#divinity tastes like ashes

[serpentsurgency]

... good luck, little guy. And kick Ten's ass for us if you somehow can.

M!A the sad ghosty is very gently sent home again, together with the gifts we gave him

It was quietly staring at the word written across the whiteboard on the floor, crouched over it and purposefully small as it stared a the writing unblinkingly.

Even as another small chill dripped down the path of its face that it had grown so used to feeling over however long it had been like this, it kept staring as if the word would somehow become true if he just stared long enough.

Home. That's what he wanted. He wanted to be home. Home with Henry. Safe with Henry. That was the only home that mattered. ... He knew that was not something the anon could do but... Going back to at least the location of home would be enough...

... He would keep trying... He didn't know how or if Ten would even allow him but... He would keep trying somehow... He hoped the other two would keep trying too — the alive Edwin and the one with the other Henry...

He clung to the lighter and the dogtags tangled around it, tucked carefully out of sight and into his fist as the ask arrived and he wanted to stay here and he wasn't ready and what if they knew something else that could help their situation and what if there was something more that he was supposed to figure out and what if there was more that he could do before going back and what if the others could do something more to help him and what if and what if andwhatif-

...

..

.

Just as suddenly as it had appeared a few nights prior, it was gone again, leaving behind only the whiteboard with a smudged 'Home' written across it.

[bridges-to-ashes]

Warnings: implied alcohol consumption, implied depressive state

Word count: 1.000

[Not visible to muses or anons.]

It knew it didn't have to hide its presence, it hardly ever worked in the first place anyway; he had grown too used to the way it moved and appeared out of nowhere, and even if he failed to notice every once in a while, the dogs were still there to alert him to their former master's appearance.

And yet, they stayed quiet this time as it crouched down in its usual hiding spot next to the fireplace, carefully reaching its hand out to let the old St. Bernard napping infront of the fire sniff its fingers. It knew better than to try to pet her, of course, having learned of the sharpness of its fingers painfully early on, though it curls his hand up to a fist still, gently running its knuckles through her fur for a little while. Her satisfied, tired huff softens its features just a bit, though it's still more than most days saw of its forcefully suppressed gentleness.

It finds comfort in this fact, though this brief sense of warmth doesn't last quite as long as it had wished; the gentle flickering of the fireplace draws its attention to the pushed-over, empty bottles on what was once the coffee table all too soon, to the various notes and notebooks and lists and plans spread out on the small surface, together with half-dried-out pens and books that the local library had overcharged him on so often by now, he would have been better off just buying them himself.

It draws its attention to those things, the cluttered mess the living room had morphed into over the years, and soon also to the curled up, thin figure lying somewhere behind the mess, having simply collapsed on the sofa like he had night for night - or sometimes only every other, or third, or if it got too bad even just the fourth - for too many years now, leaving their once shared bed abandoned entirely, cold and chaotic, and only ever visited during nights when the bottle was empty and every thought written down, every possibility declared useless or disproven, when the little bits of his smell still clinging to the fabric were the only comfort he would accept.

… He hadn't even bothered with the blanket.

This fact, somehow, hurt it so much more than it could have ever expected.

Carefully, it gets up to its feet, stepping over the old, tired dog infront of the fireplace and into the flame's light, though it knows too well that the excitement over its visibly in such had long since faded. And still, it takes care to remain in the light as it steps around the various things spread out across the floor in a manner that Edwin, on his better days, swore was an order of some sort, around 'The Theorem of Necromancy' and 'The Olden Day Saints', useless titles written by unhelpful authors that he still kept, just in case, and it makes sure not to make too much noise as it pushes the table back a little, away from the sofa, before it sinks down to its knees right infront of the worn out piece of furniture.

With its head resting lightly against one of the half-fallen pillows, it takes its time to watch him rest, his slow breathing and the frown that he kept even in his sleep by now, together with the grief that had drawn itself so heavy onto his features that the deity was left to wonder if, in a thousand years, when someone would find this cabin again, they would declare the man he loved to be the saddest skeleton in the world.

Its eyes wander, however, much like his thoughts, and find his limp, left hand almost on instinct, scarred and curled up and, as it had been convinced an entire lifetime ago, made just perfectly to hold in his own. It hesitates, and that for much longer than it would have liked to admit if there had been any other witnesses than a drowsy dog and the soft ticking of a clock, until it finds itself able to reach out and take his hand, gently uncurling it in an attempt to release at least a little bit of the tension he had built up in his body for so long now; it still feels as warm and soft to it as it had the first time he had held it, familiar and secure and unmistakably human.

He stirs in his sleep, slightly just, and it knows it can't hold on, knowing too well that the freezing cold of its skin against his would wake him sooner rather than later. Instead, it runs its thumb over his knuckles one more time, then gently presses the gifted piece of metal into his palm, allowing him to grab onto it tightly as metal quietly clinks against metal, the engraving on the small tool matching that of a smaller piece of jewelry he had never once taken off since the day they parted.

With a toneless sigh, it finally pulls away fully, unknowing of when he had last slept at all and still unwilling to take the risk, instead leaving its head to rest on the sofa while curling its body up a little more, letting the fire shine on it peacefully as it allowed itself to drift off to a light pretend-sleep, one in which it could almost feel the warmth of his body against its own, his embrace gentle rather than tense with anticipation of what might come any second, his skin unscarred from various lashing-outs that would drown it in guilt barely a moment after.

And in this pretend-sleep, he still calls it Henry, soft and gentle and warm and full of love.

And it doesn't know what it has done to deserve to bear this name still.

[cryptiidcrowe]

“ sunrise, parabellum ” after disco elysium

you ever get brain worms so bad about a game you have to write a poem about it. anyway

(plain text version of all 3 readings below the cut!)

harry: tasting the ash / that coated the inside of / your lungs on my tongue is / the closest i’ll ever get to worship / i see them now, blooming brighter / than the butts of our cigarettes / i want to sink to my knees, beg forgive- / ness, beg oh god will i ever be the same / after this? i’ve been suffocating in smoke / since sweet oblivion stole the sunrise / this quiet communion will kill us still / in time, i promise; until then ruin / me with your breath, let the golden / glow of your divine innocence / decay in my lungs — i reach out / hold the fragile fluttering cage of / your life and i know, i know / how easily it'd crumple / if i just close my fist

kim: in your absence, for all / my life, i was told to believe / “blasphemy”; but this will always be / nothing more than watching strangers / living more than me, discarding more / oh, my dear, how little faith i held in you and / me, forgive all my doubt in your hurricane- / self, when your trembling hands hold mine / unknowing, uncaring of all that has come / i realize i never could have predicted you / in the face of something far grander / my lungs long decayed, you revive / sunrises whose brilliance eclipses the / corrupted and cursed, yet still forgiving / over and over and over / faith be damned, i want to guard / whatever it is we’re building / so i promise like a hymn / i will trust you.

together: tasting the ash in your absence, for all / that coated the inside of my life, i was told to believe / your lungs on my tongue is “blasphemy”; but this will always be / the closest i’ll ever get to worship nothing more than watching strangers / i see them now, blooming brighter living more than me, discarding more / than the butts of our cigarettes oh, my dear, how little faith i held in you and / i want to sink to my knees, beg forgive me, forgive all my doubt in your hurricane- / ness, beg oh god will i ever be the same self, when your trembling hands hold mine / after this? i’ve been suffocating in smoke unknowing, uncaring of all that has come / since sweet oblivion stole the sunrise i realize i never could have predicted you / this quiet communion will still kill us in the face of something far grander, / in time, but until then, please, ruin my lungs long decayed, you revive / me with your breath, let the golden sunrises whose brilliance eclipses the / glow of your divine innocence corrupted and cursed, yet still forgiving / decay in my lungs — i reach out over and over and over / hold the fragile fluttering cage of faith be damned, i want to guard / your life and i know, i know whatever it is we’re building / how easily it’d crumple so i promise like a hymn / if i just close my fist i will trust you.

[hungwy]

It pants from the heat of the blood coursing in its neck. Its body strains to break away from its secured head. It has waited for some time now. This is not its field; there are no cows grazing grass, no clouds roaming sky, no shady tree nor shady storm.

A blade falls through miles of tense muscle, hot veins, and a throat mid-breath. the suspended half-neck jiggles off the stocked head as the rest of the body collapses to the earth. With the cranium detached from the corpus, the soul returns back to its sky and field.

The headless bull is a monument of residue. A massive heap of material shit. As it lays on the earth the pile is rummaged through and slowly digested. Globs of muscle, sheets of skin, gushed blood and seeped tears are all melted by bile, a hot alchemical slag trickling across the land and into every meridian. The body is not returned whole to the earth but dissolves into a universal caecotrophic being.

The castrated head seeks another body. It resolves never again to touch the unclean earth. Horns erect like excited angel wings, its eyes rolled up in pleasure and locked like a hunter to the twinkling stars, its tongue drooping out for a taste of divine wind, is finally set to an orgasmic blaze of licking flames. The mundanity of fur, skin, muscle, snot, spit, eyeballs, brains, all rendered dark, pure, sacred cloud. A vein to Heaven is opened and the ashes flow upward, along a hot wind, into the vaulted cranium of the sky. In a thousand years another celestial eye will join the countless others of the night.

[gardenwons]

I WOULD GIVE UP HEAVEN IF I HAVE TO

SYNOPSIS: Jungwon, a celestial angel bound by the laws of Heaven, finds himself torn between his divine duty and the pull of an earthly feeling, he faces a choice that could shatter the heavens. Yet in the end, what is God in the face of a woman’s love and the lure of forbidden lust?

PAIRINGS: angel!jungwon x angel!reader

GENRE: celestial beings au, forbidden love, smut, angst, fluff (?)

A/N: word count is at 6k, vv sacrilege uve been warned ;P + mean n seducing won <3

The day you first met Jungwon was a whisper of eternity, a moment so brief yet so significant, it rippled through your existence like a stone dropping into a still lake. As a guardian angel, you were accustomed to the constancy of time, the serene repetition of your duties.

Angels were never meant to interfere with humans, never to step beyond the gates of Heaven unless a grand divine intervention was called for. But humanity has grown complacent, content in their free will, leaving angels to guard them solely from afar. No interaction, just silent watchfulness—angels touch forbidden in a world we can never truly know.

You observed, you guided, you protected humanity from a distance, never too close, never too involved. Emotions, especially those that plagued the mortal world, were foreign to you, nothing more than fleeting curiosity. They were indulgences you were never meant to understand.

But then there was him.

Jungwon.

From the moment your eyes met, something about him was different. The air around him seemed to hum with a quiet defiance, as though the very essence of him was a challenge to the order you had always known. It was said that he embodied what the most beautiful angel had, or perhaps now a fallen one.  His every glance seemed to carry a depth that tugged at the core of your being, stirring something within you that shouldn’t exist between angels.

You weren’t supposed to feel this way.

The first time you exchanged words wasn’t in the usual manner angels would communicate- through thoughts, intentions, and divine understanding. No, it was in the silence between breaths, in the space between one shared breath and the next. You had taken a brief rest from your duties, your wings fluttering gently in the golden light of Heaven’s plain, when Jungwon appeared beside you. His wings, light and sleek, casting long shadows across the celestial space.

His voice was soft, but it carried a weight that unsettled you. “alluringly strange, aren’t they?” he murmured, his tone contemplative, his eyes locked onto the human world below. “To watch them so closely… yet feel so distant.”

You blinked, startled by the unexpected conversation. For a moment, you hesitated. It was rare for angels to speak so plainly, so openly about their thoughts. Nodding slowly, keeping your gaze fixed on the mortals below, oblivious to the divine beings who watched over them. “It’s how it’s meant to be” you replied, your voice quieter than usual, as if afraid to acknowledge the crack in your own conviction. Terrified the heavens would hear.

Jungwon’s laugh was soft, almost mocking, finding amusement in your response. “And you believe that? that we’re meant to remain detached, distant from them, from everything?”

You glanced at him, frowning slightly. There was something dangerous about the way he spoke, something that made your wings twitch in discomfort. “That is what we are told” you stated, though the words tasted like ash in your mouth. It was what you were told, what you had believed for so long. Yet now, standing beside him, you felt the certainty slipping away, crumbling under the weight of his questions. What was the logic in this rule? Humans can have their free will but to the ones closer to God are bound by strictest constraints, as if divinity itself demands the suppression of choice.

He stepped closer, his presence suddenly more tangible, more magnetic than it had any right to be. The warmth of him radiated through the air, a stark contrast to the cold and distant perfection of Heaven. “What if..” he said, his voice a low murmur “we weren’t meant to be distant at all? What if we’re just… afraid? Afraid of what happens when we get too close?”

Your breath hitched, wings trembling at his words—words that challenged the very core of your existence. Alarms rang in your mind at the defiance he spoke, yet deep within, something stirred—something that ached, something unmistakably human.Your heart, a thing you hadn’t even realized could race, seemed to beat louder in your chest, the sound echoing in your ears. You swallowed thickly, trying to suppress the unfamiliar sensation. “Jungwon...” His name left your lips, a warning, a plea.

His lips curled into a dangerous smile, the kind that made your pulse quicken against your will. “Tell me,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, “you’ve never wondered what it feels like to love, to feel, to desire”

His words lingered in the air, forbidden words that sent a shiver down your spine. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words died on your tongue. Of course, you had wondered. How could you not? Every moment spent watching the humans, observing their connections, their emotions, their pain, and their pleasure. How could you not be curious? But that was all it was supposed to be—curiosity, as guardian angels are supposed to be. Nothing more.

“I… I’ve wondered,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, as if confessing to a sin that had yet to be committed. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re angels. We’re not supposed to—”

“Supposed to?” Jungwon interrupted, his gaze piercing through you. “We’re not supposed to feel? Not supposed to want?” His wings unfurled slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, and for a brief moment, they brushed against yours just barely. The contact was electric, a jolt of energy that sent heat coursing through you, making your breath catch in your throat.

“Wanting is greed, Jungwon. You know this.” you pleaded, your wings growing anxious as you held his intense gaze.

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel it” he whispered, his face now inches from yours. His eyes, deep and dark, seemed to search your soul, as if he could see every thought, every doubt, every desire you had tried to bury from the face of many Angels and God. “You can’t tell me you don’t want it.”

He glanced down from the clouds, his gaze shifting to a small apartment below, where a couple lay intertwined, their limbs tangled together in the intimate closeness only lovers knew. The warmth between them was noticeable, a soft glow of contentment that radiated from their shared breaths, their whispered words. They weren’t bound by divine law, but by something deeper, something that defied heaven’s cold perfection. "Look at them" he murmured, tone somewhat yearning "What they have is real. You can feel it too, if you let yourself."

You couldn’t speak. The words were there, but they refused to come out, tangled up in the storm of emotions that raged inside you. His nearness, the warmth of his body, the soft whisper of his wings. It was overwhelming, intoxicating.

“I... don’t...” you started, your voice trembling. But even as you tried to deny it, the truth lingered in the space between you.

He closed the distance between you, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek, his touch soft but firm, like he was grounding you to him. “You do” he said quietly, his breath brushing against your skin. “I can see it in your eyes. You want to feel it. what do you feel when you’re with me?”

Your heart pounded in your chest, your body betraying you in the way your wings fluttered, the way your breath quickened. This was wrong. You knew it was wrong. But the way his touch set your skin alight, the way his voice made your whole being tremble, it was unlike anything you had ever known. Unlike anything you were ever supposed to know.

You exhaled, a shuddering breath escaping your lips as you leaned into his touch, your forehead resting against his. “What are we doing?” you whispered, your voice heavy with uncertainty, fear, and most of all desire.

Jungwon’s smile softened, and for the first time, it wasn’t dangerous. It was tender. “We are choosing” he murmured. “Choosing something beyond Heaven, beyond what we were told, something that can be ours.”

His words hung in the air like a temptation you could no longer resist.

And for the first time in your existence, you allowed yourself to fall.

For the next few days, you had overused and beaten up your wings, desperately trying to fly anywhere but where Jungwon might be. Every time you felt his presence near, a wave of panic surged through you, pushing you to ascend higher, further, anything to avoid him. But the harder you tried to distance yourself, the more it felt like he was following, swarming up to you persistently, as if he was testing your resolve.

Your heart thudded painfully each time you thought of him. His defiant words echoed in your mind, growing louder despite your attempts to drown them out.

“What do you feel when you’re with me?”

“Choosing something beyond Heaven”

The boldness of his voice. The way he had dared to utter such dangerous thoughts, to let them linger in your head as if they belonged there. It terrified you how much power his words held over you. The tremors of his defiance crept under your skin, crawling their way into your heart, a place where only obedience and light should reside.

How dare he?

Your jaw clenched as you flew through the night sky, trying to clear your head. He was reckless. You were reckless. This was forbidden, after all. There would be consequences. All the angels would know. God would know. Surely, Jungwon wasn’t oblivious to this.

Was he not afraid?

Your thoughts raced faster than your wings could carry you. Was this all a trick? Perhaps the celestials were testing your faith, your devotion to the supreme being, that was the only explanation for how wrong this felt. Yet, no matter how much you wanted to hate Jungwon for planting these doubts, you couldn’t shake the pull he had over you.

You stopped abruptly mid-air, hovering in the thick clouds. It was cold and silent up here, your sanctuary from his presence. But the silence didn’t last.

