a thirst for blood and sacrifice. Around the central face at four points are the other four suns which successively replaced each other after the gods Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca struggled for control of the cosmos until the era of the 5th sun was reached. The suns are known by the day name on which their final destruction occurred. Beginning from the top right there is the first sun Nahui Ocelotl (4 - Jaguar), top left is the second sun Nahui Ehécatl (4 - Wind), bottom left the third sun Nahui Quiáhuitl (4 - Rain) and bottom right is the fourth sun Nahui Atl (4 - Water).

On either side of the central face are two jaguar heads or paws, each clutching a heart, representing the terrestrial realm. The band running immediately around the suns is segmented into the 20 Aztec day-names (hence the Calendar Stone name). Then there is a decorative ring surrounded by another ring depicting symbols which represent turquoise and jade, symbols of the equinoxes and solstices, and the colours of the heavens. The two heads at the bottom centre represent fire serpents, and their bodies run around the perimeter of the stone with each ending in a tail. The four cardinal and the inter-cardinal directions are also indicated with larger and lesser points respectively.

Continue reading...

[aryana-thefairy]

Astrology observations part-3 🦋

🦋Libra Sun have the best complexion and usually clear skin. The sun radiates from within. They act silly to confuse people but they are wise. I have never seen an unattractive Libra sun. There is something about them that makes them so pretty. Everyone’s crush.

🦋Venus in 11H has to do with glamour. They have classy rich social circles. Tend to have more friends from the opposite sex. The friends have a big impact on them. A desire for rich successful high profile life. Also, tend to be a hoarder. They are loved by all.

🦋I love how opinionated Aries women are. They tend to be feminists or environmentalists. They scare the hell out of men. It's their way or high way. Why do so many aries women have water sign children, it's cute.

🦋People with Saturn with 0-degree placement were independent from a young age. Since the time they were born, they were already done with everyone’s shit. Might not have the easiest childhood. Also, tend to be emotionally closed off as adults. But my god their sense of humour is dark, with the right crowd, they truly shine.

🦋Lilith in 1H or Lilith conjunct ascendant, so what is it like being accused all the time? Women accuse you of stealing their boyfriends and men accuse of you flirting even when you are not.

🦋Lilith in 12H, I already mention this placement in previous observations. Let's look at the positive side. Your sensual energy might not be too upfront. But people can’t forget about you. You haunt their subconscious mind. So there is a tendency for others to get obsessed with you. Your ex-lovers or friends can never get over you. It's impossible.

🦋The wit of Gemini mercury is so hot. Their memory is too good. An intellectual.

🦋Virgo mars are so logical and strategic with their actions. I would go to them for any kind of advice. They are the master planners. Ready for anything.

🦋Scorpio midheaven, they are people’s guilty pleasure. People hate them because they can not be them. At the same time they are appealing to others, everyone has eyes on them.

🦋Neptune in 1H have trail of copycats. It is what it is.

🦋I feel Sagittarius's placement have too many love interest. Best bodies. Amazing butt. Especially Sagittarius rising are some of the prettiest people I have ever seen.

🦋Venus in 2H tends to marry rich. They can become famous too.

🦋Sun in 1H or Sun conjunct ascendant are warm, charismatic, and regal. They appear radiant and have glowing complexions. Prominent foreheads. I don’t think this placement has any cons. Definitely makes life easy. Can be self-centred. Divine wisdom. Powerful leaders. 

🦋Aquaruis rising look exotic or unique. They often appear eccentric and would constantly say they are weird. Gives off maniac pixie girl or guy vibes.

🦋Cancer Mercury / Taurus Mercury are great listeners. They are the true best friends. Empathetic. Provide words of comfort to others. I think it takes great emotional intelligence to be understanding and empathetic. Cancer mercury is unbeatable in that aspect.

🦋Capricorn suns are frank and straight to the point. They are the least problematic people of all. If you have beef with them, it's mostly one-sided because they are focused on building their empire. They take no shit from others and might appear cold. They are real sweethearts. Capricorn sun/moon / rising are often the eldest children in the family.

Disclaimer: Take what resonates with you. Personal observations are biased.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hey, I wanted to ask, do you have any tips for numbers and their meanings, For example: what does the number 5 represent?

Writing Notes: Symbolism of Numbers

In symbolism, numbers are not merely the expressions of quantities, but idea-forces, each with a particular character of its own.

The actual digits are, as it were, only the outer garments.

All numbers are derived from the number one (which is equivalent to the mystic, nonmanifest point of no magnitude).

The farther a number is from unity, the more deeply it is involved in matter, in the involutive process, in the“world.”

The first 10 numbers in the Greek system (or twelve in the oriental tradition) pertain to the spirit: they are entities, archetypes and symbols.

The rest are the product of combinations of these basic numbers.

Below are the most generally accepted symbolic meanings of each number.

ZERO

Non-being, mysteriously connected with unity as its opposite and its reflection; it is symbolic of the latent and potential and is the “Orphic Egg.”

From the viewpoint of man in existence, it symbolizes death as the state in which the life-forces are transformed.

Because of its circular form, it signifies eternity.

ONE

Symbolic of being and of the revelation to men of the spiritual essence.

The active principle which, broken into fragments, gives rise to multiplicity, and is to be equated with the mystic Centre, the Irradiating Point and the Supreme Power.

Stands for spiritual unity—the common basis among all beings.

Guénon draws a distinction between unity and one, after the Islamic mystic thinkers: unity differs from one in that it is absolute and complete in itself, admitting neither two nor dualism.

Hence, unity is the symbol of divinity.

Is also equated with light.

TWO

Stands for echo, reflection, conflict and counterpoise or contraposition; or the momentary stillness of forces in equilibrium; it also corresponds to the passage of time—the line which goes from behind forward; it is expressed geometrically by two points, two lines or an angle.

It is also symbolic of the first nucleus of matter, of nature in opposition to the creator, of the moon as opposed to the sun.

In all esoteric thought, two is regarded as ominous: it connotes shadow and the bisexuality of all things, or dualism (represented by the basic myth of the Gemini) in the sense of the connecting-link between the immortal and the mortal, or of the unvarying and the varying.

Within the mystic symbolism of landscape in megalithic culture, two is associated with the mandorla-shaped mountain, the focal point of symbolic Inversion, forming the crucible of life and comprising the two opposite poles of good and evil, life and death.

THREE

Symbolizes spiritual synthesis, and is the formula for the creation of each of the worlds.

Represents the solution of the conflict posed by dualism.

Forms a half-circle comprising: birth, zenith and descent.

Geometrically it is expressed by three points and by the triangle.

The harmonic product of the action of unity upon duality.

The number concerned with basic principles, and expresses sufficiency, or the growth of unity within itself.

Associated with the concepts of heaven and the Trinity.

FOUR

Symbolic of the earth, of terrestrial space, of the human situation, of the external, natural limits of the “minimum” awareness of totality, and, finally, of rational organization.

Equated with the square and the cube, and the cross representing the four seasons and the points of the compass.

A great many material and spiritual forms are modelled after the quaternary.

The number associated with tangible achievement and with the Elements.

In mystic thought, it represents the tetramorphs.

FIVE

Symbolic of Man, health and love, and of the quintessence acting upon matter.

Comprises the four limbs of the body plus the head which controls them, and likewise the four fingers plus the thumb and the four cardinal points together with the centre.

The hieros gamos is signified by the number five, since it represents the union of the principle of heaven (three) with that of the Magna Mater (two).

Geometrically, it is the pentagram, or the five-pointed star.

Corresponds to pentagonal symmetry, a common characteristic of organic nature, to the golden section (as noted by the Pythagoreans), and to the five senses representing the five “forms” of matter.

SIX

Symbolic of ambivalence and equilibrium, six comprises the union of the two triangles (of fire and water) and hence signifies the human soul.

The Greeks regarded it as a symbol of the hermaphrodite.

It corresponds to the six Directions of Space (two for each dimension), and to the cessation of movement (since the Creation took six days).

Hence it is associated with trial and effort.

Shown to be related to virginity, and to the scales.

SEVEN

Symbolic of perfect order, a complete period or cycle.

Comprises the union of the ternary and the quaternary, and hence it is endowed with exceptional value.

Corresponds to the seven Directions of Space (that is, the six existential dimensions plus the centre), to the seven-pointed star, to the reconciliation of the square with the triangle by superimposing the latter upon the former (as the sky over the earth) or by inscribing it within.

It is the number forming the basic series of musical notes, of colours and of the planetary spheres, as well as of the gods corresponding to them; and also of the capital sins and their opposing virtues.

Corresponds to the three-dimensional cross.

The symbol of pain.

EIGHT

The octonary, related to two squares or the octagon, is the intermediate form between the square (or the terrestrial order) and the circle (the eternal order) and is, in consequence, a symbol of regeneration.

By virtue of its shape, the numeral is associated with the two interlacing serpents of the caduceus, signifying the balancing out of opposing forces or the equivalence of the spiritual power to the natural.

It also symbolizes—again because of its shape—the eternally spiralling movement of the heavens (shown also by the double sigmoid line—the sign of the infinite).

Because of its implications of regeneration, eight was in the Middle Ages an emblem of the waters of baptism.

Corresponds in mediaeval mystic cosmogony to the fixed stars of the firmament, denoting that the planetary influences have been overcome.

NINE

The triangle of the ternary, and the triplication of the triple.

It is therefore a complete image of the three worlds.

The end-limit of the numerical series before its return to unity.

For the Hebrews, it was the symbol of truth, being characterized by the fact that when multiplied it reproduces itself (in mystic addition).

In medicinal rites, it is the symbolic number par excellence, for it represents triple synthesis, that is, the disposition on each plane of the corporal, the intellectual and the spiritual.

TEN

Symbolic, in decimal systems, of the return to unity.

In the Tetractys (whose triangle of points—four, three, two, one—adds up to ten) it is related to four.

Symbolic also of spiritual achievement, as well as of unity in its function as an even (or ambivalent) number or as the beginning of a new, multiple series.

According to some theories, ten symbolizes the totality of the universe—both metaphysical and material—since it raises all things to unity.

From ancient oriental thought through the Pythagorean school and right up to St. Jerome, it was known as the number of perfection.

ELEVEN

Symbolic of transition, excess and peril and of conflict and martyrdom.

According to Schneider, there is an infernal character about it: since it is in excess of the number of perfection—ten—it therefore stands for incontinence; but at the same time it corresponds, like two, to the mandorla-shaped mountain, to the focal point of symbolic Inversion and antithesis, because it is made up of one plus one (comparable in a way with two).

TWELVE

Symbolic of cosmic order and salvation.

It corresponds to the number of the signs of the Zodiac, and is the basis of all dodecanary groups.

Linked to it are the notions of space and time, and the wheel or circle.

THIRTEEN

Symbolic of death and birth, of beginning afresh.

Hence it has unfavourable implications.

FOURTEEN

Stands for fusion and organization.

And for justice and temperance.

FIFTEEN

Markedly erotic.

Associated with the devil.

OTHER NUMBERS

Tarot

Each of the numbers from sixteen to twenty-two is related to the corresponding card of the Tarot pack; and sometimes the meaning is derived from the fusion of the symbols of the units composing it.

There are two ways in which this fusion may occur: either by mystic addition (for example, 374 = 3 + 7 + 4 = 14 = 1 + 4 = 5) or by succession, in which case the right-hand digit expresses the outcome of a situation denoted by the left-hand number (so 21 expresses the reduction of a conflict—two—to its solution—unity).

These numbers also possess certain meanings drawn from traditional sources and remote from their intrinsic symbolism:

24, for example, is the sacred number in Sankhya philosophy, and

50 is very common in Greek mythology—there were fifty Danaides, fifty Argonauts, fifty sons of Priam and of Aegyptus, for example as a symbol, we would suggest, of that powerful quality of the erotic and human which is so typical of Hellenic myths.

Repetition

The repetition of a given number stresses its quantitative power but detracts from its spiritual dignity.

So, for example, 666 was the number of the Beast because 6 was regarded as inferior to seven.

Contained within a multiple

When several kinds of symbolic meaning are contained within a multiple number, the symbolism of that number is accordingly enriched and strengthened.

Thus, 144 was considered very favourable because its sum was 9 (1 + 4 + 4) and because it comprises multiples of 10 and 4 plus the quaternary itself.

Lastly: Dante, in the Divine Comedy, has frequent recourse to the symbolism of numbers.

Sources: 1 2 3

More: On Symbolism

Hope this helps, would love to read your writing if it does!

[utahimeow]

to bind a god — satoru gojo

summary — satoru gojo lets you tie him up.

pairing — satoru gojo x f!reader

warnings — nsfw content. minors dni. bondage, femdom, sub!gojo, established relationship (reader and gojo are married), degradation, praise, edging, choking, slight dacryphilia, handjob, oral (f receiving), implied subspace, creampie

word count — 6k

author’s note — this was not supposed to be six thousand words long

To most, the idea of restraining Satoru Gojo seems inconceivable.

A being so powerful that he’s as close to omnipotent as a human can get. One who can bend reality to his will. Even to touch him, to come close enough to make contact with him– an impossible task.

So how does one restrain Satoru Gojo?

You ask him nicely.

Play with his powder-white hair as he lays in your lap, scratch at his scalp until powder white eyelashes flutter shut and he’s humming, content. Get him right where you want him to be. And then, dangle his undying love for you over his head. It works every time.

“Baby?” you muse.

“Hmm?”

“You know how you love me so much? In sickness and in health? Till death do us part?” It’s not entirely uncommon for you to remind him of the very words you had repeated to one another the day you became forever bound to one another. And before you had made your vows to one another, it was some other twisted way of getting exactly what you wanted. In truth, however, batting your eyelashes at Satoru was usually enough. 

Your husband’s eyes flicker open and he gazes up at you, one thin white eyebrow raised pointedly. He sighs then, even rolling his eyes a little, ever so dramatic. “Yes, my dear wife, you know I'd do anything for you.”

“So then, you’ll let me tie you up and edge you, right?”

He barks out one of his booming, obnoxious laughs. As if you’ve just said the most impossible, unfathomable, unimaginable thing. 

He sits up, still laughing, searching your face for a sign that you’re joking. He doesn’t find it. 

“I’m being serious, Satoru.” 

His cerulean irises, the very ones that hold an ancient power so immense that it seems like a myth, widen. He audibly gulps and his Adam’s apple bobs. Yet amidst his off-put reaction, something else lingers. Something that tells you he just needs a little extra push.

“Come on, I mean… think of all the things I let you do with me, baby,” you reason. Not that Satoru’s particularly into anything obscure. Rather, the intensity of the way he takes you usually leaves you recovering for days– because you love when he does. Naturally, he’ll use toys, or a blindfold, or handcuffs, but never anything as ‘serious’ as bondage. And sure, he assumes the dominant role, but that’s only because you enjoy having him in charge of your pleasure. It’s never any kind of formal dominance or submission, either. No titles, no punishments– outside of being playful, that is. 

The final blow is, in fact, when you bat your eyelashes and pout at him. 

Of course, he agrees. Because you’re you, and he’s him, a man not immune to a little sweet talk from his wife.

And of course, he does point out the elephant in the room – he’s the strongest human being in existence. What’s to stop him from slipping out of the ropes? He could do so without so much as blinking an eye.

“Just pretend, dummy! No teleporting, no breaking or dissolving the ropes into thin air, no nothing,” you tell him. Without a doubt, you assure him that these come with the exception that if Satoru needs to escape, by all means he may escape – an alternative to a safeword. 

Thus, two weeks later, Satoru kneels in the centre of your shared California king bed. He’s bare as the day he was born, his body sculpted like a divine statue, the manifestation of years of sorcery displayed in the way each muscle has been carved to perfection.

A tiny smirk sits on his face as he observes your concentrated state. Your lip is trapped between your teeth while you weave strands of rope together into neat patterns over Satoru’s chest, torso, arms, thighs. His arms are pulled behind his back, bound together by delicate knots. His steady breathing orchestrates your movements, and when you catch his gaze you pause just to admire him for a moment. Your heart swells with warmth, with debilitating affection for him.

Before long, you’ve weaved the rope into perfection. You take a step back from the bed, away from his kneeling form, to drink in your masterpiece. 

The rope slithers over his body, milk-white skin tainted by sanguine red. It’s not tight enough to squeeze, yet his biceps seem to swell between the gaps. The strand that runs down the middle of his chest and underneath leaves his pectorals bulging and you’re filled with the urge to bite and mark him. To claim him as yours. As if he’s not already wrapped up like a present for you. As if he’s not wearing a ring that pledges his soul to yours.

You’re rather impressed with yourself, too. It’s not bad at all for your first time, although technically you’ve spent weeks practising on anything limb-shaped whilst your husband was out of the house. None of it is particularly intricate, yet somehow you think that, had it been any of the more detailed patterns you’d seen on the web, he would not look so breathtaking. 

“Well? Is it everything you imagined?” Satoru quips, pulling you from your trance.

You narrow your eyes, questioning why you presumed that being tied up would ever stop him from running his mouth when even a ball gag would be useless on him. You nod though, humming in affirmation. It’s the last bit of satisfaction he’ll get from you. 

“You look pretty, Satoru,” you say, and it’s genuine, yet there’s a flutter in his belly at the teasing edge in your voice. “It doesn’t hurt anywhere?”

“No, ma’am,” he grins.

“Good. I’ll be back in a second,” you tell him before you prance off to your walk-in closet where two little pieces of lace await you. 

Satoru can’t be the only one all dressed up, after all. 

When you return, you’re in a bustier top, with lace and frills and tiny ribbons, and a matching thong– red, to match the ropes that decorate your husband’s body like ornaments. Satoru’s grinning like a pervert, devouring you with his eyes, his cock twitching and leaking as it hangs between his thighs. 

“Oh, look at you,” he says with a gaze filled with awe. Heat crawls to every corner of your body, but you swallow the urge to melt from his words and maintain your composure. “You got yourself a little outfit?”

You nod, mischief flashing across your face. “Since you were so kind and generous to let me tie you up, I thought I’d treat you a little.”

“Fuck, I’m lucky, heh?”

Tilting your head, you step closer to Satoru once more, his eyes like rhinestones glimmering with far too much arrogance for your liking. He has no idea what you have in mind. Or maybe he does, and he’s naive enough to think it won’t have any effect on him. 

You kneel on the bed in front of him, leaning in until you’re mere millimetres away from his face and your breath is warm on his lips. 

But you don’t kiss him. And when he sways forward, trying to catch your lips with his, you pull away.