“Y/N” a voice messed up the stillness, low and soft, with the same warmth that always managed to break through your defences.

You turned sharply to see him, his glowing figure descending through the mist, his expression calm but filled with determination. Both of you glowed in the clouds as your wings fluttered in agitation, but your body betrayed you. You couldn’t move.

“You need to stop running from me” Jungwon said, his tone firm but not unkind. He landed gently, his wings folding behind him as he stepped closer, his gaze never leaving yours.

You scoffed, looking away, trying to suppress the shiver his voice sent through you. “I’m not running.” But even you didn’t believe your own words.

“Really?” He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you’ve been avoiding me.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, your wings twitching. “What would you like to happen, Jungwon?” You kept your voice steady, trying to mask the turmoil broiling inside you. “Do you want to drag me down with you? Make me lose my faith?”

Jungwon’s expression softened, and for the first time, you saw the hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “That’s not what I want.” He took another step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I just… I want you to understand. I need you to listen to me.”

You clenched your fists, glaring at him. “Understand you? That you’re willing to throw everything away? For what, Jungwon? Some fleeting desire? You know the consequences of defying Him.”

He flinched at your words, but didn’t back down. Instead, he reached out, his hand hovering near yours, his fingers trembling slightly. “I’m not defying Him, Y/N. I’m just questioning things. I’ve seen so much, felt so much, and I—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “I need you to tell me I’m wrong, that this is just in my head.”

Your breath caught in your throat as his words sank in. This was what terrified you the most because deep down, you couldn’t tell him he was wrong. You felt it too, that undeniable connection, that forbidden pull.

“Jungwon…we cannot question, this is not something we are supposed to do..” you whispered, finally meeting his gaze, your resolve wavering. “This can’t happen. We cannot happen.”

He took a deep breath, closing the space between you, his wings brushing against yours. “I know what we’re supposed to believe. I know what’s expected of us. But when I’m with you… it feels different. Doesn’t it feel different to you?”

Your heart hammered in your chest, your wings trembling as you struggled to find your voice. He was too close, too intense, and you couldn’t think straight. But the truth was already written in the air between you.

Ultimately your eyes gave way to confession, teary doe orbs looking up at him in defeat. 

His eyes softened at your confession, a small, almost hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “Then why are you running? Why don’t you want to feel?”

You swallowed hard, tearing your gaze away from his. “Because… because I’m afraid.”

He reached out and gently cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “I’m afraid too, Y/N. But I don’t want to keep ignoring this. For us.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words settling in your chest. For the first time, you allowed yourself to truly see him—not as the defiant angel who had threatened to upend your world, but as someone who was just as lost and confused as you were.

But the fear was still there, gnawing at the back of your mind like the devil. “What if we fall like him?” you whispered.

Jungwon’s thumb brushed softly against your cheek, thoughts containing nothing but the way you glow under his touch as he answered, “Then we fall together.”

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It wasn’t long after that when the two of you finally crossed the line between curiosity and indulgence. What began as short glances became something far more dangerous. The way Jungwon’s eyes lingered on you felt different. It was heavy, charged with an unspoken yearning. Each stolen glance became longer, every shared moment too intimate, too deliberate to be mistaken for an accident.

At first, it was subtle. A brush of wings as you passed by each other in Heaven’s expanse, fingers grazing ever so slightly, a touch that sent a jolt of something forbidden coursing through you. You convinced yourself it was nothing. But when his hand lingered longer on your skin, when your breaths began to sync in spaces that felt too small, too electric, you both knew there was no denying it anymore.

You still  knew it was wrong—every stolen touch, every stolen moment. Heaven’s laws were absolute. Angels were never meant to feel love, never meant to desire in ways so primal, so human. Love, passion, and lust, these were things of the mortal world, indulgences you were forbidden from experiencing. And yet, with every passing day, your connection with Jungwon grew deeper, more consuming. What had once been a flicker of curiosity between you became a fire that burned brighter, hotter, threatening to consume you both.

It was under a sky painted with stars that the line between the divine and the forbidden finally shattered. You stood with him, high above the mortal realm, the glow of Heaven's light just out of reach. Jungwon turned to you, his eyes filled with something dangerous, something neither of you could ignore anymore. The air between you was thick with tension, with desire that had been kept on a tight leash for too long.

He reached for you then, slowly, as if giving you a chance to pull away. But you didn’t. His fingers brushed against your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip with agonizing softness. You inhaled sharply, feeling the heat of his touch sink into your skin. The moment hung between you, the anticipation crackling like lightning in the air.

When his lips finally met yours, it was like falling. Soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters of something you both knew you had no right to claim. But the moment his mouth touched yours, something inside you broke. A barrier that had kept you tethered to Heaven’s laws shattered under the weight of your desire for him. Your hands found their way into his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss with a hunger that surprised even you.

His wings unfurled, brushing against yours, the sensation of feather against feather sending sparks down your spine. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you against him until your bodies were flush, his breath mingling with yours, hot and erratic. You pressed yourself closer, needing to feel more, to take more, as if the space between you was suffocating. Every touch was a silent rebellion, a cry against the laws you had followed your entire existence.

“Are you scared?” you whispered against his lips, your voice breathless as you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. Your forehead rested against his, the question lingering in the air like the last remnants of doubt.

His eyes, dark and full of something unholy, something that mirrored the desire burning in your own, met yours. His breath was shallow, his grip on your waist tightening as he spoke, “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my existence.”

Your heart raced at his words, at the certainty in his voice. His hands slid lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, down to your thighs, lifting you just enough so that your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The moment you did, a growl escaped his throat, low and primal, sending a shiver through your entire body. His lips returned to yours, this time more demanding, more urgent, as if he couldn’t stand to be apart from you for even a second.

He carried you backward, your back pressing against the soft clouds beneath you, though it felt as solid as any earthly bed. His wings flared wide, casting shadows over you as his hands explored your body, every touch igniting sparks along your skin. His fingers grazed the hem of your robe, pulling the fabric away inch by inch, exposing the bare skin beneath to the cool night air.

Your breath hitched as Jungwon’s lips trailed down your neck, leaving a scorching path in their wake. His teeth grazed your skin, just enough to make you gasp, your body arching beneath him. One of his hands slipped beneath your robe, fingers brushing over your inner thigh, teasing, testing, before slipping higher.

A sharp gasp escaped you as his fingers found the heat between your legs, pressing with deliberate slowness. You bit your lip, trying to stifle the moan building in your throat, but it was useless. The sound slipped past your lips, soft and needy, spurring him on.

Jungwon’s lips returned to yours, devouring your moans as his fingers moved in slow, agonizing circles. You felt yourself unravelling beneath him, every nerve touched with pleasure, every thought consumed by the sensation of his touch. His wings enveloped you, cocooning the two of you in darkness—shielding you from Heaven’s gaze.

“Tell me” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with desire, “tell me you want this.”

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your body trembling beneath his touch. “I… I want you,” you confessed, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. “I want you, Jungwon.”

His eyes darkened, something feral flickering in them as he claimed your lips in a bruising kiss. His fingers pressed harder, moving faster, and you could feel yourself teetering on the brink of something dangerous, something forbidden. But just as you neared the edge, everything changed.

In a heartbeat, you were bound. Silken ropes wrapped tightly around your wrists, pinning your arms above your head, your back pressed against a smooth, heavenly pillar. The restraints dug into your skin, not painful, but tight enough to remind you who held the power.

“You look pathetic like this” Jungwon sneered, his voice low and dripping with condescension. He stood over you, his gaze dark and unrelenting, roaming over your vulnerable form. “No celestial being or human could never amount to your beauty”

Yet, in this moment of power, he revelled in your submission, a twisted satisfaction lighting up his features. The tension between you crackled like electricity, and you could feel his breath against your skin, warm and taunting. “It’s almost tragic” he continued as he leaned closer, “how such beauty can be so easily bound and helpless.”

His fingers ghosted down your body, featherlight and taunting. You squirmed, testing the ropes, but they held firm. A sharp tug at your wrists elicited a gasp from your lips, and the helpless, needy sound only made Jungwon’s smirk widen.

“Just think of what I could do with you, all this beauty restrained,” he murmured, the promise of his intentions hanging heavy in the air. “Look at you,” he muttered, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “So desperate. So needy. What a disgrace for an angel.”

Without warning, his hand shot to your throat, gripping tightly enough to make your pulse race beneath his palm. He tilted your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes were filled with something dark, primal, something that made your stomach churn with both fear and desire.

“You think you deserve my touch?” he whispered, his grip tightening just slightly. “You think I’d be gentle after all your disobedience?”

You tried to shake your head, tried to speak, but the pressure on your throat choked off your words. Jungwon’s grip loosened just enough for you to gasp for air, and then his lips were on yours. Going rough, demanding, leaving no room for tenderness. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before biting down hard enough to draw a whimper from you.

“That’s more like it,” he growled against your mouth. “I want to hear you beg.”

He pulled away, his hand trailing down your body, curling around your thighs before forcing them apart. The cool air hit your bare skin, heightening your awareness of every inch of yourself, exposed for his pleasure. His gaze never left your face as his hand slid between your thighs, fingers hovering, teasing, never quite touching where you needed him most.

“Beg for it” he ordered, his voice low and dangerous. “Tell me how much you want this.”

You squirmed beneath him, your wrists tugging at the restraints as you tried to press closer. “Please, Jungwon,” you whispered, your voice shaky, “please… touch me.”

Jungwon’s laugh was cold and mocking. His fingers brushed against you, just enough to make you gasp, before pulling away entirely. “Is that the best you can do?” he taunted. “Pathetic. You’ll have to beg harder than that.”

A flush of heat crept up your face, your body burning with need. “Please” you whimpered, your voice breaking with desperation. “I need you… I’ll do anything.”

A cruel smile curved his lips as he finally pressed his fingers against your clit, slow and teasing, sending waves of pleasure through your trembling body. You arched against the pillar, a soft moan escaping your lips, but Jungwon’s other hand gripped your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Keep your eyes on me” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “I want to see every second of your surrender.”

His fingers moved faster, slipping inside you with a practiced, ruthless precision. Each movement was deliberate, calculated to keep you on the edge of release, but never quite letting you tip over. You writhed beneath him, your body aching for release, but the cruel gleam in Jungwon’s eyes told you he wasn’t going to give it easily.

“Look at you, pretty angel~ falling apart with just my fingers. Do you even realize how weak you are right now? How easily I could break you?”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your body trembling with need. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, desperate for more, but Jungwon wasn’t done playing with you yet.

“Beg me to let you come” he commanded, his voice rough and unforgiving.

“Please” you gasped, your voice trembling. “Please, Jungwon… I need it. Please let me come.”

Jungwon’s smirk deepened as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You don’t get to come until I say so.”

With that, his fingers slowed, keeping you teetering on the brink of release, but never granting you the satisfaction. He watched you squirm, his cruel laughter filling your ears as you struggled against the golden ropes, your body shaking with the overwhelming need for more.

“You’ll come when I decide” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “Until then, you’re mine to toy with.”

Jungwon’s smirk softened as he looked down at you, your body trembling beneath him, bound and helpless in the ropes he’d tied with such care. His thumb grazed your cheek, and for a moment, the cruel glint in his eyes faded, replaced by something deeper, something more intimate.

"You look so perfect like this," he whispered, loosening the bonds around your wrists. His fingers lingered where the silk had dug into your skin, rubbing the marks softly. "But I’m not done with you yet."

Your wrists fell free, and as you collapsed into him, his arms wrapped around you, holding you close against his chest. He was still so firm, so in control, yet his touch was different, now gentler, but no less commanding. His lips brushed your forehead, soft and reverent, like a promise.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “But only because you’ve been so good for me.”

You shuddered as his hands slid down your body, no longer teasing, but steady and sure. He lowered you back down to the soft clouds beneath you, his eyes locked on yours, dark with desire but softened by something warmer now. His fingers trailed along your thighs, and when he positioned himself between them, the world seemed to slow, the air thick with anticipation.

“You still want this?” His voice was low, almost vulnerable, as though he needed to hear you say it again.

“I want you” you breathed, your hands reaching up to touch his face, pulling him closer. “I’ve always wanted you.”

Jungwon’s lips found yours in a kiss that was slow and deep, a kiss that spoke of everything unsaid between you. Desire, defiance, and something more dangerous. His body pressed against yours, and you could feel every inch of him, hard and ready, but holding back just enough to make you ache with longing.

He broke the kiss, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

Slowly, carefully, he positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes flickering up to meet yours. For a moment, there was no dominance, no power play, just the raw connection between you two, something that defied the very laws you had once sworn to uphold.

And then, with one slow, deliberate thrust, he pushed inside you. The sensation was overwhelming. He filled you completely, stretching you in ways that made you gasp, your body arching against him. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer as he settled into a slow, steady rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body.

“God” you moaned, your fingers digging into his arms as he moved, your body melting beneath him.

Jungwon chuckled softly, his lips brushing your jaw. “Not quite” he teased, his voice low and husky. “But I’ll make you feel like it.”

His pace quickened, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic, his body moving with an effortless grace that made it impossible to think of anything but the pleasure building inside you. His wings, usually tucked away, spread out around you both, creating a cocoon of feathers and warmth, shielding you from the world, from Heaven’s judging eyes.

“Look at me” he commanded softly, and when you did, the intensity in his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. "I want to see you when you fall apart."

You whimpered, your hands clinging to his shoulders as his thrusts became deeper, more urgent, driving you closer and closer to the edge. His fingers curled around your thighs, pulling them up to wrap around his waist, and the new angle sent a jolt of pleasure through you, making you gasp.

“Jungwon” you moaned, your voice trembling, “I... I can’t—”

“Yes, you can” he growled, his lips brushing your ear as he thrust harder, his body pressing down against yours, his pace relentless. “You’re going to come for me, and I’m going to watch you break.”

You were so close, nearing on the edge of release, every nerve in your body alight with the sensation of him, filling you, consuming you. Your breaths came in uneven, shaky gasps, your body quivering beneath him. Yet, he kept you pinned in place, his fingers pressing into your skin, anchoring you to him.

"Say my name" he commanded, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Say it when you come."

His thumb brushed against the sensitive spot between your legs, rubbing slow, deliberate circles in time with his thrusts, and that was all it took. You came undone beneath him, your body arching off the clouds as the pleasure crashed over you, your hands gripping his arms as you cried out his name.

“Jungwon!” The word spilled from your lips, raw and breathless, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure tore through you. He watched you the entire time, his eyes dark with satisfaction as you fell apart beneath him.

And then with a final thrust, he followed you over the edge. His body shuddered as he came inside you, filling you completely. His grip on your hips tightened, his breath ragged against your neck as he buried himself deep within you, his release leaving him trembling in your arms.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both of you lost in the aftermath, your bodies tangled together in the warmth of each other’s embrace. Slowly, Jungwon pulled out, his hands gentle as he lowered you back onto the clouds, his body still hovering over yours, protective and possessive.

His fingers brushed your cheek, and when you looked up at him, his eyes were softer than you had ever seen them before.

“You’re mine” he whispered, his lips pressing softly against your forehead, a promise in every word. “Always mine.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, the intensity of his gaze making it hard to breathe, but you couldn’t look away. The ropes were gone, but the invisible link between you and Jungwon felt stronger than ever.

“I’m yours” you whispered, your hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Jungwon smiled, a real, soft smile that sent warmth flooding through you. He leaned down, kissing you again, this time with tenderness, the ferocity of his earlier dominance replaced by something deeper, something that felt almost like love.

And as he held you close, the weight of your defiance hung in the air, but it no longer felt like a burden. With Jungwon beside you, it felt like freedom.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Heaven was quick to notice. The divine realm was not blind to such transgressions, and the whispers of your defiance reached the ears of the highest angels. You and Jungwon were summoned, the sacred halls echoing with the weight of your sin, warned to sever the bond that had ignited between you before it was too late. But the love you shared had already become your heaven—more sacred, more intoxicating than any celestial paradise could ever offer.

The Council of Seraphim loomed before you, their eyes cold and condemning, wings aglow with the pure, searing light of Heaven. Their gazes felt like knives against your skin, their judgement tearing at the very fabric of your existence. They told you that if you didn’t end it, this forbidden love, you would be cast out. Fallen from grace. Stripped of your wings, your immortality, your divinity. Everything.

And still, you hesitated. Because how could eternity in Heaven ever compare to a single moment in Jungwon’s arms?

Lucifer’s name was invoked, a warning etched in whispers that spread like wildfire through the ethereal clouds. Gasps echoed through the heavens, the horror of it rippling like a wave, a reminder of what happens to angels who want more. More than servitude. More than blind obedience. More than the perfection of paradise.

“Lucifer chose greed over duty, and now he reigns in hell” one of the Seraphim hissed, their wings flaring in anger. “Is this the path you choose as well?”

Jungwon, standing beside you, his jaw set and eyes burning with quiet defiance, reached for your hand. His fingers slid into yours, warm, trembling but unshakable in their conviction. That single touch… so human, so raw, that it grounded you, even as the weight of the Seraphim’s words threatened to crush you.

"Let them take everything from us" he whispered, his voice steady despite the judgement raining down upon him like fire. "They can have their paradise. As long as I have you, I already have heaven."

Tears stung your eyes, your heart breaking under the truth of his words. The reality of what you were about to lose weighed down on you like an anchor, dragging you into the depths of your sorrow. You tried to imagine it, tried to picture life without the wings that had carried you through eternity. The light of Heaven fading from your soul. The cold, eternal exile. Your body shook, not just with fear but with the knowledge that this choice would ruin you.

“I can’t…” Your voice cracked, barely a whisper, your tears finally falling. “I can’t lose everything.”

Jungwon’s grip tightened around your hand, his eyes softening for just a moment. “You’re not losing everything,” he murmured. “You’re choosing everything that matters. I’ll be with you. Wherever we go, no matter what happens.”

The Seraphim’s voices thundered, condemning you both. The words "fallen," "disgrace," and "damnation" crashed around you, suffocating your last ties to the divine. Yet amid the chaos, all you could hear was Jungwon. His presence, his love, was the only thing keeping you from breaking apart completely.

You closed your eyes, the weight of Heaven's judgement pressing down on you like an avalanche. You could feel your wings begin to tremble, the shimmering light that once radiated from them dimming, fading away. Your immortality, your celestial power—it was all slipping through your fingers. And still, all you could think of was him.

“Are you scared?” you asked, your voice a fragile whisper, barely able to meet his gaze.

Jungwon smiled, soft and full of that quiet, defiant strength. Everything that he was reassured you, “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my existence.”

His words were a bandaid to your soul, a tether pulling you back from the edge of despair. You knew then, in that moment, that there was no other choice. No amount of divine glory, no promise of eternal light, could rival the love you shared. The bond that had been forged between you was too strong, too real. More real than anything Heaven could offer.

With trembling hands, you reached for your wings, feeling the divine energy pulse beneath your fingertips one last time before you let it go. The glow dimmed, the feathers withered, and then, they fell. One by one, your wings disintegrated, leaving you exposed, fragile—human.

The Seraphim watched in silence as your fall from grace became complete. But there was no turning back now. You had made your choice.

As the last of your wings faded into nothingness, you looked at Jungwon, his wings still intact but now dark, tarnished by your shared sin. He pulled you into his arms, holding you so close you could feel the beat of his heart against your chest.

"Together, my love" he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple. "We’ll face this together."

And as the gates of Heaven closed behind you, casting you into the abyss of exile, you realized that the real paradise wasn’t in the clouds or the light of Heaven. It was here, in his arms, in the love you had chosen over everything.

And even though you had fallen, with Jungwon by your side, you had never felt so free.

[houseofaegon]

ENCHANTRESS ╱ BOB REYNOLDS SERIES

✷ ─── +18 MINORS DNI 𓏲  ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ emotional trauma, mentions of death/grief, witchcraft, blood magic, mentions of tony stark and natasha romanoff's deaths supernatural possession, canon-typical violence, discussion of war and loss, found family themese, bucky being a big brother, heavy emotional reunion, psychological instability (enchantress/void dynamic), first contact tension, slight walker slander lol.

✷ ─── AUTHOR'S NOTE. this chapter is the beginning of everything. this is her history, her haunting. arabella means everything to me!! she's my baby and i love her so much, creating her character and her backstory has been both amazing and heartbreaking, especially because of tony and natasha and her grief after losing them. thank you for reading and giving this unhinged little series a chance. love always, bri.

✷ ─── ENCHANTRESS SERIES. chapter one: beauty in tragedy. chapter two: the devil you know. chapter three: the witch. chapter four: moonlit waters. chapter five: divine hunger. chapter six: to burn & be burned. chapter seven: of teeth & tenderness. chapter eight: bound by blood. chapter nine: ashes between us. chapter ten: salt in the wound. chapter eleven: blood moon. chapter twelve: whispers in the dark. chapter thirteen: the witch and the void.

ARABELLA MONTENEGRO never knew her mother. Nor her father 

She never knew the warmth of a mother's voice singing lullabies until she fell asleep, or what it meant to be held in soft arms. Never learned what it felt to be cherished. To be wanted. To be loved. To be a daughter.

Her mother died giving birth to her under a blood moon eclipse in the cold Andean highlands. The air was thin and charged with unspoken energy, the earth wet with rain, and her first cry was followed by a gust of wind so violent it shattered the windowpanes of the midwife's hut.

There was never a father to begin with. The village whispered she had been conceived through a blood ritual the witches performed in desperation—calling upon something old, something nameless, something far more powerful than any of them could control. They said her soul was not entirely her own.

She was raised by witches—her grandmother at the head, the matriarch with weathered hands and eyes that could turn anything into flame. The women in her bloodline had always walked between worlds, but Arabella was different. She didn't channel magic like her sisters. She was magic—uncontrollable, wild, ancient. And at six years old, something inside her opened its eyes.

The Enchantress.

Not a whisper. Not a ghost. A prescence. Always watching. Always waiting. Sometimes Arabella would wake up with her feet dirty and raw, her hair braided with herbs she didn’t remember picking, blood on her palms and a taste like copper on her tongue. The others said she was sleepwalking. But she knew. It was her—and it wasn’t. She saw things—glimpses of herself standing in the woods, barefoot and laughing, darkness blooming from her palms. But it wasn’t her laughter. Not really.

Her grandmother tried to train her, to tether her to the earth with chants, crystals, and sacred prayers. But even she, the oldest and most powerful of all the witches in her village, feared what Arabella was becoming.

They all did.

They never said it out loud. But Arabella saw it in their eyes.

Fear.

Of her hands. Her eyes. Her potential. Her power. Of what lived inside her.

The Enchantress wasn't a passenger. She was a fracture in her mind. A second heartbeat. Arabella felt her stirring in moments of pain, in flashes of rage, in silence too long left untouched. She'd whisper—not in words, but in urges. In hunger. In need.

At sixteen, it happened. A fight. A bad one. Someone touched her—grabbed her wrist, called her a monster. She doesn’t remember screaming. Doesn’t remember the words. Just the fire. The sensation of being split open, of something rising from her spine like smoke and rage and divinity.

It was raining. Pouring rain. Arabella remembers the smell of wet earth, the way the sky seemed to known what was going to happen. Before it all happened. Before it bled. The power erupted out of her like a scream. The Enchantress took over her entire body. She was transformed, became something else. A curse. Her body shifted, her voice fractured. Eyes glowing, mouth open wide—screaming spells older than language itself.

When it ended, the entire village was gone.

Ash.

Smoke.

Blood.

Silence.

Arabella woke in a crater of scorched stone, her hands trembling, her dress shattered, her body painted in blood. She remembered nothing—but in her dreams, she saw it all. Screams. Flames. Her sisters on their knees, begging. Untammed. Unable to control herself. Unable to snap out of it. Dangerous. Feral.

The Enchantress laughed through her.

Arabella had killed them. All of them.

And so she ran

Left the rotting, burning village behind. Left the only people who had ever called her family. Her heart broken inside her chest. She couldn't trust anyone—not even herself.

Because when she loved, when she cared—people died.

She didn't stop.

She ran.

Ran until her feet bleed. Until she couldn't breathe. Until the blood blurred.

And then somehow, she ended up in New York.

Concrete. Neon. Noise. A city too loud for her ghosts.

She slept in alleys. Kept salt and crystals in her pocket. The Enchantress whispered constantly, her presence heavier in the city than ever before. Arabella wore her grief like a second skin and hid her power behind trembling hands.

Until he found her.

Tony Stark.

It was raining—of course it was. New York in one of those late spring storms that felt biblical. The streets washed in rain and car lights and memories. She was half-starved, fingers glowing black under her hoodie. Curled up outside a bodega, eyes half-closed, a protection spell barely bubbling in her throat.

And still—she didn’t cry.

She was too empty for tears.

Then someone stepped through the rain and crouched in front of her. He didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t stare at the light bleeding from her fingertips or the sigils etched into the concrete around her feet.

He just knelt beside her slowly and said, "You look like hell, kid. Let's get you warm."

She blinked up at him, dazed. And that was it. That’s how it started.

He didn’t ask her what she was.

He just held out his hand.

He brought her to the Avengers Compound. Let her shower in hot water until her skin pruned. Let her sleep for two days straight in a room so layered with protection spells, even the ghosts in her blood went silent.

He built her a room lined with vibranium and blessed by both Wanda and Strange. The walls were filled with runed she carved herself, deep and crooked with shaking fingers. Salt lined the windowsills. Crystals in every corner. Every inch a sanctuary just for her.

He called her kid. Said it like it was a nickname, not a burden.

Pepper brought her tea in the mornings. Clean clothes. Soft smiles. She tucked her hair behind her ear like a mother would. Arabella didn’t know how to handle it. She didn’t know how to be held without breaking. But Pepper made it feel like maybe she could be something other than a curse.

Maybe she could be… a daughter.

And Tony? He was the first person to make her laugh. The first person who didn’t treat her like a prophecy, like a monster. He made her feel safe. He taught her how to channel, not contain. He never told her to be less. He never told her to be afraid.

He made her feel like maybe—just maybe—she could be Arabella again, and not the thing the ghosts whispered about. Not the girl born under the blood moon. Not the prophecy in flesh.

Just a girl. Living. Learning

But deep down, The Enchantress never slept. Never faded. She waited.

And Arabella always felt her… watching. Letting her pretend she was normal. Letting her pretend she could be loved.

She became an Avenger at twenty. Not because she believed in saving the world—but because Tony did. Because he looked her in the eyes and said, “You’ve got more heart than most people in this place. Let it beat for something.”

She fought beside them—Steve, Nat, Bucky, Wanda. Bled for them. Protected them. Called them family.

She saved lives. She laughed again. She thought—just for a moment—that maybe she could have a life.

But when Tony died, something inside her broke.

She didn’t scream right away. She just stood there—frozen in the chaos, in the smoke, in the aftershocks of war—and stared. Stared at the arc reactor dimming in his chest. Stared at the blood on his mouth. Stared at the way the sky looked too clear. Too quiet.

He had snapped his fingers. Saved the world.

And it had killed him.

Arabella dropped to her knees beside Peter, who was sobbing. Pepper was whispering, voice cracked and crumbling. Steve stood in silent grief. And Arabella?

Arabella shattered.

The scream ripped through her like a blade. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t even hers.

It was The Enchantress.

Magic exploded from her in violent, pulsing waves—black and poisonous, raw and ruthless, tearing through the rubble like a second earthquake. Spells older than any living tongue poured from her lips like a curse cast by grief itself.

She didn’t know who she was hitting.

Didn’t see Peter until it was too late.

He reached for her—“Bella, stop—please—”

She nearly broke him in half with a single word.

Wanda stepped in, her own power crashing into Arabella’s like a tidal wave of chaos and grief and fury. The ground split beneath them. The sky turned red.

And still, she couldn’t stop.

It was Bucky who pulled her back.

He found her in the aftermath—crumpled against the side of the battlefield, her hands trembling, her body still glowing faintly like a dying star. Blood on her palms. Ash in her mouth.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise a hand. He just sat beside her, quiet, solid.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know what it feels like when grief breaks you open.”

She let him pull her into his arms.

Let herself sob until her throat went raw.

She disappeared after Tony's funeral. No goodbyes. No notes. Just gone.

She couldn't bear it—Tony’s lab, untouched and echoing. Natasha’s absence like a ghost in every corner. Steve gone, like a whisper fading in the wind. Everyone trying to move on. Everyone pretending they knew how.

She couldn't pretend.

She couldn't stay in the places where laughter once lived. Couldn't sit at a table set for ghosts.

Thanos was gone. But somehow, she still felt like she had lost.

Like she had failed.

She couldn’t save them.

She wasn’t enough.

Because Arabella Montenegro was never built to bury her dead.

Not when their voices still lived beneath her skin.

Not when the dead still whispered through her veins.

Bucky Barnes hadn’t seen her in years.

Not since the funeral. Not since the battlefield where she nearly broke the earth open with her grief. Not since he found her curled into herself, shaking and bloody, sobbing over Tony Stark’s lifeless body. Not since he held her like a brother who didn’t know how to fix her—only he knew that he had to.

He hadn’t expected to hear from her again.

Not really.

She didn’t owe them anything—not after what she’d lost, not after what she’d given. Arabella had always been something untouchable. A ghost in a pretty dress. A girl with shadows in her lungs and thunder in her fingertips. She was never meant to stay. She was made for disappearing.

But he missed her.

God, he missed her.

Because Arabella Montenegro had done what no one else had.

She got through to him.

When the world still looked like war behind his eyelids and everyone treated him like a loaded weapon, she looked him dead in the eye and said, “I’ve known worse monsters than you. I keep one inside me.”

She never tiptoed around his past. Never judged him. Never tried to fix him.

She just… stayed.

Showed up with tea laced with cinnamon and protection charms she slipped into his leather jacket without telling him. Stitched sigils into his gloves and his suit. Knew when to sit in silence, and when to drag him out of bed at 3am to dance barefoot on the compound roof like two idiots with more power than they wanted.

She made him laugh.

She made him feel like a man, not a weapon.

He used to call her “brat” when she got on his nerves, and she’d roll her eyes and call him “abuelito” for fun. But when things got real, when the Enchantress clawed too close to the surface or her hands shook after missions, she’d whisper, “James,” and he’d come running.

He was her anchor. Her constant. And she? She was his warmth. His moonlight. His reminder that he could be soft without falling apart.

They didn’t need to say it aloud.

She was the little sister he never had.

He was the big brother who never asked for anything but gave everything.

And then New York cracked beneath The Void, when Bob Reynolds began unraveling the fabric of reality one thought at a time, Bucky didn’t know who else to call. There was no Steve. No Natasha. No Tony. So when he dialed her number, voice tight and half-broken, he wasn’t sure she’d even pick up. Left a message she might never listen to.

Just six words.

“If you’re still out there… please.”

Part of him hoped. Prayed.

Because if anyone could help them now…

It was Arabella.

He didn't think she'd come. Not after everything. Not after all the pain and suffering she'd been through.

But she did.

Three days later, the elevator doors opened at the Watchtower, and Arabella Montenegro walked in.

Barefoot, as always. Her black silk dress clung to her like smoke, high-necked and long-sleeved, sheer, embroidered with dark thread in sigil shapes. Obsidian rings adorned her fingers, and a silver charm glinted at her throat—something old, something protective, something hers.

Her hair was longer now. Wilder. Cascading in thick curls down her back like a midnight waterfall, still damp from the rain. It framed her face like a halo of shadows. Haunted in a way that told him the past years had carved her out like a cathedral. Her eyes, rimmed in black, gleamed with something other. The blood-red of her lips looked like the last kiss before a storm. She looked older. More dangerous.

More beautiful than ever.

Bucky stood frozen halfway across the room, breath lodged somewhere in his throat.

She saw him immediately.

Her mouth curved. Soft. Familiar. Just for him. “James,” she said softly.

“…You came,” he whispered, the words barely making it out of his throat.

Arabella tilted her head. “You called.”

And that was all it took.

Bucky moved before he could stop himself—crossing the floor in three long strides. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t wait. Just wrapped her up in his arms and pulled her in like he was afraid she’d disappear if he blinked.

Arabella let out a sharp breath against his chest, the air knocked out of her with the sheer force of his embrace. “James—” She laughed, breathless. “You’re crushing me.”

“I don’t care,” he muttered into her hair, squeezing tighter. “You’re real. You’re here.”

She clung to him just as hard, arms wrapped around his waist, face buried in his shoulder like she was ten seconds from falling apart. He rocked her back and forth without realizing it. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, thumb brushing through damp curls.

“You smell like rosemary and grave dirt,” he said softly.

“You smell like gunpowder and old guilt,” she shot back, muffled.

His laugh cracked, deep in his chest. “There she is,” he murmured. “My little menace.”

Arabella pulled back, blinking up at him. Her eyes shimmered—just slightly. “You missed me.”

“Of course I did,” he said, brushing her hair back behind her ear like she was still that nineteen-year-old girl Tony brought home. “I’ve missed you every goddamn day.”

“I didn’t think you’d say that out loud,” she teased, her voice trembling with more than amusement.

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, still holding her. “Getting soft in my old age.”

“You’ve always been soft for me,” she smirked.

He rolled his eyes. “You hex my coffee once and suddenly I’m emotionally compromised.”

“You are emotionally compromised,” she whispered.

His face sobered. He reached up and cupped her cheek. “You good, Bells?”

She hesitated.

Then she nodded, slowly.

“Getting there,” she said. “But I knew I couldn’t do it alone. Not this time.”

“Well, you’re not alone anymore,” Bucky said, his tone quiet, firm, the way big brothers spoke when they made promises they intended to keep. “Not ever again.”

And Arabella, for the first time in years, believed him.

But then the room shifted.

All eyes were on her now.

Arabella turned, facing them fully for the first time. Her presence hit like a ripple in still water—slow, sudden, undeniable. The kind of entrance that made rooms fall silent, made hearts stall in place.

Her magic followed behind her like a scent: wild roses, burnt sage, candle smoke. It draped over the room, pressed into the walls, settled deep into the floors.

And they felt her. Not just her energy—but the presence curled behind her bones.

The Enchantress.

Yelena didn’t even stand up.

She looked Arabella up and down from her spot on the couch, one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, a protein bar half-eaten in one hand. Her sharp gaze swept over the black silk, the bare feet, the storm that shimmered around Arabella like perfume.

Then she said, dryly, “You look like you’ve buried at least three exes and didn’t bother wiping the blood off your mouth.”