“Aw, come on, baby. I can’t even get a kiss?” He’s pouting. Unfortunately for him, it’s a habit of his that you’ve grown resistant to.

“Say please,” you say.

His smile only grows, devilish and knowing. Then, a “please?”

Your hand lands at the base of his neck when you press into him, your lips meeting his softly, tongue dipping into his mouth just barely, just enough to keep him wanting more. The hand that sits on his clavicles begins inching down, sliding over the rope you so carefully placed. 

Feather-light, you brush a single fingertip against the head of Satoru’s dick which now stands upright between his legs. He shivers instantly, ever so sensitive to any touch, but especially sensitive because it’s you.

He did grow up with no choice than to be self-indulgent, after all. To cling to anything remotely good, even if he has to be a little selfish about it. So he clings to pleasure. He clings to your sighs and moans, to the way you wrap around him, to your hips and thighs, to every part of you. It’s made him far too spoiled. 

Your finger traces down his shaft, over the unforgiving veins, along his flushing skin. Your hand wraps around him then, fingertips hardly touching, and he groans into your mouth. 

“Eager?” you taunt. His eyes dart to your lips as you pull away from his face, watching the way they’ve become slick with honey-like spit. 

“You really can’t blame me,” he replies. 

You chuckle, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip and settling onto your knees in the spot next to him.

Satoru’s gaze drops down to the way your first wraps around his cock. Just as quickly, you lift his head back up, fingers under his chin until his eyes meet yours.

“Eyes on me,” you say. Something behind his irises bubbles, clawing at the surface. Still, he’s grinning.

When your hand starts to move, he sucks in a breath. Even if it’s achingly slow and barely enough to cause any stimulation, the relief that lies in being touched by you is enough. 

“You always take such good care of me,” you tell him, batting your eyelashes so sweetly at him. “Let me do the same for you, won’t you?”

He hums, long and drawn out, and your thumb glides over his tender tip. As you smooth over the slit, you shouldn’t be surprised when your fingers become damp with his arousal. 

“Already wet, huh?” 

“Well, you know what you do to me,” Satoru says, with a slight drawl in his words already, cheeks heating.

Maybe that’s part of it, but you also have no doubt that the ropes that frame his arms and torso are starting to coil around his mind too. Promising to take him to a space he’s never been to before.

So soon.

You drag your fist up and down, inch by inch, having no intention of speeding up. Not for a while anyway. He’s much too used to getting anything he wants from you.

He’ll try to pretend he’s patient. That’s fine. You’ll work him until he’s no longer pretending.

You ghost your lips against his jaw, along the column of his neck, nipping at his marble-white skin until there’s a mark or two left behind. Your teeth graze at his earlobe and he shivers. Something in your brain clicks when he does– the thought of him writhing beneath you makes you dizzy. 

You’ll get him there, you assure yourself. The slower the better.

Ever so slightly though, you pick up your pace, pumping him a little quicker now. 

“How’s that feel, Satoru?” you ask, a mix between taunting and the genuine desire to hear his affirmation.

“Feels real good,” he breathes, still grasping onto steadiness, refusing to let his tone waver.

The next time your hand slides up his cock, you squeeze a little harder, like a reward for his surprising lack of sarcasm. His breath hitches slightly when you do, leaving you grinning.

Every pearl of precum that drools from the slit of Satoru’s cock gets smeared along his length by your palm. It doesn’t take long until he’s covered in a layer of slick, aiding the way your hand glides up and down at a speed that’s finally enough to light a fire deep in his abdomen. 

His jaw clenches and he gulps, yet he remains practically silent– much to your disapproval.

“Wanna hear you, baby. Go on,” you coo, catching his gaze as you tighten your fist around him for a split second. It’s not like him to keep his noises to himself when he feels good, anyway.

His mouth drops, and a breathy little whine falls from his lips, and it becomes clear why he needed your encouragement. The noise makes your own clit throb, painfully unstimulated.

“There you are, such a good boy,” you say, stroking your hand faster. 

From then on, Satoru doesn’t resist letting out his whiny noises, mixed with his panting. It’s a complete contrast to his usual grunts, growls, and groans that are always so low, coming from deep in his chest as he takes you exactly how he likes, how he wants, how he needs. Now he’s all breath and high-pitched, sweat building on his temple, helpless as he sits wrapped up in the palm of your hand.

His cock is near-purple and painfully hard as you jerk him off, twisting your hand at his tip with a slick noise. His hips are starting to buck, the hard ridges of his abdomen starting to ripple. The ropes stretch, like they’re breathing, and then they come to life.

“Tell me when you’re close, Satoru,” you say, stern compared to how sweet you’ve been up until now. When you look at his face, his eyes are half-lidded and clouded over, his eyebrows pulled together. Your hand slows to a near halt and he whines pitifully. “Look at me.”

It takes him a second, but he blinks and then his glazed irises meet yours. 

“You’ll tell me when you’re close, won’t you?”

“Y-yes,” he moans, hips rutting slightly into your fist, begging for friction once more. “Please.”

You smile, satisfied. He’s been so obedient thus far, you have no reason to not resume the cruel jerking of your hand– with even more haste this time.

This time, you pump your hand with determination, lip caught between your teeth as you watch him eagerly, soaking up his reactions. As Satoru starts to near his edge his head falls back, his name on your lips as his veins start to burn with a familiar sensation.

“Close,” he breathes. “I’m close.”

And everything he’s built up comes tumbling down the second you take your hand off of him. 

“No, please,” he cries, voice cracking, him squirming in his restraints. It’s pathetic. It’s adorable. “You can’t do this to me, baby.”

You giggle, watching his eyes brim with tears. “I just did.”

“I’d never do this to you,” he says, more desperate than you’ve ever heard him. 

“Because you can’t control yourself, baby. Maybe now you’ll learn,” you tell him, smiling so sweetly. Your fingertip brushes against his raging, red cock and he flinches, near-shrieking. “Deal?” 

“Fine- please, just touch me again, fuck,” he begs, his voice sending bolts of pleasure to your core and you’re suddenly aware of the slick pooling in your own panties. 

Your hand wraps around his dick again and falls back into a steady rhythm, dragging up and down the hard length in a way that has Satoru whining again instantly. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers over and over.

Within mere minutes, he’s throbbing into your hand once more, hardly muttering the word “close” before you take your hand off him.

“Ple-ease,” he mewls. “Need to cum, please let me cum.”

You have Satoru Gojo under your thumb. There’s no doubt about it.

Your chest aches with sympathy for him, truly. You are doing this for purely selfish reasons, after all, to soothe a sadistic, power-hungry instinct inside you. He’s done nothing wrong. But God, the way your brain buzzes from being able to get him like this in no time at all.

“Just hold out a little longer for me, Satoru, yeah? I promise it’ll feel so good,” you tell him. Your original plan was to see how long you could keep working him up for, but your pussy is starting to become restless. Between your legs, a pulse begs to be relieved. 

He replies with a moan and a twitch of his hips up into your hand that’s tugging at his cock again. You didn’t think it possible for it to be this red, this swollen and hard, veins bulging, his tip leaking so much precum that it almost looks like he already came. You drool a little, shivering at the thought of it stretching you out. 

The next time Satoru warns you of his impending orgasm so you can take your hand off of his cock is much sooner than the last few times. His entire body squirms, his arm muscles tensing against his restraints, and he sobs, tears slipping down his blood flushed cheeks.

From his swollen lips comes a stream of pleas and whimpers, ones that make you want to give him the world. You’re not sure how much of this you can take, let alone him. 

“It hurts,” he whispers. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. 

“It hurts? You can safeword if you need,” you remind him, scanning his eyes for any signs of panic, but you’re only met with a blissed out haze. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head with determination. “I’m the strongest.”

Despite his dazed state, he manages to give a stupid, insufferable smirk like he just told the greatest punchline in history. 

“And here you are, crying like a little bitch because I won’t let you cum.”

You thrive off of the cry he lets out when you squeeze his cock, hard. In the blink of an eye he returns to whining pathetically and begging for release.

“Please… please,” he sniffles, tossing his head back in frustration. 

Frankly, you’re amazed that he hasn’t teleported out of the ropes. You doubt he can truly keep up the act– that the ropes are really binding, that he can’t simply tear them apart without so much as lifting a finger– so why hasn’t he?

For a moment you peer up at him, at the desperate sight of him wriggling and squirming, at the straining of muscles that are packed with immeasurable strength, and a chill runs down your spine. 

He thinks he’s truly restrained.

It shouldn’t surprise you that the second he’s put under a shred of control, he gives in instantly. The moment he can surrender his power he’s forced to carry, he does it without hesitation. There is no one else he would ever be so vulnerable for, but you. No one else whose hands he would feel so safe and secure in. No one else he would ever rip open his chest and show his heart to.

The least you can do is put him out of misery, for now.

“What do you want?” you ask, dripping with honey, dragging your hand up and down, up and down. Every movement gives a shlick, shlick, shlick from the way his cock weeps.

“Wanna cum,” he whines, arms twitching behind his back, desperate for some kind of leverage. “Please, I-I need to cum.”

And so you succumb to his pleas. Finally, you give him exactly what he wants, working your hand over him so fast that his whimpers turn into a stream of incoherent cries. He twitches and throbs in your palm, until at last, with a choked sob, he cums.

Streaks of warm, white seed splatter over Satoru’s chest and abdomen, his entire body wrought with tremors as pleasure sinks into every muscle and every fibre that he’s made up of.

“Good boy, there you go,” you murmur, keeping your slicked up hand stroking him at a gentle pace to get him through his climax. “Did so well.”

His entire body trembles as he breathes through the aftershocks of his orgasm. Your clean hand soothes over his hard thigh, over his shoulder, squeezing softly as you crane your head to slot your mouth against his. He barely has the energy to kiss you back, yet still his tongue moves against yours like a natural instinct, albeit weakly. 

You pull away, hovering a mere inch away from his face and cradling his cheek with your hand. “Doing okay?”

A dopey smile makes his features light up and any blooming anxiousness within you gets put to rest. “Yeah. It felt so good.”

In turn, your own lips curl into a smile of satisfaction. Then the heat pooling between your legs makes itself known once more, and your brain sparks with an idea. “Good. You think you can help me out now?”

Satoru nods, ever eager, drool forming at the corner of his lips. It’s adorable how whipped he is. 

Your fingers hook into the knot in the centre of Satoru’s chest, guiding him to turn so that he faces the headboard. You crawl up a little, splaying yourself out against the pillows, spreading your legs with your bottom lip between your teeth and the confidence of the entire world.

Satoru watches you with galaxies in his eyes as you push your little thong down your legs and toss it to the floor. His tongue nearly lolls out of his mouth when he finds the glimmering slick that dribbles out of your hole. When you bring two of your fingers down and drag your fingertips through your folds, you think he might start panting like a dog. 

You make a show of dipping your fingers into your soaked cunt, rolling your eyes back and arching a little as you moan, sweet and soft.

“Baby, please,” Satoru croaks out, wriggling in his ropes a little. 

“What, Satoru?” you tease, the sound of his begging sending heat straight to the growing bubble of pleasure in your gut.

“Can I have a taste?”

You grin devilishly as you pull your fingers from your dripping hole. Rising to your knees, your arm snakes behind his head, your hand settling on the back of his neck. The other hand, with your fingers covered in your nectar, hovers by his puffy lips. 

“Open for me,” you say, voice low and, without meaning it to be, sultry. 

Satoru’s mouth drops without a shred of hesitation. Your fingers sit on his tongue, your eyes locked with his as you say the word, “close.” 

He does, and then he’s drinking in the flavour, suckling on your fingers as though they’re an oasis and he’s been in the desert for his entire life. 

How you wish you could savour the image of his eyes as you push your fingers further into his mouth. White lashes flutter and tears well up, threatening to spill over his lash line, your grip on the back of his neck tightening as your fingers sink deeper into his mouth. When they reach the back of his throat, he mewls softly, swallowing around your digits.

“Such a good boy,” you say. Saliva webs cling to your fingertips as you withdraw them from Satoru’s lips slowly. “Now why don’t you eat my pussy like the good boy you are?”

“Please, please, let me,” he practically garbles, drooling and slobbering at just the prospect. 

You lay back, opening your legs so invitingly for him once again that he nearly lurches forward this time–that’s his place, after all, his home. Between your thighs. 

As you grasp the centre knot once more, Satoru allows himself to fall forward, diving straight into your cunt. 

He makes no effort to tease, or take his time. He’s hungry, and having his hands bound behind his back makes his face grow hot with pure frustration. He needs to feel your soft, velvety walls clench around his fingers. Craves it, in fact. 

Then his tongue runs up and down your folds, lapping at the sweetness that spills from you, and his mind floods with the single desire to make you cum with his mouth. 

Both of your hands fly to his head, weaving into the roots of his snow-white hair as moans start to fall from your lips. Your thighs tighten around his head when he latches onto your clit, swollen from neglect and aching to be touched. 

It only takes a few seconds before your belly starts to fill with a pulsing warmth that has you keening for more. As Satoru slurps at your cunt, your hips rut against his face in tandem. You’re selfish, shamelessly so, allowing yourself to indulge as Satoru always does with you. Something gleams in his eyes when you catch them with yours– bliss, thrill. His head is swimming, pure liquid, as the thought of you using him purely for your own selfish pleasure sinks in and makes his dick grow hard all over again. 

Over the lewd, wet noises of Satoru’s tongue flicking and suckling at your clit, your sweet, airy moans harmonise with his own grunted ones, muffled slightly by your pussy, but they’re still so loud. His voice vibrates against your core, and it sends pangs of bliss shooting straight to your gut. 

The sight of his huge, hulking body, bound and bent over, is breathtaking. Thick thighs keep his body from collapsing to the bed. If it were you, your abdomen would have long given out. Yet he stays upright, his head between your legs, his mouth never once faltering in the way it ravages your pussy. 

“Satoru- fuck,” you whimper, pressing your hips up into his mouth, your greed fuelled by the way he moans in reply and licks at you without any mercy. 

Spit and arousal pools on the sheets beneath your ass. Satoru comes up for air for half of a second, his cheeks and chin shining with your saccharine essence. The pure mess–the carnage of it all makes your head spin. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, and in the blink of an eye he’s flattening his tongue against your clit once more. 

Your head sinks further into the pillow beneath you as you claw at his scalp and press his face closer into you. He’s ravaging you now, drunk on the sight of you being torn away from sanity as you near your climax.

Then, with nothing but your whimpered warning, that pulsing warmth in your belly erupts, washing over your entire body in a violent wave. Your muscles tighten, your mind numb from the overwhelming bliss, and Satoru wishes he could devour you whole. 

He waits until you tap at his shoulder to sit back on his shins with a smirk tugging at his lips and slick dripping down his jaw. Your legs tremble as you rise to your knees and shuffle closer to him, heartbeat still thudding in your ears as you crane your neck up to his face. Your lips are so messy against his, yet your kiss is so tender and full of affection when you wrap your arms around his neck. 

Between your legs, Satoru’s erection grazes against your thighs. You giggle into his mouth, and there’s a smack when you pull your lips from his. 

“So needy, aren’t you, Satoru? You like eating pussy that much?” you tease, reaching between him and you to stroke at his length. He gasps when your hand wraps around him, twitching into your palm.

“You know I do, baby, love your pussy so much,” he says, breathy and rasped. His jaw strains when you scratch at his undercut and bite your lip, your eyes no doubt glinting with mischief. 

“Then get on your back and I’ll let you fuck it,” you tell him. 

He throws himself to the mattress comically fast, inching up the bed, laying there, all wrapped up and patient for you. 

You giggle as you throw one of your legs over his waist and straddle him, bringing your hands down to his chest. Slowly, your palms run over each ridge and knot once more. Satoru revels in the brush of your flesh over his, in between rows of rope where his caged skin blushes. It glitters, too, with a sheen of sweat that matches yours. 

“You look beautiful like this,” you tell him, reaching up to stroke your thumb over his warm cheek, looking straight into the oceans of his irises as you say the words. 

His features turn soft, flashing with so much affection that it makes your heart soar. 

Taking his cock in your hand, you love the way he shivers as you drag the head through your dripping wet folds. Then, unable to hold out even a second longer, you line him up with your entrance and let him plunge inside of you. Both of you hiss in tandem, you sinking down on him, taking every last inch all at once. 

Satoru is already whimpering as you seat yourself on him, your hips flush to his. Your eyes roll back into your head, the delicious stretch of his cock making your brain turn fuzzy. 

The first bounce of your hips has him nearly crying. As though he’s been punched in the gut, Satoru gasps at the way you squeeze around his achingly hard, overstimulated cock. He feels every crevice of your walls, how the soft warmth sucks him in so sweetly that the ceiling above him starts spinning even though barely a minute has passed.

“Satoru,” you giggle, not caring that you fail to hide the breathlessness in your own voice from the sensation of being speared on his fat cock. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were a virgin.”

His dick twitches and his eyes grow round, his mouth dropping as you start to move in a steady rhythm. “I-it’s too good, I- fuck.”

“It’s too good?” you tease, dropping down on him a little harder now. Your hands wander along the patterns of rope absentmindedly, toying with him. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna cum already.”

“‘m not, I promise,” he whimpers, sucking in a trembled breath, his gaze fixing on your face. 

“Good boy,” you say. Then, you abandon all mercy. 

Fucking yourself back onto him, you let a chorus of shameless moans spill from your lips, feeling every ridge and vein of his cock rub against your walls. Satoru is even noisier, struggling to contain his high-pitched whines and whimpered moans as he struggles against his restraints. 

Your fingers curl around a knot on Satoru’s abdomen for balance. The way you move your hips is relentless, the skin of your ass smacking against his thighs, wet and sticky with sweat and arousal. Utterly lewd.

Satoru’s cock pounds against your sweet spot effortlessly each time you bounce in his lap. Brushes against your cervix when you lean forward just a little. It makes your eyes roll, the way he’s carved himself out inside you after all these years, the way your cunt moulds itself around him and clings to him so perfectly.

He looks so sweet beneath you. Taking everything you give him. His jaw is slack, his hair a tousled mess. His eyes are blown out, with nothing but dazed bliss behind them. His skin– hot pink and dewy. You’ve never seen him like this. So dishevelled. So ruined. And in the deepest corners of your brain, something has been altered. Something that makes you yearn for more of him just like this. 

It’s almost subconscious the way your hand traces up Satoru’s hard abdomen and sits on his neck. He shivers at the touch, his gaze flickering with something dark, before your fingers start to press softly into the sides of his neck. Ever so slowly, his moans turn to strained breaths. For a fleeting moment, the corners of his lips even quirk upwards.