Arabella barely blinked. “Only three?”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Two were accidents. The third had it coming. The fourth is still in the freezer.”

Yelena grinned, slow and wicked. “Do you want to be best friends or enemies who share eyeliner and hide bodies together?”

“Can we be both?” Arabella asked, tilting her head.

Yelena tossed the protein bar aside and stood. “God, yes.”

Bucky groaned audibly. “No. Nope. This is a mistake.”

Arabella and Yelena ignored him, already circling each other like twin wolves. Dangerous. Beautiful. Laughing under their breath like they’d been born for this.

“You ever hex a man so his dick stops working?” Yelena asked casually.

Arabella’s eyes glittered. “Only on Tuesdays.” She leaned in. “And only if he ghosts me.”

Yelena let out a delighted gasp. “Okay. I love you. Teach me your dark arts, my Sith Lord.”

Arabella smirked, one brow arched. “Only if you promise to use your powers for petty and chaotic purposes.”

Arabella and Yelena bonded instantly.

Within five minutes, they were seated on the floor, knees touching, comparing knives and horror stories. By ten, they were whispering chaos into the walls—how to enchant Walker’s shampoo, how many ways you could curse someone’s sex life, whether blood magic could double as birth control.

It was like Arabella was meeting a version of herself—sharper, louder, equally unbothered.

And then Walker came in.

Arabella didn’t even turn when he stepped into the room—she just felt the misplaced authority before he spoke.

“So this is the witch,” he muttered, all folded arms and puffed chest.

Arabella turned her head slowly, almost lazily, and looked him over with the kind of gaze that made men reconsider their entire careers.

“If it isn’t the Dollar Store Captain America,” she said, deadpan.

Yelena barked a laugh. Bucky sighed, trying his best to hide his smirk.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Arabella continued, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve. “Honestly? I expected more muscles. And less… mall cop energy.”

Walker’s jaw tightened. “You know, you witches are all the same.”

Arabella leaned in. “No, I’m worse.”

He muttered something under his breath and stormed off. The door didn’t close fast enough to muffle Yelena shouting, “Try the clearance aisle next time!”

Then came Alexei.

He strode over like an avalanche in boots, face split into a grin, eyes crinkling with delight.

“You,” he declared in Russian, “are the little shadow witch. I have heard things.”

Arabella raised a brow. “Good things?”

“Terrifying things. My favorite kind.”

She smiled.

“I brought gift!” he announced, pulling something from his jacket. “Very sharp.”

He handed her a vintage combat blade—slightly rusted, beautifully heavy.

Her eyes lit up. “This is better than flowers.”

“You are better than daughters,” he said proudly. “I have too many of those. But you—? You are dangerous. I adopt you now.”

“Do I get a pin?”

“No,” he said. “You get vodka.”

Arabella grinned. “I knew I liked you.”

Ava came last. Quiet, hesitant, but not afraid.

Arabella turned the moment she stepped near, gaze softening.

“You’re beautiful,” she said simply. “Not your just face. Your aura.”

Ava blinked. Said nothing. Arabella reached into the folds of her coat and pulled out a crystal—clear, sharp-edged, humming faintly.

She pressed it into Ava’s palm.

“You ground the noise,” she whispered. “That’s rare. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

Ava stared at her. Not used to praise. Definitely not like that.

“Thank you,” she said, voice small.

“You’re welcome,” Arabella replied, just as softly.

And then—him.

She hadn’t looked at him yet. Had felt him the moment she stepped into the room—golden, fractured, watching. But now she turned.

And there he was.

Bob Reynolds.

He stood like a storm held in skin. Curls tousled, hands tense at his sides, chest rising and falling too slowly. His eyes were full of something that wasn’t him.

Something dark.

Something waiting.

Arabella met his gaze—and time bent. Her pulse jumped. Her magic reacted.

And inside her chest, The Enchantress inhaled sharply.

“Him,” she whispered, breathless. “He’s—he’s not like the others.”

Arabella felt her limbs go cold and hot all at once. Her fingers trembled. The air between them shimmered like heat off pavement.

Inside Bob, The Void purred.

“She’s like us,” it whispered, reverent and hungry. “I can feel the darkness inside of her. Let me touch her.”

Bob didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Arabella’s mouth parted slightly.

The Enchantress hissed—“Feel that? That pull? He’s not just broken, mi niña. He’s bound. Like you. Like me.”

Arabella swallowed, but the breath barely made it down. The air was too thick. The space between them pulsed with something unspoken, ancient. Not recognition—no, it was deeper than that.

It was kinship.

It was want.

Bob still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t blinked. His fingers twitched once, a tremor that betrayed everything simmering beneath the surface.

Arabella’s voice was barely more than a breath when she finally spoke.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Bob’s lips parted.

Inside his chest, The Void leaned forward, eyes glittering in the dark.

“She knows,” it whispered. “She sees you. And she doesn’t run.”

Arabella didn’t blink.

Neither did he.

And in the space between them, something shifted.

Something began.

𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐅𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 © 2025. DO NOT STEAL, REPOST, OR COPY THIS STORY TO TUMBLR, WATTPAD, AO3, OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM. Moodboards and graphics made by @houseofaegon DO NOT repost or reuse without credit. chain divider by @cursed-carmine

♱ ˖ ࣪ . taglist: @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans @uracowboylikemee @sxlsvv @stillinracooncity @deltamel (if you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know in the comments. love, bri.)

[iydiamartinx]

HIS SOUL TO GIVE

Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 1.3k synopsis: Death wasn’t the end Jason Todd expected. In a frozen purgatory where pain and sorrow taint the very air, he meets a demon. She offers him a choice: rise… or shatter. All she wants is one thing—his soul. a/n: I enjoyed this idea so much more than I expected. warnings: talk of death, demons

When Jason Todd died, he had expected pain. Or maybe fire. Something to match the way he’d gone out.

Yet, that wasn’t what the afterlife was, it wasn’t fire and brimstone like the stories said. It was worse. It was cold. Bleak. A wasteland stitched together from sorrow and regret, where the air hung heavy with the taste of eternal torment. The horizon bled endlessly into a cracked sky that neither brightened nor darkened. There was no sun. No stars. Just the dullness of a world that had no end.

Time was meaningless in such a place.

The condemned wandered endlessly, locked in loops of their own guilt—some weeping, some silent, some laughing as they tore themselves apart, over and over, because they thought they deserved to. And worse, some who didn’t think they did, who clawed at invisible cages until their hands were nothing but bone and denial.

Jason moved through this realm like smoke through cracks. He wasn’t bound like the others. Not yet. But the place pulled at him. 

The land shifted with mood, bent to memory. One moment he walked through the hollow wreckage of Wayne Manor, its grand halls scrawled over with Joker’s laughter, family portraits slashed and bleeding—and the next, the concrete wreckage of Crime Alley stretching on endlessly, a tunnel of echoing gunshots and broken laughter, a cathedral of his failure. The ground was littered with rose petals. Or blood. It was hard to tell.

His final breath still echoed through the concrete. He could hear it—if he stood still long enough.

And that’s when she came.

The shadows peeled back like burnt paper, curling at the edges, revealing something that should not have been. A figure stepped forward—not a woman. Not really. But shaped like one. 

Her hair fell in waves like onyx fire and rom her temples curled a pair of horns—like a ram’s, black and ridged, adorned with dangling chains and strange, delicate jewels that chimed softly with her steps. Her skin was the colour of polished midnight, gleaming with a purple sheen that shimmered between starlight and shadow, as if she were carved from obsidian itself.

And her eyes—God, her eyes. Jason couldn’t look away. They shifted between gold and blood-red, as if lit from within by coals that had burned for centuries and had yet to cool. 

She walked barefoot, and the hem of her gown—dark as dried blood, light as smoke—dragged through the ash that coated the earth. If he listened closely, he could hear the whispers of it as it moved.

Jason was frozen at the sight of such a dark ethereal creature. He would’ve thought she was an angel if it weren’t for the large, bat-like wings looming upon her back, with sharpened points along the points. She was a creature from hell, fallen from the heavens he didn’t know.

Jason stood frozen.

The sight of her rooted him where he stood, breath caught somewhere between awe and instinct. A dark, ethereal thing—too terrible to be divine, too divine to be anything else. For a heartbeat, he might have mistaken her for an angel. But then he saw them.

The wings upon her back. Massive and bat-like, they loomed behind her. The thin membrane shimmered like oil slick, while the edges of bone curved into jagged, sharpened points at the tips.

No. She wasn’t an angel.

She was something fallen. Something cast down from a heaven he didn’t believe in, or perhaps risen from a hell he hadn’t yet learned to fear.

Every soul in this place was assigned a tormentor—and she was meant to be his. But the moment she laid eyes on him, she knew something was wrong. He wasn’t what she expected. The boy was young—no longer a child, but not yet a man fully grown, yet that wasn’t what made her hesitate.

His soul glowed too bright for a realm built on rot and ruin. It didn’t carry the weight of malice or cruelty. It wasn’t blackened by betrayal or blood. His was a soul marked by pain, yes—but not corruption. There was purity still lingering in him, one that had no place among dark and tainted. 

It shone like a beacon to the damned—calling to every dark creature that skulked through this realm, ones who would tear him apart just to taste the light in his bones.

“You shouldn’t be here,” She purred. Her voice was like velvet. 

The scent of his fear swirled through the air. But still, he lifted his chin, defiance smouldering behind such fierce eyes.

Her lips twitched with amusement.

He balled his fists. “Who the hell are you?”

She tilted her head, and the delicate chains laced through her horns gave a soft, musical clink.

“Names are meaningless things for mortals,” she said—voice light, almost bored. “But among the creatures of the dark, they hold value.” The edge of warning threaded through her words. A flicker of sharp white canines flashed behind her smile. “Still, if you need something to call me to soothe your pride, you may call me whatever suits your fear.”

She watched his throat bob with a swallow he tried to hide. Brave. But not foolish. He seemed to take the warning she gave to heart.

Her gaze dipped, and she stepped closer, leaning in just enough that her breath brushed the shell of his ear.

“You shine, little bird,” she murmured. “So bright, I’m amazed you haven’t been devoured yet.”

He tensed.

“You’re not like the others,” she continued, circling him with slow, deliberate steps. “The condemned cling to this place because they earned their suffering. But you…” Her voice trailed off as she came to stand before him again, head tilted slightly, gaze sharp and gleaming. “You’re barely tethered. You shouldn’t be here—which begs the question… why are you?”

She studied him in silence, eyes glinting with a hunger that wasn’t quite cruelty… but not quite benevolence, either. She wasn’t the worst of her kind. But she was still a creature of the hells.

Her question was answered as an unnatural green began to bleed into the blue of his eyes.

“Ah,” she breathed, a slow smile curving her lips. “That’s why.”

He gasped sharply, one hand flying to his chest as he collapsed to his knees. “What’s… happening to me?”

“Someone’s clawing at your grave,” she drawled, voice laced with dark delight, almost sing-song. “How lucky for you.”

Another cry tore from him as his hands flew to his head, fingers fisting in his dark hair. It felt like fire in his veins, like his mind was being ripped apart thread by thread.

Her smile faltered.

“How long have you been dead?” she asked, brows lowering just slightly.

“I—I don’t—” He choked on the words, barely able to speak.

With a sigh that rang with the weight of ancient boredom, she sank into a crouch. Chains and jewels clinked softly as she moved. With one sharp, lacquered nail, she delicately tipped his chin upward, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“It’s been too long. Hasn’t it,” She murmured more to herself, as she continued studying him. “The body may rise, but the mind will shatter. All that rage, all that passion and determination, all of it soon to be lost to insanity.”

“Please,” he whispered. He didn’t even know what he was asking for—relief, release, salvation—maybe all of it at once.

Her smouldering gaze narrowed, considering.

Then, she sighed. “You’re lucky I like broken things.”

She leaned closer, her voice smooth as sin.

“I’ll offer you a deal, little bird. I’ll give you strength—enough to rise again, without your fragile little mind devoured by madness. In return…” Her eyes gleamed. “I want one simple thing.”

She paused, savouring the moment.

“Your soul.”

A fresh wave of fire tore through him, stealing breath, breaking thought. He convulsed, the scream catching behind clenched teeth.

“Yes!” he gasped, eyes wild and unfocused. “Deal!”

A slow, dark smile curled across her lips.

“A kiss,” she purred, “to seal the deal.”

She leaned in. Her lips brushed his brow—warm and deceptively gentle.

For a moment there was nothing, and then suddenly Jason screamed as his body was consumed in flames of green.

[paymechildsupport]

' Eternally Yours ' // Ryomen Sukuna x M!Reader

̩̩̥͙ 　-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ+:ꔫ:﹤̩-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆

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

Sukuna's childhood best friend , -- his only friend, -- whom he'd known since his time as a human. Passing naturally through the progression of mortal aging, you'd been there since the beginning, back during a time otherwise blurry and buried deep within the furthest corners of his mind.

The only part of his time as a human that he would begrudgingly hold onto. You had always been there, -- you continued to be there, even when he had left everything human about himself behind. The only living evidence of his mortality, is vulnerability, - the only thing to escape the inferno that had left even his own heart into blackened ash.

You always saw the best in people, even in monsters like himself. He had never been a kind man, and he most certainly would never be a kind curse. But beneath that you always saw your friends: the same, young boy whom you met by the village riverside. Even now, as he's larger, broader, stronger, -- hungrier . . .

If his monstrous appearance, -- with his multitude of arms and extra eyes, -- ceased to perturb you,- then neither his malevolent, and oftentimes downright brutish nature nor his ... unseeming taste in cuisine quelled the love you held for the curse in your heart.

And you stayed, even when everyone left, you remained.

̩̩̥͙　-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ+:ꔫ:﹤̩-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆ --------

Sukuna's childhood best friend , -- whom he'd held a forever affinity for. His bright smile and kind eyes, his stupidly handsome face, - and eyes Sukuna couldn't help but picture staring at him in the dead of night. The boy who'd seen everything, -- every single moment of weakness, of mortal insecurity, -- the singular piece of living evidence from a time Sukuna wished to eradicate , the one thing he couldn't bring himself to destroy.

The compassionate boy from his village, who'd offer him food whenever he needed it, a place to stay when it rained, who once gave the clothes off his back because he was cold.

The most talented person Sukuna knew, who taught him how to fire a bow, taught him how to wield a blade, and showed him how to cultivate his cursed energy into something magnificent.

The beautiful man who Sukuna was forever cursed to be reminded of, who's face haunted his dreams, who's voice echoed within his ears, who's very existence inked itself into every writing he made to paper. Pages upon pages of intimately inked strokes etched onto parchment, eternalizing every ounce of devotion shared between man and curse. The object of Sukuna's creative ego, the subject of a divine art, of poetry, written by the many hands of a god.

̩̩̥͙　-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ+:ꔫ:﹤̩-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆ --------

Sukuna's childhood best friend , -- whom he'd grown inseparable with, the one person who he couldn't get rid of if he tried, -- one singular exception. No amount of mortal flesh could quell the all-consuming hunger he experienced. It ate Sukuna alive, it left him hollow, how much he needed him. Desired him. It was obsession, -- a desperate, violent obsession.

A King who seemed to have everything and yet nothing at all.

He could only lay awake at night, staring up at the infinite ceiling of the universe, counting the stars and imagining his face, hearing his laugh. It ached. The place that was suppose to be empty and hallow beated painfully , -- thrummed with emotion, with life.

He'd bring his fingers to his lips, wishing above all else they were yours. It was more than a simple carnal desire, He wanted your presence, your warmth. A god begging for the humble gaze of a human.

He was in love with his best friend.

̩̩̥͙　-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ+:ꔫ:﹤̩-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆ --------

Sukuna's childhood best friend , -- who paid the price of a god's love. The one who never left, - but was taken from him. Stolen by other foolish mortals.

Left only with the hundreds of writings he dedicated so lovingly in your name, a vividly recorded memory, Sukuna set to burn everything down. With the one good thing left in his accursed life so unjustly ripped away, the only thing that remained was an inhuman hatred.

And everyone had to pay. If your life couldn't have been spared, he sure as hell wouldn't offer that mercy to anyone else. Because if you were gone, then no more innocents remained.

-----

̩̩̥͙　-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ+:ꔫ:﹤̩-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆ --------

-----

Sukuna's childhood best friend , -- whom he desperately hoped, out of everyone, would be waiting for him. Who'd be walking around, alive, reborn with open arms. And if by some small, inconceivable notion of a chance you weren't, he'd drag you back from the Afterlife himself.

He just had to get out of this damned vessel first.

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

[A/N] This became a lot longer than I anticipated -

[wendichester]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ where angels fall and lovers rise,

summary. castiel's been gone for long. you thought maybe for good. but now he's back from the purgatory and you want to make up for the lost time.

pairing. castiel x reader genre. soft smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 769

notes / warnings. explicit sexual content (oral sex f!receiving), mild angst with comfort, post-purgatory trauma, slow pace

It takes you three full minutes to believe he's real.

The flutter of wings was familiar, but your heart’s too cracked open to trust it. The sound left scars last time, when it wasn’t him. When it was nothing. When the motel room stayed quiet and empty, and your sobs filled the air he used to breathe in.

But now… he’s standing there. He’s standing there.

“Cas?” you whisper like it might break something, like maybe he’s a dream you forgot to wake up from. You’re on your feet before you even feel your legs move.