What a slut.

You bend forward, your flesh warm against his ropes, your clothed tits pressed to his chest. Your lips slot against his, sloppy, your love spilling into him as you kiss him hard. Inside you, he throbs, just as a pulsing heat bubbles inside you from the constant friction of his cock brushing your sensitive spot. 

You pull away from his face, gazing into his irises to watch him slowly unravel. To let him watch the way you’re slowly starting to fall apart, too. You’re growing closer to your edge by the minute, refusing to falter your rocking hips despite how your thighs are trembling and starting to ache. Despite how pinches of pleasure run through your veins and make your head heavy.

When you gently loosen your fingers around Satoru’s throat, his chest blooms up against you as he gulps down the oxygen you’ve deprived him of.

“My little slut,” you whisper into his lips, pressing a quick kiss to them before straightening your back and pushing yourself upright. Suddenly, the urge to make both him and yourself cum is detrimental. 

One of your hands grips your tit over your bustier, squeezing at your own mound until your head falls back and you sigh. Your other hand travels between your legs, and you jump when your fingers find your swollen, sensitive bud. Still, the bliss that shoots straight to your core as you start to rub rapid circles into it has you moaning– loud.

From the sight alone, Satoru’s hips start to buck wildly up into you. His moans become never-ending, his cock jumping, balls tightening like they’re ready to be drained. 

“Fucking- gonna cum, can I? Please?” he huffs, squirming helplessly. You’re just impressed he still remembered to ask for your permission.

“Yes, Satoru, cum for me. Fill me up,” you tell him, breathless as you ride him with determination, clenching around him like you’re going to milk him– and you are milking him.

Satoru’s cumming, his back arching into the air as he sobs out, almost like he’s in pain. Your walls turn white, streaked with seed as his cock pumps you full. 

Still your hand works your clit relentlessly, your other hand flying to Satoru’s abdomen to steady yourself because before long your own orgasm hurtles towards you. Deep in your gut, the bubbling heat finally boils over, sending searing pleasure to your very fingertips. Satoru moans in unison with you as stars dance in your vision and your pussy tightens around him like a grip. 

A moment later, once you’ve come back down from your high, Satoru’s voice comes out in a rasp. “Let me see it.”

You lean backwards, bracing yourself on his thighs so you can lift yourself up off of him, letting his cock slip out and watching his sticky cum follow. It drools out of your hole so obscenely that you almost want to hide your face, until you remember that it’s your husband who’s staring at you. 

When the sheets are stained with every last drop that Satoru had emptied inside you, you collapse forward, heaving as you collect your breath. All at once, your aching thighs, your fatigued muscles, and your fuzzy head hit you like a punch to the face. The side of your face is pressed to Satoru’s plump chest, where his heart pounds against his ribcage so hard that you hear the way it races. 

“Did so good, baby,” you hum. Sleep calls you, wrapping its tendrils around you, but you fight it off in favour of clambering off of his lap. Something in your mind urges you to be gentle with him, like he’s glass– even though he’s anything but. Still– the blissed out, empty look in his eyes almost makes you sob. “Doing okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies, chuckling softly like he knows it’s exactly what you need to hear. 

“Can I undo the rope?” you offer, running a hand through his mussed up hair.

“No need,” is all he says. He sits up, stretches his arms to the sides, and the rope splits, falling off of his body in a crimson heap on the bed sheets.

You shouldn’t be this surprised; still, your mouth hangs from your husband’s display. Somehow it’s easy to forget just how strong he is until he reminds you once more. However, the ropes have also left their own reminder in snake-like imprints in his skin.

“You know, I was gonna offer to rub lotion on you, but apparently you don’t need it,” you huff. It’s not like he can’t just use Reverse Cursed Technique to heal himself, anyway. “Also, what if I wanted to use those ropes again?”

Satoru’s hand glides softly over your thigh, his face genuinely apologetic. “We can always get more, baby. And by the way, you were really good at that, you know.”

“You think so?” you question, leaning into him. “So, you’ll let me do it again, right?”

“Well, I didn’t say that.”

His words are void of any genuine objection. 

We’ll see about that.

to my wonderful beta reader @tetsutits <3 reblogs and feedback are much appreciated!

[toaarcan]

As the dust settles on Downfall, I think I remain pretty much where I was before in terms of Ludinus' plan and whether it's justified.

(It's not)

Aeor pointed a gun at the gods, and the Prime Deities' overall first goal was not to retaliate with equal force, but to disarm them. They tried to protect themselves without killing everyone on Aeor, even as every step they took through the city's streets showed it to be a hellscape that killed the faithful for no other reason than said faith. Because they saw the bright side of it, the innocents that lived there. They looked at a city that hanged their followers for believing in them, built an ornate fucking gallows to do it with, and still wanted to spare it.

They did their level best to save everyone they could. Only three people in the whole city knew how to make the Factorum Malleus. Remove those three and destroy the weapon and all knowledge of it, and the problem is solved.

And then a human wizard beamed the knowledge of the Malleus into the brain of every other wizard in the city.

It was Selena that doomed Aeor, turning a defeat into devastation. They had already lost, the gods breached their defences, revealed the location of the city to Kord and Bahamut, easily made their way to the Genesis Ward, destroyed all of the major divine wards and most of the minor ones, and killed most of the defenders.

In that one moment, it looked like the Primes would get what they wanted: Safety for themselves, while still managing to spare Aeor.

And then that one last Wish spell destroyed the hope the Primes had, and forced their hand. The only way they could ever be safe was to smash Aeor into the ground before anyone with fresh knowledge of how to build a second Factorum Malleus could get off it.

As for Aeor's side of things... look, if you build an Instant Genocide Gun, and put it in the core of a flying population centre, you don't get to complain if the people you want to wipe from existence turn up to swat you out of the sky in self-defence.

Like bruh, what were the gods supposed to do? Sit there and let the Malleus go off?

[colourstreakgryffin]

Heyheyyy!!! I saw you right for for, if I may van I request for Poseidon, Apollo and hades? Dokusha is like a straight up asshole and is mean to everyone lol. Uhhmm Idk if u still write yandere,but if ur not comfy w that just normal ror than:) thank you, have a great day!!!🫶🩷

I’ll write Yandere if you like! I’d love to! I assume we’re a God so let’s go with that! No problem, we’re basically like Poseidon except maybe worse! Thank you, I have been wanting to write for more Record of Ragnarok for a while now! Hope we get more of the manga and I also hope to get a request for Nikola. I love Nikola Tesla in this series 🥰

Poseidon

Poseidon despises your attitude. You’re disrespectful, you’re rude, you’re agitative, you’re catty… yet, he is so fascinated by who you are, even if you drive him up the wall by daring to berate him. The God of Gods, the King of the Seas and the man far above you, just a puny God/Goddess… he needs more of you and gets obsessed over it

Poseidon did just meet you and he has an uncontrollable obsession he didn’t know where it came from but he’s now addicted to it. You’re a desirable yet infuriating force; he wants you, he wants to shape you, he wants to mold you into a perfect lover, he wants to form you the greatest ruler of the Sea besides him

Poseidon, unlike his brother and nephew, will force what he wants on you very aggressively and he is the much more toxic Yandere lover. Kick and insult him all you want, you won’t get away from him and you won’t win whatsoever. You can be as much of an asshole as you want, he’s an asshole too. You can’t escape

Poseidon can actually handle your own hyper-hatefulness well… by using his own immense raw strength, using his authority as a Supreme God. Keep kicking against him as he drags you back to the room he labelled as yours, he’ll make sure you can’t speak for the whole night

Poseidon is obsessed to the point he will make you his wife/husband/spouse right away, like the moment he gets his hands on you and he often uses his marine beings to invoke constant surveillance on you. He doesn’t care what he has to do, he’ll get you and he’ll be able to smell your beautiful hair and he’ll have what he wants. YOU

Poseidon is a very possessive Yandere, he gives you orders and rules, and he suspects you to obey them. Do not and he’ll punish you for daring to disobey him in a rather… unfavourable way, the only man who’ll tolerate your utterlyunattractive bitchiness. Do as he says, he’ll praise and reward you. More food, more luxury, not a day in the semi-flooded cellar

Poseidon will absolutely kill every soul who just looks in your direction in the most violent manner possible. Do you think he has morality? None in the slightest. If you see him make eye contact with somebody, suspect him to spill their guts all over the floor. As divine punishment for tainting you with their filth called a existence

Poseidon is the embodiment of a very strict stern hyper violent Yandere, who gives you brutal punishments as to ‘fix you’ and isolates you from everybody, yet loves you infinitely

Apollo

Apollo is a lot less aggressive, more eccentric and protective! He knows you’re so rude and you’re such a prick, you have almost no likability but you’re absolutely beautiful, so exotic, so sexy. He wants you, and he doesn’t have much boundaries so he wont take a no. He always gets what he wants, he is the most beautiful powerful desirable God in the Greek Pantheon!

Apollo did just meet you a few days ago, you’re one of the few people that did not bend to his pure existence and fall for him. You were quite harsh and sharp, shocking him and that feeling… he is already hooked on it and he wants more. He’ll get more of you, rather you want it or not

Apollo does force you into things and he won’t even bother to tell you about what’s going on. He is quite narcissistic so his new-formed passionate obsessive love for you is mixing with his own self-centred mindset that he always weaves you into his choices, making you do as he wants

Apollo dislikes your attitude, it’s not regal or beautiful! He tries to fix your attitude so you’ll be even the more beautiful than you currently are. Even with your attitude, he’ll fight for your honour and he will not let anybody talk smack about you. He will enforce respect, even when you constantly disrespect everybody

Apollo may not be as violent and murderous as Poseidon but he isn’t as lenient as Hades. He will kill for you if absolutely needed and he enforces his superior position as the God of the Sun to ensure nobody will ever try take you away from him. You are his, you are his pet, you have his name marked across your heart!

Apollo is very clingy and affectionate, he follows you around all the time. He barely gives you time alone nor does he back down at your yelling and berating. He won’t leave you to be vulnerable! You need him to clean your back, you need him to escort you across Valhalla! Stop fighting him, he’s only here for you and your own good

Yes! Apollo has you meet his beloved older twin sister, Artemis and he wants you to bond with her since you mean as much to him as she does. He pushes Artemis to be patient with you and your snarky jadedness and since he is very tunnel-visioned, he believes you two are friends since you’re not trying to hurt her at all

Apollo is the hyperactive clingy affectionate needy Yandere, who unknowingly disrespects your wants and needs for his own wants. Though, loves you infinitely

Hades

Hades is singlehandedly the most caring and gentle Yandere of these three magnificent Gods that he rarely forces you into stuff with him without your input. He deeply cares for your wants and needs and thoughts, he asks you for your opinions yet he just brushes past your steely belligerent attitude, to give you the love you deserve

Hades truly didn’t care how rocky and honestly awful his first meeting with you, just a minor God/Goddess, was. He only cared about this rapid beating in his chest your presence granted and your razor sharp cruel tongue induced to his mind that it doesn’t go away… is he a masochist? He can’t be… but, he wouldn’t mind you looking at him again

Hades gets it. He’s the King of the Underworld, he is the greatest King in Greece history and he has everything a person like you could want and all the more so come on. Down to Helheim with him, where he’ll spoil you rotten and make you his King/Queen. You’ll enjoy your brand new home, he’ll make sure you do… yet, he’ll never realise him kidnapping you is wrong

Hades gives love language through his multitude of presents. All very pricey and very luxurious, all materialistic objects that show his passionate deep unhealthy love for you. Look at all the hard work he’s putting into giving you all this, despite the fact you’re ungrateful and always tick him off. He’ll excuse it all since he loves you, even if it means he has to give a slap or two as punishment

Hades has the infamous; ‘collects things you once owned’ trait. He collects absolutely every materials and items you have made contact with as to absorb your mark on them. That hairbrush, it’s yours but he feels the hair to smell it. That soap bottle, it’s yours but he uses the shampoo to feel connected to you. He has a shrine of you, it’s that bad

Hades is not touchy because he is shy, he is too shy to be affectionate to you in public where Apollo has no fear and Poseidon’s very professional. Surprising, yes but it’s true. He holds your hand, even as you pull away and he kisses it and possessively rambles about how perfect you are, flawed but it can be fixed. He just goes on and on, he’s obsessed

Hades is also the least violent amongst the three. He doesn’t fear to stand up to threats harming his beloved and he will absolutely raise his Bident and drag his romantic rivals or enemies down to Helhelm for him to torment them… he just does it sparingly, in order to protect your view on him. He doesn’t want to hurt you…

Hades is the most emotionally-in tune possessive obsessed Yandere who has built his new world centring you and constantly excusing your actions, since he loves you infinitely

[moist-for-xavier]

Why didn’t they arrive?

♡ summary: the trailblazers never came to Penacony (Sunday x ballet! gender neutral!reader)

♡ genre: smut, bit angst

♡ warnings: non-con/dub-con, mind control, size difference, SPOILERS FOR 2.2 MAIN QUEST

♡ word count:553

♡ a/n: I’m not entirely sure if I portrayed him correctly. But I’m still working on it

➽───────────────❥

The music flowed all around you as you danced in the Grand Theatre. The Harmonious Choir sung beautifully everywhere, from every corner of the theatre. Their divine voices were almost deafening, forcing themselves into your head and causing an uncomfortable colourful hallucination at the edges of your vision.

You moved en pointe with your arms above your head, your chest heaving. As a popular ballet dancer from the Iris Family, you were invited into the Charmony Festival program. You diligently practiced in the theatre under the watchful eye of Sunday himself. Sometimes he’d even come over to help you stretch or bring your leg closer to your torso during a penche. His lithe hands always traversing your body, pushing you closer together, not stopping even when you whine and cry out in pain. Even going as far as to push you further. Only for him to yank his hands back as if your flesh burnt him. He’d glance down at his hands and stomp off, leaving you crumbled on the floor in pain.

It felt strange dancing under such a large machine watching you. You knew Sunday was inside. You heard his voice, his disembodied voice calling from all around the Theatre about how beautiful you are. That your dance is neat and orderly just how he always imagined it. The Choir fell silent as you took a deep bow not in front of the benches where the audience was meant to be, but towards the large machine that has grown known as ‘Dominicus the Wisher of Harmonious Choir’ or just Dominicus. At first it was meant to be Robin, guiding the Harmonious Choir during the performances. But Sunday has taken up this position after Robin refused to serve the Order.

Dominicus reached out its hand to you, looking at you despite having no eyes.

“Come!”

Sunday’s composed voice boomed from everywhere around you, prompting you to shudder and climb up onto the enormous golden hand of the Harmonic String. You stumbled as it brought you up towards the unmoving alabaster lips of the mask the Dominicus had. You felt the stare of the Chordmaster on you, making you whimper in fear. You reached out your hands, touching the cold mask and reaching out to press a chaste kiss towards its lips. You thought this would be the end of it, until Sundays disembodied voice sighed in pleasure, making you jump back. The hallucinations around the edges of your vision got brighter, the pounding in your head more severe. You tried to jump off his hand despite the risk of death but your body wouldn’t move. It just stood there while the hand moved up towards the centre of Dominicus’ headpiece that opened up to reveal Sunday. His wings spread around his body and head, puffing up in arousal as he gazed upon your willing form.

“Come, my love. I can finally have you without your struggle…”

He smiled and outstretched his hand to you which you involuntarily grabbed and jumped across the gap into his arms. Your mind screamed and cried, your consciousness getting a beating from the mind control he’d been using. A single tear streaked down your cheek as he kissed you gently, his hand travelling up your thigh under your skirt.

Why didn’t the trailblazers arrive with their invite?

➽───────────────❥

♡ a/n: I’m inclined to write more for ballet!reader because I just love the idea. But lmk if I should or shouldn’t. I’ll write for almost anyone. Just request something. I’m out of ideas :,)

[estellan0vella]

Look For Me: H.HJ Hwang Hyunjin x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 14.5K

CW: Reader pushing herself, Minho and Jisung are bad friends at one point, Hyunjin talking like a poet (bc I firmly believe this man is a ROMANTIC) General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The dance studio pulses with energy, the bassline thumping through the sound system like a heartbeat. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the polished wooden floor, reflecting the faint sheen of sweat on your skin. You like the sharpness of it. The way it keeps you focused, stripping away distractions until it's just you and the music.

Your outfit is as much a statement as it is practical. Black yoga shorts hug your hips, a matching bandeau crop top leaves your midriff bare, and fishnets climb your legs, emphasizing their length with every step in your sleek black heels. The silver rings on your fingers catch the light as you adjust your cap, the coiled snake on your middle finger glinting like it has a life of its own.

From the corner of the room, Minho groans dramatically, sprawled on a precarious tower of mats like some lazy prince. His cherry-red hair looks like he's been running his hands through it, the undercut sharp and catching the light whenever he shifts.

"You know, Kappa Tau's throwing a fucking banger tonight. Gorgeous sorority girls everywhere, probably in those stupid glittery tops and mini skirts that ride up just enough. And here I am, sitting on my ass, watching you prance around."

You pause mid-stretch, your hands resting on your hips as you arch an unimpressed brow at him. "Prance?" you echo, your voice sweet but sharp as a whip. "This is art, Minho. A performance. And no one asked you to stay."

"Christ," Jisung mutters, slouched beside him with his oversized iced americano. His dark hair flops into his eyes as he nudges Minho's ribs with a sharp elbow. "She's got the showcase coming up, you dick. Ever heard of being supportive?"

Minho rolls his eyes, throwing his arms out wide in a mock display of virtue. "Supportive? That's me. Mr. Fucking Supportive. Someone print it on a badge."

You tilt your head at him, lips curving into a smile that's all teasing softness, your tone sugary sweet. "You're here, aren't you? That's more support than I expected."

Minho groans and flops back dramatically. "Fuck off. Both of you."

The opening chords of Dirty Diana ripple through the speakers, low and seductive, and you stride to the centre of the floor like you own the room. Your steps are deliberate, the click of your heels sharp against the floor. You pause there for a beat, letting the music seep into your bones, before rolling your shoulders and starting to move.

Every motion is precise, fluid, calculated. When you twist your hips, the fishnets catch the light, and when you step, it's with the kind of confidence that could break hearts.

"Holy shit," Jisung breathes, sitting up straighter. "Okay, yeah. You're killing it."

You spin on your heel, perfectly on beat, and as you glide by, Jisung stretches out his arm, holding your iced latte like it's some kind of peace offering. "Sip?" he asks, grinning like a kid.

Without breaking stride, you lean forward, the straw meeting your lips. The sip is quick, your eyes catching his as you pull away, and then you spin off again, your hair brushing your shoulders. Jisung whoops so loudly it echoes.

"Jesus fuck," Minho mutters, propping himself up on his elbows. "Can't believe I'm fucking sober for this shit."

"You're welcome to leave," you throw over your shoulder, arching a brow as you twist your torso in a smooth, deliberate stretch. Your silver hoops catch the light when you lean to the side, and Minho's gaze follows the motion before he snaps out of it.

"Nah, someone's gotta make sure you don't break your neck in those ridiculous shoes. Purely a safety measure."

You smirk, dropping into a deep stretch to touch your toes. The pull feels divine, your muscles warm and pliant. "You're a goddamn saint, Minho."

"You're goddamn right I am," he deadpans, making Jisung choke on his coffee.

As you rise, Jisung gestures at you with his cup. "Hey, seriously though. What's with the switch-up? You're usually all bubblegum pop and shit. Now it's, like..." He waves vaguely at the speakers. "Stripper territory."

"Range, Ji," you reply, smoothing your top. "I need range."

"Range, huh?" He snorts, slouching back against the mats. "What's next? A fucking waltz in stripper heels?"

"Maybe. Gotta keep you guessing."

The routine picks up again, this time with more intensity. You drop to the floor at the build, your knees sliding smoothly against the wood. When the beat hits, you spread your legs, arching your back as your head tips back, the movement fluid and hypnotic. Your hand trails slowly down your body before you twist and rise, heels clicking as you transition into the next move.

Jisung lets out a low whistle, muttering, "Holy fucking shit."

"Fucking hell," Minho echoes, blinking like he's trying to recalibrate.

You ignore them, the music consuming you completely. When the song fades and you're left panting, hair sticking to your damp skin, Jisung and Minho break into loud, raucous applause.

"You should seriously consider stripping," Minho says, pushing himself upright and grabbing his water bottle. His grin is sharp and teasing. "You'd make so much goddamn money."

You shrug casually, wiping the sweat from your brow. "Maybe I will."

Minho nearly spits his water. "Fuck, I was kidding."

You flash him a smile. "Relax. So was I."

Jisung grins, swirling the ice in his cup. "Hey, you should add a crawl in there somewhere."

You glance at him, one brow lifting. "A crawl?"

"Yeah," he says, miming the motion poorly. "Sex appeal and all that."

"He's not wrong," Minho adds, deadpan. "Sex sells, sweetheart."

You hum thoughtfully, leaning down to snag your latte. The movement is slow, deliberate, and when you rise, you flick a teasing glance at both of them. "Noted."

The music kicks in again, and you lose yourself once more. Minho and Jisung stay sprawled on the sidelines, alternating between hyping you up and throwing in unsolicited commentary. You can't help the laugh that escapes you mid-routine when Minho yells, "Fucking nailed it!" as you drop into a split.

When the song finally ends, you're breathless and flushed, the room echoing with the sound of your panting and their whistles.

"Shit, you're gonna destroy at the showcase," Minho says, softer this time, his grin lopsided but genuine.

Jisung raises his coffee in a mock toast. "To our star. Just don't forget us little people when you're famous."

You smile, sweet and sincere, as you gather your things. "Never," you promise. "You're stuck with me."

The three of you linger in the studio, the air warm with laughter and bass, none of you in any rush to leave. This is your time, your sanctuary. And with them beside you, it's perfect.

The Alpha Phi frat house is chaos, as always. The faint hum of a game console buzzes from the corner of the living room, punctuated by the sound of Felix yelling, "What the fuck, Changbin?!" as Changbin's character delivers a devastating blow.

Felix is half-sitting, half-sprawled on the floor, his legs stretched out like a kid while Changbin perches on the edge of the couch, laser-focused, the controller a deadly weapon in his hands.

Across the room, Chan lounges on the couch, one foot propped up on the coffee table, earbuds jammed in as he scrolls through his phone. His lips move faintly like he's mumbling lyrics under his breath, probably tweaking music tracks for the millionth time.

Seungmin leans against the arm of an old recliner that's seen far too many frat house disasters, flipping through a thick textbook with his trademark scowl. He looks vaguely disgusted, though it's unclear whether it's because of the content or the sheer existence of the people around him.

And then there's Hyunjin. He's planted right in the middle of the floor like a dramatic artist in his natural habitat, cross-legged with a massive sketchbook balanced on his lap. A pencil twirls between his long fingers, tapping rhythmically against the blank page. His dark hair falls into his face in perfectly messy strands, like it always does, because the bastard can't look not good even when he's pissed off.

"Fuck," Hyunjin mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. The strands fall back in place like it's their life's mission. His head tilts back dramatically, eyes on the ceiling like it holds the answers to all his problems.

"Creative block?" Chan doesn't even look up, one earbud still in as he scrolls.

Hyunjin shoots him a murderous glare. "What gave it away, Sherlock?"

"The way you're sitting there like a kicked puppy," Seungmin supplies dryly, not bothering to look up from his book.

Hyunjin groans and collapses backward, sprawling out on the carpet like he's been struck down by some divine force. "I'm fucked. I have this fucking project about passion and I've got nothing. I'm literally a failure."

"Finally, some self-awareness," Minho says, breezing into the room with Jisung on his heels. He's holding a mug that probably contains three parts coffee and one part his own bullshit, and Jisung, as always, has a bag of chips open and already half-empty.

Hyunjin flips him off from his spot on the floor. "I'm being serious, you dick."

"Yeah, and I'm seriously saying this is the funniest thing I've seen all week," Minho replies, taking a sip of his coffee and smirking over the rim. "The tortured artist act is so fucking predictable."

Hyunjin props himself up on one elbow, glaring. "I need something raw. Something fucking real. Everything I've done so far looks like it was churned out by some art bot."

"Sounds like a you problem," Jisung quips, flopping onto the couch beside Chan and immediately tossing a chip into his mouth. "But hey, Minho and I might have a solution."

Minho raises an eyebrow at him. "Do we?"

"Yeah." Jisung grins, leaning forward like he's about to drop the hottest gossip of the year. "Y/N."

Hyunjin frowns, his pencil freezing mid-tap. "Who the fuck is Y/N?"

"Our friend," Minho says, rolling his eyes like Hyunjin's an idiot for not knowing. "She's a dancer. She's working on this routine for the college showcase, and it's, like, fucking insane."

"Dancer?" Changbin finally swivels his chair around, abandoning the game as Felix yells, "Don't pause mid-fight, you asshole!"

"Hot as fuck," Jisung clarifies, ignoring Felix. "She's doing Dirty Diana."

Felix whistles low. "And you're introducing her to Hyunjin? Bold move."

"Why the fuck is that a bold move?" Hyunjin demands, sitting up straighter. He looks vaguely offended.

"Because you're Hwang Whore Hyunjin," Felix says, deadpan. "Like, it's your brand."

"Fuck you!" Hyunjin throws a pillow at him, which Felix dodges easily. "I'm not a fucking whore."

"Sure," Seungmin mutters, finally looking up from his book. "And the earth is flat."

Minho crosses his arms and leans against the back of the couch. "Look, if introducing him to Y/N gets him to stop stealing my half-eaten apples to sketch them, I'm willing to make the sacrifice."

"You're such a dick," Hyunjin mutters.

"And you are a fucking menace," Jisung retorts, tossing a chip at him. "Remember when you made me hold an Oreo ice cream sandwich for, like, fifteen minutes while you got the perfect angle?"

"The vision was worth it," Hyunjin insists, his tone defensive.

"No, it fucking wasn't," Jisung says, glaring. "That shit melted in my hand, and you didn't even use the sketch!"

Minho sighs dramatically. "Anyway, Y/N's our peace offering. Take her. Get inspired. Just don't ruin her."

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, mock-offended. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," Minho says. "No flirting. No fucking around."

"Why the hell would I flirt with her?" Hyunjin shoots back, sounding genuinely indignant.

Minho just snorts. "Because you flirt with everyone, Hyunjin. You can't help yourself. It's pathological."

"True," Seungmin mutters, flipping a page. "It's exhausting."

Hyunjin throws up his hands. "You guys are such dicks. I'm literally trying to work here."

"And you're gonna work when you see Y/N dance tomorrow," Jisung says smugly, his grin widening. "Minho's right, it's fucking hot. Her costume is, like, Rocky Horror Picture Show meets Moulin Rouge."

"Christ," Felix mutters, leaning back against the couch. "You guys are walking her into the lion's den."

"Shut up," Hyunjin snaps, though there's a flicker of interest in his eyes as he taps his pencil against the edge of the sketchbook. "I'll go. I'll see her. But I'm not promising anything."

"Just keep your dick out of it," Minho says bluntly, taking another sip of his coffee.

"Scout's honour," Hyunjin replies, raising one hand.

"You weren't a fucking scout," Chan says, finally looking up from his phone.

Hyunjin smirks. "Details."

Jisung shakes his head, muttering, "We're all gonna regret this."

"Probably," Minho agrees, but his grin says he's ready for the disaster. "But hey, at least I'll get to eat my apple in peace."

The dance studio is quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the faint squeak of your stilettos on the polished wooden floor as you stretch. You bend forward, fingers brushing your toes, the pull in your muscles warm and satisfying after your light warm-up. The fluorescent lights above gleam off the mirrors that line the walls, casting your reflection back at you: a bold, commanding figure. 

The halter-style leather corset clings to you like a second skin, laces tight across your torso. The black gloves on your hands shimmer under the light, tiny embellishments catching flashes like sparks.

Your hotpants are short enough to make you raise a brow the first time you tried them on, and the garters attached to them stretch taut over your fishnet-clad thighs, disappearing into the tops of your heeled boots. It's a look designed to demand attention, but you're not thinking about that right now. You're focused, calm, working your muscles loose.

The sound of the door creaking open cuts through the silence, followed by Minho's voice. "You better not be dead in here, Y/N."

"And if she is," Jisung adds, his tone entirely unserious, "I'm not cleaning it up. That's Minho's job."

A small smile tugs at your lips as you glance at them in the mirror. "Still alive, thanks for the concern." You stay in your stretch, head upside down, watching their reflections as they step into the room.

Jisung's carrying a bag of chips and he's already grinning like he knows he's about to start shit. "Oh, by the way, we brought a friend. Y/N, meet Hyunjin."

You tilt your head, curious, and peer between your legs. Your hair falls forward, creating a curtain around your face, but you can still see him.

The new guy standing just inside the doorway is tall, lean, with sharp, elegant features that could probably make someone's knees weak if he so much as glanced their way. His long black hair falls past his shoulders in glossy waves, and his eyes, dark, intense, and slightly wide with surprise, are locked on you.

"Hello," you greet, cheerful but with a hint of amusement at the fact that he's still staring.

Hyunjin blinks, startled, and looks away so fast you almost laugh. "Uh, hi," he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You're looking at her through her fucking legs," Jisung points out gleefully, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. "What a gentleman."

Straightening up, you roll your shoulders, the soft leather of your corset creaking slightly with the motion. "Don't mind them," you say to Hyunjin, your voice calm and soothing, though there's laughter in your eyes. "They're always like this."

"Good to know," Hyunjin replies, his lips twitching into a small, hesitant smile. He shifts his weight, his sketchbook tucked under one arm, as if unsure where he's supposed to stand.

"Wait a fucking second," Jisung says, holding up a hand dramatically like he's just noticed something life-altering. His eyes dart over your outfit, widening. "That's what you're wearing for the showcase?"

"Is that a problem?" you ask, brushing your gloved hands over the front of your corset, smoothing invisible creases. "I'm not wearing the feather headpiece or the boa yet, but yeah. What do you think?"

"What do I think?" Minho practically chokes, gesturing wildly at your ensemble like it's a personal affront. "I think you need a goddamn blanket. Holy fuck, Y/N. Jesus fucking Christ."

"And a full-body censor," Jisung adds, nodding gravely as his gaze drops to your legs. "This is why you got that bikini wax last week, isn't it?"

You nod, entirely unbothered, as you twist slightly, stretching your spine. "Mhm. Had to. The outfit doesn't leave much to the imagination."

"Doesn't leave anything to the imagination," Minho sputters, throwing up his hands. "You can't wear that!"

"Why not?" you ask, tilting your head. There's a faint teasing lilt to your voice, but you're genuinely curious.

"Because- because-" Minho stammers, gesturing at you with such exasperation he looks like he might combust. "It's fucking indecent!"

"You look too hot," Jisung blurts out, his voice half a groan. "Do you have any fucking clue how many people are going to be watching you? Guys are gonna lose their minds."

"That's kind of the point," you reply. "It's a performance. I'm supposed to grab their attention."

"Well, you're grabbing something, all right," Jisung mutters, rubbing at his temples as if he's suddenly developed a headache. "Holy shit, this is a fucking hazard."

Hyunjin clears his throat, and for the first time since entering, his voice cuts through the noise. "It's bold." He steps further into the room, his eyes scanning you with an intensity that's equal parts artist and something else entirely. "It fits the song. Definitely makes a statement."

You blink, slightly surprised by the evenness in his voice. "You think so?"

Hyunjin nods, his expression serious as he looks you over like you're a painting he's trying to dissect. "Yeah. It's provocative, but not trashy. It's striking. It suits you."

Your cheeks flush slightly at the unexpected compliment, but you smile anyway, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "Thanks. That's exactly what I was going for."

"Don't fucking start," Minho groans, pointing a finger at Hyunjin. "Do not flirt with her. We're barely ten minutes into this."

"Relax," Hyunjin says, a smirk curling his lips. "I'm just making an observation."

"You'd better keep it that way," Jisung warns, his tone sharp. "This is sacred fucking ground, man. Don't ruin it."

Hyunjin raises his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk only deepens. "Scout's honor."

"You were never a fucking scout," Minho snaps, and Hyunjin shrugs, unapologetic.

You laugh softly, the tension breaking under the sound. "It's fine, guys. He can stay. I'd actually like to hear what an artist thinks of my routine."

"Oh, you'll hear it," Jisung mutters darkly. "He never shuts the fuck up."

"I'll behave," Hyunjin promises, though the glint in his eyes says otherwise. "Swear on my sketchbook."

"God help us," Minho mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "Fine. But if he gets weird, Y/N, we're kicking him out."

You smile at their antics, amused, and gesture toward the mirrors. "All right, sit down and let me know what you think."

As they settle into a corner, the buzz of conversation fades into a soft hum. You move to the centre of the room, the feel of the polished floor under your heels grounding you. The air feels different now, electric, like a storm brewing. You inhale deeply, rolling your shoulders as the music starts, and then you lose yourself in the rhythm.

The Alpha Phi living room is its usual chaotic self, a swirling mess of noise and energy. Jeongin is sprawled on the couch like a cat, scrolling through his phone while his sketchbook sits abandoned on the coffee table.

Felix lies on the floor, headphones dangling from one ear as he messes with his laptop. The faint smell of someone's cologne clings to the air, mixing with the scent of coffee, chips, and something burnt. Probably whatever disaster Changbin left in the kitchen earlier.

At the far end of the couch, Hyunjin sits perched like some brooding artist prince. His long legs are folded under him, and his sketchbook rests on his lap. He's uncharacteristically focused, head bent over the page, the faint sound of his pencil scratching across paper punctuating the room's chaos. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line of concentration, and the muscles in his forearm flex subtly as he shades and reworks the lines.

Jeongin looks up from his phone, his curiosity piqued by Hyunjin's intense focus. He leans forward, craning his neck to peer over Hyunjin's shoulder. A second later, his eyes widen, and a slow, shit-eating grin spreads across his face.

"Hyunjin," Jeongin starts, his voice cutting through the room like a knife. "Why the fuck are you drawing a girl spreading her legs?"

The chaos screeches to a halt. Felix pulls out his remaining earbud, glancing over, and Changbin, who's been lounging in the recliner like he owns the place, sits up straight. Seungmin sighs audibly, muttering something about how living with idiots is ruining his brain cells.

Hyunjin doesn't even look up, his pencil moving smoothly across the page. "It's Y/N," he says, his tone casual, as if he's commenting on the weather. He tilts his head, adding a delicate line of shading. "It's part of her routine."

Jeongin's jaw drops. "What the fuck?!" He leans closer, unabashed now. "Ohhh, the Y/N. The dancer Minho and Jisung brought you to see. Holy shit, this is actually, wait, this is fucking good."

Now Felix is sitting up, his laptop abandoned. He scrambles over to see the sketch for himself and he whistles low when he catches a glimpse of the drawing. "Hyunjin, what the fuck. This is insane. You really nailed the, uh, energy."

"Energy," Jeongin echoes, snorting. "Yeah, that's one word for it."

Changbin finally drags himself off the recliner and ambles over, looming behind Hyunjin as he surveys the sketch. His eyes sweep over the drawing: your figure mid-move, legs extended, head tipped back in a pose that screams strength and sensuality. Hyunjin's lines are sharp but fluid, capturing the raw energy of your performance with a precision that feels alive.

"Damn," Changbin says, his voice low and impressed. "She's fucking hot."

"Excuse me?" Minho's voice cuts through the air like a whip as he strides into the room, a mug of coffee in hand. His cherry-red hair is a little messy, falling into his eyes as he fixes Changbin with a glare sharp enough to kill. "Not Y/N. Absolutely not. She's too good for you fucking degenerates."

Hyunjin glances up briefly, smirking. "Nice doesn't mean off-limits."

"It does when it comes to her," Minho snaps, slamming his mug down on the coffee table with enough force to make Felix flinch. "She's sweet and I'm not about to let you or any of these assholes ruin that."

Changbin raises his hands in mock surrender, though there's a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Relax, man. I'm not planning to do shit. I'm just saying-"

"Well, don't fucking say," Minho interrupts, pointing an accusing finger. "The last thing she needs is you cretins ogling her like she's a fucking dessert."

Felix smirks from his spot on the floor, leaning back on his hands. "To be fair, she's hot."

"Felix," Minho snaps, rounding on him. "You too? What the fuck is wrong with you people?"

"I'm just making an observation," Felix replies, holding up his hands. "Not my fault she's objectively attractive."

Seungmin sighs heavily, his voice dripping with disdain as he flips a page in his textbook. "This house is full of fucking animals."

Hyunjin finally sets his pencil down and turns to face the room, his expression calm but tinged with amusement. "You're all overreacting. I'm drawing her because she inspires me. That's it."

"Bull-fucking-shit," Jeongin mutters under his breath, only to yelp a second later when Minho smacks him upside the head.