His coat is in tatters, blood dried in streaks along the lapel, his tie hanging limp and dark. His eyes—still impossibly blue, impossibly his—lock onto yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

“I’m home,” he says. Voice hoarse. Low. Gentle like a prayer.

You rush him. You crash into him.

His arms close around you with a groan, like the weight of you is the first thing he’s wanted to carry in months. Your fingers tangle in his ruined trench coat, clutching and fisting fabric as if you could crawl into him and erase the distance, the silence, the bone-deep fear that he’d never come back.

“I thought I lost you,” you breathe into his neck. “You were gone for so long, Cas, I—I couldn’t—”

“I know,” he murmurs, his lips in your hair, pressing, breathing you in. “I couldn’t find my way back. I tried. Every day.”

The kiss starts messy.

Your mouth is too desperate, too shaky. His lips taste like ash and heaven. He groans into it, hands cupping your face like you’re holy, like you’re the only thing he’s still sure of. His body trembles—Castiel, trembling—and you don’t pull away.

You can’t.

His fingers skim down your sides like he’s trying to memorize you again. He moves slow, reverent, eyes wide and glassy when he pulls back just far enough to ask, “May I… touch you?”

Your breath stutters out of you. “You never have to ask.”

But he does. He always does.

Because Cas doesn’t take, not even now. Not even after months of clawing through hellscape to get home to you. He asks because he wants to give.

You nod. He leans in.

His mouth brushes your collarbone, open-mouthed and hungry. You feel him sink to his knees in front of you, hands pushing up your shirt, slow but sure, trailing warmth and promises up your skin.

His fingers find the band of your shorts and pause. Eyes flicking up.

“Please,” you whisper, the word breaking open like a gasp. “I need you.”

He nods once. Worshipful.

When he pulls them down, he kisses your thighs like they’re sacred ground. Each touch is slow, careful, like he’s afraid to leave bruises on something so soft. His tongue slides through your folds, deliberate and slow, and your knees almost give out.

You don’t think you breathe right until his mouth is on you.

It’s intimate, almost too much. He holds your hips steady as his mouth learns you again, licking slow stripes, murmuring quiet things like I missed you here and you’re still divine and let me make you feel like yourself again.

You come with a sob, clutching his shoulders, his hair, whatever you can reach.

When he stands, you pull him into your arms and don’t let go.

You end up on the bed, tangled in limbs and breath. His body covers yours like a blanket, like safety. Like a promise you thought the world had broken.

“Stay,” you whisper.

“I never wanted to leave.”

Your fingers trace his back, feeling every ridge of tension, every scar. He moves inside you like he’s still praying, still asking. His lips press to your shoulder, your cheek, your chest, again and again until you realize he's shaking.

“Cas,” you breathe, cupping his face. “You’re safe now.”

He buries his face in your neck.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, voice thick. “I held onto your memory. It was the only thing that still felt like light.”

Your heart breaks and blooms all at once.

You kiss him through it. Through the tremble in his voice, through the quake of his hips, through the desperate ache that radiates off of him like heat.

You make love slow. Deep. Like time doesn’t exist anymore. Like nothing else matters except this.

And afterward, when you’re curled against him, when his fingers are tangled in your hair and his breath evens out against your skin, you whisper it again.

“You’re home.”

And this time, he believes it.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[bbokaricentral]

christ, I'm bout to sin again - MDNI

pꪖⅈ𝕣ⅈꪀᧁ: pastorsson!lee felix x fem!reader

part one

Ｓｕｍｍａｒｙ: part two of doing something unholy, felix starts to let go of the beliefs he once held so tightly, pulled instead by the raw, messy power of love. It isn’t clean or holy. Lust, sin, and desire blur the lines he used to live by, and for the first time, he’s not sure if he’s falling or finally waking up.

authors note: I hate this so much, and I didnt really revise or edit that much so it might be repeating with lots of spelling mistakes.

I hate this but fuck it we ball

taglist: @hanjisunnnng @taniaskibidimeowmeow1 @shortcake-whoops @skybluelixie @hwangjoanna @kexiksexik

Ɯαɾɳιɳɠʂ: religious guilt, swearing, porn with plot, semi-public, sex in church’s confessional room, head(f receiving) dom felix, praise, fingering, unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap your willy) like two spanks , lmk if I missed anything. 

ᴡᴏʀᴅ-ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5k

It’s been months now, and Felix still carries it like a sickness in his soul.

He can feel it in his chest, tight and cold, like something hollowed out and filled with ash. He walks through his days like a man half-alive, smiling when he must, nodding when expected, but beneath it all he’s rotting. Quietly. Privately.

He has prayed—God knows he has prayed.

Morning and night, on his knees until his legs ache and his throat burns from whispering the same words, over and over. Have mercy. Forgive me. Take this from me. But there’s no thunder in response, no divine fire from heaven. Just silence. Heavy and endless.

And yet—he can’t stop.

He hates that it’s not love. If it were love, maybe he could make sense of it, twist it into something noble or selfless. But this is not that. This is flesh. Hunger. Lust, raw and vivid and burning through him like a wildfire through dry wheat. And it’s you. Always you.

He sees you and feels the fault lines in his soul split wider.

The first time it happened—really happened—he’d stared at the ceiling of his bedroom afterward with tears on his cheeks, unsure if they came from guilt or rage or both. His hands are still shaking. His mouth was full of the taste of betrayal. He hadn’t even touched you. Hadn’t spoken a word of it aloud. But it didn’t matter. In his heart, he’d already fallen.

He remembers the verse: "Anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart."

That line stings more than any whip ever could. He repeats it to himself like a curse, lashes himself with it, hoping maybe it will beat the desire out of him. But it doesn’t. It just bruises deeper.

He wants to be righteous. Holy. Clean in the eyes of the Lord. He wants to be the man who stands tall before the altar with steady hands and a pure heart. But he knows—God knows—that he isn’t.

What he is... is weak. Filthy. A hypocrite in a pressed shirt and polished shoes, singing hymns with a mouth that’s tasted sin.

He used to feel close to God. There was a time when prayer felt like breathing, when scripture felt alive in his chest, when the quiet moments in church felt like being held by something eternal. But now? Now it feels like God is watching him from behind a veil of disappointment. Like heaven has turned its face from him.

He sees your smile and feels like a thief in the temple.

You are kind. Good. You speak to him with warmth, with innocence. And all he can think about is the fire that rushes beneath his skin. He turns his eyes away, clenches his fists, begs for grace—but it comes anyway. The thoughts. The wanting. The heat. Like a serpent coiled around his ribs.

And afterward, when the moment passes and the shame returns like a flood, he feels unworthy to even speak God’s name.

He’s not ready for confession. Not yet. Because to step into that booth, to look into the shadowed face of a priest and admit, I have desecrated the temple of my mind with unclean thoughts, feels too unbearable. He imagines the words catching in his throat. He imagines the priest’s silence—whether merciful or stern—and it’s enough to make him sick.

He’s not afraid of punishment. He’s afraid that this is the punishment: to want, and to fail, and to keep failing. Over and over.

having denied his Lord three times—not with his mouth, but with his mind. And every morning, the rooster crows in his chest. You’ve done it again. You turned your eyes away from holiness for a passing shadow.

He fasts sometimes. Not for show, not out of pride, but because he hopes that hunger of the body might silence the hunger of the soul. He avoids you now, when he can. Comes in later, sits farther away, looks away when your pretty ____ eyes meets him. 

But it hasn’t gone away.

He wonders if this is the thorn in his flesh—the one Paul spoke of. A reminder of his frailty. A tether to humility. Or maybe it’s something darker. A sign that he’s already drifting, already sinking like Peter in the waves, his eyes off Christ, fixed instead on the storm within.

He hates what this does to him. Not just the guilt. But the distance. From himself. From God But still, every night, he returns to the floor beside his bed. The old wood cool beneath his knees. He bows his head. Closes his eyes.

And in the dark, he whispers—not with confidence, but with desperation: “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for this. Please, take it away.”

And somewhere in his heart, he wonders if God is still listening.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The church had always been a peaceful place for you. A place for reflection, calm. Lately, though, it had become something else entirely. Ever since Felix started helping out more—setting up chairs, organizing hymn books, always quietly moving around the space—you found yourself showing up more often. You told yourself it was just because you liked being involved, but that wasn’t entirely true.

There was something about Felix, something that pulled you in. He wasn’t just any guy at church—he was... different. Kind, shy, and completely unaware of how much his presence seemed to calm everything around him.

At first, you tried to ignore it. There was no way you could just waltz up to him and start a conversation, right? But as the weeks passed, you found yourself looking for reasons to be in the same room as him.

Eunchae, being your best friend and all, noticed the way your eyes lingered whenever Felix walked by.

“You like him,” she said one day, not even looking up from her phone as she casually dropped the bomb.

You sputtered, your drink nearly spilling. “What? No, I don’t!”

She didn’t even bother glancing at you. “Come on. Don’t try to act innocent. I see how you look at him when he’s not looking.”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “Eunchae, seriously? We’ve been through this. He’s just a guy.”

Her eyes finally met yours, full of mischief. “A guy? Sweetie, I think we both know you don’t get all flustered over just any guy.”

“Stop it,” you muttered, trying to deflect.

But Eunchae wasn’t done. “It’s okay! I’ve got a solution for you. I’m going to start volunteering at church too. You know, help out with the youth group stuff. That way, you’ll be around him more. I’m just being a good friend here.”

You blinked at her. “Wait. You’re really going to volunteer just so I can see Felix more?”

Eunchae shrugged, giving you her signature sly grin. “I mean, you’re too shy to do anything, so I’m helping you out. Plus, it’s a good cause.”

You could tell by the way she was smiling that she was enjoying this way too much. “I don’t need your help. I’ll figure it out.”

“Sure,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Keep telling yourself that. But you do need help. And I’m here for it. Anyway, I’m starting this weekend. Let’s go.”

And just like that, you found yourself volunteering alongside Eunchae that Sunday. Felix was already there, of course, moving around the church like he owned the place (in the most humble way possible). He was still the same quiet, distant figure you’d noticed before, but now you had a reason to be there.

“Okay,” Eunchae whispered as you both walked in, nudging you. “Go talk to him. You’ve been staring at him for the past five minutes, and it’s starting to get awkward.”

“I’m not staring at him!” you hissed, but you knew she was right. Felix had caught your eye a few times, and each time, you’d quickly looked away like a deer in headlights.

Eunchae rolled her eyes. “Right. Like you’re not obsessed with him. Go on. Just go say something normal. Like, ‘Hey, Felix, how’s it going?’”

You sighed and finally gave in, walking over to where Felix was adjusting some hymn books on a table. He looked up when he heard your footsteps.

“Oh, hey,” he said, looking a little surprised. “I didn’t see you there.”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “Hey, Felix. Eunchae and I are here to help. What do you need us to do?”

He blinked for a moment, clearly trying to figure out what needed doing, before he pointed toward a stack of chairs in the corner. “Could you set those up? That would be awesome.”

You nodded, relieved that the conversation was still going fine. You grabbed a chair and started moving it to its designated spot, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw Eunchae practically vibrating with excitement as she walked off to grab more supplies.

“Just act casual!” she called out as she passed, loud enough for Felix to hear.

You shot her a look, trying to signal for her to be quiet, but she only grinned wider.

“Shut up,” you muttered, turning back to Felix. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that you were clearly in the middle of an embarrassing moment with your best friend.

Felix’s soft humming broke the silence as you worked. It was so quiet in the church, just the occasional sound of chairs scraping across the floor, and you found yourself listening to his voice—gentle and almost melodic. You couldn’t help but glance up at him again, only to catch him doing the same thing to you. His eyes quickly darted away, and his cheeks pinkened slightly.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Was he... blushing?

You quickly turned back to the chairs, your mind racing. Felix was sweet, but he was so hard to read. Was he nervous? Did he even notice you were here, or was this all in your head?

You shook off the thoughts and focused on setting up the chairs. You could feel Eunchae’s eyes on you from across the room, and you knew she was watching to see how this was going to play out.

Then, it happened. As you were moving past Felix to adjust a chair, your arm accidentally brushed against his. It was a light touch, nothing more than a quick graze, but Felix froze. You could see the shock flash across his face as he stepped back.

Before you could even apologize, he stammered, “I—I need to go get something. I’ll be right back.”

His voice sounded shaky, almost panicked, and before you could say anything, he rushed off toward the back of the church, disappearing through the door to the confessional room.

You stood there, blinking in confusion. What just happened? He barely even looked at you before he bolted. Did you make him uncomfortable? Was it the touch? You didn’t mean to—

“Dude,” Eunchae said from behind you, clearly trying not to laugh. “You made Felix blush.”

“What?” You turned around, wide-eyed. “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t mean to make him blush.”

“Girl, you totally did,” she said, trying to keep her voice casual but failing miserably. “I mean, come on. He can barely talk to you without turning red. Now you touched him? He’s probably freaking out in the back right now.”

You felt your stomach twist. “I’m seriously going to die of embarrassment.”

Eunchae just grinned. “Relax. It’s cute. He likes you.”

“No way,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I don’t know. Maybe I messed things up.”

Eunchae was still grinning, but her tone softened a little. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s shy. But you definitely made an impression. If anything, now you know for sure he’s into you.”

You didn’t know if you believed her, but you did know one thing for sure: you couldn’t just let Felix run off like that without talking to him.

Maybe ten or more minutes pass and you abruptly say. 

“I’m going to check on him,” you said, trying to sound confident.

Eunchae’s smile turned into a teasing smirk. “Go for it. Just don’t make him run away again.”

You gave her a half-hearted glare as you made your way to the back of the church. Every step felt like it took you closer to some kind of turning point, but you weren’t sure what that would be. When you reached the door to the confessional room, you hesitated. Should you knock? What would you even say?

You raised your hand, taking a deep breath.

“Felix?” you called softly.

The door was slightly ajar, you could hear movement inside, continuous gasping and moaning..? You shook off those thoughts and called out again —louder this time but there was no immediate response. You stood there, waiting, unsure whether to go in or wait for him to come out. You ultimately choose the first option, and you  walk closer to the door and open it up.  

—  

Felix sneaks into the church's confessional room, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and guilt. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, taking a deep breath. His cock is hard and aching, straining against his pants, begging for attention. He quickly unbuckles his belt and pushes his pants down, letting his erection spring free. He starts to stroke himself, his hand moving with a desperate need.

"God, I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire. He pulls his shirt up and bites down on it to suppress any sounds that might escape. His other hand grips a nearby shelf for support as he leans into his pleasure, the wood digging into his flesh.

He hears a noise outside the door and freezes, his heart pounding. The doorknob turns, and the door creaks open. He sees you standing there, your eyes wide with shock as you take in the sight of him—his hard cock, his desperate strokes, and the sheer embarrassment on his face.

Felix's world crashes down. He's caught, exposed and vulnerable. You see everything, and he can't hide his shame. His hand stops moving, and he stands there, panting and ashamed, his pants around his ankles, his shirt still in his mouth. You take a step closer, and he can see the mix of surprise and something else in your eyes—something that makes his heart race even faster. 

You stutter, "O-oh! I'm so sorry," your eyes locked on his growing hardness, lingering way too long. You ignore the soaking wet feeling in your panties, trying to focus, but fuck, what a pretty dick.

 Your thoughts race as Felix's face turns a deeper shade of red, his hands shaking slightly as he starts to buckle himself up, avoiding your gaze. "You know what? Fuck it," you murmur, stepping closer. 

"Can I help with that?" you offer, your voice huskier than you intended. His face contorts in shock, and for a moment, silence hangs heavy between you. He nods, a jerk of his head, yes, yes, yes. He releases his shirt from his mouth, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

You drop to your knees between his legs, your hands already eager to explore. You start slow, kissing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, teasing him, making him wait. He squirms, his hips bucking slightly, seeking more friction. 

You oblige, taking him in your hand, stroking him slowly as you lean in and lick the tip, tasting the pre-cum beaded at the head. He lets out a shuddering breath, his hands finding your hair, gripping tightly as you take him fully in your mouth.

Felix's a head pusher, alright, thrusting his hips up to meet your mouth, fucking your throat with abandon. You relax, taking him deeper, your nose buried in his pubic hair, inhaling his musky scent. He tastes so fucking good, and the sounds he's making are driving you wild. 

You moan around him, the vibration making him cry out, his grip on your hair tightening to the point of pain. "You feel so fucking good, ___," he grunts, his voice strained. "Your mouth is perfect." You hum in response, your hands roaming his body, squeezing his balls, tracing the vein on his cock. He's close, his body tensing, his breaths coming in short gasps.

With a final thrust, he comes undone, his hot seed spilling down your throat. You swallow every last drop, looking up at him with a smirk, his cock still pulsing in your mouth. He helps you up, his hands shaking as he cradles your face, kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your lips. 

"Fuck, ___," he whispers against your mouth. "You don't know what you do to me." You smile, your body already aching for more. He spins you around, bending you over the nearest surface, his hand cracking down on your ass. You yelp, more from surprise than pain, your pussy clenching at the sensation.

He enters you from behind, his cock filling you completely. He starts to move, his hips slapping against your ass, his balls hitting your clit with each thrust. You're so wet, so ready, your body meeting his thrust for thrust. He leans down, his voice a deep growl in your ear. "You're so fucking tight, ___. Your pussy feels amazing." He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. You're close, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. 