"I'm serious," Hyunjin continues, ignoring the chaos. His voice takes on a more thoughtful tone. "Her routine- it's captivating. She has this way of moving. It's raw. It's like she's channelling something real, something... intense."

Minho narrows his eyes, leaning forward. "Hyunjin, I swear to fucking God, if you-"

"If I what?" Hyunjin interrupts, standing with a lazy stretch that makes Jeongin roll his eyes. "If I admire her talent? If I get inspired by her passion? What's the fucking crime here?"

"If you fuck it up," Minho says, his tone deadly serious. "She's not just some muse for your tortured artist bullshit. She's our friend. Don't fucking forget that."

Hyunjin's smirk falters slightly, and he holds his hands up in surrender. "I get it. I'm not an idiot."

"Debatable," Seungmin mutters under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Hyunjin.

"I'll behave," Hyunjin promises, his voice softer now. "She's different. I know that."

Minho studies him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. "Good. Keep it that way."

The tension eases slightly, the energy in the room shifting back into its usual chaos. Jeongin flops back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, Felix resumes fiddling with his laptop, and Changbin mutters something about everyone being way too sensitive as he retreats to his recliner.

Hyunjin picks up his sketchbook again, glancing down at the unfinished drawing of you. The lines of your pose are bold, commanding, and yet there's a softness to the way he's shaded your face. A flicker of something almost reverent.

"Different," he murmurs to himself, tapping his pencil against the page.

Yeah, you were different. And maybe that was the fucking problem.

The night air bites at Hyunjin's cheeks as he strides across campus, his sketchbook clutched tightly under his arm. Most of the students are heading in the opposite direction, their laughter and drunken shouts spilling out into the streets as they make their way to the Kappa Tau party.

Music thunders from open windows, bass vibrating through the air, but Hyunjin barely registers it. He knows Minho and Jisung are probably already there, doing something ridiculous, probably egging on a keg stand or starting an argument over God knows what, but he has other plans tonight.

The glow of the dance studio comes into view, spilling a warm golden light onto the pavement. Hyunjin pulls the door open, stepping into the familiar scent of polished wood, faint sweat, and the quiet hum of the air conditioning. It's like walking into another world, separate from the chaos of campus life, calm yet charged with potential.

You're already there, your black sneakers shuffling softly against the floor as you stretch. You're wearing black shorts and a cropped tank top, your hair loosely clipped up with stray strands falling around your face. The outfit is practical, sure, but there's something about it, about you, that catches Hyunjin off guard. You look effortless. Grounded. Like you belong here in a way no one else ever could.

The door shuts with a soft thud, and you glance up, catching his reflection in the mirror. A smile spreads across your lips, warm and genuine. "Hi, Hyunjin."

"Hey," he replies, his voice softer than he means it to be. He raises his sketchbook slightly, as if in explanation. "I was wondering if I could sit and sketch? Watching you dance makes it easier to get the details right."

You straighten, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as your smile widens. "Of course. Make yourself at home."

He settles onto a bench by the mirrors, tossing his bag to the side and flipping open his sketchbook. His pencil hovers over the page, poised and ready, but his gaze drifts to you as you turn back to the barre. You lift your leg in a slow, fluid motion, pressing it effortlessly toward your head.

The stretch elongates your body, your muscles moving with practised ease. There's something hypnotic about it, the way your motions are deliberate yet entirely natural.

"How long have you been dancing?" Hyunjin asks, his voice cutting through the quiet. His pencil starts to move, tracing the shape of your form.

You glance at him, thoughtful as you lower your leg and switch sides. "Since I was five. My mom put me in ballet classes, and I hated it at first. Like, really fucking hated it. But then, I don't know. Something just clicked. It stopped being this thing I had to do and became something I needed to do."

His pencil pauses for a moment, and he nods. "It shows. You're incredible."

You laugh softly, a light, airy sound that fills the room. "Thanks. That means a lot."

As you finish at the barre, you move to the centre of the room, rolling your shoulders and shaking out your limbs. Hyunjin watches as you start to move through your routine, your steps deliberate and sharp. Every spin, every lunge, every roll of your hips is purposeful, like you're pouring your entire soul into the choreography.

There's something raw about it, something almost vulnerable, and it grips him in a way he can't describe.

"You don't hold back," Hyunjin says, his voice laced with admiration as he sketches furiously. His pencil races across the page, trying to keep up with you.

"Why would I?" you reply, pausing mid-spin to glance at him. "If I'm not giving it everything, then what's the point?"

He hums in agreement, his lips curving into a small smile as his gaze flickers between you and his sketchbook. "Most people are scared to be that exposed. It's rare."

You turn back to your routine, a faint smile playing on your lips. "Dancing doesn't feel like exposing myself. It feels like telling a story. Like I'm showing people something they can't see otherwise."

Hyunjin's pencil halts mid-stroke. His gaze lifts to you, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes. "That's fucking beautiful."

The sincerity in his voice makes your cheeks warm, but you push past it, spinning into a series of pirouettes that ends with you dropping into a low lunge. The sound of your breathing fills the room, mingling with the soft scratch of his pencil against paper.

When you pause to grab your water bottle, he speaks again. "Do you ever get nervous? Performing, I mean."

"Every fucking time," you admit, wiping a bead of sweat from your temple. "But it's a good kind of nervous. It reminds me that I care. That it matters."

He nods slowly, his pencil moving again. "Yeah. I get that. It's the same with art sometimes. The nerves keep you grounded. Like, if you're not a little terrified, are you even fucking alive?"

You laugh, soft and genuine. "Exactly."

The next hour passes in a rhythm that feels oddly intimate. You dance, stretching, refining sections of your routine, and he sketches in near silence, the occasional question or comment slipping from his lips. The concentration on his face mirrors your own: brows furrowed, eyes sharp, hands moving as if guided by instinct.

Every now and then, you steal a glance at him, marvelling at the way his long fingers grip the pencil, the way his wrist moves so fluidly as he captures moments of your movement on paper.

Finally, you pause, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. Grabbing your towel, you walk over to him and lean down, tilting your head to get a look at his sketchbook. "Can I see?"

For a second, he hesitates, then flips the book around. Your eyes widen as you take in the drawing. A snapshot of you mid-spin, arms extended, hair fanned out like a halo. The lines are bold but fluid, each stroke capturing the energy and emotion of your movements. It's raw, dynamic, alive.

"Holy shit," you breathe, your voice hushed. "This is... amazing. You're so talented."

His cheeks flush pink, and he ducks his head slightly, a shy smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks. But honestly, it's easy to draw when the subject's this inspiring."

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you're not sure how to respond. Your chest feels warm, like the air between you has shifted. You tap the edge of his sketchbook lightly, smiling. "Well, I'm glad I could help."

"You've done more than that," he murmurs, his voice soft, almost too low to hear. His gaze meets yours, and there's something in his eyes. Something unspoken but heavy. It lingers there, filling the silence.

You clear your throat, breaking the moment with a small laugh. "All right. One more run-through, and then I'm calling it a night."

Hyunjin nods, settling back against the wall, pencil poised. "Take your time. I'm not in a fucking hurry."

As the music starts up again, you throw yourself into the choreography one last time, your body moving like it's connected to the beat. Hyunjin sketches furiously, his hand working almost faster than his mind can process. There's a feeling in his chest, a kind of ache he can't quite name. But as he watches you dance, he knows one thing for certain: you've become more than just a muse.

Over the next month, the dance studio transforms into a quiet sanctuary for the two of you. It becomes a rhythm. Unspoken, natural. Hyunjin shows up whenever he knows Minho and Jisung are too distracted by their latest frat house chaos to hover, sketchbook tucked securely under his arm. There's always the faint scent of graphite clinging to him, mingling with his cologne, something crisp and warm that lingers even after he's gone.

At first, his visits are clinical, purely about capturing your movement on paper. But slowly, without either of you acknowledging it, they shift into something else. The conversations get longer. The silences more comfortable. And tonight feels different somehow.

The studio is quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the barre as you stretch. Hyunjin sits cross-legged on the floor, his sketchbook balanced on his knees, but his pencil lies idle for once. He's watching you instead, his dark eyes tracing the shape of your body as you lean into a deep stretch.

There's something captivating about how natural you look, your hair swept up in a messy bun, loose strands curling against your neck, dressed simply in a black tank top and leggings. There's no stage, no spotlight. Just you, raw and unpolished.

"You're quiet tonight," you say softly, twisting your torso to stretch your sides. Your voice cuts through the stillness, gentle but curious. "What's on your mind?"

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair in that effortless way of his that makes it fall perfectly back into place. "Nothing," he replies after a beat. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous," you tease, settling onto the floor across from him. Your legs stretch out in front of you as you lean back on your hands, your expression soft but playful. "Thinking about what?"

His fingers tap against the edge of his sketchbook, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "About how you make this shit look so easy. Dancing, I mean. Like you don't even have to try."

You laugh softly, tilting your head as you consider him. "It's not always easy. I fuck up all the time. You've just been lucky enough to catch me on my good days."

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Bullshit. Even when you're just warming up, it's like watching something... magic. Like it's in your blood or something."

"That's sweet, but you're giving me way too much credit."

"I'm not," he says, his tone firm and certain. He leans back on his hands, the curve of his lips softening into something more thoughtful. "I've been stuck on this project for weeks. Trying to figure out what the fuck passion even looks like, and I still can't get it right. But you? You are passion. You don't even have to try."

You blink at him, caught off guard by the weight of his words. Ducking your head, you fiddle with the hem of your tank top, your voice quieter now. "I don't know what to say to that."

He smirks, his eyes lighting with mischief. "Say I'm right."

You roll your eyes, laughing softly. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Yeah, but you like it," he shoots back, the corners of his mouth tugging into a grin.

For a moment, the room falls silent again, but it's not uncomfortable. It feels easy, like you're both content to exist in this shared quiet. Hyunjin's fingers brush against his pencil, but he doesn't pick it up. Instead, he breaks the silence, his voice lower this time. "So why'd you pick this song for the showcase? Dirty Diana doesn't seem like your usual vibe."

You settle onto your elbows, tilting your head as you think. "Honestly? It was a challenge. I usually go for light, fun stuff—songs that make people smile. But this? This is darker. More intense. It scared me a little."

"Doesn't look like it," he says, his gaze steady on yours. "You own it. Like the song was written for you."

"Thanks," you reply. "But it took a lot of fucking work to get there. The first few times I practised, I felt like a complete idiot. Like I was trying too hard, you know?"

Hyunjin leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches you intently. "And now?"

You glance away for a second, your voice quieter when you answer. "Now it feels freeing. Like I'm stepping into someone else for a little while. Someone who's bolder. Less afraid to take up space."

His lips curve into a small, genuine smile. "That's what art's supposed to do, right? Push you. Make you see yourself differently."

"Exactly," you say, meeting his gaze. "It's the same for you, isn't it? With your sketches?"

He chuckles, looking down at the blank page in front of him. "Yeah. Except half the time I want to rip the fucking paper to shreds because it's never good enough."

"Don't," you say firmly, your voice soft but insistent. "Your work is incredible, Hyunjin. Don't sell yourself short."

His ears tint pink, and he ducks his head, his smile almost shy. "Thanks. That means a lot coming from you."

The conversation shifts from there, drifting into easier territory. You talk about ridiculous childhood stories like the time you tripped during your first recital and wanted to quit on the spot.

Hyunjin counters with a tale about Minho accidentally locking himself out of the frat house wearing nothing but a towel, and you laugh so hard you have to wipe tears from your eyes.

"God, your friends are fucking insane," you say between giggles.

"You have no idea," he replies, grinning. "Living with them is like a daily test of patience and survival."

The hours slip by without either of you noticing, the weight of the day melting away in the warmth of your laughter. By the time you glance at the clock, it's nearly midnight.

"Shit," you mutter, standing and stretching your arms overhead. "I didn't realize it was so late."

Hyunjin follows suit, stretching lazily as the hem of his sweater rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of toned skin. You quickly avert your gaze. "Time flies when you're with me," he says, smirking.

"Or when you're swapping embarrassing childhood stories," you counter, shooting him a playful glare.

He chuckles, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "Fair enough. I'll let you get back to it, then."

You walk him to the door, pausing as he turns to face you. "Thanks for coming by," you say softly, your smile warm. "It's nice having company."

"Anytime," he replies, his voice just as soft. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, unreadable but heavy. Then the smirk returns. "See you soon, Y/N."

"See you soon, Hyunjin," you echo, your voice barely above a whisper.

As the door closes behind him, you exhale, your lips curving into a small smile. The air feels lighter, warmer, though the space is now empty. And for the first time in a long while, you're glad it isn't just your sanctuary anymore.

The studio is unusually quiet tonight. The air feels heavier than usual, weighted by your own fatigue. Each movement takes more effort than it should, your muscles dragging like they're stuck in molasses. You stretch at the barre, your arms trembling slightly as you press into the motion.

A soft cough escapes your lips, muffled into the crook of your elbow. You try to ignore the rasp in your throat, the way your breath comes just a little too shallow, but it's no use. Your body isn't cooperating, and you know it.

Hyunjin watches from his usual spot by the mirror, his sketchbook open on his lap. His pencil hasn't moved for minutes now, his focus entirely on you. He notices every detail, the way your shoulders slump, the hesitation in your usually fluid spins. When you pause to lean against the barre, catching your breath, he finally speaks up, his voice sharp enough to cut through the stillness.

"Y/N," he says, his tone edged with concern. "Are you sick?"

You glance at him, brushing a loose strand of hair from your damp forehead. "I'm fine," you say, your voice hoarse and thin. "Just a little cold."

"Bullshit," he snaps, setting his sketchbook down with a soft thud. His eyes narrow as he pushes himself off the floor. "You're coughing, your voice sounds like sandpaper, and you look like you're about to keel the fuck over. Don't lie to me."

"I'm fine," you insist, but it's weak, even to your own ears.

"Like hell you are." He strides across the room, his long legs closing the distance quickly. "Take a break. Seriously. You look like you're about to pass the fuck out."

You sigh, leaning heavily against the barre, the fight draining out of you. "I just need a minute."

"No," he says firmly, grabbing his sketchbook and sitting on the floor. He pats the spot next to him with exaggerated patience. "You're sitting down. Now. Don't make me drag your ass over here."

Your lips twitch with the faintest hint of a smile, but you're too tired to argue. Slowly, you sink down beside him, stretching your legs out in front of you. "Fine. What are we doing?"

He flips through the pages of his sketchbook, his movements deliberate. "Just look at this," he says, though there's a hint of nervousness in his tone that you don't miss.

You glance down as he opens the book to a familiar page, a sketch of you mid-spin, arms outstretched, hair flying. You've seen this one before, the strength and fluidity of your movement captured perfectly in pencil strokes. But as he turns the page, your breath catches.

It's you. Not the dancer you see in the mirror, not the performer on stage, but you in quiet, unguarded moments. You sipping coffee, your hands curled around the mug like it's a lifeline. You laughing, your head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. You stretching absentmindedly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. The sketches are meticulous, yet they radiate something softer, something achingly familiar.

"You've been drawing me?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. The rawness of it is both from your cold and the sudden emotion bubbling up in your chest.

Hyunjin rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks faintly pink. "Yeah. I mean... you're inspiring. It's not just the way you move—it's everything. The way you laugh like you don't give a fuck who's listening. The way you zone out when you're thinking too hard. Even the way you drink coffee, like it's the best goddamn thing you've ever tasted. It's... fuck, I don't even know how to explain it. You're just... effortlessly beautiful."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, but in the best way. You blink down at the sketches, the intricate lines and subtle shading, the way he's managed to capture so much of you. "Hyunjin," you whisper, your throat tightening. "These are- they're incredible. You're incredible."

He shrugs, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. "It's easy when the subject is..." He trails off, his gaze flickering to yours. "Well. You."

You feel your cheeks heat, the compliment settling somewhere deep in your chest. "Thank you. For seeing me like this."

His expression softens, the usual cockiness giving way to something more vulnerable. "It's just the truth."

You cough again, the sound rough and raw, and Hyunjin's brow furrows immediately. He shifts closer, his knee brushing yours as he sits up straighter. "That's it," he declares. "We're done here. Come on." He stands and holds a hand out to you.

You blink at him, confused. "What?"

"We're getting you soup," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "No fucking debate. Let's go."

You start to protest, shaking your head weakly. "I'm fine, Hyunjin. I don't need—"

"Y/N." His voice is firm but not unkind. He fixes you with a look that's both exasperated and weirdly endearing. "You're not fine. You're a stubborn little shit, but you're also sick. We're getting soup. End of story."

You sigh, defeated, and take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. "You're bossy, you know that?"

"And you're a pain in the ass," he shoots back, grinning. "Let's call it even."

The night air is sharp against your skin as you step outside, and you pull your jacket tighter around yourself. Hyunjin walks beside you, his hand brushing yours occasionally as the two of you head toward a quiet corner of campus. The restaurant he leads you to is small and cozy, tucked between two buildings like a secret. Warm light spills from the windows, and the scent of broth and spices hits you the moment you walk in.

Hyunjin orders for both of you, a hearty soup and a pot of hot tea to share, and when the food arrives, he pushes your bowl toward you with a pointed look. "Eat."

You pick up your spoon, the warmth of the soup spreading through you as you take a sip. It's comforting in a way you hadn't realized you needed.

"Better?" he asks, his voice softer now, almost tentative.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Much better. Thank you."

He leans back in his chair, his expression smug but satisfied. "Good. You're not allowed to starve yourself when you're sick. It's fucking illegal."

"Oh, really?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Whose laws are these?"

"Mine," he replies without hesitation, grinning. "And trust me, I'm an unforgiving dictator."

You laugh, the sound raspier than usual but still genuine. "Well, thank you, Supreme Leader Hyunjin."

"You're welcome, loyal subject," he quips, his grin widening.

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm as you eat, the conversation flowing between bites of soup and sips of tea. He tells you about Minho's latest antics, something about an ill-fated attempt to flirt with a girl who turned out to be his TA, and you share a story about your first recital, when you tripped during the opening number and wanted to quit on the spot.

By the time you glance at the clock, it's nearly midnight, and the world outside has gone quiet. Hyunjin insists on walking you home, his hands stuffed into his pockets as the two of you make your way back across campus.

"Thanks for taking care of me," you say softly as you reach your door. "You didn't have to."

"Yeah, I did," he replies, his gaze meeting yours. "You're too fucking nice for your own good. Someone has to look out for you."

You feel your heart squeeze at his words, but you smile anyway. "Well, you're pretty good at it."

"Damn right I am," he says, smirking. "Now go to bed. No late-night choreography, I mean it."

"Yes, sir," you tease, rolling your eyes.

He grins, stepping back. "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Hyunjin."

As he walks away, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, you feel a warmth settle over you that has nothing to do with the soup. For the first time in days, you feel genuinely cared for.

The Alpha Phi living room reeks of weed, stale beer, and half-eaten pizza. A haze of smoke curls lazily around the room, mixing with the loud, slurred laughter of the frat boys sprawled across the furniture.

Minho is slouched on the couch, a joint dangling from his fingers, his other hand resting on the thigh of a Kappa Tau girl perched on his lap. Her glossy lips are stretched into a giggle that grates on Hyunjin's nerves the second he walks in. Jisung, meanwhile, is leaning back in the recliner, another girl practically draped over him, both of them laughing at something incoherent and stupid.

The coffee table is a war zone of empty beer cans, crushed Solo cups, and grease-stained pizza boxes. It's the kind of chaos Hyunjin usually ignores, hell, sometimes he even thrives in it. But tonight? Tonight, it makes his blood fucking boil.

"Y/N's sick," Hyunjin snaps, his voice slicing through the noise like a blade. It's sharp, furious, and instantly cuts through the haze of laughter. "She's fucking sick, coughing her lungs out, barely able to stand, and meanwhile, you two are here, lying to her, ignoring her, fucking around like it's nothing. What the actual fuck is this?"

Minho blinks at him, slow and stupid, his eyes bloodshot as he squints through the smoke. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Hyunjin takes a step closer, his jaw clenched. "Y/N. Your friend. The one you two abandoned for this bullshit." He gestures wildly to the scene in front of him, his frustration spilling out unchecked. "She was in the studio earlier, pushing herself so hard she could barely breathe. I had to drag her out to get soup because she hasn't been eating properly, and she couldn't even fucking call either of you because, guess what? You lied to her about having exams. So tell me, Minho, what the fuck is this?"

Jisung sits up straighter, looking vaguely defensive as he rubs at the back of his neck. "She's fine. Y/N's tough."

"Tough?" Hyunjin's voice rises, and the anger in it makes Jisung flinch. "You think that makes it okay? She's fucking tough because she has to be, not because she wants to. She was practically falling over, Jisung. You should've seen her, coughing, wheezing, still trying to practice because she thought you two were too fucking busy to care."

One of the Kappa Tau girls, a brunette with obnoxiously long extensions, chimes in with a scoff. "They're busy with us. Their little friend can handle herself."

Hyunjin's head snaps toward her, his dark eyes narrowing dangerously. His voice drops, cold and venomous. "Get the fuck out. Now."

The girl blinks, clearly caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Hyunjin says, his tone lethal. "Get. The fuck. Out. Before I rip those shitty extensions out myself."

Her bravado falters under his glare. "You're such a fucking buzzkill," she huffs, grabbing her bag and stomping toward the door. The other girl, less bold and clearly spooked, scrambles up and mumbles a quick goodbye before following her out.

Minho looks up, his jaw tightening. "Hyunjin, what the actual fuck is your problem?"

"My problem?" Hyunjin snaps, his voice cutting like a whip. "My problem is that Y/N is too fucking nice to realize that the two of you are absolute shit friends. My problem is that she thinks it's her fault you've been ignoring her. She was literally defending you earlier, Minho. She said, 'They probably have their reasons. They didn't want me to feel left out.' Left out? She's making excuses for you, and meanwhile, you're here playing frat house fuckboy."

Jisung's mouth opens, but Hyunjin raises a hand, cutting him off. "No. Shut the fuck up. You let her think she didn't matter enough to bother with. And for what? This?" He gestures angrily at the wreckage of the living room. "This isn't fucking worth it."

Minho looks away, his jaw tight, guilt flickering across his face. Jisung runs a hand through his hair, visibly uncomfortable, his leg bouncing nervously as he struggles to find words.

"You don't deserve her," Hyunjin says finally, his voice quieter but no less sharp. "She's too fucking good for either of you."

The weight of his words hangs in the air, and neither of them tries to argue. Before they can muster a response, Hyunjin's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, his expression softening slightly when he sees your name. Without hesitation, he answers, putting the phone on speaker.

"Y/N?" he says, his tone gentler than it's been all night.

"Hi, Hyunjin," your voice comes through, weak and raspy. It's like a punch to the chest. "I'm sorry to bother you. I just- Could you maybe pick me up some cough medicine? My muscles ache so bad, and I feel awful, but I didn't want to bother Minho or Jisung. I know they're busy."

Hyunjin's eyes snap to Minho and Jisung, both of whom look like they've been slapped. Minho's grip tightens on the joint before he crushes it out in the ashtray, his jaw clenching.

"Of course, Y/N," Hyunjin says, his voice soft but firm. "Don't worry about it. I'll be there soon."

"Thank you," you whisper, relief heavy in your tone. "I really appreciate it."

"Anything for you," he replies sincerely. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

He hangs up, and the room is deadly quiet for a moment before Hyunjin turns his glare back to the two of them. "Did you hear her? She didn't want to 'bother' you. You've made her think she's a fucking burden. You assholes are lucky she hasn't cut you off completely."

Minho is already on his feet. "I'll get it. I'll go right now."

Jisung jumps up, grabbing his keys. "We'll fix it. We'll get the medicine and apologize."

"You fucking better," Hyunjin mutters, stepping back as they scramble for their shoes. "And you're going to make it right."

"Yeah," Jisung says quickly, his voice tight. "We will."

They rush out, the door slamming behind them, and Hyunjin exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. The anger lingers, simmering under his skin, but there's a flicker of satisfaction too. For once, it feels like they might actually get their shit together.

And for you? Hyunjin would burn the whole damn house down if it meant you never felt alone again.

Minho and Jisung practically sprint through the dorm hallways, juggling plastic bags filled to bursting with everything they could grab at the store. The rustle of bags and their muffled swearing echoes down the corridor as they fumble with the sheer volume of their haul: cough medicine, lemon tea, honey, tissues, painkillers, ginger, lemons, pre-cooked chicken, and even random snacks Jisung insisted on, including a family-sized pack of cookies.

"Fucking hell, why did I let you grab this much shit?" Minho hisses, nearly tripping over his own feet as a bag digs into his wrist.

"Emergency morale boosters are a necessity," Jisung shoots back, juggling a box of instant ramen precariously on top of his already-full arms. "I'm telling you, Y/N's gonna love the cookies."

"Soup first. Cookies second. I swear to God, if you make her eat cookies before real food—"

"I know, I know! Don't yell at me!" Jisung grumbles, though his pace quickens as they round the last corner.

When they reach your door, Minho raises a hand to knock, but the door swings open before he can. You're leaning heavily against the frame, wrapped in an old blanket and wearing one of Minho's oversized T-shirts. The fabric hangs off your shoulders, the faded logo almost completely worn away. Your hair is messy, tendrils sticking to your forehead, and your face is drawn, your tired eyes framed by deep circles. You sniffle softly, offering them a weak smile.

"Hey," you croak, your voice a low rasp.

Minho's brows knit together immediately. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, stepping closer to place a hand on your forehead. His touch is cool, and the frown on his face deepens. "You look like absolute shit."

"Wow," you rasp with a dry laugh, stepping aside to let them in. "Nice to see you too."

"Holy shit, Y/N," Jisung says, shuffling inside and carefully dropping the bags on your tiny kitchen counter. His wide eyes dart around the room, taking in the barely-touched water bottles and the tissues piled on your nightstand. "Why didn't you fucking call us earlier? You look like death warmed over."

"I didn't want to bother you," you reply, closing the door and leaning against it for support. "You've been busy."

"Busy being dicks," Minho mutters under his breath as he starts unloading the bags onto your counter. He pulls out a pot and grabs the chicken, turning back to look at you, his expression softening. "Go. Get your ass in bed. I'm making you chicken soup. And don't even fucking think about arguing. You love my soup."

You hesitate for a moment, but the way Minho glares at you, sharp but with an underlying warmth, makes you cave. "Okay, okay," you mumble, shuffling toward your bed. Your legs wobble slightly as you move, and Jisung is at your side in a heartbeat.

"Fuck, Y/N, sit down before you collapse," he says, his voice filled with more concern than he usually shows. He helps you onto the bed and grabs a blanket from the foot of it, draping it over your shoulders and tucking it around you like a burrito. "There. Cozy?"

"Super cozy," you rasp, amused despite yourself. "Thanks, Ji."

"You're welcome," he says, pulling up a chair next to the bed and rummaging through one of the bags. "Okay, let's see, honey, for your throat. Lemon. Oh, shit, I grabbed ginger too. And, uh, tissues. And this weird-ass herbal tea the cashier said would cure your soul or something."

"You're high," you tease softly, watching him with a faint smile.

"Maybe a little," he admits, giggling as he pulls out a pack of cookies and waves it like a trophy. "But that doesn't mean I can't take care of you. Look, cookies. For morale. Revolutionary."

"Soup first, Jisung," Minho barks from the kitchenette, where he's already chopping vegetables with sharp, practised movements. "No fucking cookies before soup."

"Fine, dad," Jisung mutters, leaning over to smooth a stray strand of hair from your forehead. "Y/N, I swear to God, I'm gonna take care of you until you're back to dancing around and making us feel untalented."

You laugh softly, but it turns into a rattling cough that makes both of them wince. Jisung's face twists in concern as he grabs the tissue box and holds it out to you. "Okay, coughing is now illegal. I'm banning it."

"Seconded," Minho calls, tossing chopped ginger into the pot. "And you're not allowed to die. It's against the rules. You're too nice for that shit."

You manage a hoarse laugh, curling deeper into the blanket. "I wasn't planning on it, but thanks for the pep talk."

Jisung's voice drops, uncharacteristically serious. "We're sorry, Y/N. For being, you know, absolute dickheads. You deserve better."

You shake your head weakly, your voice soft. "You're not dickheads. You're here now. That's all that matters."

Minho glances at you over his shoulder, his jaw tight. "We're here now because we fucked up, and we know it. I lied to you about that fucking exam, and Jisung didn't call you back because we were too busy being assholes. That's not okay."

"You're my assholes," you murmur, the corners of your lips tugging into a small smile.

Minho snorts, turning back to the stove. "Damn right we are. And as your assholes, we're fixing it. Starting with this soup."

Jisung leans closer, his chin resting on the edge of your bed. "We missed you, Y/N. And we're gonna do better, I swear."

You hum softly, your eyes already fluttering shut as the exhaustion pulls at you. "I missed you too. So much."

Jisung reaches over to hold your hand lightly, his fingers brushing against yours. "You're way too fucking good to us."

"Damn straight," Minho mutters, his voice softer now. "But we're not leaving you like this again. I mean it."

Jisung picks up the cookies again, holding one up with a grin. "Okay, one morale cookie before soup. Just one. I promise. Don't let Minho see"

You crack an eye open, looking amused as you reach out. "Fine. Just one."

The backstage area is a chaotic whirlwind of activity, a blur of sequins, feathers, and rushing bodies. Dancers flit past in various states of dress, their laughter and shouted instructions blending with the occasional hiss of a steamer and the clatter of heels against the floor. The air is heavy with the sharp scent of hairspray, powder, and sweat, the electric tension so thick it's almost suffocating.

You sit at your station, staring into the mirror under the harsh glare of the lights. Your makeup bag is open in front of you, brushes and palettes scattered in disarray, but your hands won't stop trembling. The eyeliner in your fingers drags a jagged line across your lid, and you curse softly, dropping it onto the table in frustration.

The outfit you've been practicing in for weeks looks stunning under the backstage lights. The halter-style leather corset clings to your frame perfectly, its lace-up front shimmering every time you shift. The matching gloves glint with small embellishments and your garters are taut, connecting your hotpants to the thigh-high fishnets that make your legs look impossibly long in your stilettos. A red feather headpiece tilts delicately on your hair, framing your face, while the boa draped over your shoulders adds a dramatic, sultry flair.

But even with all the effort, the polished look feels like a lie. Your stomach churns, twisting with nerves that seem to multiply with every second, every muffled call for the next dancer. You've never felt more exposed, like every flaw is about to be illuminated the moment you step onto the stage.

"I'm gonna fucking vomit," you mutter, slumping forward to press your forehead against your hand. The eyeliner pen rolls off the table, but you barely notice, too consumed by the rising tide of panic.

"Knock, knock," a voice cuts through the noise, low and familiar, and your head snaps up to meet Hyunjin's gaze in the mirror.

He leans casually against the doorframe, his dark jeans and loose black button-up looking effortlessly perfect, as always. His hair is tucked behind his ears, framing his sharp features, and though his sketchbook is absent, the quiet intensity in his eyes makes you feel like you're being sketched anyway. Every detail of you taken in and captured.

"How's my favourite performer?" he asks, stepping inside. His tone is light, teasing, but there's a softness in his expression as he takes in your trembling hands.

You try to smile, but it falters. "I feel like shit," you admit quietly. "I think I might actually puke."

Hyunjin strides closer, crouching beside your chair so that he's at eye level with you. "You're not going to puke," he says firmly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "You're going to go out there and absolutely kill it. End of story."

You huff a weak laugh, shaking your head. "You have way too much faith in me."

"That's because I've seen you," he replies, his voice soft but resolute. "I've watched you pour every ounce of yourself into this. Every step, every spin, every goddamn detail. Trust me, you're going to blow their fucking minds."

Your throat tightens, your fingers twisting in your lap. "I can't even get my eyeliner right,"

Hyunjin's lips twitch into a smirk. "Let me," he says, standing and grabbing the eyeliner from the floor. He straightens and tilts his head. "Trust me?"

"You? Do my eyeliner?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "What, are you secretly a makeup artist now?"

"Relax," he says, his tone playful but sure. "I've done this before. Stay still."

You hesitate for a moment, then nod, your heart fluttering as he steps closer. He places one hand under your chin, tilting your face up toward him, and the warmth of his skin steadies your trembling slightly. His other hand holds the eyeliner steady, and you try not to think about how close he is, his focus entirely on you.

"Don't move," he murmurs, his voice low. You barely breathe as his hand guides the pen smoothly across your lid, the strokes precise and confident.

After a few moments, he leans back, setting the pen down. "Done. Look."

You glance in the mirror, and your jaw drops. "Holy shit," you breathe. "That's... that's perfect."

"Told you," he says smugly, his grin widening. "Now stop clenching your hands. You're gonna ruin your gloves."

You glance down, realizing your fingers are white-knuckled against each other, and laugh softly, releasing them. "Sorry. It's just a lot."

Hyunjin straightens, leaning against the table as he looks at you. "Forget about them," he says suddenly, his tone firm.

"What?"

"The audience. The judges. Fuck all of them." He waves a hand dismissively, his lips quirking into a smirk. "Or better yet, imagine them naked. Isn't that what people say?"

You laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. "Why are you being so nice to me?" you ask, your voice soft. "You've done so much already. More than you had to."

His smile falters for a moment, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. He steps closer, his voice quieter but steady. "Because you've done something to me, Y/N. No one's ever inspired me the way you do. Every line I draw, every thought I have... it's you. And honestly, it scares the shit out of me."

Your breath catches, your heart hammering as he continues.

"But the idea of not telling you, of not trying, scares me even more," he says, his gaze unwavering. "I'd rather crash and burn than watch you dance out of my reach."

For a moment, the world outside fades, the noise of the backstage chaos, the calls for dancers, the rustling of costumes. It's just you and Hyunjin, his words hanging between you like something fragile and beautiful.

"I-" you start, but he holds up a hand, his smile softening.

"Later," he says gently. "We can talk about it later. Tonight, just find me in the crowd. Forget everyone else. Look for me."

You nod slowly, your voice trembling as you say, "Okay."

He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face and adjusting the red feather in your headpiece. "You've got this. I'll be right there."

With one last smile, he steps back and heads for the door, glancing over his shoulder before disappearing into the hallway. As the door clicks shut, you take a deep breath, his words still echoing in your mind.

You turn back to the mirror. Your eyeliner is flawless, your outfit gleaming under the lights. The nerves are still there, but they're muted now. Tempered by the warmth in Hyunjin's voice and the steady certainty in his gaze.

You pick up your boa, draping it over your shoulders as you stand. One thought anchors you, steadying the whirlwind of nerves in your chest. Find Hyunjin in the crowd. Forget everyone else.

The stage is bathed in darkness, the auditorium buzzing with electric anticipation. You stand just offstage, one hand gripping the edge of the curtain, your breathing shallow as you wait for your cue.

The opening bassline of Dirty Diana thrums faintly in the background, the vibrations running through your heels and up your legs. The heat of the stage lights waiting to ignite feels oppressive even from here. Sweat beads on your back, but it's impossible to tell if it's from the heat or the nerves.

You can do this, you tell yourself, though your pulse pounds erratically. Your stomach twists, and your fingers curl tighter around the curtain. When the lights dim further, a sharp red glow spills onto the stage like blood across black velvet, cutting through the air like a siren.

This is it.

The music surges, and the red lights sharpen into beams that slice through the darkness, spotlighting the stage. You step out, your stilettos clicking softly against the polished floor, and the air in the room shifts. The world feels like it's both expanding and closing in, the crowd's hum muted by the rush of blood in your ears. Your movements are steady but deliberate, every step taking you further into the blazing heat of the spotlight.

Then you see them.

Front and centre, Hyunjin sits with Jisung and Minho, but the entire Alpha Phi crew has shown up. Chan leans slightly forward, his expression curious but impressed. Changbin is perched with his arms crossed, nodding along to the beat as if sizing you up. Felix has a camera slung over his shoulder and is already snapping away, adjusting his angles. Jeongin and Seungmin sit side by side, both watching intently, though Seungmin looks like he's trying not to smile.

And Hyunjin? His eyes are locked on you.

The moment your gaze meets his, it's like the rest of the room blurs. He's sitting forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that feels like a physical touch. There's something grounding about the way he looks at you, steady and unwavering, and for a moment, your nerves falter. Then his lips quirk into the faintest of smiles, and something shifts inside you. Confidence blooms, hot and electric, chasing away the fear.

The music kicks in, the beat hitting hard, and you move.

Your body responds before your mind can catch up, years of practice taking over. You flow seamlessly with the rhythm, every movement deliberate and sharp. The click of your heels punctuates the music, your steps precise and purposeful as the choreography unfolds. The leather corset clings to you like armour, your boa trailing behind you like the tail of a firework. The lights pulse red and black, shadows shifting dramatically with each movement.