"That's it, ___," he encourages. "Come for me. Let me feel that pussy squeeze my cock." 

With a cry, you do, your body convulsing as you squirt, your juices running down your thighs. He doesn't stop, his cock still hard, still moving inside you. He spanks you again, the sting of his hand on your ass heightening your senses. You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, your body already building towards another orgasm.

He pulls out suddenly, flipping you over, his cock poised at your entrance. "I want to see your face when you come again," he says, his voice a deep growl. He enters you slowly, his eyes locked on yours. You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper, faster. 

"Harder, Felix," you beg. "Fuck me harder." He obliges, his hips moving faster, his cock filling you completely. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me again. Let me see that pretty face when you fall apart." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock. He pulls out at the last second, his cock in his hand, stroking it quickly before coming all over your ass, marking you as his.

He leans down, kissing you softly, his forehead resting against yours. "Fuck, ___," he whispers. "I think I'm in love again." You smile, your body sated, your heart full. You kiss him back, tasting yourself on his lips, knowing that this is just the beginning.

Your hands explore his body, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the sweat that glistens on his skin. He shivers under your touch, his breath hitching as you scrape your nails lightly down his back. You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own. He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against him. You can feel his cock already hardening again, pressing against your stomach. You smile, grinding against him slightly, loving the feel of his hard length against you.

Felix rolls you over, his body covering yours, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. His hands roam your body, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, making you arch up into his touch. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him closer, needing to feel him inside you again. He obliges, positioning himself at your entrance, and sliding in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. 

You moan into his mouth, your nails digging into his back, urging him to move faster, harder. He starts to thrust, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, his cock hitting all the right spots inside you. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me. Let me feel that pussy milk my cock." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you. He doesn't stop, his cock still hard, still moving inside you, drawing out your orgasm, making you see stars.

He flips you over suddenly, his cock still inside you, his hands gripping your hips tightly. He starts to pound into you, his hips moving faster, his cock hitting deeper, harder. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "Fuck, Felix," you cry out. "I'm gonna come again."

 "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me. Let me feel that pussy squeeze my cock." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you. He pulls out suddenly, flipping you over, his cock poised at your entrance. 

"I want to see your face when you come again," he says, his voice a deep growl. He enters you slowly, his eyes locked on yours. 

You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper, faster. "Harder, Felix," you beg. "Fuck me harder." He obliges, his hips moving faster, his cock filling you completely. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me again. Let me see that pretty face when you fall apart." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock. He pulls out at the last second, his cock in his hand, stroking it quickly before coming all over your tits, marking you as his.

He leans down, kissing you softly, his forehead resting against yours. "Fuck, ___," he whispers. "You're amazing." You smile, your body sated, your heart full. You kiss him back, tasting yourself on his lips, knowing that this is just the beginning. Your hands explore his body, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the sweat that glistens on his skin. He shivers under your touch, his breath hitching as you scrape your nails lightly down his back. 

You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own. He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against him. You can feel his cock already hardening again, pressing against your stomach. You smile, grinding against him slightly, loving the feel of his hard length against you.

He rolls you over, his body covering yours, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. His hands roam your body, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, making you arch up into his touch. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him closer, needing to feel him inside you again. He obliges, positioning himself at your entrance, and sliding in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. 

You moan into his mouth, your nails digging into his back, urging him to move faster, harder. He starts to thrust, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, his cock hitting all the right spots inside you. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. 

"That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me. Let me feel that pussy milk my cock." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you. 

He doesn't stop, his cock still hard, still moving inside you, drawing out your orgasm, making you see stars. He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts, heightening your senses, making you feel like you're going to explode. 

"Fuck, Felix," you cry out. "I can't take it. It's too much."

 "You can take it, ___," Felix grunts. "You're a good girl. Come for me again." 

With a scream, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you. 

He pulls out suddenly, his cock poised at your entrance. "I want to see your face when you come again," he says, his voice a deep growl. He enters you slowly, his eyes locked on yours. You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper, faster. "Harder, Felix," you beg. "Fuck me harder." He obliges, his hips moving faster, his cock filling you completely. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me again. Let me see that pretty face when you fall apart." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock. He pulls out at the last second, his cock in his hand, stroking it quickly before coming all over your stomach, marking you as his.

He leans down, kissing you softly, his forehead resting against yours. "Fuck, ___," he whispers. "You're incredible." You smile, your body sated, your heart full. You kiss him back, tasting yourself on his lips, knowing that this is just the beginning. Your hands explore his body, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the sweat that glistens on his skin. He shivers under your touch, his breath hitching as you scrape your nails lightly down his back. 

You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own. He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against him. You can feel his cock already hardening again, pressing against your stomach. You smile, grinding against him slightly, loving the feel of his hard length against you. He flips you over suddenly, his body covering yours, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. His hands roam your body, squeezing your ass, spreading your cheeks, his finger circling your tight hole.

 You moan into his mouth, your body arching up into his touch, urging him to explore further. He obliges, spitting on his finger, and slowly inserting it into your ass, making you gasp at the foreign sensation. 

He starts to move his finger in and out, scissoring it, stretching you, preparing you for his cock. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Relax and take it. You're doing so well." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your ass clenching around his finger, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you.

 He pulls his finger out, positioning his cock at your entrance, and slowly slides in, inch by inch, filling you completely. You moan into his mouth, your nails digging into his back, urging him to move faster, harder. He starts to thrust, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, his cock hitting all the right spots inside you. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps.

 "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me. Let me feel that ass milk my cock." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your ass clenching around his cock, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you.

—

After that freaking scene you both left the confessional room and were making your way back. 

Fuck what were you going to say to the other volunteers…

Felix hesitates breaking you out of your thoughts, fidgeting with his hands as he glances at you. "D-did I do good?" His voice is soft, almost vulnerable, like he’s waiting for a verdict.

You turn to him, still trying to shake off the adrenaline from the whole experience. "Of course you did, Lixie!" you reassure him, your voice warm, even though your heart's still racing a little, your lipstick smudged, your sundress no longer perfect and ironed and let's not talk about your hair.. 

Felix’s shoulders relax a fraction, but there's still uncertainty in his eyes. "Phew... I thought I’d totally mess up on my first time..."

Your eyes widen in disbelief, and you stop walking for a moment to look at him. "That was your first time?!"

—

[serpentsurgency]

... I'm glad to see you snapped out of that, little dude.. I hope you guys can find a way out of this mess, I really do.. please be careful though, yes?

Media: Another picture of the same word, the dogtags and lighter are missing again. The creature's hand is just barely visible resting gently beside the word, it's fingers seeming a bit less tense then they had at any point in the past.

[bridges-to-ashes]

… You’ll be okay… Someday… :< Please keep the lighter where Ten won’t find it.

M!A the deity is gently sent back home again along with the lighter.

Another barely visible nod from the deity, a half-hearted wave with just one hand, then it is gone, as easily as it had first appeared; maybe it's just imagination or a trick of the mind, but the cabin appears a little bit lighter without its presence.

[dxrlingluv]

Not me, but Her.

A/N : I have been feeling very sad again, so I decided to let it out with this one-shot. Telemachus art is from Ximena.

WARNING : Angst with no comfort, un-requited love. GN!Reader

Word Count : 1.6k

The torchlight in Odysseus's grand palace didn't just cast shadows; it painted them onto your very soul, each flicker a reminder of the silent, unlit corners of your devotion. You were Y/N, a servant, yes, but your heart had long forgotten its station when it came to Telemachus. He was the pulse of your world, the silent prayer on your lips, and you, you were the dust mote dancing in the beam of his sun, mostly unseen, entirely inconsequential.

The worry for him was a constant, physical ache in your chest, a tightening band around your ribs. The suitors' brazen revelry was a sacrilege, and Telemachus bore its weight with a young man's forced stoicism, a sight that tore at you daily. Offering comfort felt less like a duty and more like a desperate need of your own – a need to alleviate not just his pain, but the echo of it that resonated so sharply within you.

Each attempt to reach him, to offer even the smallest solace, became a small death.

There was the morning you'd found him on the balconies, a lone silhouette against the pre-dawn gloom, the weight of the world etched into his young shoulders. You had dared to hope that a carefully prepared tray – warm honeyed bread that perfumed your hands as you carried it, figs bursting with sweetness, milk still bearing the warmth of the goat – might coax a flicker of life back into his eyes. You'd approached his father's study, each footstep a hesitant prayer.

"My lord Telemachus," your voice was a breath, afraid to break the fragile morning air. "You barely ate. I thought... I hoped this might please you."

He'd looked up, his eyes like ancient stones, holding old sorrows. "Ah, Y/N." A pause, just long enough for your hope to inflate, before it was pricked. "Food. Yes. Thank you." He waved a hand, a gesture of such profound dismissal it felt like a physical blow. "Just leave it. Over there. Anywhere." His gaze was already sinking back into the abyss of his scrolls.

"Shall I pour the milk, my lord?" you'd whispered, a desperate, foolish plea for one more second of his notice, one sign that you were more than the hands that served.

"No. Later." The word was a door slammed shut. "I have matters of true import to attend to."

True import. And you, with your tray of carefully chosen comforts, were not among them. You'd retreated, the scent of the honey bread suddenly cloying, the figs an obscene splash of color in a grey world. The food would grow cold, a monument to your futile care, and the hollowness inside you would grow a little larger, a little colder.

Then came the day the merchants spoke of Pylos. News of his father, a kind word from King Nestor – it felt like a divine offering, a spark you could carry to him. You'd found him in the stables, his hands wrestling with stiff leather, his face a mask of frustration that mirrored the turmoil within the palace.

"My lord," you'd rushed the words out, your heart pounding like a trapped bird. "News from Pylos! King Nestor... he speaks with great fondness of your father!"

For an instant, a breathtaking instant, his eyes had cleared. You saw the boy he once was, the son who yearned. And then the shutters slammed down. "Old news, Y/N," he'd said, his voice devoid of inflection, each word a careful measure of distance. "Kind words butter no parsnips, nor do they bring a ship home. They are whispers for the hopeful, and hope is a luxury I cannot currently afford." He'd turned away, leaving you standing amidst the scent of horses and old leather, your precious news shriveling into dust. *A luxury I cannot afford.* And your attempts to offer it felt like an ignorant extravagance he had no patience for. "Forgive me," you'd choked out, the words tasting like ash.

These were not isolated incidents. They were the beads of a rosary of rejection, each one counted in the quiet despair of your heart. Each time you extended a hand, you were implicitly begging: See me. Let me share this. Let me ease your burden, just for a moment. And each time, he gently, unknowingly, pushed that hand away.

So, when that sweltering afternoon arrived, the air thick enough to drown in, and you found him by the fig tree, the discarded bow a symbol of his dejection, your approach was heavy with the weight of all those prior failures. Your offering of water, your suggestion of archery practice, was more than a servant's duty; it was a quiet, desperate plea from a heart that was perilously close to breaking.

"My lord Telemachus," you'd murmured, the waterskin cool against your trembling palms. "The sun is fierce. Water, perhaps? Or... the yew bow? I could retrieve arrows... I could simply stand guard, ensure your peace..." The words trailed off, thick with unspoken longing.

His eyes, when they met yours, were so distant, so unseeing. "Thank you, Y/N," he'd said, the politeness a thin veneer over a vast indifference. "But I am not in the mood. And I require nothing." Then, the words that would echo in the desolate chambers of your heart: "I prefer to be alone."

Alone. As if your presence was a burden, your attempts at companionship an intrusion. You'd nodded, a sharp, painful lump forming in your throat, making it impossible to speak. "As you wish, my lord." The waterskin felt like lead.

Days later, polishing the bronze fittings of the megaron doors, the scent of beeswax doing little to soothe the raw ache inside you, you heard it. Laughter. Not just any laughter. His laughter. Free, light, unburdened – a sound so foreign, so painfully beautiful, it drew you like a moth to a flame that would surely consume you.

Peering from the doorway, your heart constricting with a terrible premonition, you saw him. The same fig tree. The same practice ground. But Telemachus was transformed. The bow was alive in his hands, and Lyra, the new maid with sunshine in her hair and laughter in her eyes, was beside him.

He nocked an arrow, his movements an effortless grace you'd only dreamed of witnessing up close. It struck true. Lyra's applause was like a shower of sparks in the golden afternoon light. "A magnificent shot, my lord! Your father's own skill, reborn!"

Telemachus beamed. A genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes and lit him from within. "Perhaps a touch of it, Lyra," he'd chuckled, and the sound ripped through you. "Here, would you care to try?"

And so began the tableau of your deepest agony. He guided her stance, his hand brushing hers with an easy intimacy that made your own hands clench until your nails bit into your palms. "Like this, see?" his voice was honeyed, patient. "You have a good eye!" he'd praised when her arrow wobbled towards the target. He'd fetched her arrows himself, his earlier pronouncement of wanting solitude a cruel, forgotten joke. They'd shared her wineskin, heads bent together, their murmurs and laughter a symphony of shared joy that excluded you as surely as if a chasm had opened at your feet.

The water you offered, he'd refused. The practice you'd suggested, he'd shunned. The companionship you'd yearned to provide, he'd dismissed. And here he was, lavishing it all on Lyra, so freely, so willingly, so joyfully.

This wasn't just heartbreak. This was a revelation of your own utter insignificance. It was the agony of having begged, in your own quiet, desperate way, for the crumbs from his table, only to watch him lay out a feast for another, without their even having to ask. The world swam before your eyes, the polished bronze reflecting a distorted, tear-blurred face that you barely recognized as your own. A silent scream built in your chest, so powerful you feared it might tear you apart, yet no sound escaped your lips.

You stumbled back from the doorway, the vibrant scene searing itself onto your memory. Back in the dim corridor, you leaned against the cold stone, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle a sob that threatened to betray the hurricane raging within. The beeswax, forgotten, slipped from your numb fingers and clattered softly to the floor.

Later, when the lamps cast their deceptive warmth and the palace settled into its evening rhythms, you passed him. His step was light, the ghost of that easy smile still gracing his lips. He saw you. He nodded. "Good evening, Y/N."

The casual greeting, so utterly devoid of any awareness of the ruin he had wrought within you, was the final, unbearable straw. "My lord," you managed, the words a ragged whisper. You could not meet his eyes. To do so would be to let him see the raw, gaping wound, and that was a vulnerability you could not bear, a final shred of dignity you clung to. If you looked at him, the tears you were desperately blinking back would surely fall, and the sound of your heart shattering would echo in the sudden silence.

He walked on, oblivious, content. And you were left standing there, a statue of sorrow in the growing gloom. The heartbreak was a cold, heavy stone in the pit of your stomach, a chilling certainty that for all your devotion, all your quiet offerings, all your silent pleas, you were nothing. Less than nothing. You were the shadow he didn't see, the whisper he didn't hear.

This, you understood with a clarity that felt like shards of ice piercing your soul, was the true face of desolation. Not a grand, tragic ending, but the slow, inexorable realization of your own complete and utter unimportance to the one person who meant everything. And the tears finally came, silent and hot, tracing paths down your cheeks in the lonely, indifferent darkness.

[atlaswav]

CATACLYSMIC ☾

INFO: 5252 words..... dr ratio x fem! reader SYNOPSIS: You hate him, of that you're certain. You hate the man behind the alabaster figurehead, and you want to see him unravelled, but you don't know exactly what you do to him. WARNINGS: um alcohol and one kiss. also some swearing but mostly fine AUTHOR'S NOTE: rising from the grave to bring to you this thing i found this in my drafts from who knows how long when I was obsessed with this man (still am). someone help. i can no longer write this much for one fic. what was i on.

Veritas Ratio made it no secret that he despised those who lived in ignorance. He openly shunned those who were stupid enough to turn their eyes from knowledge – they’d be beggars in due time. They didn’t know how the world was governed, and ignorant fools would play victim to fate’s cruel touch.

With this philosophy of his, you often wondered whether or not his ivory figurehead would soon burst with the tumultuous storm of the man’s self importance. You wondered what would lie underneath. Surely, the divine makers would’ve allowed balance in his creation – surely, his face was horribly disfigured in exchange for such otherworldly intelligence. 

He was both delightfully astute and horrendously ill mannered at once. Brighter than your entire class combined – your entire university combined, no doubt – but his pretentiousness was overflowing, and you believed he was in dire need of being put in his place.

Arrogant and pretentious were two of the words that came to mind when someone mentioned Dr. Ratio, and you were sure you weren’t the only one who refused to worship his word like the gospel. In turn, he seemed to despise your very existence, as if you were merely a faded annotation in the footnotes of an ancient epic. Vandalising a work of art. A moustache on the Mona Lisa. Circe in the Odyssey, if she’d welcomed sailors with open arms, allowing them to degrade her as they would a common concubine, not a descendant of the gods.

Yet instead of sharing the witch’s beguiling, seductive nature, you only shared her mortal voice. Thin, reedy, quiet, compared to the booming voices of gods. The voice of Veritas Ratio. Your achievements could only pale in comparison to his, and it took everything within you to clap politely as he received his third – fourth? (you weren’t intent on keeping track) – diploma.

God you hated that man. You’d muttered as much under your breath countless times.

“Dr. Ratio is fine. No need to worship me.” he’d once corrected. But the attempt at humour was lost on you as your classmates began to laugh. The divine makers likely brought him into existence just to spite you. Oftentimes, you fought your urges to hurl the nearest textbook at his caricature head and watch the plaster crack, fall to the floor, and reveal his disfigured face. 

Not that you’d seen it before – lingered around him enough to see it disappear.

His scorn held no favourites, and certainly not when it came to you. He’d openly dragged your work through the dirt a couple of times before, and it was only a matter of time before he did it again. His words were scalding, leaving burns across your thin skin and leaving your mouth tasting of ash. Your voice, faint and human, fell quiet at his ‘gospel’. 

If it weren’t obvious, the hatred was mutual. He’d never admit it outright – he was far beyond these meaningless, trivial things such as immature hatred – but you felt his scathing glare in your soul, even through that perturbing headpiece, and that was enough. 

“Have you found it?” 

You turn around, meeting the cold, blank, unseeing gaze of his caricature head behind you. It was disconcerting to say the very least, but no one else had asked him about it, so you never pushed him further. None wanted to invoke his wrath, no matter what circumstance. It was a miracle neither of you had exploded at each other yet, but you suspected that he’d gladly put aside any type of loathing he harboured for you so that this project would get done faster. 

You were happy to oblige as he took the lead. A free credit was a free credit. But you did have your limits.

“Nope. The text is ancient. I doubt this library has it.”

“Nonsense.” he clicked his tongue, glancing to the side. “I’m asking the professor. Go work on your part.”

Patience is a virtue, as you keep reminding yourself. 

“Sure. Let me know if you find anything.” you say instead of the retort that sits on your tongue. False niceties and biting, underhanded remarks. This charade was entertaining, at the very least.

How did everyone love him? There had to be people like you who shared your dislike towards that conceited scholar. With a long suffering groan, you took a seat at one of the plethora of tables in the university’s library, clicked your pen and began to write. 

Maybe the reason he despised you so was because of your ideas, arguably the opposite of his own way of thinking. Where his twisted logic, rearranged rationality and pulled apart natural reasoning to formulate new material, you cut and stitched the work of others together to create your own emulations. (Frankenstein's monster. Was that a cliche? For Ratio, it probably was.)

He’d likely scrap what you’d written as soon as he returned, but that didn’t stop you from trying to spite him anyway. You hoped your readings wouldn’t go to waste as you recorded your findings, then started to draft an outline for your project. 

The scratch of paper became white nose, your hand struggling to keep up with the pace of your mind – was it even worth it? He’d likely call it worthless, snatch it from you and throw it into the recycling bin, then start writing his own outline. It only angered you further as you frowned at the page, wondering how he’d approach the project. 

The thump of a heavy tome on the wooden desk snapped you out of your sombre thoughts. 

“Here.” Ratio took a seat at the chair opposite of yours, brushing the dust off the thick text, leafing through its yellowed pages. “I told you they’d have it. You just need to search better.”

You offer him a tight smile. “Noted.” More false niceties, more flat remarks.

Then the figurehead disappears in a blink, and you nearly drop your pen. He barely pays you any mind as he runs a hand through his hair, flipping through the text. You’d heard the rumours of the handsome face beneath the statue, but you’d never have imagined him to be so disgustingly perfect. 

Statuesque. 

His deep violet locks looked unbelievably soft. His crimson eyes showed laser focus as he scanned the text in front of him, ignoring you completely as he noted something down. After a brief silence where you skim over your outline and he presumably attempts to decipher the undeniably unreadable and ancient text which you were opposed to reading in the first place, he turns to you with a sigh. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“I wrote an outline.” you hand the papers to him begrudgingly, fidgeting with the pen in your hand. You don’t meet his gaze, afraid that his calculating gaze might see too far into your soul. 

“This?” his distaste seeps through his tone. You don’t need to look at his face to know that he’s frowning. 

You say nothing as he skims through your work, twirling your pen between your fingers.

“...It’s not the worst thing I've ever read.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. 

“It’s not good, either.”

You scowl at him. 

“I can salvage it.” he nonchalantly throws it back onto the table, returning to the text at hand. 

You want to shove his grotesquely perfect face into the book. He really was put on this earth to spite you.

“Don’t just sit there. Go look for texts on criticism of our stance.”

You don’t know how you’re going to find the patience to survive this project. If anything, it irked you further to find that there wasn’t some monstrosity hidden behind that figurehead. In everything he did, he seemed to be inventing new ways to get on your nerves. However, unbeknownst to you, Veritas Ratio held you higher than you gave yourself credit for. He believed your ideas to be invigorating. Refreshing, almost. A welcome reprieve from the same reiterated, chewed, swallowed and regurgitated approaches that your other classmates had. 

You weren’t like the rest of the mindless, studying machines at the university. You could be brilliant, and it annoyed him that you didn’t know this. He’d admitted as much to himself before, but he’d never tell you. But it was still not good enough for his standards – far better than what the imbeciles in your class could’ve come up with – but still far behind him. Or so he kept telling himself. 

Days passed by without a word from either of you. You were content to write your part in the solitude of your dorm, and he seemed perfectly content mulling over whatever he’d found in that indecipherable ancient text. By the time you’d nearly finished your part, he decided to meet with you once again to share your findings. 

His definition of deciding to meet with you meant simply cornering you after class and asking you to follow him. 

You started to protest, but he’d already turned and briskly walked out of the classroom, so you groaned and followed after him, winding up in the library again. This time, in a secluded corner with the late afternoon sun pouring through the window, illuminating the small table and workspace with a warm glow. 

You wondered how he wasn’t winded after trekking across the entire campus. You certainly were. His muscled build suggested that a mere leisurely walk couldn’t possibly have tired him out. What did he eat? Was he what Nietzsche had in mind when he wrote of the Superman? 

“What are you doing? Sit.” he gestures to the seat across from him, and you sink into the armchair, taking out your papers. His headpiece disappears once again, and your breath catches in your throat. 

His hair cast a faint shadow across his face, and his eyes seemed to glow. As you leaned in closer, you realised there was a thin ring of gold around his pupils. 

“Are you done with your part?” he demands, breaking you out of your trance. 

You silently hand over your drafts, watching his eyes flit across your paper. His eyebrows furrow slightly, eyes narrowing, but he remains quiet. Were his eyelashes always this long? They created an indistinct shadow on his cheeks. His skin was pale, fair. Not the sickly kind of pale you thought he’d be. Did he exercise? You wouldn’t be surprised, with all your classmates always fawning over his broad, strong chest and narrower waist. 

Was it your imagination, or were his cheeks slightly flushed? It might have been the light. 

“It’s deplorable.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as you sit back against the armchair. 

“Your ideas are rudimentary. Have you been reading at all?” he sighs, holding his head in his hand. “No matter. I can fix it. I don’t need you to do anything anymore. You can go.”

You stay seated in shock, unable to move. You’ve heard the anecdotes of people crying over being scolded by him, but was he always this harsh? 

“You know it’s a group project, right?” you begin before your better judgement can decide against it, “My work is just as important as yours, it doesn’t matter if you think my work is ‘deplorable’. I’m in the same class, I take the same course, I learn the same things as you do, you don’t get to look down on me no matter how stupidly smart you are.”

He raises an eyebrow, unamused. “Why not?”

“Take that stick out of your ass, Veritas Ratio. Get off your high horse.” you snatch your papers out of his hands and take your leave, ignoring his calls of your name. 

Were you dramatic? Yes, but not without reason. Given Ratio’s reputation for prioritising academics over everything else, you suspected that it wouldn’t take long for him to find you, either. 

You were so wrong. 

More days passed with no contact. He didn’t seem to be affected by your dramatics, and never once batted an eye in your direction unless necessary. It seemed your hypothesis of him inventing new ways to get on your nerves was on the track of being proved correct. But if you didn’t do something within the next few days, you trusted him to turn in the project without your name on the paper, resulting in a zero. 

He was just as stubborn as you, and though you were nothing compared to him in actuality, you were so close to grabbing his face and forcing him to look at you for who you were.

Seemingly, even in the battle of wits, he seemed to emerge victorious. 

“Ratio.” 

He barely glances up, engrossed in his writing. “What?”

“Are you done with the project?” Biting the bullet stings your teeth and left a bitter taste on your tongue. 

“No. Not yet. Why? You’re finally going to help?”

“Are you going to stop looking down at me?” 

The library is nearly empty. The sun is barely a sliver on the horizon, and the voices of students float down the corridor beyond the grand stacks of books, yet you’re here. Why do you bother? Are you really that desperate for his validation?

“Are you going to keep writing such reprehensible work?”

You glare at him. “Guess not.” you turn on your heel.

“You’re absolutely infuriating.” he sighs, leaning back in the armchair. “You’re not aware of what you can do, are you?”

You glare at him. Your chest stings. 

He looks at you, then. Truly. His complexion relaxes, and he rubs his temples. “Sit. Let’s go through your part.”

“Why?”

“I mulled it over. Your part is brilliant.”

Your eyes widen.

“But your expression and research is appalling. Have you learned how to write academically at all?”

You’d never simultaneously wanted to slap and kiss a man at once until today. “What happened to getting off your high horse?”

“I got off it. Now sit and listen, I won’t repeat myself.”

You supposed that was the closest to an apology he’d ever give you, so you sat. It pained you, but you did. Besides, he had called you brilliant – your part – but still, you couldn’t force the smile from your face as you listened to his instruction. 

“Your ideas in your introduction are well formed, but from there, it all goes downhill. You have to reorder your logic for it to make sense, and we will be deducted points if you don’t elaborate on the principles of your concept first.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So how would you do it?”

“For one, I’d restart completely and get straight to the point.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Show me, then, if you’re so good.”

His eyes narrow at you, but he says nothing as he motions for you to come closer. 

The librarian was likely too scared to kick either of you out after closing time. Your arguments were heard by all of your neighbouring desks, and whenever there was a break in conversation, it seemed as if everyone held their breath. There was pin drop silence except for the two of you – but neither of you realised it. 

He was blunt, and had no idea what you were thinking, but perhaps this is what entrapped him. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about how he had called your ideas brilliant. 

You quickly learn how good of a teacher he is. Maybe it’s his forced patience or once-in-a-millenium genuine praise that spurs your decision, but you find yourself so willing to prove yourself, and he finds himself willing to help. 

Maybe this wasn’t so bad. 

“Just fix it, stop arguing with me. I’m right.”

“Why? Do you know every single thing about our topic?”

“No, but I have four degrees and more experience than you.”

“Jackass.”

“Change it.”

You grumbled another insult under your breath, yawning as you scribbled out the section you wrote and began to reword your thoughts. The sudden quietude was jarring, and as you looked around, you realised the overhead lights were off, the only source of light from the lamps illuminating the desks. 

“Is everyone gone?” you ask, sitting up straight and stretching. 

“Who cares? Finish up, then we can head back.”

“Fuck you, give me a break. I don’t write at the pace of a robot.”

“Then learn.”

“Fuck you too Veritas Ratio.”

“Expand your vocabulary while you’re at it.”

“Why are you so intent on irritating me?”

“You get irritated easily. Not my problem.”

“If you know I get irritated easily, why do you keep provoking me then? Do you want me to hate you more?”

He seems to pause. Minisculely, almost unnoticeable had your gaze not been trained on him for the past few hours. He had a habit of pausing and furrowing his brows when you said something slightly out of line. 

“Just finish the paper. You talk too much.”

You sigh and get back to work as he leafs through his own research. 

Amicable silence passes. The night is alive outside, gleaming and glistening with the touch of benevolent gods and whispers of long gone wishes – pearls stitched by fate’s knowing hands. 

“I’m done.”

“Show me.”

You pass the paper to him as you watch his expression carefully. 

Crimson eyes flit across your work, gold ringed irises flickering in the scarce light. If you could capture the way the light reflected in his eyes in a jar, you think wishfully that you’d stare at it forever; Until the light died out, or it decided to escape the ephemeral glass confines. 

But you’d never admit it out loud. It was wishful. If Veritas Ratio could read minds, he would undoubtedly reprimand you.

He clears his throat, and you snap to attention, swatting away your fantasies of stealing and bottling evasive light. 

“It’s good.”

You wait for him to speak further, but he says nothing. “Just good?”

“Well, by my standards, no, but for you, it’s good.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he leans on the table, forearms flexing. “That you’re finally starting to live up to your potential.”

“Huh?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“What potential?”

He shakes his head absently, almost in disbelief. Forget light, you’d barter with the lady of fate to let you preserve this moment in a frame so that you could glimpse this expression forever. You’d never seen him so dumbfounded and awed at once – you doubt anyone ever has. He’d always been a man of knowing, and whatever he didn’t know, he would find out. Nothing was ever a “maybe,” or a “probably,” it was always absolute. It had to be absolute in his philosophy. 

You happened to be the one exception. 

“You’re not aware of the potential you have?”

“You think I have potential?”

“Aeons,” he murmurs under his breath, before standing and gathering his belongings. “I’m going to bed. See you in class tomorrow. We’ll finish up then.”

He leaves before you have the chance to question him, but as you slump back in your armchair, you can’t help but smile. 

Potential was as close as you’d ever get to a compliment from Veritas. 

—

The lady of fortune and lady Themis looked him in the eyes and saw their mortal emanator at his birth. He’d never been certain what he was made for, but he never let it burden him. Things like these weren’t made for him to ponder, that was up to the dreamers and inventors. 

He was a being of logic. A doctor of calculations and reason, and everyone knew him as such. 

But he simply couldn’t figure out what it was about you – your naive gaze or that pout that absently curved your lips – that had your words and scent and eyes lingering in his mind like a vengeful phantom. 

You were the being of all chaos and irrationality, but you were so bright. Unhoned, rough and unhewn. A gemstone shining with impurities but shining still, casting a beautiful mosaic cast across the ground with indecipherable shapes and patterns. 

It was deplorable. He hated you for being on his mind, and hated you even more for your wasted potential. He hated how you stared, how his cheeks would redden from the intensity of your gaze, and how he’d have to pretend he was unfazed, because he couldn’t afford any distractions. 

You were the being of his undoing, he was sure. You were brought into existence to spite him, to bring an unaccounted variable into the equation of his being, and present a causality dilemma for all he was. 

He wanted you gone, but he wanted you closer all at once. 

He hated it. 

It wasn’t common for him to sleep in either, so when he woke five minutes before class was supposed to start, he cursed you with all the spite in his heart and rushed to class, clutching papers from the night before, still imbued with traces of your lingering fragrance. Just how long had you pored over those papers for your smell to latch to them? It should be impossible. Fate was clearly against him. 

Fate brought you back together as he entered the brimming lecture hall, and the only vacant seat was the one next to you. 

“Did you get the papers in order?” you asked, glancing at his dishevelled state. The Dr Ratio you knew was never dishevelled, but this was the closest you’d ever seen him to it. 

“Yes. Just write your name on your bits and sign the sign off sheet and it’s complete.”

You take the paper from him, scrawling your name across your work, then handing it back. 

With your project finally submitted, you could breathe easy again – never endure his biting remarks and criticism again. 

But as the class progressed, you realised you were in trouble. 

The professor was merciless. He flicked through the presentation on the new topic with haste, rushing through new concepts, formulae and calculations with record speeds. You’d nudged Ratio, whispering for help, but he rolled his eyes and kept his stare attentively on the presentation. 

You wanted to slap him. 

Was he tolerating you because of the project? Was he going back to cold stares and dismissive glances?

You wouldn’t allow it. Not when you were so close to discovering the man behind the alabaster figurehead. As soon as the professor signalled the end of the lecture, a collective sigh was released from the class. 

You turned to Ratio, and he was already staring at you. 

“What was it you wanted to say?”

“Tutor me please.”

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Pick someone else, then. I don’t see why I should.”

“You asshole, I’ll buy you lunch if you tutor me.”

He frowns at you as he begins to leave. You trail after him. “Please?”

He sighs deeply. Like a man burdened with the weight of his own world on his shoulders. Byron’s brooding, romantic hero, in his melodramatic glory. “Fine. Stop annoying me.”

You smile. “Thanks. Meet you at your dorm after dinner?”

He sighs again. “ Don’t be late or I'll lock the door and go to bed.”

He watched the seconds tick by in agonising motion – a man awaiting his sentence, but also his reprieve. Is this what his classmates felt before they took tests? It certainly seemed like it. Relief was on the horizon, and yet great suffering was imminent. He’d never known the feeling until now.

But as they say, the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun, and he wasn’t about to relinquish his quest to decipher you. 

It seemed mutual as he paced in front of his front door, having eaten dinner at the cafeteria early to mentally prepare himself. 

When your knock finally sounded at his door, he sighed, checked his watch, then reluctantly opened the door. 

You were a picture to behold. 

Hair slightly damp from a shower, drowning in loose, oversized clothing. It was all painfully domestic to see you walk through his doorway, scanning his living space. In the back of his mind, he thought it felt right, but he shook his head. 

You were messing with him again. 

Two could play that game. 

“Take a seat.” He pulled out a stool from his kitchen island. “Want a drink?”

“What, like alcohol?” you huffed. 

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“Only if you want me to be.” you shrug, setting down your notes on the bench.

He sighs exasperatedly, already berating himself for agreeing to this. He never agreed to tutor anyone. Why were you the exception? You shouldn’t be. 

His hypothesis: you were trying to get something out of him. A way to cheat the class, his academic favour, something hedonistic, even. It seemed plausible enough, but you listened intently as he explained the concepts the professor spoke of in the lecture, asking questions and actively engaging with his explanation. 

It didn’t seem like there was any ulterior motive. So why was he letting you break his rules and defy his nature?

“God, why didn't the prof explain it during that lesson? Everyone struggled.”

“You’re not smart enough to understand his concise methods, then.” he huffed. 

“You’re too smart.”

“You’re not smart enough.”

“Smart ass,”

“Get back to work. You did that question wrong, by the way.”

You groaned. “Where?”

He was so caught up in your quarrels that he didn’t notice the time grinding away at the pestle. It was nearly midnight when you’d finally caught up with that day’s classwork, and he sighed in relief. 

“You understand?”

“Yes. You don’t have to worry now.”

“I won’t. Now get out.”

“No drink?” you frowned, pretending to sulk at his expense. He simply stared at you, getting up from his stool and walking to the fridge. 

Remarkably, he pulled out two beers. 

“Don’t speak. If you do, I'll regret allowing you over again.”

A smile befell your lips. “I’m not saying anything.”

“I don’t like the look on your face.”

“Wipe it off then.”

A frown.  His new hypothesis: you were trying to seduce him for better grades, more tutoring sessions, or for his own downfall. 

“Drink and leave.”

“If you say so.” you take the chilled bottle and drink. He watches your throat move, and he thinks of himself as pathetic as he drinks as well, wincing at the bitterness. 

“Do you live by yourself?” you ask, head propped onto your hand. 

“I do.”

“Are you lonely or something?”

“No, people are irritating.” Like you.

“What a ray of sunshine you are.” You’re not much better.

“I don’t have to put up with any idiocy.”

“If you say so.”

Quiet passes as beer fizzes in the bottles, golden liquid sloshing at the sides of the glass. 

One thing you learn that night is that Veritas Ratio, the famed multiple time valedictorian of your university, is an extreme lightweight. His cheeks become red quicker than you can finish your bottle, and he starts to grumble nonsense under his breath. 

“You’re really smart, you know?” he suddenly says after mumbling something about quantum physics.

“What was that?” 

“You’re really smart. Really smart. Impressive.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you idiot, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” he leans on the bench, not entirely aware of his surroundings as he does so.  He squints at the ground. 

He’s a cute drunk, you realise begrudgingly.

“Thanks, Veritas. You’re smart too.”

“I know.” he drinks from his bottle again, swirling the dregs. “But I can’t figure you out.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Do you hate me?”

You hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then why are you like this?”

Your eyebrows raise. 

“You’re making me irrational. I can’t figure it out.”

“...Sorry?”

“You should be. You know, I was nearly late to class today because of you. You kept me awake.”

“Really?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking. Thoughts. And things.”

You laugh at his predicament, draining your beer and gathering your things. Trying to leave before he said anything that could turn the encounter south. 

“Wait. Don’t go.” he slams his palm onto your notes, determination in his eyes. 

“I need to go to bed.” you say as if scolding a child.

“I need to figure you out. You’re still an enigma to me. The anomaly of my behaviour. Is this your intention?”

“What are you talking about? You’re drunk.”

“I can think. I can move. I can see fine. I’m not drunk. Answer me.”

“Maybe I'm just so mesmerising to you.” you joke, but his brows furrowed in thought. 

“Maybe.” he retracts his hand from your notes, and you stow them away into your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder before he can do anything else. 

As you’re halfway to the door, he pushes you against the wall. 

You never realised how tall he was until then. How much of a height difference you had, or how muscular he was. He had to have worked out on a daily basis. The pungent smell of alcohol lingered on his breath, and his cheeks were tainted with deep red as he searched your gaze. 

You decide he’s officially lost his mind, but who were you to complain?

“Are you mesmerising?” he whispers, eyes trailing down your face, examining and analysing, his hand tracing down your body with those slender scholar’s hands.

“You tell me.”

Then he grabs your face and mashes your lips together. The kiss is rough, biting and rushed. You freeze for a sliver of a second before returning it, letting him decide your allure with his own devices. 

He pulls away almost too fast, lips kiss bitten, breath fast. 

“You’re a siren.”

“Am I?”

“You’re going to ruin me.”

“What a weak man you are, if it only takes one woman to ruin you.”

“I hate you.”

“Really?”

“I hate it because I’d probably let you.”

“Are you a masochist?”

“Not in my right mind. I’ll wake up and regret everything, but it’ll all be the same, fundamentally.”

“So what’s your conclusion?”

He still has you pushed against the wall, caged within himself. “You were put into this world to bring about my destruction.”

“How? Why?”

“You’re my opposite. Brash, naive, carefree.”

“Are you normally this analytical of people?”

“No, which supports my point.”

“I see. So you’re going to let me ruin your image?”

“No. I hate you for it.”

“Let me go then.”

He wordlessly steps away, and you stumble to the door. 

“So what are we?” you ask, turned away from him. You can’t see the way he drinks in your visage like a starving man, and the small, sober part of him is grateful for it. 

“Polar opposites.”

“I mean who am I to you?”

He’s silent for a while, so you turn back to him to find him leaning on the wall, gazing into space. 

“Veritas?”

“You’re my undoing. A catalyst, maybe, for my downfall. But there must be balance, right? So what are you?”

“What am I?”

“I don’t know.”

You knew then that he was beyond reason. Was this what you did to him? You took some sadistic pride in seeing a man such as himself reduced to a mumbling, questioning, incoherent mess. You were somewhat pleased with the effect you had on him., but you could never let him know this. 

He crumpled to the floor, back to the wall, clutching his head in his hands. “I’ll figure you out.”

“Sure you will. Goodnight, Veritas.”

“Night.”

Your smile was brighter than the morning as you left his apartment, embracing the night’s welcoming chill. 

written by @atlaswav , published 15th of July 2024

[bleedingichorhearts]

Hii! I see that your request open so can I ask for:

The little goddess was born at the same time as the chaos gods. But she was so weak that they didn't even consider her an equal. From the beginning she tried to please and flatter them to survive but many times she almost killed and was laughed at by the chaos gods made her realize. So she always hid in a corner deep in the warp, afraid that one day the chaos gods would finally bored and killed her.

Until one day she felt a beam of light shining into her hiding place, she realized it was the Emperor of Mankind. He did not despise or hurt her, He did not laugh at her for her weakness, so she ran after that light towards humanity, towards The Emperor. Meanwhile the chaos gods: ??? Where my goddess? We may not like her but she is still ours, now give her back. And big E belike: hehehe she mine now.

Yan!Chaos gods and Yan!Emperor

(This is just my delulu and I actually had a dream about it although I don't remember much🥹)

“Ough! I love this delulu! You are all such trouble makers my goodness. But that’s okay! For tis all cherished delicacies! I have thought about making something like this…” - Ichor

Summary - “You: a little goddess, born too weak to be even considered equal, and thrown to believe that you needed to please the other chaos gods until a certain event makes you realize things that were never true. Hurt, fearful and feeling betrayed, you hide yourself from their eyes, deep in the warp. Staying there until a light overcomes your own shadow. A man of gold appearing within, never mocking you, never pulling you down. It wouldn’t hurt to be by his side… would it?”

TW// Yandere, Neglect, Near Death Experience, Angst.

|°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

Their words “weak” echo through your mind as you lay their helpless, aching, hurting. Something a divine being like you should have never felt. The pain of war and combat. That was Khornes thing, not yours, but here you are. Laying in your own pool of ichor.

It was nothing of what you expected. You didn’t think you could die, but you could be greatly injured to a point where you’re feeling like you are feeling deaths embrace cradling you. Brushing through the strands of your hair, comforting you in your time of infinite, seeping life.

Again, it was not something you’ve expected, but you should have. You should have known they would just… toss you away like a piece of meat. You should have known with how they didn’t pay attention to you, brushed you off, but at the same time? You had hope. Hope they would change. Hope they would see you for what you’re worth, and it feels like they do change… sometimes.

Slannesh was the most horrible out of it all. Always trying to pull you in with their… strange and ludicrous ways. Always… having something, someone in their lap to empower them. The stench of intimacy staining them and their grounds of their realm. So, you don’t go there often. It wasn’t something you were comfortable with, and you don’t feel like confining much with them.

Khorne was rather chill with you, never really seeing you as a threat as you suppose he doesn’t think you are… worthy enough. He simply just sits upon his bloody skull throne, watching. Only moving when he really needs to. His realm was one that you find yourself wandering as it didn’t smell like the horrors of… sexual attraction, but it did smell of ash and blood. You find yourself in his realm more often than nought though.

Nurgle was… eerily kind to you, but just something about the “grandfather” tips you off. Not to mention that he well… stinks and his realm too. (You don’t ever find yourself there.) He was just… too… him for your tastes. You do like his followers however, they were like cute little insects. You don’t mind their looks, not everything was perfect.

Tzeentch creeps you out, but not as heavily like with Nurgle. Sure his body has like these morphing faces on him, and they just stare at you, seemingly mocking you, but you find a strange comfort when he suddenly appears in any form. It was as if he knows your next move, and you believe he at least gives you something to dream about. Though his realm gives you a massive headache each time you try and give it a go to visit and wander the mystery’s of the realm. So, you don’t get too far before you’re back, hanging around in Khornes’ realm once more. Getting used to the smell of the blood and cruelty.

Despite all of that, your all hopes were diminished on a special time. Your mind finally realizing all the sacrifices that you made to them didn’t even matter. You didn’t matter. Hell, were you even a god? A divine being? You didn’t have any followers yourself. So, how could you be? How could you be if you were laying in your own blood. Thinking of what you have been doing is finally wrong. Thinking the more powerful gods would just rid of you once they get bored enough of your overbearing presence.

It honestly took you a long time to recover your own divinity though. Since you don’t have followers, it makes your regeneration process a lot slower, and you’re not sure how long, but it was long enough that you could have thought about your past mistakes and make your next move to be for yourself for once, and to see if anyone would check up on you, but no-one came. Not a single minion. You were trapped with your own mind before you would get strong enough again to move.

You moved quickly when you could, not wanting to waste your time. You have been simply watching Khornes’ deamons carefully to rule out that one should move quickly if they do not want to be caught. That’s if they were even looking for you. You maybe have been… bullied, but you sure as hell watched what was going on around you and in the realms. Never missing a detail around you as well… you wanted to prove yourself then. Make something of yourself then to earn their acknowledgement.

Yet, now you know. They don’t care about you, but they simply care about themselves. So, in an effort to get time and space to yourself. (Definitely not running away for the fear of being disregarded like a mere tool.) You hide yourself into the depth of the warp. A place that you had somehow found a bit of solstice in as Tzeentch hasn’t even found this part of the deep warp yet. You know him and Khorne could find you if they wanted to, but you have yet to see their dedication on that matter. Have yet to see if anyone came looking for you.

They did not, but this one… man? God thing has. A human? No, too much of an overpowering presence, but they did look like a human when they go close enough to you without blinding you. You’re almost surprised as this little… being of gold didn’t tower over you as you would have expected such from a presence like him. A god too you thought him as… a tiny one for a divine being like yourself.

You and this little being of gold formed… something between the each other. Your head nodding, and listening to the being that calls himself “The Emperor” while he does the same to you. It was almost… charming. It also felt nice that someone was actually listening to you, acknowledging you. This little being made it feel… a bit worth it.

You talked with the being, and he didn’t judge you. You playfully flicked a whisp of your own power at him, and he didn’t seem at all fazed, at most amused with you, and well… that was amusing to you. You were… you were having harmless fun with this golden man, but… you do worry; have neglected thoughts that he was simply enduring you as well, like the other gods have. Yet, he reassures you, in his own way and words that was not the case. Despite you not talking him to him about anything.

Strange little golden man….

The chaos gods are furious once they found out you had gone out on your own, without telling them anything. Even Tzeentch couldn’t get into your mind when he wanted. It was like… you blocked them out, and let this scoundrel of a so called god in: The Emperor of Mankind.

They give you whispers: Slaanesh begs, pleads. Nurgle promises that he will do better. Khorne is… silent, but you know better, not to take him for granted, and Tzeentch was trying to get into your head like the many times before, like the many times you had let him, and The Emperor? He did non of that. Never was he trying to pled with you, make you feel guilty. He simply left you to choose your place. Ņ̸͠ò̵̢ẗ̷̼́ ̵̛̪ţ̸̄h̵̒ͅa̶̳͐t̶͉͗ ̴̖̓h̵̻̽ë̷̜ ̵̲̒w̴̧͐õ̸̻u̷͖͘l̸̖̍d̶̖͑ ̵̣͘l̷͈̚e̶̗͌t̶̪̎ ̸͖̀y̴͉͌ō̸̖u̶̦͝ ̷̩͌g̸̮̃ỏ̶͈ ̸̤̚b̶̫̿a̸̯̍c̵͓̉k̴̜̂.̷̡̂

He would not allow it. Those pitiful gods lost their chance. Now? He was picking up the pieces of this divine being they had disregarded like mere shards of glass. Infuriating the gods even more when the Emperor seems… close to you; winning your favor.

Chaos runs over the tiny, golden man, but your favor doesn’t weaken. Shielding him and his little creations with your own power that were deemed weak. Oblivious to The Emperors ways, wanting that simplicity of care from someone, and he was giving that to you.

(What the hell Emp? You give a divine being your attention but not your own creations? What the hell man?)

“@kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.”

“+@c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @marcela2000, @passionofthesith, @insanity6666, @ilovewolvezz.” - Tagged

[heartsongss]

one. love hurts

masterlist

Gotham is a land against Gods. Something from it’s years of corruption has soured the place against the divine, keeping them back from the city. It does the opposite for monsters. They fester and breed, here, feeding on the pain and sorrow the city creates with every gasping breath.

You find the monsters to be a necessary evil. No one bats an eye at a girl fighting off some ‘drunken man’, and if they see a single eye? Scarecrow must be out. Your father is busy being Batman, and you’re normally quick enough to kill the monster before he arrives. One time, you stayed long enough to watch his confusion, snickering to yourself as he dragged a hand through the golden dust left behind.

Besides, most of your time is spent in public or indoors, which saves you a lot of trouble. Even monsters are smart enough not to attack in public, afraid to start the demigods' yearly divine-ordained Gotham Cull. You attend school at Gotham Prep, and are dropped off and picked up by Alfred.

An ordinary life. It’s something most demigods don’t get, something you weren’t met for. Your mom said you were the kind of person to be remembered, a shining star to illuminate lives. At the time, you had taken pride in it. Now? Now, you wish she’d never told you that. A life spent shining is a life spent dying, you’ve learned.

You’re fine, though. No Gods to watch you, no Monsters capable of killing you. Sure, your father forgets you exist, but safety is more important. You keep this thought in your mind even as you stare down at your dinner, listening to them talk about some hangout they had without you.

“We should go again!” Dick says in between bites, using his fork to make a sweeping circular gesture.

Your father grunts in response as the rest of his children make various noises of agreement. You don’t even know what they were doing. You don’t particularly care - or, you try not to.

Your food tastes like ash in your mouth as they talk. Crumbles in your mouth, sticking to your throat as you fight the urge to gag, and suddenly steak becomes flesh and you can smell it-

You scoop the last bite into your mouth, standing up. They don’t notice as you do, still talking. Well, not until you brush past them, drawing Dick’s eye. He looks shocked, as if he forgot you were there. His eye flashes down to your necklace, the one from camp, and his mouth opens, forming a word he can’t begin because you’re leaving.

You mutter a thoughtless, “Good evening,” as you go.

You feel his eyes following you for a moment, the pressure like oil down your throat. It only lasts for a second before he returns back to his family just before you turn the corner, leaving you to your solitude. You sigh, climbing the stairs to your room.

You pay attention to the sound of the door, waiting for the satisfying click that separates you from them. Then, you go to your vanity. It was Alfred’s doing, having brought it to you on your fifteenth birthday. It was your grandmother’s apparently. Dark wood and sleek, brass handles, a large silver mirror that shows you yourself with startling clarity.

You look like your mom. Save for your (e/c) eyes, which came from your Mother, you’re near identical to your mom. Well… when you’re wearing your earrings. The mist is a helpful thing, for both practical purposes and more personal ones.

It’d been a favour from Lou Ellen. A pair of earrings that would hide you. You close your eyes, take them off, and take a deep breath.

You open them. Your entire left cheek is scarred over, mottled with pale pink. The skin is waxy and misshapen, but healed. It brushes your lips, eating away at the very corner. You press your fingers to it lightly, prodding at the tissue.

The Titanomachy had been hard for everyone. You especially. After all, Silena was… everything. You had pressed your cheek to hers, uncaring of the pain as the acid seared your flesh. If Annabeth hadn’t pulled you back, you might’ve been stuck there, attached to your darling sister.

You stand up, Pushing back from the vanity as you flop forward onto your bed with a heaving sigh. Fishing your phone from your pocket, thankfully untraceable thanks to Leo, you see a notification from a dead groupchat.

Your heart drops to your stomach, bile rising your throat as the message - only a few fucking words, how could they affect you so much - rests innocuously on your screen.

the bats but better and also not the bats at all

Chiron: Next week.

Fuck.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

“They looked… odd.”

“You’ve been saying that about everyone, recently.”

“Well, yeah! They stopped… yknow, from affecting us. I’m seeing everyone differently.”

“(Y/N)’s normal. More normal than us, anyway.”

Dick sighs, “I’m sure you’re right.”