When you drop to the floor for the first time, your legs spreading perfectly in sync with the beat, the crowd explodes. Gasps and cheers echo through the auditorium as you arch your back, tossing your head back, the red feathers of your headpiece catching the light like flames. You snap your head up, hair whipping around you, and from the corner of your vision, you catch Felix grinning as he snaps another shot.

"Holy fucking shit!" Minho's voice booms over the noise, his hands clapping wildly as he half-stands, pointing at you like he's claiming you as his protégé. "That's my fucking girl!"

"Damn right!" Jisung yells, standing to add to the cheers, his voice rising above the roar. He's grinning so wide it looks like his face might split, his energy contagious as the rest of Alpha Phi joins in. Changbin whistles sharply, a low, appreciative sound, while Jeongin nudges Chan and mutters something that makes the older boy laugh and nod.

But your focus narrows to Hyunjin. He hasn't moved, hasn't taken his eyes off you once. He's leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped loosely, but there's nothing loose about the way he looks at you. His expression is unreadable, captivated, maybe a little awestruck, but it's the kind of intensity that keeps your feet steady and your movements sharp. It feels like he's grounding you, tethering you to something solid as you pour every ounce of yourself into the routine.

The beat builds again, and you drop into a split, leaning back so your head nearly brushes the floor. The lights pulse red and white, casting jagged shadows across your body as you snap back up into a smooth twist. Your legs cross, your arms sweeping out as you rise to your feet, spinning sharply into the next sequence. The cheers swell, a wave of sound that pushes against the stage like a physical force.

"Fucking insane!" Jisung yells, his hands cupped around his mouth. "Y/N, you're a goddamn goddess!"

"This is fucking gold," Felix mutters, adjusting his lens for a better angle. "Minho, shut up and let me focus."

Minho doesn't shut up. "She's killing it!" he shouts, his voice cracking slightly as he claps harder. "Look at her go!"

You can't hear the individual words over the roar of the crowd, but you feel the energy coursing through the room like lightning. It fuels you, pushing you through the crescendo of the song. Your body moves on instinct now, every step, every spin, every drop a perfect reflection of the beat. The corset bites slightly at your ribs, the heels make your calves ache, but you barely notice.

And always, your eyes find Hyunjin.

He's smiling now, a faint curve of his lips that's softer than anything else in the room. But it's his eyes that hit you hardest. They're lit with something raw, something bright and deep that makes your heart pound harder than the bass. Pride, admiration, something else you can't quite name, it's all there, written plainly across his face. It's for you, and it's yours.

The routine crescendos into the final beat. You drop into your finishing pose, legs wide, boa draped across your shoulders, your arms outstretched, head thrown back. The lights flash once, twice, then fade, leaving you framed in a spotlight as the last note lingers in the air.

For a moment, the auditorium is silent.

Then the crowd erupts.

The applause is deafening, whistles and cheers bouncing off the walls. The Alpha Phi crew is on their feet, clapping and hollering louder than anyone else in the room.

Minho is shouting your name like a man possessed, Jisung is laughing so hard he can barely yell, and Changbin throws up a hand in a triumphant cheer. Chan and Jeongin are whistling loudly as they clap. Felix's camera is still clicking, capturing every moment, while Seungmin claps steadily, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

Hyunjin stands too, his applause slower but no less intense. His eyes never leave you, his expression unreadable except for the warmth radiating from his gaze. You're sure you're imagining it, but it feels like he's the only one clapping, the sound of his hands cutting through the chaos to wrap around you.

You take a deep, shaky breath and bow, your chest heaving, your face flushed. The world feels impossibly loud, but there's a quiet warmth growing in your chest. Something steady and grounding that you know belongs to him.

As you step offstage, your legs trembling slightly, someone presses a water bottle into your hand, and you take a grateful sip. The crowd noise follows you, the energy still thrumming in your veins.

The backstage hum has settled into a quieter buzz, the adrenaline fading to a warm, satisfied ache in your muscles. The air still carries faint traces of hairspray and sweat, mingling with the cool bite of the water bottle pressed to your lips. You lean against the edge of the makeup table, your legs shaky but your chest still thrumming with the electricity of the performance.

Then the door opens, and Hyunjin steps in.

He looks breathtaking, like he's been pulled straight out of a dream. His black button-up is slightly wrinkled from where he's probably been fidgeting with it, his dark jeans hugging his long legs in a way that feels unfair. His hair is tucked behind his ears, framing his sharp jawline, but it's the way his eyes find you that steals the air from your lungs. In his hands is a bouquet of vibrant red roses nestled alongside soft pink carnations and white lilies, the colours a stark, beautiful contrast against his all-black outfit.

You freeze, your words catching in your throat as the world narrows to just him.

"You were incredible," he says, his voice soft but firm, like he's stating a fact. He steps closer, the bouquet shifting in his hands as he holds it out to you. "I've never seen anything like that."

The sincerity in his voice is a balm to the lingering nerves that twist in your stomach, and you manage a small, shaky smile. Your hands tremble slightly as you take the bouquet, the weight of it grounding you. "Thank you," you whisper. "For being there. For... everything."

Hyunjin shakes his head, a faint, almost bashful smile tugging at his lips. "It's not enough," he murmurs, his eyes scanning your face like he's trying to memorize every detail. "I wish you could've seen what I saw out there. You..." He exhales, almost in awe. "You were ethereal."

The way he says it, like he believes it with every fiber of his being, makes your heart stutter. The bouquet trembles slightly in your hands, and you set it down carefully on the table beside you before turning back to him. You don't think; you just act, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him toward you.

Your lips crash against his, and for a split second, everything goes still. Hyunjin freezes, his breath catching, but then his hands find your waist, and it's like a dam breaking. He pulls you closer, kissing you back with an urgency that's almost overwhelming. It's messy and raw, a collision of emotions too big to put into words. His fingers dig into your hips, firm and grounding, as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

Your back hits the edge of the makeup table as he lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the cold surface. The contrast of the chill against your skin and the heat of his hands sliding up your sides makes you gasp, and Hyunjin takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

"Hyunjin," you breathe, breaking away just enough to rest your forehead against his. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, and you can feel his breath, warm and unsteady, mingling with yours. "What are we doing?"

"Exactly what I've wanted to do for weeks," he admits, his voice low and rough, each word vibrating against your skin. His hands trace small, deliberate circles on your waist, like he's trying to anchor himself to you. "I want you. I want to be the one you look for in the crowd. For as long as I have hands to draw and a heart to give."

The raw honesty in his words makes something inside you unravel, leaving you exposed in the best way. Your chest feels too full, your heart beating so fast it feels like it might break free. "You should've been a poet," you manage, your voice a soft, teasing whisper, even as a smile tugs at your lips.

Hyunjin chuckles, the sound deep and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. "You inspire me to be a lot of things," he murmurs before kissing you again, this time slower, more deliberate. His hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheeks as his lips move against yours like he's memorizing every curve, every line, every moment.

When he finally pulls back, his breath comes in shallow, ragged pulls, but his gaze is steady. His forehead rests against yours again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have something to show you tonight. At the frat."

You nod, your fingers tracing absent patterns on the nape of his neck. "Okay," you whisper back. "Whatever it is, I want to see it."

Before either of you can say more, the door bursts open, and chaos spills in.

"Y/N!" Jisung's voice rings out like a fucking bullhorn, followed by a cacophony of shouts, laughter, and the loud rustling of paper. You and Hyunjin spring apart, though his hands linger on your waist for a fraction of a second longer before he steps back.

The entire Alpha Phi crew barrels into the room, each of them holding bouquets that range from extravagant to downright ridiculous. Jisung's is mostly weeds and wildflowers, while Minho's looks like he swept his arm across a flower shop shelf and grabbed whatever fell. Chan's is elegant but understated, a careful mix of white roses and greenery.

"Look at you!" Chan grins, stepping forward to hand you his bouquet. "Fucking murdered it out there. Absolutely killed."

Changbin whistles, his eyes darting between you and Hyunjin. "Uh, should we come back later, or...?"

"Shut the fuck up, Bin," Minho huffs, shoving a massive bouquet of sunflowers and daisies into your arms. "These are for you. And you better fucking like them because I didn't spend half an hour talking with the florist for nothing."

You laugh softly, overwhelmed but deeply touched. "Thank you," you say, your voice still raw but warm as your gaze sweeps over them. "Really. This means so much."

Felix grins, leaning over Changbin's shoulder. "Told you she was hot as fuck," he mutters, earning a sharp elbow from Minho.

"I will end you," Minho snaps, though his glare lacks any real heat.

Jisung throws an arm around your shoulders, his grin wide and boyish. "You fucking crushed it, Y/N. Like, holy shit. That split? I almost died."

Jeongin leans against the wall, smirking. "Well, we weren't gonna miss it. Minho and Jisung wouldn't shut the fuck up about how amazing you were. Turns out, they were right."

Amid the chaos, your eyes find Hyunjin's again. He stands slightly apart from the group, his hands tucked into his pockets, but the private smile he gives you is enough to make your cheeks flush. It's quieter than the bouquets, the noise, the shouts, but it's the most meaningful thing in the room.

The Alpha Phi frat house feels unusually subdued as you and Hyunjin step through the front door. The muffled echoes of laughter and music drift up from the living room, but the usual chaotic energy is missing, leaving the air strangely calm. Hyunjin's hand brushes yours lightly as he leads you toward the stairs, a touch so casual yet electric it sets your nerves on edge.

He glances back at you, his dark eyes flicking over your face. "You're quiet," he says softly, his voice barely carrying over the creak of the stairs.

"I'm... processing," you reply, your tone just as quiet. "This whole night has been... a lot."

Hyunjin's lips quirk into a small smile, but there's something unreadable in his expression. "Good 'a lot' or bad 'a lot'?"

"Definitely good," you admit, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Just... new."

His laughter is a low, warm hum. "I think you'll like this next part, then."

When you reach his room, he pauses at the door, his hand lingering on the knob. He looks at you for a beat, as if debating something, before pushing it open and stepping aside to let you in.

The room is cozy, in that effortlessly personal way that feels so much like Hyunjin. His bed is neatly made, a dark throw blanket draped at the foot. The desk is cluttered with sketchbooks, pencils, and a scattering of erasers that looks less like a mess and more like a workspace frozen in the middle of inspiration. An easel stands in the corner, a sheet draped over it, and the faint scent of paint lingers in the air, mingling with the warm spice of his cologne.

You step inside, your gaze sweeping the space. "I think this is the cleanest frat room I've ever seen."

Hyunjin snorts, closing the door behind him. "High standards for myself. Low standards for the rest of these idiots."

You laugh softly, perching on the edge of his bed as he moves to the easel. "Okay," you say, gesturing to it. "You've been hyping this up all night. What is it?"

He hesitates for a moment, his fingers brushing the edge of the sheet as he glances at you. There's a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual confidence. "It's something I've been working on. For you."

"For me?" you echo, your brows knitting together. "Hyunjin, what-"

He pulls the sheet away in one smooth motion, cutting off your question. The painting underneath steals the air from your lungs.

It's you. Caught mid-motion, your body curved in an elegant stretch, one arm arched high above your head as if you're reaching for something just out of frame. Your hair cascades around your shoulders, and your lips are curved into a soft, genuine smile, the kind you rarely catch in your reflection.

The colours are warm and rich, a mix of soft golds and deep reds, your figure glowing against an impressionistic blur of background. The strokes are deliberate yet fluid, the details so intricate it feels alive, like it could move at any moment.

You stare at it, your hands gripping the edge of the bed. "Hyunjin," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "It's... it's stunning. I don't even know what to say."

He steps closer, his hands shoved into his pockets as he watches your reaction. "It's how I see you," he says simply. "Effortless. Alive."

Your chest tightens at his words, and you glance back at the painting, overwhelmed. "I don't... I don't think I've ever looked at myself like this."

He shakes his head, his voice quieter now. "That's the problem, isn't it? You don't see what everyone else does. You don't see what I see."

You look up at him, your heart hammering in your chest. "And what do you see?"

He tilts his head, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. "I see someone who makes the world brighter just by existing. Someone who laughs like it's a gift. Someone who makes me want to be better. Fuck, I see someone who makes me."

You blink, your throat tightening as his words sink in. The painting blurs in your peripheral vision, eclipsed by the intensity of his gaze. "You really mean that?"

"I don't say shit I don't mean," he murmurs, stepping closer. His hands come to rest on either side of you, gripping the bed as he leans down slightly. "You've been in my head since the moment we met. You're in everything I do. Every sketch. Every brushstroke. You're everywhere."

Your breath catches, and before you can overthink it, your hands find the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Your lips meet his, and it's like the world tilts on its axis. His kiss is hungry and insistent, his hands sliding to your waist and pulling you flush against him. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and you gasp softly, your fingers tangling in his hair as he deepens the kiss.

Hyunjin groans low in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as he lifts you onto the bed. You gasp again, your back arching slightly as the cool fabric of his comforter contrasts with the heat of his touch. His lips move to your jaw, then your neck, and the sensation sends shivers down your spine.

"Fuck," he breathes against your skin, his voice rough. "You don't know what you do to me."

You pull his face back to yours, your eyes locking onto his. "Show me," you whisper, your voice trembling but steady.

His gaze darkens, but there's a flicker of tenderness in his expression as he kisses you again, slower this time. His hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if you're something fragile and precious. The air between you is charged, every touch, every kiss laced with unspoken promises.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, your breaths mingling. "I don't think I'll ever be able to look at myself the same way again," you admit softly, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw.

"Good," he murmurs, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Because I'm not letting you forget how incredible you are."

The painting stands quietly in the corner, the soft glow of the room's light casting a warm shadow over it. It's a testament to everything you've been and everything you're becoming. A reflection of how he sees you. And as you sit there, tangled together in the quiet of his room, the world outside feels a million miles away.

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx

[scoplot]

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[talonabraxas]

The Rose Cross Lamen Talon Abraxas

The Rose Cross, symbol of the heart chakra in full bloom

When the spirit enters a human body it takes up a cross, the cross of matter, the synthesis of the four elements. There is not much point in wearing crosses round our necks or putting up crosses in churches and cemeteries if we fail to understand that it is humans themselves who are the cross. Man is the cross, and it is this cross that we must work with.

We often associate the cross in our minds with death and negation and that is a mistake for, when the spirit enters into the cross, it becomes the beginning of life. When an Initiate prays he faces towards the four cardinal points of the universe in turn, thus marking the sign of the cross to show that his spirit is about to work on matter.

What it means to cross oneself

Each of the cardinal points is ruled by an Archangel: in the East is Mikhaël, in the West Gabriel, in the North Uriel and in the South Raphaël. This rite of turning to face the four cardinal points before praying has been perpetuated in the Christian religion in the form of the Sign of the Cross.

When a Christian touches their forehead, their solar plexus, their left and then their right shoulder with the fingers of their right hand, saying ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen’, they are communicating with the four dimensions of space, the matter on which their thought and love are about to work.

The Rose Cross is the symbol of the perfect human being

The Rosicrucian symbol consists of a red rose in the centre of a cross. The rose represents the heart, the full flowering of the heart chakra in man, seen as the sublimation of the cross. This chakra can only be made to blossom by love, the colour and fragrance of which are those of the rose. This is why the Rose Cross is the symbol of an Initiate who has worked so diligently at his own nature that Christ’s love, the divine love that transforms and gives life to matter, has flowered within him.

One who walks in the way of Christ becomes a Rosicrucian even if their name never appears in the membership records of the Society. The rose at the centre of the cross, therefore, is the perfect human being whose heart chakra is in full blossom -Omraam Mikhaël Aïvanhov

[alonetimelover]

My love, we were in Paris

pairing: Harry Styles x tennis player!reader (fem, she/her)

summary: After winning her third French Open title, YN was excited to call Harry, not knowing he had rather big surprise already waiting for her.

warnings: a few swear words and just fluff!

word count: ~1,7k + a few social media posts!

more of a tennis player!reader here: masterlist ask, come say hi, request!

She won. 

For the third time in her life she won the French Open. 

After the second set and the first half of the third one, when she was ready to give up. It was all foreshadowing her eventual loss. At least she felt like it. Her serve somehow lost its force, the precision she always praised herself to have got forgotten in the middle of the match. For the audience it must have looked like she was done with it, unbeatable YN YSN finally defeated on her favourite court. 

Well, it was all wrong. Not knowing how, the precision she craved, came back. Her serve felt like it doubled in force and the confidence sprung like flowers in the spring. When she defeated the break-point going for 3-5 in games for her opponent, she said to herself ‘you got it’. 

And she won. 

Now, squatting down on the ground, crying tears of joy she couldn’t believe it. Third time champion in Paris sounded proud and surprisingly good.

Her mind, though, was just made of two things right now: ‘you won’ and ‘call Harry’. 

After receiving congratulations from her opponent and speaking to her briefly about the match, she stood in the centre of the court clapping for the crowd. The squeals and whistles were overwhelming, but being there in the middle, acknowledging all of it was the first move to thank all of the people for their support. 

Moving swiftly to her bag, she unlocked her phone and chose ‘Harry💜' from her favourite contacts. It was so loud, she knew she wouldn't be able to hear half of the things he was going to say. But she called anyway. She promised him last night, when they were speaking through FaceTime.

“Call me right after the match,” he said, yawning. 

“Goodnight, sleepyhead. Right after? So from the court?”

“If you’re allowed to then why not? I want to hear it from you, whatever it’s going to be.”

Harry knew she would win. And at the same time he knew that saying ‘I want to hear it from you “I’m the champion.”’ would put too much pressure on her shoulders. She was stressed enough and what he could provide was his lifelong support. 

“I’ll call you. I promise.”

After four long signals, the smile on her face was slowly but gradually diminishing. She quickly remembered that the eyes of all people interested in tennis were on her, and put that smile back on.

In a few hours Harry was playing one of the biggest shows in his life, a concert for 80 000 people to be exact. She shouldn’t be mad and wouldn’t be. Maybe sad, but she would allow it after getting back to her hotel room. 

Tossing her phone back to the bag, she ran towards the box where her coach and loved ones were sitting. Getting closer and closer to the stands she finally looked up as to plan her way to her family. 

She stopped in her tracks. Right next to her parents was one and only person she was thinking about for the last hours. Person, she was unwillingly (deep down) mad at not picking up her call just a minute ago. 

He was here. Harry was here. His beaming smile, brightening her mood in seconds. He was clapping his hands then whistling on his fingers, and repeating the process. The white hat matching hers, and a simple black t-shirt so as to not draw attention towards himself. But she would recognise him anywhere, in the dark, in the place full of people, at the end of it all. She would know him because nobody had his divine smile and kind-hearted eyes.

Eventually, she sprung to jog up the stairs and around a few corners. In what felt like seconds she was at the stands. People were reaching for her, saying and shouting ‘bravo, YN’, ‘you did a good job!’ and all the congratulations. But she couldn’t bring herself to care right this moment. There was only one person’s opinion she cared about. 

When only a few steps were between them she jumped into his arms, embracing him, wanting to never pull back. 

“What are you doing here?” She whispered into his ear. 

“What d’you mean?” Teasing smile was growing on his face. “I came here to watch my girlfriend win her third title in Paris. You know when she’s startin’?” 

She pulled back a little to swat his shoulder playfully, “stop it!”

He just smiled, looking at her lovingly. Pride and happiness just swelled in his chest, making him all warm and fulfilled. 

“Hi.”

“Hi.” She laughed at the absurdity of the situation. In her wildest dreams she wouldn’t have thought about Harry coming to her match just hours before the concert he was playing in another country. “What are you doing here, really? You play in, what, six or seven hours?”

Harry brushed one unruly strand of YN’s hair behind her ear, caressing her cheek. 

“You really thought I would miss this match?”

“Yeah. You said it yourself, didn’t you?”

“Well, if I didn't, you wouldn’t be this surprised. Also if you knew I was here, you would think about it too much.”

“Because you’re such a distraction?”

“You said it,” he teased her back.

YN was looking up at him, still trying to comprehend that it was, indeed her Harry embracing her and caressing her cheek and waist. It wasn’t a dream or a fantasy. He actually flew over to Paris to support her.

How could she not love him?

“Thank you,” she said, tears in her eyes, daring to fall down her face. 

“Nothing to thank me for.” 

They kissed softly. Knowing, in the back of their heads it would draw so much attention, but they couldn’t not do it. It had been a week without seeing each other. They missed it. 

“I am so proud of you, lovie. So fucking proud. You’re unmistakingly the best player out there. And don’t argue with me. Take it in. I’m so proud. I love you,” Harry whispered into her ear, squeezing her even closer to him. “Now, go. You have a trophy to accept and a speech to make. Go be the best out there.”

After stealing one more little kiss from Harry and saying ‘I love you’ back, YN hugged every member of her team and her parents. Then she ran back on the court where the podium was placed.

She was going to accept the cup for the third time in her life. 

“Woah, thank you so much and sorry for breaking the cup,” She started her speech with a laugh. “Ah, there are so many people that I’d like to thank. My team - my coach, my psychologist, my physiotherapist - without you guys my body wouldn’t be able to pull any championship. To my family, my boyfriend tha-” she needed to stop because of the cheers erupting around her. Yes, people loved Harry everywhere. “Thank you all for believing in me, bringing me joy and so much support, I’ll never be able to pay you back. Thank you! And thank you to all of you here, the fans. For your support and kind words. Thank you! Je t’aime Paris!” 

***

It took them two hours to finally get to the hotel. Harry closed the door behind them, placing a card on the table in the corridor. 

“When do you have a plane back?” YN asked, while looking for some clean clothes to wear after the shower that was calling her name. 

“In about two hours.”

“Fuck, give me 5 minutes to shower and I’ll ride with you to the airport, okay?” She said in a rush to get ready as quickly as possible. 

On the way to the bathroom Harry stopped her, gently catching her by hand. “Wait. What if you pack a small bag and come with me?”

“Come where?” YN asked with a laugh. 

“Dublin. And then Slane for the concert.” 

“Wha- but, well. I have a media day tomorrow from 11 a.m. And a dinner tonight with the sponsors. Harry, I can’t miss it,” YN answered with a frown on her face. 

Harry smiled mischievously, “what if I told you I already talked to your coach and team? And they said it was okay for you to go with me as long as you come back for tomorrow's photoshoot?”

“No way.” She shook her head in disbelief.

Harry nodded his head, taking YN’s clothes in his hands and throwing them on the bed. 

“Yes way. I’m very convincing when I want to be.”

“Oh, are you really?” YN mirrored Harry’s smirk, placing her hands around his neck. 

“Oh really. You are coming with me.” 

He pecked her lips. 

“I am coming with you to Slane. And then what?”

“Then I’m playing the concert in front of 80 000 people. But-”

“But, what?”

“I think I’m gonna care about only one person there.”

YN shook her head with a smile. She knew him for more than three years now, but he still could make her blush. He was still so smooth with all the flirty comments and compliments. She was sure, she wouldn’t be able to find any other person who was as appreciative and thankful as Harry. Not like she wanted to. 

“You wanna know the plan for the next few days?”

“Tell me all about it,” she encouraged him, pulling her hand through his curls. 

“Mhmm, we’re flying back here in the morning. You have a photoshoot and a media day. And then in the evening I’m taking you to my favourite restaurant here to celebrate our achievements so far this year. Aaand the day after that we’re going by train to London.”

YN’s eyes lit up at the mention of the train ride. “Did you buy tickets for the train already?”

“Yes, I did. I know how much you wanted to try that route.”

“Do you know you’re the best boyfriend I could ever ask the universe for?”

“You can remind me of that from time to time. Feed my ego,’ he laughed, hugging YN. 

“Thank you. I love you, Harry.”

“Nothing to thank me for.” He tightened the embrace. “I love you and I am so proud of what you did today and the days before.”

——————————————————————————————

harryismyfriend

liked by harryfan11, harrysfan202 and 810 others

harryismyfriend I saw Harry in Paris this morning!!!!!

view all 1 021 comments

harryparis I've met his as well and he asked not to upload any pictures! please take it down!

harryupdates he's there to surprise yn, please take this down

hArrysbtch dont spoil the surprise!!!!!

ynupdates delete this, please

harryismyfriend im so sorry, im deleting it right now!

this post has been deleted

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tennisworld

liked by ynupdates, harrystyles and 2 201 830 others

tennisworld You hear it first here! TREBLE French Open Champion - YN YSN! Congratulations!

view all 92 201 comments

ynupdates THEE champion!!!!

harryupdates the best player out there!

ynshands i love this woman

ynsmybestie god is a woman after all

hArrysbtch i don't know her personally but im so proud of her, i wish i could hug her

harrysmoustache did you guys see harry cheering????

⤷ hArrysbtch oh god, yes! he was so cute

⤷ ynsmybestie that man clapped and whistled more than me during his concert

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harryupdates

liked by ynupdates, hArrysbtch and 58 301 others

harryupdates YN AND HARRY AFTER SHE WON THE THIRD FRENCH OPEN IN HER CAREER!!! It seemed like Harry's presence was a surprise for YN!

view all 9 201 comments

ynupdates i love them

ynupdates and im so proud of yn. she overcame so many obstacles during today's match

ynshands 😭i😭love😭them😭so much😭

hArrysbtch this man is playing the biggest concert in his lifetime in 4 hours and he's not even in the same country right now

⤷ hArrysbtch and before all of you start hating on me: i love that he found time to support yn during one of her most important matches this season

harryandynforever im gonna sleep on a highway tonight

tennisyn THEE couple, ladies and gentlemen

——————————————————————————————

harrynews

liked by harryupdates, ynsmybestie and 23 301 others

harrynews Harry and YN landed in Dublin just two hours before the start of the show in Slane. The ride from Dublin to Slane takes about 40 to 60 minutes. I hope they'll be there on time!

view all 3 201 comments

ynupdates she went with him to Ireland?????

ynsmybestie they are so supportive of each other, I can't

harryupdates this man loves living on the edge

harrysmoustache outfit repeater!!!!!

ynsfan101 so she won't have a media day today? i hoped to meet her 😞

⤷ ynsmybestie i think she'll be back tomorrow. she needs to do a photoshoot in front of the eiffel tower

⤷ ynsfan101 oh, that's reassuring! i hope to get an autograph or even a photo!

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ynupdates

liked by harryupdates, ynsmybestie and 93 301 others

ynupdates HARRY DANCING FOR YN VIA HER IG STORIES!

view all 18 301 comments

harryupdates i-

harryupdates wow, just wow

ynshands if that was my man, i would post it too 'see, world? and that's all mine!'

ynsmybestie girl..... don't throw it in our faces like that, we know

hArrysbtch 🫠

hArrysbtch what do you mean it's the same harry scared of performing life just few years ago????

harrysmoustache unhinged, both of them

harrysfan82 why is he so hot and cute at the same time

ynupdates can we take a moment to appreciate their support for each other? harry went to Paris event hough he had a show tonight. and yn went to Slane even though she has a busy day tomorrow in Paris. amazing, just amazing how they can cooperate and work with their busy schedules

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yourinstagram

liked by harrystyles, taylorswift, annetwist, ynupdates, hArrysbtch and 4 392 027 others

yourinstagram 🎶my love, we were in Paris🎶 ... and then in Slane and in Paris again. And then no one needs to know where 🗺

view all 72 302 comments

harrystyles we were somewhere else

⤷ yourinstagram 💜

⤷ hArrysbtch not you singing Taylor, Harry!

⤷ ynsmybestie yn turned you to the bright side, i see

⤷ ynshands and he finishes what she sings???? 😭

⤷ harrysmoustache harry is a swiftie, confirmed!!!!

taylorswift Congratulations on your third French Open title, YN! I hope to see you on one of the concerts!

⤷ yourinstagram i'll be there, wherever and whenever it is, i'll be there

⤷ ynupdates talk about being a committed swiftie

ynupdates posting a pic from Harry's concert before hers with a trophy??? medal for the best girlfriend goes to yn

harryupdates enjoy your free time!

wimbledon See you soon, yn!

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Hello everything is fine? you could write Aemond engaged to Y/n wanting to take her virginity before marriage

EVERYTHING IS GROOVY, DUDE, THANKS FOR ASKING.

I've taken kind of a diary entry approach to this. There is basically no plot. Y'all know the drill.

Warnings: Smut, duh. Word count: ~1000

Before the betrothal

Aemond nods solemnly when his mother breaks the news that he is to be betrothed. He had known this day would come and accepted it as his duty to House Targaryen. He was to be wed to a noble girl from a noble house in order to strengthen Aegon’s claim to the throne. He has no thoughts of his future bride beyond doing what he must for the good of his family.

First meeting

Her hair that falls in soft, loose waves almost to her waist. She is small and slight. Her gown hugs her figure like a second skin. Aemond’s mouth runs dry as he takes in her bright eyes and rose petal lips. He clears his throat, remembering to introduce himself when his mother nudges him in the ribs. He had not expected her to be so beautiful. “Is she really going to be mine?!”

Nine months before the wedding

While Aemond knew she was beautiful, he had not anticipated being captivated by more than her looks. He is delighted to find that she is quick witted, intelligent and fierce - most importantly she is unafraid of him. His breath catches when she touches his arm when he makes her laugh. She does not leave his mind from that point onwards.

Six months before the wedding

They are finding more and more excuses to spend time alone together. Aemond cannot keep her out of his thoughts. Shameful as it is, he finds himself with his fist around his hardened cock each evening while he thinks about the softness of her skin, the way her lips part and the glint she gets in her eye when she looks at him. He cannot help but wonder how it would feel to be buried inside of her. Six turns of the moon feels like an agonisingly long time to wait to find out. 

He is taken aback one day when she presses a soft kiss to his cheek. He surprises her in return by turning his face and capturing her lips. It quickly turns heated and his eye goes wide when he feels her tongue slide against his, no one has ever kissed him like that before. Hands from both sides grope where they ought not to, and Aemond has to quickly excuse himself as his erection presses painfully against the lacings of his breeches.

Three months before the wedding

Aemond has discreetly read every book that the Red Keep’s library has to offer on the act of physical love. Underneath his stoic demeanour he is giddy with anticipation at all of the things he and his betrothed will get to try when they are wed. Yet, it is still months away, and he is losing patience. His interest is piqued when he discovers a tome on the art of pleasures of the flesh that do not involve fornication.

A few days later, Aemond and his lady find themselves cinched in another passionate embrace. What Aemond has read springs to mind and desperation and curiosity get the better of him. 

She gasps a quiet “what are you doing?!” as he crouches down and pushes at her skirts. 

“Trust me” he whispers back, before pressing his face between her legs and licking a hot, wet line along her cunny. 

He groans at the squeak she elicits, hand finding its way to his cock and fisting it as he feasts upon her soaking centre. Hot ropes of pearly spend coat his fingers as he climaxes with a grunt when she finally comes undone around his tongue. He has never tasted anything more divine.

The night before the wedding

Having spent every available opportunity exploring each other’s bodies and pleasuring each other without breaching her virtue, Aemond can hardly wait for them to finally become one, his body aches with the need to be inside of her. He knows they mustn't see each other the night before the wedding and yet he cannot stay away. 

He steals away into her bedchamber and, before he knows it, they are naked and tangled together in her sheets. He is stunned when she straddles him. He hisses as he feels the wet heat of her cunt press against his hardened length.

“We are supposed to wait.” He says, voice thick with lust, offering no real objection.

She giggles. “We are. I am not going to take you inside. My handmaiden told me how to do this and I’ve been dying to try it.”

“Well, who am I to deny my lady?” He asks with a sly smirk.

His jaw goes slack, his eye fluttering closed as she slides herself up and down his erection, rolling her hips against his without him ever breaching her entrance. The tip catches her there a few times, but she is quick to pull away, placing him back at her pearl and applying pressure where she needs it most.

His mind is foggy with pleasure. If this is what it feels like just to have her rub against him, what must it feel like to be inside? His stomach muscles tense and his stones tighten as he feels the first licks of his climax tease at his lower back. He can tell from how her pace has begun to falter and how her moans have turned to breathy pants that she is close too.

Her arousal soaks his lap as she falls apart above him and he finally allows himself release, gripping her hips and splattering his stomach as he bucks up at her.

After taking a moment to come back to reality, they stare at each other, both huffing a small laugh as they try to catch their breath.

Aemond swipes two fingers across his abdomen, collecting his milky spend and pressing it to her lips. She wraps her lips around the digits, sucking them clean with a contented hum and he grins at her.

“Just think.” He purrs at her. “Tomorrow I will finally spill my seed inside of you.”

Read on AO3

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The art director & the Good Omens book cover tier list of doom, part 3

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3

I am your resident Art Director/Good Omens enthusiast, and welcome to my completely meta-free book cover tier list. Listen, making a book cover is HARD. I should know. But while we salute these artists for their hard work and time, I think we can all admit that once in a while, the vision is just not on. And on very rare occasions, publishers seemed to have managed to commission the cover art directly from hell... here's where we left off last time:

21. Labas zīmes, Latvian cover

Our boys are back! And they are so ready to join the Dead Boy Detective agency. I would say that Latvians don't wear much tartan, so Argyle might seem like a similar print, but it just seems so... not Good Omens. Much like Crowley's flying purple people eater tail and Aziraphale's Conan the Barbarian sword, we're straying into niche AU fan fiction territory here. I mean, it's not *wrong*, but it certainly ain't right, either.

Tier: Does the Job

22. Bons Augùrios, Portuguese

Let me start by saying this cover is so close to being in the blessed category. The layout and spacing are divine, the imagery is simple and whimsical, it reflects the humour inside the gravitas to give you an idea of the *feeling* of reading Good Omens. So few of these covers have gotten this aspect of good design right. Honestly, I would slow clap if it wasn't for that random FLAME JIZZ stuck to the bottom right hand corner of the book. Who's idea was that? Dagon's?

Tier: Great

23. Semne Bune, Romanian cover

I admire two things about this cover: 1) Their utter commitment to a clean 3-colour palette and comprehensible layout. 2) Symbolic demon giving a principality head joke RIGHT ON THE FRONT COVER. This designer had balls. cotillion-sized balls. Now, does Aziraphale's sword have a sentient rooster tassel that watches said head-giving in horror? I sure hope not, but I don't see how that could be allegorical so, I'm torn. I feel like this goes in two categories for completely different reasons. And seeing as I'm in charge around here...

Tier: Great & Not so Good (Omens)

23. Semne Bune, Romanian cover cont.

Compared to the last cover's gigantic double-entendre, this feels so tame and logical. The text is centred and balanced. There's breathing room, and we have wing symbolism! I've never seen a cover try to split Terry and Neil's names like that, which is a fun twist but BY GOD that center line is not straight near the right end of the feathers and it is sending this cover straight down to Does the Job. It's grounded there forever.

Tier: Does the Job

25. HYVIÄ ENTEITÄ, Finnish cover

In this list, having something actually *relevant* to the main plot of the book and not mangling and main characters really puts you in rarefied air. All the motorcycles are book accurate which means somebody read something! Would I have ever picked the empty parking lot of Famine's restaurant as a subject worth a cover? Absolutely not. But the sick 80s lightning tips it into "fine" territory. The text is yellow. It's pretty.

Tier: Does the Job

26. Head ended, Estonian cover.

My face after staring at this cover for ten minutes and finally realizing that this is Hastur and Ligur waiting around for Crowley to pull up:

The artist's face after watching me do that:

Do I even need to rate this? It's called HEAD ENDED. I don't know how to be funnier than that.

Tier: WTF

27. Dobry Omen, Polish cover

Some good points for trying to be original with the layout of the title by drawing a custom pitchfork "Y", but the heinous kerning and the fact the whole text block is not even centred kind of makes me take all the points back. I feel like we're pretty heavy on the demonic, extremely light on the angelic in this take. Maybe it's because on his death bed the lead guitarist of White Snake will finally admit to having designed this cover in his spare time.

Tier: Not so Good (Omens)

28. Good Omens, Hungarian cover

If I told you this designer did not read the book, and instead just watched the trailer of The Omen (the movie) and vibed this heinous brown carpet swatch into existence, you would one hundred percent believe me. I can't even talk about the faux belle-époque font right now. I am irrationally angry.

Tier: WTF

29. Good Omens, Bulgarian cover

WHO. IS. DADDY. WIZARD?? Is all I can think when I look at this cover. Aziraphale & Grommet are recognizable enough, and you could make the case for telescope monkey being Adam, but I need to find this cover designer and shake them until they tell me who this deranged Gargamel is supposed to be. I must know.

Tier: Bad

30. BELAS MALDIÇÕES, Portuguese cover

After all we've been through on this list so far, this truly sucks. It's not even weird. It's just puce text layered atop text to create a great yawn of a cover. Shout out to the designer of the Diablo PC game font, I hope you got paid.

Tier: Bad

Part 3 roundup: