#it's not like Mirage originally even had that

[blueskyscribe]

I really liked Mirage in RotB but I do think he should have been named something else.

G1 Mirage's tech specs start with "Mirage is not thrilled about being an Autobot freedom fighter. Prefers hunting turbofoxes on Cybertron with his high-priced friends" and end with "Unsure of Autobot cause . . . can't be fully trusted." That's so UNIQUE.

Whereas the Transformers franchise has no shortage of talkative, brash, friendly Autobots. Hot Rod, Bluestreak, Smokescreen, Hotshot . . . Any of those could have been used in place of movie!Mirage.

[thatcrazycrowgirl]

Gotta love the time-honored tradition of shirtless protagonists in AC games

[jacksintention]

I can't with the previous post. It's just so good applied to Levi, Lacie, Oswald and even Jack.

Levi has his hands tied by the Baskerville system that is a sort of scam by the Jurors‚ like every Glen. But he says "let's just create a change" and gives a will to the Core. And he does so with the full intention of changing the narrative, if just to avoid the boredom of spending eternity watching the same thing happen over and over again from a sit in someone else's mind.

Lacie goes along with it because of her desire to ease the Core's loneliness, but in her idea of the children of misfortune being a consequence of this loneliness and her feelings of doubt or reservations, perhaps, revealed even before the tree scene in the scene in which she talks about this with Oswald, we could interpret this as her desire to end the existence of the children of misfortune and thus the cycle.

Jack plays into this in his attempt to take the "real" world to the "Abyss" world, but when he most consciously twists the narrative the Jurors had settled was when he intently made the decision to take the power from the Baskervilles. And I do think it has to do with ending the very system that doomed Lacie and Oswald and he deemed cruel and like torture, but mainly it is so that no one would interfere with him in the future.

Oswald tries to destroy the new narrative Jack has or is creating first by trying to stop him, but later on by trying to stop Levi's schemes before everything happened, resettling the narrative he was controlled and doomed by, serving still as their tool. And then he literally faces the truth, in the most explicitly way no one ever has been told this in that "real" world before, and threatens to kill the instigators of that narrative. And then just renounces, in a lack of action that is him at his most active ("not with a bang but a whimper", how fitting is that?!!!).

Ultimately there is a middle ground but the narrative is changed for good. For better or worse. With uncertain future consequences. But it is changed, and it feels kinder. And as a thank you the source of every narrative, the ink and paper of the narrative, lulls someone who shouldn't have existed but changed the world to sleep by telling him a different story. Because that's it. They're stories, and Oz deserved to go with a kinder one, because the ink and paper of the narrative loves him. And it's so interesting how that works metanarratively too. The author tells the story, but the author tells the reader a story about the stroy telling a softer version of the story, so that the reader too will get it alongside Oz. That works on several levels and it's so so interesting.

[alwaysahiccupandastrid]

Pixar did not have to go as hard as they did with the Kronos Unveiled scene in The Incredibles (2004), yet they did anyway and gave us one of the best scenes in modern cinema. Literally cannot stop thinking about how good this scene is, from the animation to the build up to the soundtrack.

I don’t think I truly understood how dark this scene - and this film - was a child: Syndrome is systematically and strategically luring in superheroes and killing them off in order to test and improve his Omnidroid design… these people were not only supers but they also had family and loved ones too, just like Bob, and one day they would have just disappeared because chances are they weren’t telling people where they were going because it was "top secret" and against the law. They thought they were doing something good, like helping the people in the island, while also getting to relive their glory days, perhaps even paving the way for superheroes to make a proper comeback… only for Syndrome to kill them in cold blood.

Most of these people can actually be seen at Bob and Helen’s wedding in the beginning of the film - they weren’t just random supers, they were their friends, people they worked alongside and cared about. It’s even worse when you realise that Bob probably blames himself because, after all, Buddy/Syndrome was his biggest fan and he dismissed him by not letting him help.

The relief on Bob’s face when he realises Syndrome doesn’t know where Helen is - meaning he also doesn’t know where their children are because he didn’t realise they were married at this point - is so realistic and gut wrenching to see. The relief contrasting with the anguish of knowing how much danger they and their entire family could have been in the entire time without even knowing...it's so well-done, you can literally feel it.

It’s also worth noting that originally the next target wasn’t Mr Incredible but Frozone - that was who Mirage was trailing, hence why his location is “known”. Imagine if she/Syndrome hadn’t realised that Mr Incredible was with him and they’d lured Frozone in instead as planned; he would have gone to the island to fight the Omnidroid 8 in a volcano setting. We saw how being in the burning building dehydrated Frozone and made it impossible to use his ice powers - presumably it would have been the same in the middle of a lava filled volcano, and he’d have been slaughtered just like the other superheroes before him.

This scene shows an entire generation of superheroes - Bob, Helen and Lucius’ generation - wiped out all because Syndrome felt slighted by his hero as a child, because he internalised that slight and let it drive him to revenge. And, if we take into account the deleted alternate opening scene, it’s mentioned that superheroes "aren't supposed to breed” - meaning there’s a likelihood that Violet, Dash and Jack-Jack are among the very few supers of the next generation. I know that it's deleted and so not really canon, but it's definitely a concept to consider, I think.

Then there's the fact Syndrome named the project "Kronos" - Kronos was a God who overthrew his own father in order to take over his rule, and then he ate his own children to prevent them doing the same thing to him. It feels like it reflects Syndrome once looking up to Mr Incredible and even saying "I could be your ward!", meaning Mr Incredible adopting or fostering him - the project name is a metaphor for Syndrome destroying the Supers, especially Mr Incredible, who he viewed as a father figure. The Omnidroids he built killed two birds with one stone: not only was he able to acquire the data to upgrade the robot to its final design, but it also eliminated the real super heroes and so left him as the last remaining "superhero", even though his powers are man-made, not something he was born with.

Not only did he want to become the only remaining superhero by killing the real ones in revenge, he also planned to sell his inventions at some point so everyone can be super - because "when everyone is super, nobody is". It's like a final blow to the memory of the superheroes he had killed.

I've talked too much about this scene but God... I love it so much more as an adult because it's just so chilling to think about. I'm sure other people can put it much more articulately than I just tried to, but I just really wanted to appreciate this scene.

[velvetwyrme]

bringing back the question for 2025: who in the autobots would fuck a car and/or have an sti

hi i thought too long and hard about this. then i made a silly comic about it which quickly got derailed into another silly bit. and then it kept getting longer and more terrible

i don't know whether you're the same person as the original anon or not but im gonna freakin cry either way. is this my legacy...

on one hand this ask gave me lots of motivation for some reason, so thank you for that, but on the other hand it motivated me to draw a 6 page comic about robot STIs.

i put too much effort into this lmao. for my actual conclusions AND some extra notes about the comic click the read more 👍

Ratchet: No and no. Has HAD STIs before. When he was younger. True across continuities except... in TFA he would have an STI. I can see it.

Ironhide: Yes carfucking, but I feel like the carfuckin was also a one time thing specifically. No STI. To quote my notes: "Frag no, Chromia or Ratch woukd kill him". Typo included.

Jazz: Yes carfucking, no STI because if he got one he'd be on top of treatment. Originally there was a bit in the comic with Jazz and Prowl arguing about which is worse: fuckin a car or havin a STI but it got cut because its already like 6 pages

Prowl: No carfucking and yes STI. He thinks carfucking is Really Weird. Wait. Purely off of vibes because I still haven't watched ES (someday...) but ES!Prowl would fuck a car.

Optimus: Who else do you think gave Megatron the STI? (/j /j... unless?) Carfucking and STI status varies wildly across continuities imo. G1? Yes and yes. IDW... depends on what point in time. I feel like its a yes to both but not at the same time. TFA would not fuck a car but he definitely has an STI. TFP! and ES! OP is a mystery to me, you guys can tell me if you have strong opinions on them. Hm. Armada OP would fuck a car.

Sideswipe: originally it WAS going to be him in the comic but as I mentioned, it got derailed. He'd absolutely give a car an STI.

Wheeljack/Trailbreaker/Hot Rod: Yeah, probably both. Maybe not at the same time though. Hot Rod was only so low on Prowls list because hes Literally Offworld but who knows what hes capable of.

Yes to carfucking, no STI: Lets see... Bumblebee, Cliffjumper (despite Prowl and Ironhide's assumption in the comic, THIS is my actual opinion lmao), I think Mirage would as well, but he'd vehemently deny it. Also *leans in close to the mic* Elita-1 would fuck a car. But she'd do it and it'd be like. Cool.

No to carfucking, yes STI: *long pause as i look into the middle distance* mmm...Smokescreen. I don't know much about TFP!Smokescreen but he can get lumped in there too. Sunstreaker as well, but more because he says he didn't fuck a car but he could be lying and you genuinely can't tell if he is. Also Brawn for some reason.

As for other characters elsewhere... Rodimus is a strong contender for giving a car an STI. So is Whirl, but I feel like he's slightly less likely to have an STI, yknow? Only slightly.

Other notable ones I think would have both but NOT at the same time: Swerve, Skids, Drift (specifically because of Rodimus because even if they don't fuck they seem like the type of friends who share drinks), I think First Aid fits in here too, and is the only medic who would have an STI that I can think of off the top of my head. Oh also Armada!Jetfire.

I also think that the Aerialbots are all contenders for this category too. Some more than others but it wouldn't matter because they all end up with an STI and it's miserable.

ALSO...

The alternate punchline to the comic, had it been set on the Lost Light, is... a meeting (in which the general consensus is that Rodimus fucked the car that mysteriously appeared on the Lost Light, AND he gave it an STI)

Then, Nightbeat bursts in with Brainstorm in tow, and he reveals that it was in fact Brainstorm's fault- NOT because he fucked the car (he's far more interested in er... lab equipment, lets say) BUT he made a gun that fucks cars, and accidentally gave the GUN a STI

ALSO SIDEBURN FROM TF:RID (2001). he would ABSOLUTELY fuck a car and give it an STI. He canonically loves red sportscars and you KNOW that mans got an STI.

[oldermenlvrgrl]

Filthy animal

Logan doesn’t regret much in his life but pushing you away is his biggest mistake.

Logan howlett x human! reader.

Word count: 6.5k

Warnings: hella angst to cry to, swearing, excessive drinking, loss & grief, his fighting era, dark themes, he’s an alcoholic, stalking, insecurities, depression, anxiety, memories of sex & sexual themes, kissing, talk of breeding/pregnancy, hormones, ovulation, mentioning of self harm, a/b/o themes, he eats raw meat like a feral animal.

A/n: to the one person that wanted me to write this, between when origins end and x-men begins era. He has a bike in this before he goes to the academy idc he’s hot when he’s on a bike

The house is too quiet. The log cabin stood on a mountain top overlooking the vast earthly landscape below. His fingers trace over the wooden bannister of the front door. Feeling every crevice and panel. His mind is numb to the feeling of longing. He doesn’t even know why he did it anymore. The pain in his chest that never yields is too unbearing. He sighs, locking the door and leaving it behind him, like he did with you. Locking away the love he had for you in a cage and leaving it behind.

He goes to the bar, the only place known to give him comfort is at the end of a whiskey bottle. A fat stogy lit between his fingers. The smoke dancing in the air. He doesn’t care that he’s told to not smoke. He nurses the glass, hunched over the bar. Aggression flaring up his face. A hungry dog with food aggression bowed over lapping at liquor. He clenches and opens his hand, feeling the metal under the skin gyrate.

For weeks this is all he has known. Lumber yard (when he shows up), fighting cage, bar and home. It wasn’t even home without you there. You were the only thing that was home to him. Now that you were gone he didn’t have a home.

“Now introducing…the Wolverine!”

Logan gets up staggering along the sea of people. Putting the head of the cigar in the drip of whiskey that resides in his glass. Shedding his flannel and his tank to his bare chest. His veins pulsing and his vision impaired. They open the fenced gate and his head is hung down as he focuses on walking straight. He never planned to win this fight. He didn’t want to. He wanted to get the shit beat out of him so he can feel something other than grief.

The man before him is about seven foot, a mutant with the way his skin is stretched. The bell rings and they size each other up. Walking around the cage. They don’t speak and he prefers it to be that way. He raises his fists and cowers his head behind them. The abomination swings and hits him in the side of his head where his ear is. The hit wasn't normal, the hit felt like he got his head run over by a train. He smiles knowing that this beating was exactly what he lusted after.

He staggers up against the side of the cage. The coldness of the metal burns his hot skin. His drunken eyes look at the crowd and he faintly imagines that he sees your silhouette. Another hit to his abdomen. He holds his arm over his stomach and holds onto the fence. He stares out with unsteady eyes to where he sees a mirage of you wearing his dog tags around your neck. Your pretty neck, your pretty hair, your pretty face. His pretty girl. He starts to smile wider, white bloodied teeth. The blood poured behind the crevices in his mouth. Down his chest. Speckling his skin with rogue.

His head rears back as the abomination throws his fist into his nose. Blood starts flowing down his nasal passages. The square part of his chin where it’s shaved is covered in fluid. Another, another, another. He’s surprised he’s not missing teeth as he’s sprawled down on the white plastic floor in a splattered bloody pool. His torso, bruised and battered. He’s laughing. It’s taxing as he feels his broken ribs poke into his lungs. He watches the man parade around him in a victory lap, money starts being handed to and fro. Cradling his ribs as he continues to laugh. He laughs at himself, at how much of a joke he is. How he doesn’t have any restraint or respect for himself. He’s a mockery of who he once was. He looks to the crowd once more to see your face and he doesn’t.

The usher lifts him up and shoves his balled up clothes into his chest. Telling him that he’s banned from the establishment. He’s a joke to the fighting scene and to the bar. Logan isn’t sure if it’s the concussion or the liquor that makes him hear “come back tomorrow.” So he pats the man on his shoulder with a bloodied grin and goes back home.

He drinks himself to sleep that night. If he doesn’t drink, he can’t forget and he’d rather go bankrupt with all the liquor he buys than to remember you. There’s a part of him that desperately latches onto your memory. The bits and pieces that were domestic.

He doesn’t even bother going to the yard. Deep down he knows he’s fired, he couldn’t care. He sits in his big empty wooden cage and just watches the sun change into the moon and stars. Fighting off war flashbacks and memories of you. The only cure is whiskey, and he hadn’t eaten in days. His hunger only grows with each passing day. He can’t eat anything after remembering those home cooked meals you made him.

Nothing suffices. His house was destroyed after he purged it. His couch was torn to shreds, his clothes, and walls. Everything. He didn’t have a television or radio.

So he sits in a leather chair overlooking the mountain in the loose boxers that hang loosely around his hips. His legs spread wide and out, his arms lazily laid over the rests. His bicep only flexes as he sips from the lip of the bottle. A lit cigar he lethargically puffs on occasionally, feeling the burn in his chest simmer down his stomach. The tendons in his neck bulge as his heart rate rises. Fuck, he thought about you.

He thought about the times he’s hurt you.

Once it was deep in his sleep, you cradled against his broad sweaty chest. The sheets scattered in the dark. One of your legs kicked over his torso. His arm around your back, pushing you closer. His body is rigid and tense. His body feverish as he perspires. Sweat drips along his brows and temples.

His face winces as he watches his brother dismember innocent people before him. The hopeless desperate yearning he feels in the pit of his stomach grows. He feels nauseous as his face twists in agony. He shouts and shouts to no avail. The metal between his knuckles, pushing out. He grows anxious.

He feels you shuffle and that’s when he slices your upper arm. Your breath staggers as you jolt awake with fearful eyes, he’ll never forget you pulling away from him. He stands from the bed, watching you with horror, stricken across his pale face. He watches your feeble hand touch the blood that welts from the wound. The sheets draped over your torso as you stood and walked to him. He doesn’t look into your remorseful eyes as your soft red painted hand comes to touch the hair on his face. Cradling his jaw in your palm. He doesn’t welcome your warmth, he doesn’t deserve it. As your touch lingers, his claws retract.

“It’s just a scratch.”

You whisper softly. He doesn’t listen.

“It’s just a scratch.”

He mutters to himself as he takes another drink from the bottle. It wasn’t just a scratch, not to him. That single cut meant that he couldn’t even protect you from himself. How was he supposed to protect you if he contributed to your harm? He thinks of another memory.

He was close. His abdomen tightening and his balls drawn tight. He feels your walls constrict around the thickness of his cock. Pulling and tugging with each bounce of your hips. His head thrown back into the pillows as he grits his teeth together, thick eyebrows furrowed as he concentrates on feeling your wet slick coating his wide thighs. The smell is brutalizing him. The smell of your cunt weeping for him.

He peeks and watches your breasts bounce and your nails dig into his hairy chest. The hair on his lower stomach glistening with your slick. He bucks his hips up into your core, hitting that spot deep inside your womb. He feels your heated breath on his neck. Your nipples brushing against his own as you lay on top of him, the metal of his dog tags pressed between each of your chests.

Allowing him to bury himself inside you. His strong hands hold your hips in place, your legs widening to let his aggression grow. He pours everything he has into breeding you. His heart hammers against his chest as he hears your whimpers. The silent cry of yours to breed you full of his pups.

He growls deep in the back of his throat. Jackhammering his thrusts, the filthy sound of your squelching cunt is music to him. The sweet smell of your ovulation makes him drunker than any whiskey. He can’t control himself anymore. He ruts and ruts against your puffy pussy as you squeal for him to slow so you can breathe. He doesn’t and continues to pound into your pelvis, rocking your entire body against his. It’s painful how hard and fast he’s pulling you down. His legs half bent as he pulls your ass down to touch his thighs with every thrust. He growls as he pushes all the way inside and releases his seed into your weeping cunt.

The pain from his bleeding knuckles is excruciating but not as much as the quiet squeak from your little mouth. He pulls his head up and sees the little slits he made on your thighs. He lays his head against the pillows with a long sigh. Knowing that he couldn’t bear hurting you anymore. He couldn’t have you baring his pups and risk hurting you.

He couldn’t even get hard anymore without you. He couldn’t smell your hormones, couldn’t smell how desperate you wanted him. It wasn’t the same without you. He drinks. The cigar burns the inside of his index and middle, he doesn’t care. He lets it scorch his tanned skin. If it burnt the entire cabin he wouldn’t care either. He remembers the night he ended it with you.

He was drunk to the point where he was a vegetable on his leather couch. Shirtless and only in his dirtied torn blue jeans. He waited until you got home after work. He made up his mind a couple days ago and he didn’t have the courage to do it sober minded so he drank himself to it. He smelled you before he watched as the door knob wobbled and you stepped forward. He hated how beautiful you looked and his stomach twisted. You had groceries and a pretty smile on your face. It turned into a frown as you saw him with the bottle.

You asked him if something happened at the yard and he said no. You took the groceries into the kitchen after kicking the door closed with your foot. You started taking the groceries out and putting them into the cupboards. The raw meat you had to get from the local farmers was bloody as you put it in the fridge. You turned to get another item and were met with his glossy eyes. His mouth turned into a snarl. His eyes glanced over your confusion and his heart weakened. He desperately wanted to comfort you, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t in his nature to. His chest heaved as he looked at the inscribed dog tags around your neck.

“I want you out of my house.”

His words were heavily slurred, but he knew you understood them as your brows pinched together and you stopped looking for things to put up.

“What?”

It was weak and it killed him. He stared at the wooden floor, taking another swig. He raised a thick eyebrow and looked down the curve of his nose at you with blurry hazel eyes.

“You heard me.”

You shook your head and placed your hands on the counter, trying to ground yourself. Your world was falling apart in front of you.

“You’re drunk.”

You say meekly, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t reply. That was true, but the saying drunken words are sober thoughts still apply. A wave of emotion hits you, and your eyes water. You sniffle and turn to him. Your Logan wasn’t there. His eyes were glossed over and he was a shell.

“You don't mean that.”

He watches your bottom lip wobble and tears fall down your face. His heart drops and he drinks. His lips polished over with alcohol. The tension is thick and restricting.

“What happened to our future together? Where you wanted me to be your wife and to have your kids?”

You look down at your feet as you cry.

“When you said you’d never leave and that I’d always be your girl?”

He doesn’t speak and resentment grows in your heart.

“Is there another girl?!”

He doesn’t know why but you insinuating that he’d be able to love another woman than you angers him. His snarl grows and he shakes his head.

“Answer me!”

You push his chest and he stumbles back. That enrages him, his claws push out. He puts the bottle on the counter and pins your hands together and pushes your hips against the wood. You try to move and get his grip to loosen but it doesn’t. He pins you with your hands together behind your back and his body pushed against yours. His hands pulled into fists as he attempted to control his anger. He smells like liquor and his musk. He smells your fear and sees the same sorrow he feels.

“No. There’s never been and never will be. If you come back to my house and if I ever see you again..”

He trails off and looks to the bottle of booze, not wanting to admit it but deep in his heart he knows it’s for the best.

“I’ll kill you.”

You frown and choke out a sob as he lets you go. He stands in the middle of the kitchen with his head downturned. He hears you weep as you gather your things. Dreading the sounds of hearing the wheels of your suitcase trail down the wood. He hears the door open.

“You don’t mean that.”

He listens to the door close and the scent of you leave. Fury rages through him as he destroys everything around him, it doesn’t matter if it’s handmade or expensive he ruins it. He destroys his entire house trying to defile the thought of you. Destroying everything you’ve touched or reminded him of you. He wanted to destroy himself.

He decided later that night he had to see you. Had to breathe in your smell and that’ll fix him, put his mind on track. He was still scared as hell to hurt you, but the agony of being without you is greater than the risk of hurting you. Logan was selfish and all he wanted was you.

He sat outside the building where you worked on his bike and waited. Perched like a predator waiting for prey. He was surprised that he was steady enough to even get there unscathed. He sat on the side of the road, not in the parking lot. The engine turned off and he listened to the birds chirp. He made sure to not let you see him. Digging into his pocket he takes the fat cigar out and places it between his lips. Taking the lighter and cupping his hands around the flame as he puffs it to life. The embers burn and the smoke swirls around his head. The evening slowly dying into night.

Raising his nose to the air and sniffing as he smells your hormones. Your car pulls out of the lot shortly after and passes him. He sees the side of your face through the window and his heart burns. Your face is puffy and gloomy, completely contrasting the sunshine you exude.

Chewing on the end of the cigar, he starts the motorcycle and turns behind you. A good couple cars between him and you to separate the distance. He follows you down the familiar path down to your parents house. The long pine trees and barren fields full of crops. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he’s doing or what he’s going to do. All he knows is that he needs to see you, something primal deep inside him tells him that.

He pulls into an open field, overlooking the farm house. Staring with foggy eyes as you pull in. Gazing at your car door as it opens and you step out. He leans forward to fully look at you as much as he can from the distance. Whistling low at the pretty sight. Then as if you were never there you leave his sight and enter the house. He sighs, leaning back on his bike. Looking to the sky he determines that night shouldn’t take no longer than an hour. He waits.

He waits with a cigar between his plush lips. His hands flexing on top of his thighs. Clenching and opening, enticing the burn of his knuckles spreading open. Observing with eager eyes as each light in every window turns dark, except yours. A wishful smile spreads on his face. Knowing the next thing you’re about to do before going to bed is cracking your window open, and without fail he sees your little hands opening the pane. His heart soars as he’s proud that you’re still his girl. Still, having the same habits and quirks he’s grown to admire.

With that, he takes the cigar from his lips and pushes the end into the palm of his hand. Snuffing the smoke and flicking it into the field. He swings one of his long legs over the bike and starts his trail down to your window.

Begrudgingly, he comes to terms with having to climb up the side of your family's house to your room. The ivy woven into the side provides a grip for his climb. The poor gutter he tried to climb groaned and cried as the hinges unscrewed from the roof as he tried to pull his body weight up it, so the ivy would just have to be adequate. As he climbs, your scent grows stronger and his head starts to get fuzzy. The toes of his boots stuck between some panels. The broad pads of his fingers stuck on the window sill.

Propping his head up, he watches you lay on your bed watching television. Some movie played that you weren’t too keen on paying attention to. If you looked over you’d be able to see his wild hazel eyes and his tufts of hair poking far above his head.

You move to lay on your other side and he wishes to see your pretty face again. Without fail and as overplayed as it is, you truly were a sight for sore eyes. He listens eagerly to your mother’s voice beckoning you to dinner. Like the good sweet girl you are, you obey. Getting up from your bed and walking over to your door. A hand outstretched and touching the knob, but hesitantly, you pause. Logan’s heart drops and the hair on the back of his neck perks up. Can you see him? Your beautiful eyes wander over to the window screen and he ducks his head. Almost losing his grip and falling into the grass below. Your mother yells your name again and he doesn’t pull his head back up until he hears the door close.

He takes one of his hands and summons the metal between his knuckles to grow out. Cutting open the side of the window screen, he pulls it to the side. Hoisting himself up and over into the other side of the window ungracefully.

He’s not as nimble as he once was. He falls on his hands and knees with a loud thud, similar to a cat. He stills, anxiety rushing to his face as he listens for a reaction. Only hearing the chatter of common conversation between your parents and you, he stands. Reality hits him with a rush of adrenaline. He’s in your room. What the fuck is he doing? Guilt crawls up his spine and he flicks his head, ridding the fear. He needs this. His fingers trail over various objects in your room. Wooden dresser, mattress, vanity. His slow saunter stops as he looks at your vanity closer, his dog tags nestled with a Polaroid tucked under the chain.

The weekend your parents took you both camping. He was supposed to propose to you on that trip but got cold feet.

You’re sitting in a little dress on one of his spread thighs in a lawn chair. The neck of a beer bottle was between his fingers over the side of the arm rest. You’re wrapped behind one of his big burly arms. The veins and muscle in his bicep flexed. Caging you to his strong chest as he holds you close. He’s only wearing his white sweat and oil stained tank. He just got done working on the bike, trying to figure out why it’s making a funny noise and arguing with your father about something. It’s evening time and the sun is shining between the maple trees. Everyone waited eagerly as your father grilled dinner. Your cheeks are rosy with a big precious smile as his face is shoved in your neck, pressing kisses into the tender area making you giggle. Your mother took that picture.

He swallows thickly as he sits with that feeling deep in his chest. Logan knows what he did was wrong and he feels like a reformed prisoner in his own mind. The duality is that he is also the police officer always beating him with a bat, constantly repeating the same behavior that has caused him to get in the prison. He loves to self sabotage and he fears that this fatal mistake was the end of it all. All he was and ever will be is an animal.

A strong aroma hits him all at once, he lifts his face and sniffs the air. Oh, god. It’s your clothes. Your smell is on all of them and it's surrounding him. Suffocating him. Something spurs him to start opening drawers. He pulls out various clothing, shirts, and jeans are too faint.

Pulling out another drawer, he goes to his knees. Panties. He grabs a handful, one of them being a devious pair of white cotton that has your name embroidered on the top and shoves them into his leather pocket of his jacket, closing the drawer. Stealing one of your dainty shirts that had your scent on it the strongest and holding that to his chest. He holds it to his nose and takes a long breath in, holding the smell deep in his chest. He almost moans as he exhales. He feels the front of his jeans tightening and his metal belt buckle poking his abdomen. He groans and adjusts the crotch of his jeans, trying to ease the discomfort, but it only makes his fervor grow.

He stares at himself long and carefully in your vanity mirror. An animal is all he sees, stealing your clothes because he can’t bear not breathing your scent. A pervert even. He smiles at the names, pride swelling in his chest. The pride is shot with a steady arrow as he hears a set of footsteps coming up the hall. Looking frantically for somewhere to hide, he figures your closet would be as best as he’s going to get. He makes sure that everything was in place as he first saw it and barricades himself inside your wardrobe.

This great and powerful Wolverine had fought in many wars and witnessed things that not even the most seasoned veteran can survive. Yet, he’s scared of the judgment of a woman he’s in love with. He’s sweating bullets, fat dwallops of sweat rolls down his hairline and neck.

Through the slits in your door he watches eagerly as the towel wrapped around the bust of your breasts falls. His breath stutters and he balls the shirt up and presses it against his mouth to stifle his hurried breaths. His almost green eyes roll back in his head, watching your bare breasts contort along with your body as you bend over to find clothes in your dresser. The smell is unbearable, the fresh scent of your dewy skin. The warmth of the water falling into every hidden crevice that only he can see.

His stomach growls. His starvation is growing worse. He palms his hard length. Raising your arms you put on one of his old hockey jerseys he gave you. He groans and his head thumps against the back wall. He can’t bear it. What if he jumped out and ravaged you? Would you be upset? He’d never forgive himself for it, but the need for release is far too much for him to withstand. You’re just a little woman, he couldn’t do that to you. Defile his sweet girl and breed her, only in his thoughts he entertains the thought. Stepping into some of his old boxers too. He’s been wondering where those had gone. Maybe he and his girl weren't too far off. Cut from the same perverted cloth.

You crawl into your bed with a deep sigh. Cuddling up with some childhood teddy bear. He watches your heavenly face twist as you cry into the fur of the bear. His heart breaks. He’s defeated, he hates to see you cry and it’s even worse when he can actually feel the sorrow fill his heart. He stands there for what seems to be an eternity watching you break down into a helpless little girl. Broken and distraught. In that moment he knows that you’d never love him the same.

He waits until your puffy eyes close and the soft snore falls from your parted lips to leave your closet. Closing the door behind him, he stands before your sleeping beauty. Admiring your face from afar. Logan is a hated man and he’s never cared, but he cares all too much that you do. He goes to his knees, quietly. Tucking your shirt into the waistband of his jeans. He tucks a fallen strand of hair behind your ear and kisses your nose gently. As gently as an animal like him could. Pulling up your blanket under your chin.

“I’m sorry.”

He whispers. He stands to his feet again, marveling at the memories he’s had with such a dream of a woman in the glow of the moon. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t hear the wiggle of the door knob and your mothers breath of your name. He twists his body and jumps out of the window. Again, he lands on his feet and he runs. He runs on all fours. Dirt getting under his fists as the claws give him leverage to run faster.

Your mother places a gentle hand on your shoulder as she sits by your feet. Blinking your eyes open, you look at her with blurry vision.

“Logan?”

He’s panting and his eyes are wild as he flies down the road on his bike. Feeling as if he just robbed a bank. He’s a wanted man. You know that he was there. You had to. The deep pit in his stomach is too expensive for you to not have.

As soon as he’s up the mountain and parks haphazardly in front of the cabin, he’s stripping off his clothes. He’s burning alive. He’s left only in his tattered jeans. His stomach twists and turns and before he knows it, he’s pulling out every single meat he has in his fridge and tearing it open. He feasts like a wild animal. Tearing the plastic open and the blood dripping down onto him. His chest and jaw slathered in dead animals. Pork, poultry, cow it’s everywhere. He doesn’t care if it’s not cooked, his hunger is far greater than his rationality. He doesn’t even breathe as he devours. His hands were coated in blood like he murdered someone.

When he finishes he stares at his destruction. Only bones were left in various places. His torso was even coated in red. He groans, chewing the fat of some animal and swallowing with a gulp. He finds whatever beer he has in the fridge and pops the lid off with his claw. Taking a prolonged gradual swig. Your shirt, surprisingly, still hung sloppily and pure under his belt.

He roams to his trophy case, full of all his war memorabilia and opens the door. Taking the wooden case full of cigars out and putting one between his bloodied lips. He sets the bottle beside the case and lights the cigar. It’s almost as good as an orgasm. For the first time he feels full. His needs were almost completely met. The only thing missing was you. He walks sluggishly to his open front door, leaning his shoulder against the frame. Switching between smoking and drinking as he listens to the night's ambiance. Listening to the wild animals howl.

Just a game of hide and seek was all it was. It was Fall. The leaves were scattered like a carpet on the floor of the woods. It was a random day where both of you were off and rather going into town, he thought it’d be fun to teach you how to fish. After multiple failed attempts of you becoming bored, he decided to play a game with you.

The game was completely rigged. Who would’ve thought the man with insane primal senses would be great at finding things that didn’t want to be found. The adrenaline was catching up to you both as you sought after him. The widespread woods were winding and confusing, but you were determined to find the animal. The cold nipped at your face as you kept your perseverance. Suddenly, you stopped. Realizing that instead of you finding him, and him staying hidden he reversed the game and was trailing you. A peculiar feeling arose, the thought of him following you without you even knowing coiled your stomach.

All of your theories were proven right as his big arms wrap around your torso and pulls you down into the leaves. He laughs heartily against your neck as you push up, straddling his waist. You hit his chest softly.

“You filthy animal I was supposed to be hunting you!”

He shakes his head with a small smile, squeezing your hips as he stares up at you with childish eyes.

“Maybe you’re just not that good of a hunter.”

Your eyes widen and your mouth falls open.

“Hey!”

You hit his chest again, and he sits up. Kissing your nose.

“It’s okay, lil’ bunny.”

It sincerely unnerves him how unobservant you were. How oblivious you were to the world, but that same reason is why he loves you. He loves that you’re different, even if you were human you understood what it felt like to be a mutant. He flicks the end of the cigar down into the asphalt and closes the front door. The blood on his body is dried and caked on him. Stripping the rest of his clothes in the hall as he goes to the bathroom. His house is still trashed and he doesn’t care to clean it until his life is put on track again. Until you’re in his life again.

He turns on the faucet and lets the water warm. Looking at himself in the mirror while he waits. He looks righteously like an animal. His hair wild on his head, the blood goes from his mouth down to the v-line of his hips. It’s brutal and chaotic. He wonders if this is what life is going to be like for him for the rest of eternity. Nature made him a freak, man had made him a weapon, and god is making it last too long. The water blurs the mirror and he no longer sees himself in the reflection. He steps inside the scalding hot water and his thoughts don’t slow.

All he’s thought about is you, all he can think about is you. You’re the last thing that’s keeping his humanity. Without you he turns into this beast of regret. He watches the blood pool around his feet. The blood mixed down his chest and face and down the drain. He wishes to drown but knows he can’t. He wishes to die but that’s too humanly for him for it to be possible. Maybe even love was too human for him to obtain. He thinks about calling you and then it passes. He thinks about his mother for a minute and that passes. Every wave of emotion, feeling and thought passes through him as he cleanses his body. He stays in that sauna of a shower for an hour.

When he gets out he pats his skin dry from one of the towels you bought out of the cupboard and ties it around his waist. Pushing his wet hair back it slicks back and stays. He knows he’ll wake to the two tufts being straightened on his head in the morning, he doesn’t bother. Bending down, he picks your shirt up off of the hallway floor and holds it to his nose. Closing his eyes and breathing in your intoxicating bodily perfume. He can already smell it fading. It’s damp from the water still clinging onto his chest. He sits down on the leather couch that he’s shredded. Contemplating if he should call, it’s late and he knows you have work in the morning. He shouldn’t bother.

The smell of you gives him motivation. What if? What if she does misses me and wants me as much as I want her. That’s blasphemy, he thinks. Yet, he ponders it seriously. He breathes in your shirt once more and finds the phone he’s thrown against the wall a couple weeks before. He dials your number apprehensively. His nerves shot to hell as he holds the phone to his ear. The buzzing and monotone hum of service sends his perturbation to his chest. His stomach clenched tight with bated breath. He hopes that you don’t answer, but his soul wants you to. He almost thinks about hanging up and it continues to ring. What is he even going to say? He doesn’t know. He never knows. His eyes widen and he doesn’t breathe as he hears your sleepy voice.

“Hello?”

You whisper into the phone and he doesn’t say anything. He’s internally panicking, on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Hello?”

You whisper again and he doesn’t speak, his head is in a frenzy and his hand is shaking.

“Logan?”

When you say his name he drops the phone. Trepidation strikes him. He hadn’t heard you say his name for weeks and the sleepy softness of your voice sparked something in him. He’s scared of that feeling, petrified even. Logan Howlett’s only fear is love.

He fell asleep with your shirt cradled tight into his chest. The morning’s sun is the only thing that awoke him. He didn’t fall asleep that night until dawn. He was too paranoid and scared to fall asleep, the anxiety of possibilities kept running through him. He sighed and the feeling he felt was worse than any hangover. He knew he was broke in every way possible, he didn’t have any money, he didn’t have anything. He didn’t even have you. He groaned and cursed himself as he saw last nights doing in his kitchen. He honestly doesn’t remember anything after what occurred at your house. He didn’t have any food left nor any liquor. He had to do one of the things he hated the most, grocery shopping.

His strong anxiety was almost numbing to him now. He’s felt so high strung the past few weeks that he’s used to it. He strolled through the store with a shopping cart that had one of its wheels broken and he almost thought god did it purposefully to mock him. He wandered helplessly through the aisles, grabbing miscellaneous food. Knowing most of it wasn’t going to even last him the rest of the week, but he needed something to get by.

Most of his cart was filled with strong liquor. He wanted to forget you and move on, and maybe finally kick the bucket with alcohol poisoning. He’s reaching into the fridge to grab another case of beer when he feels a soft tap on his shoulder. His stomach drops. It couldn’t be. He stands and looks over his shoulder and sure as shit, there you are.

You have a little smile on your face and your cheeks are dusted red by embarrassment. Looking to your feet, you see a pair of cotton panties peeking out of his jacket pocket. Your cheeks grow a darker red as you see that your name is embroidered on the top.

“I- uh, I-,”

You shut your mouth tight, cursing yourself for the hurried stutter and if he wasn’t so nervous himself he’d think you being flustered was cute. You look up at him through your lashes. He takes notice of the flint of his dog tags around your neck and his heart soars.

“I’m cooking dinner tonight at my parents house and was wondering if you’d like to come,”

You scratch the back of your neck, uneasily. Beaming timidly.

“You don’t have to come of course! And it’s just if you’d like if you’re not busy, I’m cooking steaks and I know you like-“

“What time?”

Your rambling stops and you give him the best kid going to Disneyland look he’s ever seen.

“Six.”

He nods and you smile. The trajectory of his life seemed to be on track again. This was the right timeline.

“I’ll be there at five.”

You smile wider.

“Thanks, Logan.”

He gives you a small smile and nod of his head in response. You start to turn to leave before turning back, looking both ways before you whisper to him.

“If you wanted a pair of my panties, you could’ve just asked.”

You give his cheek a quick kiss and walk away with a bounce in your step. Leaving him blushing and blinking at the case of beer in his hand, trying to figure out what actually just happened. Those small moments that are just so humanly indescribable makes him feel much less like a filthy animal.

[honkytonk-hangman]

How It's Done – Oneshot Version

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Aviator!Reader

Originally posted by unicornships

Summary: “Like me? I didn’t even think you wanted me as a squadmate, let alone–” you stop speaking, but only because Hangman cuts his eyes sharply away from you to glare out at the ocean. “Well, I do.” He says kind of indignantly, all things considered, and eyes you almost sourly. “You can just say no if you don’t–” “–No, I do!” you quickly cut him off, because at the end of it all, you’re a little too much of a hopeless romantic to let this moment pass you by.

Warnings: erm maybe just some references to sex? jake being jake? language? minions. big warning for minions xD

Notes: Originally I intended this to be a two-parter series, but I wanted to change how it went, so I rewrote the parts I didn't like and made the entire thing into a oneshot instead!!! This fic will replace the 'part one' already on my blog, but I will keep this part up, linked at the very bottom of my masterlist! thank you everyone for being so patient! Thank you @hangmanssunnies, my love my biggest support <3

Words: 11.6k!

“Well, I’ll be damned…”

You pinch your eyes shut and steel yourself at the sound of the all too familiar Texan drawl, hanging on to the hope that perhaps he isn’t talking to you. You’re out of luck though, and moments later Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin slides into the open space next to you at the bar, already posed in a casual lean as he looks you up and down appraisingly.

It makes your teeth grind.

It makes your face hot.

“If it isn’t Mirage. Would have invited you to play with us if I’d known you were here earlier…” Hangman cocks his head, and his lips tip up in an infuriatingly perfect smile. “But one can never really be sure if you’re around or not… and that's before you get in a cockpit,” he grins, but when you meet his eye at last, he looks away from you, toward Penny who seems to approach in the nick of time, saving you from needing to respond.

You blink down at your drink, and finish it quickly, unnerved by what you think might have just been a compliment of sorts from Hangman. You’d been stationed together previously, though you weren’t friends, so you’d been expecting something a little more acidic in nature. You’d heard him interact with other aviators, knew he liked to push and poke them, usually got away with it too. For some reason though, he’d never really gone there with you and frankly you’ve always just chalked it up to not being worth his time. In fact, you’re pretty sure the only times you’d ever actually spoken had been in the sky. To be completely honest, you’re more than a little surprised that he remembers you at all.

You didn’t exactly go out of your way to stand out…

You were naturally quiet, which wasn’t helped by your social anxiety, resulting in most people describing you as extremely shy. They wouldn’t be wrong, you suppose, you did tend to keep to yourself, the idea of having too many eyes on you all but unbearable to you. But if you’d thought a roomful of people singing happy birthday to you was bad, somehow being under the unwavering stare of Hangman is approximately one thousand times worse.

“Penny, my dear… I’ll have,” he stops to glance pointedly down at your now finished beer, adjusts his stance to lean even more and unwittingly makes the muscles in his bicep bulge.

“Five more on the Old Timer,” Hangman says, nodding to the man who sits on the other side of the bar.

Internally you blanch, but externally, you say nothing and give even less away, feeling a little ping of satisfaction that apparently, you know something Hangman doesn’t. Before he’d come along, you’d been carefully watching the interaction between Penny and Captain Mitchell. You’d never met the man before, but you knew how to read military insignia, which at this point, was more than you could say for Hangman, who dismisses him quickly.

You wonder if Monday morning you’ll be able to work up the nerve to tease him about it.

You’re distracted from your thoughts when Penny returns with the requested drinks. You had no real intentions of going and hanging out with Hangman and the others, but before you can excuse yourself, your empty beer is smoothly plucked from your hands, replaced quickly with a brand new one.

“Help me carry these back?” Hangman asks then, jerking his head in the vague direction of the pool table. You frown when he immediately takes off walking, not actually letting you help him at all, all four beers still slotted between his fingers. You find yourself following him anyway, as if he’d placed some kind of spell over you.

Hangman stops ahead of you at the ancient jukebox, looking back over his shoulder at you, nodding in a pleased manner when he sees you trailing behind. He waits for you, gaze never leaving your form, even as he nods to the space next to him. You awkwardly step up to the spot opposite to him, and look past the glass and at the selection inside. Hangman, once more, takes up a lean, this time against the rickety machine.

“Would you be so kind as to select track number…” he trails off as he checks the list of songs, but quickly flicks his gaze back to you, and smiles bright, tauntingly, again. “Eighty-Six?” he asks, but it's barely a question. You nod, and swallow, shifting from holding your beer with two hands to holding it with just one. You carefully tap the chunky ‘eight’ and ‘six’ keys as he watches. The machine’s little analogue screen confirms that your song is next up, and nervously, you look back up at Hangman, horrified to find he’s just been staring at your face for the past however long.

“S’been a while, Mirage.” He drawls, making you blink rapidly and look away.

“Has it?” Is all you can manage meekly in reply, surprised when he lets out a genuine sounding laugh. He hums warmly, and you practically feel it in your chest.

“And yet,” he lifts hand, two beers held expertly between his fingers, but he extends it to tap your nose, almost making you almost flinch.

“You haven’t changed at all.” Hangman grins Cheshire-like down at you, before his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and he leans in even closer while flicking his eyes up and down your form again.

“I don’t bite you know,” he tells you, his voice sounding serious, but his somberness lasts mere seconds.

“Well, not unless you ask me to first, sweetheart,” he winks and his smile grows large as your eyes grow wide and you splutter, flustered.

Your face grows hot with slight embarrassment, a wave of inner resentment at his teasing washing through you.

Hangman laughs, seemingly bored with you now, and he turns to walk back toward the pool tables. Without even looking, he beckons you to follow with one finger on his still occupied hands. For a moment your pique prevents you from doing so, certain that if you were to dip into the crowd now, he’d not care enough to seek you out again, let alone notice you were missing.

You know he didn’t mean it, you know his flirting is just to get a rise, but you also know that he’d never do it to Phoenix, or Halo, and a little bit of you hates yourself for being such a marked pushover. You make the decision now that you won’t let him do it again, if you can help it.

Your eyes travel past Hangman then, towards the pool tables where you can now see another figure has joined the other gathered aviators, and for the first time all evening, you don’t feel nervous to go join them.

You follow after Hangman, but quickly diverge from his path, cutting around a gathered group of Navy personnel to get there faster. As you approach, you take a moment to shake off any lingering anxiety, before gently laying a hand on the faded Hawaiian shirt in front of you, doing your best to keep yourself from bouncing on your heels.

Rooster half looks ready to wave off whoever is trying to get his attention, but when his shaded eyes land on you, he spins his whole body to face you, grinning widely in unguarded excitement as he gathers you up in his arms.

“Miri!” he exclaims warmly, and you can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you when he briefly lifts you off the ground.

“I was just about to ask Phoenix if she’d seen you yet.” Rooster informs you. 

“Seen who?” Phoenix steps around him, frowning as she quickly glances you over, though it disappears quickly.

“Yeah, that about tracks…” Rooster mutters mostly to himself.

“Nat, this is Mirage, you know her right?” Rooster introduces the two of you, and while neither of you make to shake hands, you only feel friendly energy radiate off the other woman, even as she openly looks you over now, nodding at Rooster’s words.

“Right, I have heard about you… I guess there's no real mystery behind your callsign… I didn’t even realise you were here… Sorry,” she tells you bluntly, but you appreciate her straightforwardness.

“They said ‘Wallflower’ was too long.” You joke lightly, and the other woman smiles. A moment passes between you, and you get the distinct feeling that Phoenix has become determined to never let you go unnoticed in her presence again.

You aren’t sure just yet if you appreciate that, but you are sure that you’ve just made a friend.

“Mirage?” Another voice joins then and you look to your left, smiling again when you see another familiar face.

“Bob!” you move to embrace him too, not seeing the look shared between Phoenix and Payback who watch you in surprise.

“Huh. Figures.”

-

Neither you or Hangman have moved since Rooster and Mav went down. The rest of Dagger had returned an hour ago, mission complete. There was no reason for either of you to be on standby.

And yet.

When the call came through that Dagger Two had been hit, both you and Hangman had separately requested to be launched, to help, but you’d been denied.

As a rule, you made yourself easy to work with, even if those around you were less compliant, and you’d experienced plenty of that, flying alongside Hangman the past few weeks. Whether it was him leaving you to get shot down in training, or refusing to fly as a team during simulations. And yet, despite his habit of ‘hanging you out to dry’ being the reason behind his callsign, deep down, you’ve never once doubted flying alongside him in the real thing like the others seemed to.

You’re glad for that lack of hesitation now, glad that it only takes a single moment of eye contact from across the tarmac for the two of you to understand one another perfectly. Glad that when you got word that somehow, Rooster was supersonic again, you already know his answer before you even ask.

“Hangman? Hondo’s cleared us for take off with the ground crew, against orders. You with me?” you ask quietly, looking over at your wingman, knowing that when you return you’ll most certainly be court marshalled, but unable to sit and do nothing any longer.

“To hell and back, Mirage,” comes his immediate reply.

You see him move in sync with you, both of your canopy’s lowering at the same time.

You ignore the panicked voices ordering you to stand down, long enough for Hondo and the others to get you on the catapult, and by then it’s too late.

In two seconds you’re propelled from zero to over a hundred and sixty, and in your ears you hear Hangman right behind you.

-

“Do you want to get a coffee with me?” The question makes you jump, your drink almost sloshing everywhere. The sudden voice, as well as the person it belonged to, takes you completely by surprise, but you’re thankful he doesn’t draw attention to your startling.

Up until moments ago, you’d been peacefully watching the ocean toss and turn, burying your feet in the damp sand and thinking about what you were going to do with your upcoming two weeks of post-mission leave.

Most of Dagger were a little further up the shore, a bonfire crackling away, although you weren’t the only one to have splintered off. Mav and Rooster were currently standing in the shallows talking, and you think Halo and Phoenix have moved to sit apart from the others as well. You had managed to sneak away easily enough, content to just sit on your own for a while, though your efforts appear to have been mostly in vain, if the man now plopped in the sand beside you is any indicator.

You blink at each other.

“What?!” you blurt out dumbly, not completely certain you really understood what he’d said. Hangman’s lips press into a thin line, and he looks away from you, linking his hands together around his knees, and staring out at the rolling waves.

“Coffee. Would you like to get one with me?” He repeats, sounding only a smidge impatient, but it still doesn't clear up much for you.

“I… No, I heard you the first time… I… I just don’t understand… why?”

Over the past three weeks you’ve been forced more out of your shell than you ever have before. It was torture. It was wonderful.

Part of you pats yourself on the back for being able to ask him so starightly, but another part of you slaps yourself in the face for questioning him.

Hangman turns to look at you apprehensively.

“Are you asking why coffee or why am I asking you?” He speaks slowly and carefully, his face blank and devoid of any hint he was teasing, though you think he might be anyway.

“Why… Why are you asking me?” You push, shuffling your feet in the sand, drawing his attention for a moment. He looks back at your face and frowns slightly, cocking his head.

“Because I like you? And that is usually what somebody does when they like someone. Ask them.” He answers, and this time you definitely get the impression he’s politely trying not to laugh, but for once, you don’t feel like you’re on the outside of the joke.

Still, you find yourself taken somewhat aback at his confession, admitted so easily and freely, as if it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, which confuses you.

“Like me? I didn’t even think you wanted me as a squadmate, let alone–” you stop speaking, but only because Hangman cuts his eyes sharply away from you to glare out at the ocean.

“Well, I do.” He says kind of indignantly, all things considered, and eyes you almost sourly. “You can just say no if you don’t–”

“–No, I do!” you quickly cut him off, because at the end of it all, you’re a little too much of a hopeless romantic to let this moment pass you by. Especially when for the past three weeks you haven't been able to get rid of the odd heart skips you got whenever Hangman acknowledged your presence at all.

And besides, you weren’t blind.

Hangman was ridiculously pretty, and not anywhere near as much of an asshole as he wanted people to believe.

He looks at you blankly for a moment, processing your words, before his face breaks out in a smile. It isn’t one of his usual smirks or tauntingly pearly grins, though. It’s softer, sweeter, and you stare mesmerised as he looks away from you again quickly, and down at his linked hands, nodding.

Two days pass, and even when you’re sitting across from him in a small, niche little coffee shop you had no idea existed, you feel like you’re in a dream.

You’ve never seen Hangman out of uniform, you realise, and it’s a whole new experience you’re forced quickly to process when he stands to go get your drinks.

Dark jeans, white shirt, casual jacket. It’s a simple outfit, but goddamn does he make it look good. Nervously you have to wonder if your white and blue sundress, sneakers and bomber jacket were having the same effect on him, though you highly doubt it.

He returns quickly, attentively, placing both your coffees down, before folding himself into his chair once more. You both look at each other awkwardly before you distract yourself by taking a sip of your coffee. Hangman seems to do the same, but instead of drinking, he begins tearing into several little sugar packets, and emptying them into his coffee foam.

You huff out a tiny laugh before you can stop yourself, and his eyes quickly snap to you.

“What?” he asks defensively, but the corners of his mouth twitch.

“I just… I guess I never figured you for a sweet coffee kinda guy…”

“Oh, and why is that?” his twitching lips turn into a full smirk, but it isn’t his usual Hangman smirk. You chew on the inside of your lip, and sip your coffee once more before answering.

“I’m not sure. I guess you just don’t seem like the type of guy who…” you trail off, unsure of what exactly you’re trying to say and even more; how to say it.

“Listen, I may have rippling, glistening abdominals, but I have a sweet tooth,” he says, putting on the defensiveness now, leaning toward you and pointing at himself. You pinch your brows together and purse your lips, nodding vehemently.

“I know how to have fun,” he tells you, tipping a third sugar into his coffee.

“Of that I don’t really doubt, Hangman,” you say, but his gaze snaps back to you again, almost sharply this time.

“Jake.” he corrects you.

You pause.

Of course, you knew his first name, but you’re fairly certain you’ve never once used it. Hangman has just always been, well, Hangman. But you weren’t in a cockpit right now, he’d asked you out, this wasn’t the time and place for callsigns. He wasn’t Hangman, and you weren’t Mirage.

“Jake,” you say slowly, carefully, as if he’ll tell you any moment he’s just kidding around. But he doesn’t.

“Miri,” he replies, slow like you, but softer, and it’s silly, but it sounds so nice coming from him. You shake your head and swallow.

“Jake, if you don’t like coffee, why did you ask me out for one?” you ask him, watching as he blinks slowly at you, before his gaze slowly drops to the latte in front of him.

“If I asked you for a drink, you might’ve got the wrong idea,” he starts, speaking carefully. “If I asked you for dinner, it could be too formal, too awkward–”

“–It’s already awkward,” you point out, making him grimace slightly, so you shrug.

“Coffee just seemed like– I just wanted to–” he cuts himself off and drops both hands to the table.

“Look– I just didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding about what this was. I like you. I know you like coffee.” Jake admits all in a flurry, his voice quiet, and his eyes flickering around as he speaks.

For as long as you’ve known him, you’ve never seen Jake unable to maintain eye contact, actually it seemed to be something he took immense pride in, and it always made you slightly uncomfortable, but right now he appears completely incapable, and it's not a side of Hangman you’ve ever seen before. You realise you might be meeting Jake properly for the first time.

You decide to let him off easy, with all the newfound courage Dagger had been feeding into you the past few weeks, and you change the subject.

“You know, when you came up to me at the Hard Deck that first night, I was kinda surprised you remembered me at all,” you say slowly, sipping your coffee and eying him evenly. Jake frowns then, but it smooths out into a cool grin, and he leans back in his chair, cocking his head.

“Are you kidding? I’m always clocking possible threats.” he tells you, making you cough lightly.

“How am I a threat to you?!” you ask in disbelief.

“Oh, I could name a few,” Jake teases, nodding at you, but flicking his eyes away, almost making a show of clocking an incoming group of customers behind you.

You weren’t clueless, you knew you were a part of Dagger for a reason. You were damn good at your job, but still, Jake was Hangman, not only was he an aviator you respected, he was an aviator with very high personal standards, and for him to see you as comparable to him… well truthfully, you find yourself rather humbled.

And then flustered, at his clear unabashed flirting.

“I always thought you flirting was just you messing with me,” you admit, and he grins wider.

“Can’t it be both?” he asks, leaning forward again, and clasping his hands together. He seems to have no problem maintaining eye contact now, you note. When you cold-stare him, he simply shrugs.

“You’re cute when you get all flustered and nervous, what can I say?”

“Literally anything else.” You grumble back.

You finish your coffee and push the cup to the side, crossing your arms on the table and leaning forward like he was. Jake mimics you, pushing his own coffee away, clearly with no intention to start, let alone finish it. You aren’t as good as him with eye contact though, no matter how much you’d come out of your shell, so you take the opportunity to glance sideways out the window, only for your gaze to catch on something.

Your heart thumps loudly for a moment in your ears, and you wonder briefly if you should act on the thoughts popping around your brain right now, or if you should just stay put.

You lean forward even more, and flick your eyes back to Jake who is staring at you curiously.

“Hey, I have an idea…” you start, chewing on the inside of your lip, before standing up. You only hesitate a little before offering your hand.

“You with me?” you ask without thinking, the words the same as the ones you ask time and again to your wingmen while in flight manoeuvres. Jake stares up at you for a moment, before he too stands, your heart skipping when he takes your hand. With a tiny squeeze you almost don’t notice, Jake grins, and nods.

-

“Oh, hey! Stop! That’s not fair!” You elbow Jake in the side, but it’s already too late. The hand he’d shot out to block your light gun had done its job, and where you’d previously been neck in neck for score on the dual Time Crisis cabinet, Jake’s character was now cheering in victory, while your screen was asking you to insert more coins and try again.

Jake chortles and you both slot your plastic guns back into their plastic holsters at the front of the machine.

“We never agreed to no interference,” he says proudly, and you sock him in the arm only half as hard as you can.

“I didn’t think it needed to be said!” you exclaim pointedly. Jake grins down at you, and collects his tickets.

“Quit complaining, all these are gonna go towards whatever stuffed bear or whatever the hell you want anyway.” He rolls his eyes, and gestures to the shoddy ‘rewards’ counter of the arcade you’d spotted from the coffee shop.

“I want the Minion.” You state firmly after glancing at the redemption counter for three seconds, and spotting the big ugly yellow creature on the top shelf. Jake sighs in a put-upon manner and shakes his head.

“See, this is how you know I really like you. I’m willing to ignore that,” he says, and you actually think he might be serious this time. You grin up at him as he takes your elbow, and begins leading you toward the back of the room.

“What are you going to cheat me out of kicking your ass at this time?” you glance around you, goosebumps trailing up and down your arm as Jake lets his hand slide from around your elbow, down your forearm and into your hand, which he squeezes as if in warning.

“I didn’t cheat, I simply used black ops tactics,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. You purse your lips at him and narrow your own eyes back.

“Cheat.” you say again, pronouncing each syllable deliberately.

You come to a stop then, and you look up at the old photo booth machine. Jake pulls out a fistfull of tickets, squinting his eyes at the label with instructions, before looking back over at the redemption counter. He seems to run some numbers before he looks back down at you with a grin, and waves the strings of crumpled tickets.

“My cheating means we can use the booth, and still have enough for a Kevin plush, so I don’t wanna hear no more complaining outta you,” he waggles a finger in front of your nose, and you blink up at him sheepishly.

“Jake– I don’t really want the Minion…” you say, before your voice turns suspicious. “Anyway, how do you know which one is Kevin?!” you lift an eyebrow, only for Jake to roll his eyes and push you into the curtained booth.

You orient yourself in the tiny enclosed space, looking around you as Jake takes a moment to feed several lines of win-tickets into the machine before he follows you. He’s forced to duck down real low, making the space even smaller, and you both stare for a moment at the small seat barely big enough for one person, let alone two.

“Well, either you can sit on my lap, or I can sit on yours, darlin’, but I know which one I’d prefer.” Jake intones lowly, and for the first time in an hour or so, you feel yourself get all flustered again. Honestly, you’d kind of forgotten about the explicitly romantic tone of this meeting until now, and more than that, your stomach begins to flip and flop like the first time you’d gotten in a jet when he eases past you and drops himself onto the bench before patting his thighs.

“Jake, maybe if you just move over a litt–”

“No can do, honey,” and he’s not even trying to tease you, he demonstrates the spread of his legs, and the tight fit into the booth, before looking back up at you expectantly again.

“Okay… Okay…” you say more for your own sanity than anything else, and turn, quickly perching yourself on his leg before you can really think too hard about what you're doing.

Your efforts are for naught though, because the moment you’re sat down, Jake’s hands are tugging you against him further, sitting you more comfortably on the thick expanse of his thigh, and you barely repress the noise that nearly escapes you at the feeling of his fingers digging into your hips.

“There we go, sweetheart,” he says softly, almost to himself, and moves his hands to wrap around you completely. If he notices your little noise, which by his self satisfied smirk he definitely has, he thankfully chooses not to say anything. Your face grows warm, not only at the hold he has on you but at the pet name too.

“Did you just call me ‘sweetheart’?” you ask, sounding half bewildered, half incredulous, forgetting for a moment where exactly you were and why. As you look over your shoulder at the man behind you, Jake stares back, his smirk still in place even as his eyes seem to search your face, his own expression mostly unreadable.

“Would you prefer ‘honey’?” he almost purrs, his voice distinctly amused, but you notice that he doesn’t back down, doesn’t apologise or step back.

It makes your stomach twist up in knots. It makes your heartbeat skip like a record.

You turn away from him, shake your head.

“It’s fine,” you tell him bashfully, wanting to grumble slightly when against your back you sense what you think is him puffing his chest a little. Quickly, you add: “Not at work, though…”

Jake chortles, but as you peek over your shoulder to look at him again, he’s relenting, his smirk gone and replaced with a far softer smile as he nods.

“Not at work, though.” he repeats lowly in confirmation, almost making you jump when he shifts one hand to steady you around the waist, his other reaching out to begin fiddling with the controls on the lit up screen in front of you.

“Alright, let's get this show on the road shall we?”

By the time you’re exiting the tiny cubicle, Jake’s hands still attached to your hips as he follows you out, you’re both laughing quietly to yourselves. You’re amazed to find just how much Jake can affect you, either setting you at complete ease or sending you into a tizzy, depending on what he’s said or done. Usually you wouldn’t be surprised by other people’s effects on you, you were jumpy and anxious by nature, but it was rare that somebody who put you on edge as much as Jake did, could also give you such comfort.

When he detaches his hands from your sides at last to survey the sheets of photos spat out by the booth, you marvel at how much you start to miss the contact. With all the subtlety you can muster, you inch closer to him, under the guise of getting a look at the photos as well, though really, you’re only hoping that you might prompt him into reaching out for you again.

Jake chortles and points at a set of two pictures. In one, you’re both grinning madly, pulling silly faces, and in the other, you’re wearing softer smiles, and you notice now, that Jake had pushed his face a little closer to yours. It makes heat rise in your cheeks, not just at the seeming intimacy of the photo, but truthfully, of how much you like seeing the two of you like that.

“You won’t mind if I keep these, will ya?” Jake asks, looking over at you. You simply shake your head, and he grins a little wider, carefully tearing off the two pictures before pulling out his wallet and tucking them inside, for sake keeping, you assume.

Jake lets you keep the rest, and absently, you fold them into the zipper in your purse, too distracted by the fact that he does indeed take your hand again, before quickly releasing it to instead wrap his arm over your shoulder. You can’t stop yourself from smiling a little as you blink dumbly up at him, and he grins down at you, ducking his face even closer to yours.

“Now sweetheart, I believe I was instructed to win you a minion plush.”

-

You try to avoid Phoenix’s hard stare, and focus on wiping down your helmet.

“You’re acting weird,” she finally announces, still managing to make you jump despite your anticipation. You then immediately proceed to do yourself exactly zero favours, proving her point by refusing to look up at her, choosing to instead hurriedly continue with your current task.

“What? No I’m not. I’m fine. You’re being weird,” you argue, wincing at your clearly abysmal attempts at behaving like a normal adult human. You start re-cleaning the pristine surface of your helmet, your nerves conjuring imperfections you logically know don’t exit.

Just before you completely lose yourself down the spiral of unhealthy compulsive behaviours, A hand, Nat’s hand, stops your own. Tugging the cloth out of your hands and taking your helmet away from you, she places it down on the workbench you stand on opposite sides of. Chewing your lip, you at last meet her eye.

“Miri, it’s okay to have a crush–”

“–I don’t have a crush!” You blurt out both far too quickly to be believable, as well as in sheer panic. Your face grows immediately hot, and you can tell Phoenix is trying not to laugh at the show you’re putting on so poorly. Her lips twitch, but her expression softens from amusement into something softer, mixed with traces of pity. Just when you’re starting to debate the pros and cons of sprinting out of the room, getting in your jet, and then flying away never to be seen again, she relents, releasing you from her eye contact and making herself busy as she tidies up bits and bobs littering the workbench.

You swallow thickly, and stay watching her, your heart rate only spiking higher as your anxiety builds once more at her sudden apparent indifference. You follow her movements without moving an inch, sharply aware that not only was she still very much focused solely on scrutinising you, but even more mortifyingly, that this conversation was far from being over.

“Nat,” you say with surprisingly more strudiness than you believed possible, pausing to swallow the dryness in your mouth. “I don’t have a crush, okay?” You wait for her to look back over at you, nothing but disbelief rolling off of her faux-casualty, giving you a bullshit shrug and a smile.

“Okay.” she says. You had hoped that would be enough, but you should have known better. You clear your throat again.

“Nat,” you say, only making yourself louder, as if that was a sign of nothing going on. She looks up at you somewhat blankly. You know you’re totally screwed already as her eyes dip to watch your finger begin quickly tapping on the bench before you with barely any acknowledgement from yourself. “There’s nothing weird going on,” you say, pleading with your voice and face and every atom of your being that she drops it.

She drops something, unfortunately it’s not the subject though, but you still feel some semblance of stress leaving your body as her fake lack of care dissolves, and she leans back to rest against the cabinet behind her. She crosses her arms and shrugs again while letting out a soft, pitying sigh, which this time doesn’t raise your non-existent heckles as much as it had when it first showed its face.

You stare at one another, at what you think is an impasse and wordless agreement to now never talk of this episode in your friendship ever again, but once again, you should have known better.

“If it’s any consolation, I think he has a crush on you too, so it's not like it’s a total waste of energy… despite all evidence to the contrary,” She says conversationally at first, before muttering out the last part under her breath.

“He doesn’t,” you state with so much certainty you almost forget for a moment that it’s not even a little bit true. Instead, crossing your arms too, you feel like a middle schooler having a much too serious fight with her friend at lunch. “We’ve just become closer, like all of the squad have. You’re just noticing it cause you want to!” you’re a little taken aback by the sound logic of your own reasoning, all points earned to your side then immediately becoming forfeit when you can’t help yourself from stupidly continuing to speak. “Why? Has he said something?!”

Your outburst of near-giddy excitement destroys all chances of you walking this back, and you find yourself with only one option left available. But your prior readiness to exit out of this failed interaction at roughly 300 kts/min becomes soberingly not so fun to fantasise about when you sheepishly remember the current charges against you, for the theft of the $70 million dollar military aircraft you’d technically stolen when you and Jake had taken a joy ride to pick up Mav and Rooster.

You're snapped back into the present as Natasha Trace regards you unreadably and slowly lifts one perfect eyebrow at you. You cover your face and hang your head, you reason with your now permanently mortified brain that if you just admitted to the thing she already believed to be true, she’d stop looking any closer, possibly finding out something actually secret.

It helps that your embarrassment for the flurry of extremely obvious questions is very real, and you groan into your palms. You hear before you see Phoenix laugh, listening to her chortle at your outing yourself, but you notice that he demeanour is warmer now, and she pushes herself up to sit on the top of the bench between you, crossing her legs.

“He’s not said a thing, but he doesn’t need to,” she tells you, seemingly glad to just be able to share her findings and observations, which you uncomfortably realise have been going on for a lot longer than you realised.

“It's what he’s not saying,” she explains, and you blink up at her in genuine curiosity.

“Huh?”

Phoenix turns her gaze upward as she thinks.

“He doesn’t make fun of you… or snipe at you, not really,” she begins, resting her head in her hand. “To be honest when we first met, I was expecting to defend you. You’re a good pilot, a great one, but Hangman isn’t exactly known for recognising that in others…”

You frown up at her, unsure of anything to say to abate her suspicions.

She’s not exactly wrong, even when the two of you were first stationed together, he’d never poked fun at you, never really called you out. To be fair, he hadn’t really acknowledged your presence at all, but these days you knew that was more to do with the fact that all this time, Hangman had liked you, had seen you were shy, and didn’t like crowds, and as you’d found out recently, often made more of a spectacle of himself to draw attention away from you.

You have to stop yourself from smiling dreamily at the thought of him.

“And I mean, he disobeyed direct orders for you, he knew what you were doing, and he went with you anyway… I’m just saying Miri, I don’t think you’d be disappointed if you were to say something–”

You quickly cut her off.

“I’m not saying anything to him!”

At last, given your already clear admittance of your supposed ‘crush’, Phoenix relents, holding up her hands and shrugging.

“Just think about it alright? It’s even sort of… cute, in a weird, Hangman-y way.”

You grumble at her, but thankfully she doesn’t bring it up again for the rest of the afternoon. Still, you leave the workshop with a sparkling helmet, cleaner than you think it ever has been, and with a pressing matter to relay to your boyfriend, most of which involves playing it much, much cooler in front of Phoenix the next time you all hang out.

-

You know you’ve made some personal growth when you answer the door in your matching Star Wars X-Wing PJ’s and slippers, and aren’t immediately mortified.

Jake stands there, already grinning back at you, and looking like a greek god sent to earth in his dark jeans and plain white shirt.

“Red Leader Mirage, your rescuer has arrived!” he announces, doing what you judge to be a surprising spot-on impression of Lt. Porkins from Star Wars, shooting a lazily salute down at slippers

Unfortunately, you aren’t given the chance to ask him more about his perfect Red Six however, as he’s almost immediately pushing away from where he’d been leaning against the side of your door, posing for your perusal you assume, and holds out a brown paper bag for you to take. You swipe it, and shoot him a thankful smile.

“Thank you, Jake, really…” you side-step his self-congratulatory jokes, but he doesn’t seem phased, simply shrugging, and taking a step closer to you, letting one hand rest gently on your shoulder, before he hooks it and tugs you into him.

You’d started getting all-too familiar with just how physically attentive Jake seemed to be, something you would never have guessed about him several weeks ago, but had come to terms with now. Clingy was never a word you would have used to describe him before. He hugs you briefly, then pulls back to look down at you, his brow furrowed and his expression filled with genuine concern, another thing you’d been getting more familiar with.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, inviting himself in by walking you backwards and kicking your door closed lightly behind him. You’d come not to mind this sort of thing either, but mostly because you know if you asked him to leave again, he would, no questions asked. That was another new thing you’d been learning about Jake Seresin.

In comparison to how Hangman could be up in the sky, Jake was entirely understanding, one hundred percent supportive, and almost a little too observant when it came to your particular anxieties. It meant he often knew without you saying when to push you, and when to not, and on the occasion that you did need to say, he always respected those boundaries.

It was starting to make you nervous, how much you were growing to like him.

“Cramps are kicking my ass, but other than that, mostly fine. Thank you for these,” you try again, hoping that he really understands just how much you appreciate him coming over for you tonight. Never in your life would you have imagined feeling comfortable enough to ask Hangman to stop by the pharmacy and pick you up sanitary products, and never would you have imagined he’d make no issue of it.

“Sure,” he says, again with a shrug. “You want me to head out?” he asks then, tipping his head back at your door, even as he inches his face closer to yours, brushing his nose tip against yours. Your lips quirk, then break out into a full smile when he grins before dipping low enough to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your stomach somersaults and pulls at least ten G’s for sure as he continues to brush his lips against yours teasingly.

This hadn’t taken much getting used to at all. Jake was a good kisser, and had proved it after your second date, almost in the exact place you were now, both his hands cupping your cheeks and his lips full on yours, hungry and insistent. That had been almost four weeks ago now, but after his hands had tugged your hips flush to his, you’d quickly put the breaks on.

You were still slightly uncertain about going further with Jake so soon. The fact was, you worked together in a high impact, high stress job, and if anything should happen between you, it would be easier to keep things professional if you took it slow

Jake had, to your slight surprise, though you aren't sure exactly what you were expecting, nodded slowly and taken a step back. He’d told you that the only thing he wanted more than you, was for you to want him too. You’d had to explain that your position wasn’t because you didn’t want him, which had led to more making out, but he hadn’t pushed to go further and he’d left that night with the affirmation that however long you wanted to wait was alright by him.

“No, you can stay,” you tell him, wrapping your arms around his neck to stop him from pulling away too much as you try not to full-on pout. Jake smiles against your lips and presses into you further, moving to push you against the wall, where he crowds your space entirely and stops teasing you, capturing your lips with his at last.

You’re about to experimentally slide your hand up his shirt, a thought that had been lingering in your mind more and more these past few days, but your kiss is over too soon, and he pulls back, leaving you breathless.

“Weren’t you waiting for me, so you could do chores?” he prompts, nearly making you grumble. Instead you nod, and gently push back against him, heading towards your bedroom just down the main hall.

“You can wait in here if you like,” you suggest, feeling a little nervous about the idea, but it was something you’d been thinking about for a while now. Even if you and Jake weren’t sleeping together, that didn’t mean the two of you couldn’t sleep together, did it? It was something you’d wanted, specifically with him, but not really something you’d ever experienced before. You were ready to move out of these early stages of your relationship, eager to push yourself and your limits just a little, so you could settle into something more comfortable with Jake, something where you weren’t always a little surprised when he touched you, or called you by one of his innumerable pet names.

Jake shoves his hands in his pockets and nods, clearly thinking through what this invitation could mean as he follows you quietly.

“Um, I feel like I should say ‘excuse the mess’, but you know–” you cut yourself off and gesture around your bedroom when you both have entered. Jake snorts.

“Well that’s what being in the Navy gets you. I won’t judge if you say it anyway,” he tells you lightly, and you scoff.

“Yes you will!” you insist, and are met with a confident, familiar cheshire-grin.

“Mhm, but only a little. Have you changed your mind, honey?” he steps toward you again then, almost closing the distance in one stride, his hands still shoved in his pockets, but his gaze locked intently on you in a way you haven’t felt since that second date. Your heart beats so loudly you’re sure he must be able to hear, but he doesn’t mention it, just waits for you, crowding your space again.

“Oh, I– No… not… I didn’t… I’m sorry…”

The moment you speak Jake is stepping back, pulling his hands from his pockets to hold them up, his expression losing the intensity again.

“No need to apologise, my mistake.” Jake’s words are sincere, but he looks away from you.

You let out a little sigh.

“It’s just so soon, and with the trial–”

“–You don’t have to explain yourself, honey,” Jake pulls his hands from his pockets at last and places them at your waist, drawing you in. You fall quiet as he lowers his face to yours, though he teases you again by not kissing you, simply looking you over, and then smirking when you pout. “You want it when you want it, and that’s when I want it, okay?”

He makes you nod, before he at last lowers his lips to meet yours and kisses you, slow and sweet. You finally get the chance to test the waters a little, easing your hand carefully underneath the back of his shirt, making you giggle against his mouth when he jumps slightly at the feel of your skin on his. Jake doesn’t say or do anything about it though, thankfully just letting you explore a little as he tips your head back further to deepen your kiss, and you brush your fingers up his spine.

After a short while of this, he must feel the urge to tease you again, because with little to no hesitation at all, unlike you, he slips his hands beneath your shirt, his warm palms gripping onto the bare skin just above your PJ shorts, almost making you moan. You’re glad you’re able to hold back the sound, mostly, but your own surprise doesn’t go unnoticed by the blond currently kissing you.

He only continues doing so for a short minute longer, before he’s eventually pulling back, lips pink and kiss swollen. You can’t help but frown at the parting. He squeezes your waist, and nudges your nose with his own.

“What do you want to do, honey?”

You groan at the apparent lack of making out in your future, not because you don’t think he’d agree, but mostly because you’re not quite ready to ask him for more, though a part of you senses he’s not willing to let you off the hook for those chores you’d told him about earlier.

“I need to fold this laundry,” you point past him, to your walk-in wardrobe and the basket that lies within. Jake looks over at it and lifts an eyebrow, which you choose to ignore. He nods then, and takes a step away from you, making you frown even more when his hands fall from your body.

“I’ll help,” he says, making your eyes widen, and you quickly step around him to block his path, where he is clearly about to make for your basket.

“No! Um… It’s okay, It’ll be easier if I just do it…” you trail off, wondering if you sound insane and neurotic, but Jake simply raises his hands again and nods.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” he prods, and you realise, he’s come inside thinking you want him to help with your chores.

“I was thinking… I was thinking it might just be nice for you to just… be here?” You cringe, and narrowly avoid making a face at yourself. Jake blinks at you as if he doesn’t understand.

“You want me to… sit around while you do laundry?” he asks, tone confused, but equally unimpressed. You nod. Jake shifts, then clicks his tongue. “I was not raised to let somebody work while I sit and watch, especially not my girl. My mother would tan my hide.”

You’re a little surprised by the seriousness on his face, despite the humorous inflection in his voice. You suck in a breath, mulling over how to explain to him what you had been thinking when he came inside. Jake’s eyes flicker over you for a moment before he shifts again, crossing his arms and lifting his chin at you.

“Alright sweetheart, just say what you gotta say, I can hear those cogs turning from here…”

“I… I like that you want to help me, I think that’s really sweet…”

“But…?” Jake prompts.

“I find this kinda thing hard, and I was hoping we could just try and do something… domestic…? Together?” your face goes hot at your admission, and when Jake doesn’t immediately respond you wonder if using the word ‘domestic’ was too much, too soon.

“What is ‘this kind of thing’? I get the other part honey,” again, his voice is playful, but you see the seriousness behind his eyes and it lends you even more comfort. How is he so good at this? It’s almost like he’d read your teenage diary entry all about your perfect guy… it's the sort of attention, care, and behaviour that you’ve never actually gotten from a guy you were seeing before, so you aren’t really sure how to compose yourself.

“This kind of thing,” you gesture between you and him, before clearing your throat. “I don't know what to call it– us, but–”

“–a relationship.” Jake cuts in firmly, and you pause, heart thumping. You hadn't actually had this discussion yet, but you guess you’re having it now.

“Right. I mean, I’ve been in relationships before, but they’ve never really worked out and I feel like I never get to the point with boyfriends where I feel fully comfortable, so I–” you clamp your mouth shut, both at the use of ‘boyfriend’, and at the fact you were rambling, and you’re pretty sure it's too early to start telling him about how all your prior relationships failed.

“Right. So, let me get this straight; you were going to come back in here and put your laundry away, regardless of me being here?” Jake holds up a hand as he repeats back the information.

“Yeah…”

“And you just want me to keep you company?”

You nod, and clear your throat.

“Yeah.”

Jake stares at you, a level of understanding crossing his face, before his eyes flick to your laundry behind you, then back to your face.

“... And you’re sure I can’t help you?” His resolve sounds weak, and you think he’s already made up his mind to do as you asked, but his upbringing requires him to triple check. You smile, and this time step toward him, gingerly resting your hand on his arm, which he immediately raises, and flips, sliding it so now you’re holding his hand.

Again, you can’t fathom how he got so good at this sort of thing. Your knees go wobbly.

“I have a bunch of lacy unmentionables in there, so…” you try to lighten things, but it's not a lie. Jake picks up what you’re putting down, and gives your hand a squeeze. He tips his chin at you and lifts an eyebrow.

“Now why’d you have to go and say that honey? You sure you’re certain I can’t help?” his hands slip from yours to rest at your hips again, completely bypassing your top this time and your heart stutters.

You bite your lip, and nod your head, trying not to laugh him off fully, because while that may be your instinctual nervous reaction, you didn’t want to discourage him entirely. You liked that Jake acted as if you were a pretty girl, like you were desirable, and not like the awkward dork you actually were. You didn't want him to stop doing that.

His expression turns a little softer, and he leans down, moving slowly as to give you time to process, and he presses his lips to your cheek, lingering for just a moment before he taps your sides with his fingers, then steps away.

You’re still catching your breath when he looks back at you, pointing at what looks like one corner of your bed.

“Can I?”

You nod, and gesture at the whole mattress.

“Make yourself comfortable!”

–

You can feel the pounding music of the club in your whole body. The lights flashing and dancing in different colourways in time with the music give everything around you an ever changing aura, and maybe it’s all the drinks you’ve had tonight, but in front of you, Natasha seems to glow.

Her hands grasp your forearm firmly and you giggle, uncharacteristically carefree as you almost slip again.

“Alright! Okay, let's get you seated!” she says. She’s had a few too, but not nearly as many as you, and you’re glad for it now as she steers you toward the bar and grabs a paper cup to fill with water from the nearby water station toward the end. You find yourself drinking it without prompting, but miss the taste of the fruity cocktails you’d been downing all night. “I’ll call us a cab,” she says, beginning to pull out her phone, but you hastily stop her, placing a hand on her arm and shaking your head rapidly, making the colours spin even more.

“No! My boyfriend said he’d pick us up!” you insist, ignoring the way her eyebrows shoot up, then stitch together.

“You boyfriend?” she asks, but you miss the real question behind her words, instead you simply nod, and begin to fumble around in your own purse until you find your phone. Nat watches you expectantly as you open your messages, quickly tapping ‘call' on the top icon, and pressing the phone to one ear, and your finger to the other.

It rings less than once before it connects.

“Heeyy!” you sigh in relief down the line, happy to even just hear his voice after all night going without. “Yeah, no, everything’s alright, you just said to call you when we were done!” you say in reply to his amused questioning. You look up at Nat briefly, and if you were more sober, you might’ve been able to tell that she was leaning in slightly to try and hear the voice on the other end, but you aren’t, so you don’t.

“Okay, I’ll meet you out front!” you tell him excitedly, before adding on; “Is it okay if we give Nat a ride home too?” there's a short reply, and at last you’re smiling wide and nodding, even though he can’t see you. “Okay, we’ll see you soooon!”

You hang up and stare back up at Natasha, who's giving you a funny look that you ignore. “He said he’ll be here in ten, he’s been at the sports bar in town waiting!” you tell her dreamily, like she might understand what it means to you that Jake would choose to remain only a short distance away in case you needed anything, in the knowledge that you didn’t always enjoy nights out like this.

Nat simply nods and after making you drink one more glass of water, you begin making your way through the crowds and out of the club.

The air outside is warm, but refreshing and you take in as much of it as you can, not realising how stuffy the air inside the club had been until now. It was getting late, and bars and restaurants around the club are lit up and busy, the streets all around full of people either on their way to their destination, or lingering as they talk.

It doesn’t take long for you to spot Jake’s car and he pulls up close to the curb, allowing you to beeline for the passengers side door, not realising that Natasha follows with more confusion and trepidation. Jake jumps out of the car to greet you, rounding it to quickly steady your wobbly walk with a hand on your hip, and with the other, he pulls open the car door and helps you inside, leaning in to help you buckle in, grinning even as he murmurs quietly.

“You had a good night, sweetheart?” he asks, clicking your seatbelt into place for you, making you giggle at him. You lean forward for a kiss, but he dodges you, somewhat more aware than you are of your present company, and instead rests his hand so he can squeeze your knee. Your good mood isn’t spoiled and you barely notice the dodged kiss, so you simply nod your assent to his question vehemently.

“I had a lot to drink!” you tell him, before bursting out into giggles again, the soft, sweet smile Jake gives you going unnoticed as he squeezes your leg again.

“Yes you did,” he says with clear, fond amusement, and at last moves back so he can shut your door.

Unlike you, on the other hand, Natasha may as well be sober as a judge, and she eyes Jake somewhat distrustfully as she steps closer, lifting her chin up at him as she talks.

“What’re you doing here?” she asks accusingly, making Jake cock his head at her, only half as annoyingly as he can. He gestures back at you in the front seat of his car.

“Miri called, sounded pretty hammered,” he tells her as if that explained it. Natasha narrows her eyes and crosses her arms.

“Yeah, but she said she was calling her boyfriend, what’re you doing here?” She dares him to reply with anything but the truth, however luckily for Jake, unlike most men caught in her crossfire, he’s able to brush her off with an infuriating grin.

“I guess she dialled the wrong number, do you want a lift home or not?”

At his ultimatum (however hollow it really is, he wouldn’t leave her on her own in the middle of the night), Natasha frowns darker at him, but accepts the door he opens, waiting for her to get settled before he closes it behind her and returns to the driver's side.

When Jake checks his rearview he notes in amusement that Nat has situated herself in the middle seat, giving herself a perfect view of the two of you in the front. You don’t, nor do you seem to have any weariness in the bloodhound you’ve just set upon the both of you, but if he’s honest, Jake had known from day one that the second Natasha Trace suspected anything, your little secret was over.

He drives back as normally as he can, but it's strange to him now to have you sitting right there in his passenger's seat, and not have his hand in yours, or on your thigh. It’s strange to him to be in this space where the two of you are usually so open with your affection, and have to suppress it. Jake does not like it.

The car ride home is quiet, you seem content to look out the window, the tiredness hitting you now, but every so often he and Nat make small talk about whatever football scores interested them in the past week or two, and before too long, he’s pulling up outside her home.

Looking over at you to find that you’re slumped over asleep on his window, Jake follows Natasha out of the car with a simple offer of making sure she gets in alright. The congeniality doesn’t last very long, and once they’re standing on her porch she turns to him with a frown.

“You don’t really think I’m that stupid, do you?” she asks, for once not sounding angry or scolding, but seemingly subdued, maybe even a little upset. Jake sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Looking back to his car to make sure you’re still alright, he levels his squadmate with a serious expression.

“No, I do not,” he tells her sincerely. “But it’s Miri’s choice to not want to be public yet, all I’m asking is that you respect that,” he goes on after a moment. He doesn’t really believe she would say anything, but he feels the need to get her agreement, if only for your peace of mind in the morning.

Nat hums to herself and briefly looks away to fish out her keys. Once she has them in hand, she looks up at him again, a little grin on her face this time.

“How long?” she asks. Jake rolls his eyes and can’t resist the urge to mess with her just a little.

“Few years,” he states matter of factly, waiting for her eyes to pop wide before he lets out a victorious laugh and shakes his head. “A month or two,” he admits truthfully, accepting the hard sock in the arm as Nat scoffs at him and moves to unlock her front door.

“Something, something, I’ll kick your ass if you hurt her,” she grumbles as she steps inside, immediately kicking off her shoes. Jake straightens up and gives her a mock salute.

“Yes Ma’am,” he says, chortling to himself as he receives a middle finger for his efforts and the door is closed and locked again.

Jake feels a little lighter on his walk back to his car, and when he climbs in, he leans over to carefully adjust your crooked neck and make sure your belt is still strapped properly. You wake a little, confused at first, and blink up at him in happy wonderment.

“Hey!” you mumble, like it's the first time you’ve seen him tonight. Jake chuckles and leans closer to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Let’s get you home baby.”

–

You awake the next morning with nowhere near the headache you’re expecting, but with an array of distinct memories that cause a pit to open up in your stomach. The pit then begins to growl as you register the warm, homey smell of food, and with little effort, you force yourself up and into the kitchen, where you immediately attach yourself to Jake’s bare back.

His skin is warm and feels so comfy against your cheek, and the soft little laugh he gives makes your belly flop around. He lets you stay like that for a few moments more, moving slowly but smoothly so you can move with him, and at last when whatever he’s doing with his hands is finished, he reaches around for you and rests his hands where he can.

“Did I really call you last night? While with Nat?” you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’d just imagined it all, but another soft chuckle lets you know you hadn’t.

“Never thought you’d be the one to let our little secret slip first. I underestimated you baby.”

You groan into his back, and try to hide your face, but before you can complain or dodge him, Jake has turned himself around, letting you instead smoosh your face in between his gloriously golden pecs, and you think things may not be so bad.

He wraps his arms around you properly, and for a moment you just stay like that. You wonder if you can convince him to come around shirtless more often, the warmth radiating off his skin feeling heavenly, not to mention he looked almost as delicious as the food he’d made. You wonder if he’d already worked out this morning, or if you can join him after breakfast.

One of Jake’s hands moves away from your back and cups the back of your head tenderly, making you mewl slightly, and you look up at him to give the attention you know he’s asking for. Jake stares down at you with a soft little grin, and readjusts himself slightly, so he’s able to drop his lips to meet yours briefly.

One kiss becomes two kisses, becoming three kisses and after that any semblance of chastity is given up on and he kisses you full and sweet, deliberately slow like he’s teasing you to ask for more, but for now you’re simply content to wash away all of last nights worries like this.

Coming up for air, Jake barely breaks apart from you, his lips still brushing yours when he speaks.

“I asked Nat not to say anything, she respects you enough to do that I think,” he says, dropping a few more soft kisses to your mouth when you crane your neck up for more. He goes no further this time, though, and leans back from you to gauge your reaction after several moments, and you force yourself to open your eyes and pout.

“It’s not that I think she’ll tell anyone…” you say to him, scrunching up your features as you recall your lack of playing it cool the first time she had brought Jake up to you. The memory makes you grumble to yourself, and you once more attempt to hide your face in his chest. Jake laughs, and makes you jump when he pokes your side.

“What is it?” he asks, like he already knows. You tell him, voice muffled in his skin, but clear enough for the details of your embarrassing inability to throw the scent off to be heard. Jake’s body shakes with more laughter as you relay the information, but instead of trying to make you stop hiding away, he simply cups the back of your head again, and holds it nearer, allowing you to wither your embarrassment away in the safety of him.

“I think we both know that the minute that woman suspected anything, it was game over,” he tells you once you’re done, still holding you close, but you feel his lips press to the top of your head sweetly, and you do your best to snuggle yourself closer.

After the bulk of your mortification has eased away, Jake makes you detach from him, but only so the two of you can eat your breakfast while it’s still hot.

“You know I don’t want to keep it quiet, like, forever, right?” you ask out of nowhere, your memories of last night replaying over in your head while you ate. Jake looks up at you and cocks his head.

“I’m happy to do whatever you’d like to do, for as long as you’d like to do it,” he says matter of factly, but despite the sweetness of his words, you can’t help but frown at him.

“No you’re not, and we both know it,” you push back, grateful for his always tender manner of going at your pace, but you’d likely never have been with him in the first place if he hadn’t thrown you out of your comfort zone that first time.

The only difference is, now you are with Jake, and you understood these things about yourself, and how they weren’t always as scary as your mind might make them seem. Jake frowns back at you, clearly ready to protest.

“I know you pretty well too, you know,” you cut him off. “I know you like PDA, and that you wish you were able to be more open when we’re out with people. I know you like to show off, and part of that includes me,” you tell him adamantly, because you know you’re right.

Jake huffs out a sigh and leans back in his chair, looking at you dead on, you know him well enough to know he’s a little annoyed at you calling him out, but you aren’t doing it to annoy him or just for the sake of starting an argument.

“Okay, so what if I do? That doesn’t change the fact that until you want something, I’m not gonna go for it,” he says, still frowning at you like he doesn’t understand what the point of talking this through is even about.

You change tack and, with your heart beat thumping a little wildly, get up from your seat and move toward him. Even in his annoyance, Jake makes room for you, pushes out his chair and wraps his arms around your waist when you seat yourself on his thigh, your own arms linking around his neck.

“Well maybe I’m giving you permission to go for it,” you say softly, quietly, because the idea still does make you incredibly nervous. But you like Jake, no scratch that, you think you’re in love with Jake, and you think he’s in love with you too, and something about that feeling for once in your life makes you want the same things he does too, including the PDA. You want him to sling his arm around your neck, you want to be able to kiss his cheek or hold his hand or whatever it is you two want to do, not just in the comfort of your own homes, but out at the Hard Deck with your friends, too.

Jake blinks up at you, like at first your words don’t even register, but then he’s tightening his hold around your waist, and grinning wolfishly up at you, all cocky and infuriating if you didn’t find it utterly charming. If you didn’t completely adore him, even this part.

“Permission granted, Lieutenant?” he asks mischievously, and you can’t stop yourself from giggling, like you’re drunk all over again.

“Permission granted, Lieutenant!”

[alieinthemorning]

Sunflowers [8394 | Grim | Casper]

Content: Fluff, POV Second Person, Spoilers

Pronouns: None

Reblogs: Let me know that you enjoy my work and want to see more, so don’t forget to like and reblog (and comment in the tags. I love seeing people’s rambles in the tags)!

This work’s concepts, plot and original characters are my own which means I do not allow any sort of creative theft nor do I allow my work to be entered into any sort of A.I. bots. Thank you for respecting my space and boundaries

Sunflowers are supposed to follow the sun, this is a fact.

However, they were facing you now, despite the fact that there were sun rays directly hitting. You tilted your head at them, reaching a hand forward to brush across the petals.

You swore that the flower moved closer into your palm.

"I wonder if Casper's really right about my soul…"

Not only was your soul like a mirage, a bright light hidden by a misty smog, but it was also capable of healing others—

"By giving a bit of myself…" You sighed, pulling your hand from the flower.

How did you receive this, you assumed it was a blessing, since you weren't accidentally stealing other people's souls to live longer or something. So a blessing, but how and why? You've been like this since you were younger, so you're pretty sure you've had it since birth, but you're also pretty sure no one in your family could use magic. But you also did just recently find out that Grim Reapers were real and not just something out of fiction.

And then you began to think about what that really meant for you. Would you truly just…cease to exist one day? Yeah, your life mainly consisted of going to work and chilling at home (with the occasional side quest of doing something else), but that didn't mean that you were ready to give it all up.

Your gaze found the sunflowers again.

"Sunshine…"

You also weren't ready to give him up yet, either.

You've never felt such an intense pull toward someone in your entire life, and you've only known Casper for less than a week.

Hell, you didn't even know his name was Casper until last night!

But…loving him…feels right. You should love him openly and wholly, and you were sure he'd do the same.

Your love for each other really were like sunflowers.

You smiled as your fingers brushed the yellow petals. "I guess you accidentally choose something with a double meaning, huh, Casper?"

I TOLD Y'ALL THAT THE FAN WAS FICCING

AND HERE WE ARE

Ahem. Anyway.

I love him very much.

Ko-Fi | Commission | Masterlist

[miss-nandini]

hey, can you make me a Mirage x fluff reader please mostly cuddling minor cussing please

A/N: I love Mirage. Hope you like it! It got a bit sad in the middle.

Little Things (Mirage x Reader)

It was one of those rides with him where he would be having the time of his life and your head would be spinning.

"Mirage, please stop! I think I'm going to throw up!"

"Hey! Don't you dare throw up inside me!"

Whether out of fear or sheer annoyance, he finds a spot soon enough and lets you stumble out of his alt mode. 

"Sometimes you are no fun, you know that?"

You look around, rolling your eyes as he accuses you of being boring. "It's not my fault that you decide to be a little shit."

You look around again. It seemed like he had brought you far away from the town area. You couldn't see anything other than grassy fields that seemed to stretch on forever.

"Mirage, where are we?"

"How would I know, (Y/N)?"

"Excuse me? Do you even know the way back?" You huffed. He really was something, wasn't he?

"Hey! Don't you trust me? I'm so hurt."

You heard him changing back to his original form behind you. 

"No need to be so dramatic."

"You are soooo mean, (Y/N)"

You could almost feel his pout even though you weren't looking at him. "Well, guess it wouldn't hurt to just sit around for a while."

You found a spot and sat down. Soon, you could hear him walking towards you to join you. You looked up at the sky. The night was still young and there were stars so bright that you couldn't help but admire them. 

"They are so beautiful."

"Yeah..."

You looked at Mirage. He was looking at the sky. But, for some reason, he looked... sad. It worried you. He usually looked  so happy-go-lucky. The sudden change in his demeanor was... startling.

"Mirage?"

"You know... the stars looked just as beautiful from Cybertron... The sky in Cybertron was... stunning."

The tender look in his eyes took your breath away. Sometimes you forget that he has lost his home. It is only natural that little things remind him of the home he was forced to leave.

"Hey, Mirage...? I know this is not Cybertron and I can not give you what you lost. But... you can think of Earth as another home, yeah? Things will never be the same again, but I promise that you will always have a home to return to. You have the others and of course... you have me..."

"Y/N..."

He picked you up in his servos and cradled you to his chassis. "Thank you..."

You placed your palms on top of his servos, your warmth bringing a smile to his face. "You are not so bad for a human, you know?"

"And you are absolutely annoying for a bot." 

"I will get back at you for that."

You yelped as he lay himself down on the grass with you on his chassis. "Hey! Don't do that!"

"Nopeee, I will keep doing this." He tried to ruffle your hair.

"Mirage!"

"Right, sorry sorry. But seriously, thank you for everything, (Y/N)"

"You are welcome buddy, you are welcome."

As you stayed curled up on his chassis, the night out with him didn't feel too bad anymore. It made you realize how much you still didn't know about Mirage. You have grown attached to him. Maybe, the next ride with him wouldn't be so bad after all.

[impala-dreamer]

In The Arms of Sleep

A Supernatural Story

~ Death has been hunting him, turning every moment into a painful dream of blood and pain. His only hope for a moment's rest lies in her arms...~

Dean Winchester x F!Reader

2,985 Words

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of death and show level blood, Allusions to sex. Set right before the series finale. | Originally Published to Patreon 9/11/2023

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

He probably should have called first.

Probably should have at least texted.

It was too late now though.

She’d just have to deal with it.

The highway stretched out before him, undulating and twisting like so many tentacles of some viscous midnight monster. Black and unforgiving; poised to devour him should he jerk the wheel in the wrong way at the wrong moment.

Suddenly, the thought of a crash crossed his mind and he couldn’t break away from it. How many miles had he driven in his life? How many times had he transverse the country, weaving back and forth across the yellow lines; crossing state borders without a second thought. Impossible to count. And yet- he’d been in so few accidents that it was almost comical. It was statistically impossible that he hadn’t careened off a cliff in New England and plummeted into the icy waters of the Atlantic, or been mesmerized by a heat mirage outside of Phoenix and missed a turn, crashing into the rocks, his last moments spent hearing the sickening crunch of metal and bone.

For a moment, he saw himself, half alive and wheezing, chest punctured by the wreck of the steering wheel; both legs broken, face shredded and bleeding as he crawled from a mess of black steel. The Impala crumpled, smoke billowing from beneath the hood while fluids mixed on the blacktop below. He clawed at the dirt, nails breaking painfully as he struggled to pull himself from the rubble. Each movement sent white-hot pain through his body, but he kept going, desperate to save himself as flames licked at the upholstery, turning the slick, shining chrome to blazing orange.

Shaking himself, Dean cleared the vision from his mind and shifted in his seat. The soft leather cradled him perfectly and he sank into it a bit, letting himself relax even as he tightened his grip on the wheel.

Things like that had been happening more and more. Nightmares were common in his life, but bloody daydreams were a new phenomenon. They often came out of nowhere too, making it almost impossible to stay calm and on task. One moment, he was playing on his phone or fixing dinner, and the next, he was watching as bullets tore through his chest, blood erupting from the punctures in slow motion cascades of crimson. More often, it was some monster attack, something easy that he could handle on his own that caught him. He’d turn a corner in a farmhouse and be ripped apart by massive talons, feasted upon by wolves, drained by an earth-covered vampire.

Every moment now, he saw his death. Every breath he took sent images of the end into his mind. He was plagued by the sights, haunted by the feeling, exhausted and helpless. Despite his best efforts at drinking the scenes away, the whiskey only made things worse. He’d tried talking about it, but it sounded insane. Tried writing them down, but he wasn’t good with words, couldn’t get the emotions right, couldn’t describe the anxiety. Hell, he’d even tried meditating, but that only proved to make the thoughts more vivid and devastating.

He needed something that he couldn’t find back at home.

Needed something he knew would soothe him, even if only for one night.

He needed Y/N.

So, he drove. Miles and miles, wheels spinning so fast that human eyes couldn’t see the treds turning, gripping, biting at the roads. So fast that it felt as if the car would leave the blacktop and float on the wind, fly him right to her front door.

He wasn’t so lucky.

He drove through the day and deep into the night, stopping only for gas in Oklahoma and then to take a piss a few hours later. Landscapes changed outside the windows, trees growing tall and full; the earth deepening from deep yellow to rich green. The world outside passed by, but he couldn’t see it. All he could see was blood.

A little after two in the morning, he reached her street. The little blue house was set back a bit from the road, tall bushes fencing in a modest lawn. She’d inherited the property when her parents were killed; the same time she’d met Dean.

He’d saved her life that night, and many more times, she’d done the same for him. Whether she knew it or not, she was always on his mind.

Dean slowly slid into the empty space in front of her house and cut the engine. He switched off the headlights and peered up at the front left window. Her light was off; the house dark and quiet.

He should have called first.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes for a moment and considered leaving. He could drive back straight away and be home before Sam got to worrying or Miracle missed him too much and chewed up his slippers. He fingered the ignition key, running his thumb across the dull ridges, ready to jam it back into its place.

He took a breath and a muzzle flare ignited in his head; the silenced gun taking him down with a shot perfectly executed right between his eyes. He jumped and willed the vision to dissipate, but it refused, growing brighter as his soul darkened.

A light flipped on in the window above and Dean’s heart jolted out of rhythm.

He made it to the front door just as she pulled it open and green eyes flooded with tears.

“Dean?”

Her voice was like a balm to his aching soul and he slumped forward into her outstretched arms.

“I heard the car,” she whispered, chin digging into the crook of his neck. “I thought I was dreaming.”

Dean clasped his arms around her back and held on, refusing despite the cold night air that swirled around them, to let her go and follow her inside. He needed a moment. Needed to lay his troubles down before crossing the threshold.

“Not dreaming,” he answered in a sigh. “But I may be.”

She smiled and placed a hand on the back of his neck, holding him to her. “You OK?”

He laughed bitterly, body shaking against her. “Not even a little.”

Y/N pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. The green was darker than she remembered, his soul burdened with so much pain that the color was fading, growing deeper than the evergreens that lined the back of her property. She lay her hand softly against his cheek and his eyes fluttered shut. He leaned into the touch, desperate for any human connection, desperate for her. He took a choppy breath and set his jaw tight. She felt the muscles flex beneath her palm, and she pressed her fingertips into the side of his face, giving him something real to feel.

“Hey…”

Her voice was calm and sweet, hiding the worry in her heart. Dean’s lashes lifted and he looked down into her eyes. She smiled.

“You’re gonna be OK.”

He wanted to believe it, needed to put his faith in her words, but blood was dripping from the deep, imagined gashes in his mind, puddling at his feet, flooding the concrete steps.

Subtly, he shook his head. “I dunno about that.” He tried to smile, to sprinkle in a bit of Winchester charm, but he had none left. He closed his eyes again and once more, the sight of his flayed body floated by, and he shivered.

Y/N’s fingers tensed, her middle finger pushing lightly against his temple. “Dean…”

He opened his heart, but not his eyes. “Y/N, please-”  His voice cracked around her name; pathetic and spent.

Y/N’s hand slid from his cheek to his hand, closing around it and pulling him along as she turned.

They didn’t speak. The only sound in the darkness was the door closing behind them and his boots hitting the old hardwood floor. The white pine planks were thin and long, stretching out down a hallway that barely seemed familiar to him. She had painted since last he’d been there, but it was too dark to see the shade of green she’d chosen.

Y/N held his hand and walked straight down the hallway and to the left. If memory served him, it was her bedroom- a small rectangular room with a big antique brass bed pushed into the corner and hand painted art on the walls. She flipped the light switch and a dim lamp by the bed turned on. It did little to illuminate the room, but it was enough to guide them across the thick carpet.

She stopped by the side of the bed and turned to him.

“Boots off,” she said firmly.

Dean’s forehead creased in question. “Huh?”

She sighed and nodded to his feet. “You’re not getting into my bed with those filthy boots on.”

He drew his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down hard. He wanted nothing more than to slide into her arms, but something was blocking his movements. A strange tightness grew in his chest, spreading outward like clinging ivy. His throat closed, his breathing quickened. Tears welled, but he refused to let them fall.

Slowly, Y/N lifted her hands to slide the canvas jacket from his shoulders. “Relax,” she whispered, tugging the fabric off his thick arms. Carefully, she folded it in half and laid it on the corner of her bed. The army green popped against the pale rose comforter and Dean set his gaze upon the contrast, desperate to hold onto it and push the phantom blood aside.

He let her pull off his flannel; open his belt. When she reached for the hem of his gray tee, his hands shot around her wrists.

He shook his head. “Y/N…”

She smiled softly. “Let me.”

His grip released and she lifted the cotton up over his head. He sighed deeply as the sweaty shirt caressed his cheeks and he emerged with half a smile.

The room was cool. A vent in the floor to his right pushed a light breeze into the air and it chilled his exposed skin. It felt good.

Y/N tried not to linger too long over his naked chest, tried to ignore his soft belly, the dip that lay across his broad shoulders. Unconsciously, she lifted her hand to cover the ink on his chest, the same design he’d insisted she get tattooed on her hip. They were connected in that strange way, and sometimes she wondered if he could feel her tracing the arms of the pentagram on her own skin late at night.

Dean stared down at her, awed by her gentleness, her shadowy beauty. The lamplight danced on her cheeks, cut out the lines of her lips; highlighted the fringe of lashes over her eyes.

She could feel his eyes on her and looked up, meeting his gaze. He shivered as her fingers slipped down his chest, sucked in a breath as her nails bit lightly into the tender flesh of his hips, exhaled slowly when she tugged his zipper down.

As his jeans sank to his ankles, Y/N turned away and lifted the thin nightshirt from her body, leaving her naked but for a pair of lilac panties. She didn’t look back as she slid into bed and tucked herself in the corner by the wall. When she was in place, she rolled over and lifted her arms, calling Dean to her side.

He kicked his boots off, let the denim rest beside them. He kept his boxers on and gracefully climbed in beside her.

His head sank into the pillow and her scent flooded his senses. The cushion was cool and comforting, the blanket heavy in a delicious way that made his body finally relax. Y/N tucked him in and then cuddled closer, pressing her flesh against his.

Dean could feel her firm breasts against his side, the soft curve of her waist, the heft of her hips. He bathed in her heat and rolled towards her, ready to unburden his soul. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat but no words would form.

He struggled.

She smiled.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she assured him, scooting up a bit on the bed. “I’ve got you.” She shifted quickly and Dean fell against her chest, cradled in her arms.

He pressed his ear to her heart and closed his eyes. Every beat pulsed through him and he breathed slowly with her, letting the tears finally come.

The harder he cried, the tighter she held him. She ran her hands through his hair, rubbed at his shoulders, kissed the top of his head, again and again reassuring him that he was safe with her, cared for, and loved.

Dean slid his arm around her waist and held on, feeling more like a whimpering child than a man. Forty years hung on him like lead, threatening to twist his bones and break his spirit.

He cried it all out as Y/N held him. Every hunt gone wrong, every death and resurrection. He cried for his parents, he cried for Sam. He cried for every soul he’d tortured in Hell, every life on Earth he’d failed to save. He cried for Charlie and for Eileen; for Kevin and Crowley. He cried for Lisa, cried for Ben. He cried for his youth, his wins and losses. He cried for Cas.

Y/N absorbed every tear, soothed every sob. She rocked him gently as his body shook, traced circles in his back to give him something else to focus on. She never let her grip waiver, never let a second go by without touching him in some way.

Night lifted slowly and the sun poked at the curtains. The windows glowed with pink and golden light and Dean stirred.

He lifted his head from Y/N’s arm and blinked into the growing light. She was fast asleep, chest rising and falling gently with each breath. Half circles darkened the flesh beneath her eyes and her hair was a mess, but she was nothing short of beautiful in his eyes.

Dean breathed easy for the first time in a long while. He felt lighter. When he closed his eyes, he saw the empty darkness of his eyelids and nothing more. No death, no blood, no hiding dangers. He smiled.

Daring to wake her, he slid his fingers lightly across her forehead and tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear.

Y/N pulled in a heavy breath and her eyes fluttered open. She saw his face and smiled.

His eyes were brighter, his cheeks pink and warm.

“Mornin’,” he whispered, leaning closer to her lips.

“Good morning.” She licked her lips and looked down at his. Plump and wet, they pushed out a bit, reaching for hers. “You seem better…”

He smiled. “Thanks to you.”

She bit her lip, tugging the corner of her mouth between her teeth. Shyly, she looked up into his eyes and knew that, if only for a little while, he would be alright.

His kiss was heavy and needy, tongue pressing between her lips before she was prepared. She gasped into him, slid beneath him when he tugged her closer.

His weight was crushing and devastatingly arousing and Y/N spread her legs, wrapping herself around his waist. She could feel that he was as ready as she was, and reached down between them to pull her panties aside.

Dean propped up on his aching arms and gazed down at her. She was everything in that moment- lover, friend, nurse, savior. He licked at her lips again and closed his eyes, breathing every drop of her in. He held his breath, memorizing her taste, her scent, her warmth, and tucking it away for later.

He’d always need her.

Always love her.

They showered together; unwilling to part.

They held hands over slightly burned pancakes and chewy bacon.

They lingered in the doorway, clutched in each other’s arms.

“You sure you can’t stay?” she asked, refusing to let go.

Dean kissed the top of her head and gave her arms a squeeze. “I have to get back.”

“Places to go, people to save, right?” She laughed sadly and pulled back, giving him a faint smile. “I missed you, you know.”

He sighed and looked down for a moment, feeling the weight of everything pushing down on him again. Guilt rattled in his brain and he chewed his lip, rubbed her hand between both of his.

“I’m sorry-” His voice was deep and heavy.

She shook her head. “Don’t be. I’m just… I always miss you, Dean.”

He smiled. “I miss you too,” he confessed. “A lot.”

Y/N grabbed his hands and swung them playfully at their sides. “So… maybe don’t stay away too long next time, huh?”

“I won’t.” Dean dragged her hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles on each hand. “I promise.”

One last kiss goodbye, one last press of her body against his.

The road home was just as long but a little bit easier. He carried the feel of her home with him, kept her face in the back of his mind. She was like a soldier in his head, forever poised and ready to defend him, to cast away the visions that plagued his daydreams, to set his heart right when his faith began to dissipate. An angel there to keep him safe and guard his nights, a gentle love to make everything alright.

Death would come for him soon enough, but for now, he drove the highways and unpaved backroads home with a new sense of hope. He could watch the trees fly by, enjoy the changing horizon and let the light seep into his soul.

He felt better.

He felt strangely OK.

He was glad he hadn’t called.

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[teadari]

⋆˚࿔Reaction to Y/N’s Big Bust - Part 2 ⋆˚࿔

Mr. Crawling

The quiet, barely perceptible whispers of the wind and the faint echo of footsteps gliding over the dead stones of these labyrinths—silent as a secret of the past—dissolved, leaving behind an impression of strange harmony, close to a sense of blissful detachment from all the world's turmoil.

It seemed that in this whimsical hall of interconnections and transformations, you had found what earthly paths could not offer—a veil of mystery shrouding the truth.

But nothing tormented your mind anymore or rang with a torturous echo in your veins, for before you lay the door to freedom—a lift, appearing as if by the wave of an invisible hand, in the secluded corner of all these twists and futile attempts to gather your thoughts. Like fate, weary of hiding its face, it awaited you, forcing you to grasp the very essence of moving toward a goal long sought yet seemingly reluctant to meet you.

As soon as you realized that the exit, which for so long had seemed like a mirage, was real, your soul stirred with a trembling joy. Steps that had absorbed countless whispers and secrets of these grim labyrinths finally led you to the secluded door of the lift, as if conspiring with destiny—the tyrant of our lives.

Without pondering ambiguities, you reached out to this embodiment of freedom to slip into the welcoming embrace of homey comfort, your personal skyward haven, where worldly anxieties dissolve under the weight of sleep. And yet, already in the lift, realizing the beauty of the reality surrounding you, intertwined with forbidden truths, the worldly existence flowed like a river, merging extinguished lamps' light with the stirring shadows of the mind.

There, amidst the rattling of the lift, truth awakened like a breeze lifting the veil of memories—you were struck by a realization. Only then did you understand that he had been left among the forgotten, without the care of someone who could match his devotion.

Mr. Crawling, now abandoned and guarding you until the very end against the shadows, was no longer by your side. And in this sudden enlightenment of your inner world, the conscience sitting on your shoulder, raising its heavy accusations, unleashed upon you a criticism of the deepest strength. You condemned yourself to overwhelming grief, for by casting aside all of the past, even Mr. Crawling, you became a healed wanderer, invoking mercy in your numbness.

Tears, like counterfeit crystals, streamed down your face in hungry succession, raised toward the universe that might yet hear your pleas and return you to the shelter of the past. In this sorrow of sincerity, you strove with all your might to atone for your coldness in that final moment, transforming it into a quiet yet powerful promise.

In the moment when your soul embraced fear and despair, the lift, as if obeying an invisible command from above, reopened its doors—and before your eyes unfolded familiar corridors. It seemed that fate itself had decided to give a fallen heart another chance to rectify its mistake.

Succumbing to an uncontrollable inner impulse, you fell to your knees—like a penitent consumed by your emotions, torn by bitter tears and fervent prayers. The waxy tenderness and blissful coincidence in this moment perhaps encapsulated the most profound of mysterious, silent intertwinings, where gentleness and sorrow share one life, forming the essence of experience.

Through tear-filled eyes, you saw him—like a loyal dog, like Hachiko, Mr. Crawling patiently sat by the lift, as if waiting for your return. Turning your back on the worn walls and the cold fragments of the marble floor, you moved toward him, feeling a warmth of hope and reunion spread through your chest.

Let my pen then attempt to describe this touching and perhaps unique reunion, when the spark of your original connection reignited with an unexpected flash of light. Mr. Crawling, that incomparable and faithful companion, at first lifted his features in surprise, watching as you, in tears and sobs, crawled toward him. And then, without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close to your chest like a long-lost and newly found friend, whispering only one heartfelt word: "Forgive me."

And you know, this being, devoid of human prejudices and bitter grievances, instantly accepted you, recognizing in this embrace not only guilt but also genuine repentance. Their sight—two beating hearts in unison—was a spiritual symphony of forgiveness; and Mr. Crawling, not a vile creature, more than quickly embraced you in return, found peace, and gently patted your head, repeating like a mantra his quiet "Pat… Pat."

The warmth of incredible tenderness enveloped you in that moment, rekindling in both of you a sense of compromise and a newfound awareness. And while the surrounding world, the unforgotten glow and light of the corridors, faded into the background, in the presence of this mutuality, you experienced a truth that transcends all human expressions: true selfless friendship and devotion, which, having passed through trials, illuminated both your future and present paths, uniting what seemed extinguished with a new spark of life.

As for his reaction, when his head, pressed against the place of your heart's warmth, felt your heartbeat, and his hair—dark as the night itself—shielded this moment from prying eyes, it is worth mentioning that, beneath the visual veil of this moment, his cheeks slightly flushed. For even in a world governed by the unseen and where logic often takes a backseat, something so natural occurs: reflection through touch, a timid yet inevitable feeling.

[ddarker-dreams]

Entanglement.

Yan Kafka x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, unwanted kissing, mild not SFW implications. Word count: 1k.

“You’re still refusing to wear the clothes I gifted you, dearest?” 

A dulcet voice smoother than the finest silk coos from behind. 

You don’t deviate from your original task. Just outside the window, the cold, unforgiving vacuum of space looms. A mere panel of specialized glass is the only barrier between you and infinite nothingness. The concept used to frighten you, to a paralyzing extent. It got to the point your oh-so-benevolent captor had to make adjustments. Using some technology you’re unacquainted with, the dark canvas morphed into a familiar, more palpable set piece: the scenery of your home planet. 

You’ve since overcome this hurdle and no longer require the mirage’s services. 

Space isn’t what you fear anymore. No, it’s the woman with the future in her eyes who holds that distinction. 

“It isn’t to my taste.” 

“I know,” she agrees. Her perfume is near stupefying when it invades your senses. “It's to mine.” 

Kafka is either aggravatingly unassuming or laser-sharp with her intentions. You’re never given time to adjust to her fickle ways, the second you think you might understand her, she reveals just enough that you’re right back where you started. 

Gloved fingers hover over your wrist, causing your hair to stand on end. As if she’s playing a glissando on the piano, her fingers slowly creep up, from your forearm to your bare shoulder. Presently, you’re wearing one of the few garments you were allowed to bring. It’s a plain, white dress that she longs to stain with her own palette. 

Her arms envelop your midsection from behind. She nuzzles her nose into your neck, swaying you back and forth while she hums a haunting ballad. Can she hear the skipping of your heart? Does she consider it just another instrument to compose her hedonistic harmonies? 

“Are the stars truly that interesting?” she murmurs against your skin. “Surely, they aren’t prettier than I am, hm?” 

“Maybe. At least they understand the concept of personal space.” 

“Oh, I do as well. I just choose to ignore it when it comes to you.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t.” 

You can feel her smile.

“You’d be lonely without me. Maddeningly so.” 

“Insanity is tempting if you’re the alternative.” 

She laughs, the sound low and husky, belying any offense taken, if you had the hubris to think anything you said could hurt her. Before you can register anything, she twirls you around. In this new, uncomfortable intimate position, you’re forced to look her in the eye. There’s no quality of hers that unsettles you more. They draw you in and devour you like a black hole, picking apart actions you haven’t even committed yet. 

It reminds you, similar to the path she walks, that nothing you do will ever amount to any meaningful change in your circumstances. 

Kafka settles her gloved pointer finger and thumb on your chin, tilting your head up. Whatever she’s thinking is as unknowable as the universe itself. Her fondness for you is an illness without a cure — even she must know how sick it is. Something tells you that if a remedy for it ever existed, she’d refuse to take it, and would instead crush the vial before your eyes. 

“What a beauty you are,” she praises through lidded eyes. “There is no greater joy than knowing you feel every second we’re apart, just as I do.” 

Irate, you try moving your head away, but this causes her grip to tighten. Never enough to hurt — it’s only meant to warn. 

“I take it you don’t like the cosmetics I brought back, either?” 

Kafka delights in asking questions she already knows the answers to. If she had anything resembling a hobby, you suppose that would be it. 

The skin beneath her eyes crinkled with amusement at your abrupt vow of silence. You fight off a shiver at the look. It’s all-consuming, dangerous in a way that rouses your primal instincts. She leans down close enough that you can feel her breath fan against your face. Her head tilts in a deliberate show of faux curiosity. 

“Is your tongue frozen? Should I think of a way to warm it up?” 

The hand that isn’t holding your head in place toys with the strap of your dress. 

Swallowing thickly, you shake your head. You know when to surrender in a losing game. 

“... No.” 

“No?” She repeats, mimicking the inflection of your voice. “Ah, well, that’s a shame.” 

You almost sigh in relief when her hand retreats. She reaches into a pocket on the inside of her coat and pulls out a tube of lipstick. She applies the roseate pigment, maintaining smoldering eye contact with you all the while.

After what feels like an eternity, she descends upon you, her lips seeking yours in a fit of scathing passion. You freeze up at the unexpected boldness. She takes advantage of your reverie, interlocking your lips in a languid motion. There’s no urgency to the kiss, she takes her time with you, just how she likes it. 

Her hand presses against your back, urging your chest to arch into hers. It isn’t until her hand starts venturing down that you return to your senses. In a fit of panic, you raise your hands to push her away. The defiance gets you nowhere — she catches your wrists with ease and holds them in place. 

Fortunately, she pulls back, although she doesn’t relinquish her grip. 

“I knew this color would look good on you,” Kafka sighs, almost wistful. Then, she raises your wrist and presses a lingering kiss against your pulse point. It leaves a smudged lipstick stain behind. “That leaves the issue of the outfit. Hm, what to do, what to do…” 

As if hit with an epiphany, her eyes light up in microscopic supernovas. “I know. If you need my help applying makeup, then why should getting dressed be any different? Why, you should’ve said so sooner.” 

Indignant, you seethe, “That isn’t…! Fine, I’ll put it on myself. Just— just turn around, okay?” 

“Of course. Anything for my sweet, shy girl.” 

Surprisingly, Kafka acquiesces. She pivots on her heel and covers her eyes with her hands. A teasing gesture, if you had to guess. 

Just when you believe you’re regained a semblance of control over the situation, she throws in a comment that snuffs out this fledgling hope. 

“I’ll give you to the count of a ten before I come and help you myself.” 

[atomicbland]

Just A Mirage

Hello I'm outting myself as the ──★ ˙🍓anon from @ghoulphile. Anyways they've inspired me to fall face first dip my toe back into writing and might as well share the brain rot with the class. This is my first time writing smut or anything relatively like this so any questions comments critques are welcome! I dont bite unless you want me to

pairings: cooper howard x fem!reader rating: 18+ MDNI! warnings: bondage, degradation, pet names, mentions of age gap (obviously), Cooper Howard being a jackass in general, canon typical chem use, smoking AO3 Link

You were tired, thirsty, and hungry. Your rations had been finished earlier that morning though it was not by your hand. The tall ghoul who looked like he had walked right off the set of one of those western movies with his cowboy hat, ragged leather duster, and shotgun strapped to his back had stolen the last of your food and water while you stepped away to relieve yourself. You had come back to him chewing on your stash of jerky while letting his scruffy companion, “Dogmeat”, drink straight from your water flask. You learned quickly that no matter what, he’d treat the dog better than you. He kept you on a leash, his lasso was tied around your waist and tethered to the weapon belt that might as well have been fused into his skin. Anytime you weren’t keeping pace he’d give a rough tug of the rope, causing it to bite into your belly. Argued it’s easier to keep track of you that way. 

While you lamented over the loss of your food and water and debated if hiring the old ghoul was a smart choice something catches your attention stopping you in your tracks. Along the edge of the tree line, you spot the remains of what looked like a house, bigger than any house you’ve come across. The roof and windows were still somewhat intact and something that looked like brick peeked through the vines that had taken over the structure. You felt the bite of the rope at your stomach. 

“Now, I done told you what’ll happen if I gotta tug this damn rope again…” the Ghoul threatened from in front of you.

“I saw someth-”

“You ain’t seen nothin’,” he spat. “A mirage. Just that pretty lil’ head of yours playin’ tricks sweetie.” He tugged the rope again, urging you to move along not even bothering to look in the same direction as you. 

Sweetie. Whenever he called you that you could feel the heat of a thousand rads shoot through your body, making your blood boil. 

“Maybe my mind wouldn’t be playing tricks if I still had my food and water!” You didn’t budge, refusing to play his stupid game. You were in charge, hiring him to escort you to the Old World Wall safely. 

He turned to face you, his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat but his features were twisted into a scowl. “What was that lil lady?” 

He didn’t scare you. You cleared your throat. “I said. I NEED water. You don’t get any caps or vials if I’M dead!” He stays silent, still glaring. A month's supply of vials upon arrival was on the line and he knew it. You point towards the treeline. “I saw a house over there. We're out of rations and it's getting dark. Can we at least set up camp there?” 

His answer is wordless, whistling a command to Dogmeat to run ahead to the house. He gives another tug at the rope, commanding you to follow behind him, a cautious hand at his holster. 

The inside of the house was far nicer than the outside led you to believe. While everything appeared to be overrun by nature the original bones were still there. Holey yet plush couches formed a sitting area around a fire pit that recessed into the tattered wall. The floorboards creaked and moaned under the new weight as the three of you walked around making sure the area was clear. Dusty paintings littered the walls, images nearly impossible to make out in the dim light. 

“Now smoothie,” the Ghoul started, taking a quick break to puff his inhaler, “I’mma take you off yer leash and scope the perimeter ���fore we hunker down.” 

You nod, happy to have some relief from the scratchy fibers of the rope and to get some sort of break from your freakish travel partner. Not that you didn’t hate him but the way he spoke and stole from you did wear on your nerves. All of the stupid pet names that cowboy gave you did something to you. You couldn’t place it, a warm feeling in the pit of your stomach, a milder feeling of what he did when he’d make a pass at you. And despite how much he annoyed you, you found him strangely attractive. On those sleepless night when you were sure he was sleeping, you’d study his features, imagining his strong hands around you as he pulled your hips down onto his, his cock hitting your core just right making your back arch and pulling the same loud cries of pleasure you had heard him pull from others in the adjacent room of whatever hostel would allow a ghoul and his dog. 

The smell of viscera and tobacco cloud your senses, and you feel a gloved hand around the back of your neck, ripping you back to reality. “And be good for me while I’m gone.” The heat of his breath travels down your neck and straight between your thighs. 

You watch as he slinks away, stopping at the crumbling doorway—a dark shadow masking the top half of his face. “Oh and sweetheart,” he pulls a cigarette from one of the pockets of his duster, lighting it before he continued, “be a doll an’ rangle somethin’ up for dinner. Ain’t much in the mood for ass jerky t’night.” He flashes you a smile from underneath his hat before leaving, Dogmeat happily cantering after him. 

The house is larger than it looks on the inside and despite its current state of ruin, you could see it in all of its glory, like one of those fancy houses you see in the movies. People smiling and laughing around a table piled with food, dressed in the most beautiful clothes that shimmered against the light. Women with beautifully painted faces and clean, perfectly styled hair. Those movies always made you wonder about the world before the bombs, before everyone wanted to kill everyone else, before the fear of radiation. 

You find your way into the kitchen, cracked black and white tiles decorate the floor, dingy teal cabinets matching the Atomic Queen appliances hug the walls. You take care to peek behind every cabinet door checking for any food or water that might have been missed by whoever came through here last. You manage to find some unlabeled booze and canned food tucked behind the remains of some long abandoned animal nest, while it isn’t much at least you’ll be able to eat tonight. In another cabinet you find some Sugar Bombs, the box is dented and beat up but surprisingly unopened, lucky you. 

You move towards the back of the kitchen, finding yourself in a small dark room. The smell of mildew and rot is so strong your stomach would've turned if it wasn't already empty, it's so bad you couldn't bother to examine the shelves that lined the wall. You make a mental note to ask the Ghoul to check for loot, of the two of you, he had the stronger stomach to rifle through damn near anything. Pushing through the door to the other side, fresh air greets you, a welcomed relief to your lungs. The very last dregs of sunlight shine through the windows that made up the roof, tall green trees kiss the glass in a desperate attempt to break free. If it wasn't for the roof you would've sworn you accidentally found your way outside. 

With one hand on the holster of your knife you creep with the brick of the wall at your back, slowly examining the plants in front of you. You recognized a few, Daffodils, Marigolds, even Tato vines. However a majority were new to you;  large flowers the size of your head, and plants that seemed to grow from the roof. You spot some pear and apple trees with the largest fruits you’ve ever seen further into the room. As you found your way to the perpendicular wall, you noticed that it was made of a giant window. You remember seeing building plans for something similar in a pre-war book years ago, a glass house that kept the plants inside at the ideal temperature. For whatever reason the plants in this glass house were thriving on neglect, carrying on with life as if the bombs never dropped. 

BANG! 

The sound makes you drop to the ground, covering your head. Whatever it was you just hope it was coming from the Ghoul. 

Just as you're about to get up, something catches your eye. You crawl towards the brush to get a closer look, little red fruits perched on vines decorated with white flowers cover the dirt by your feet. You pluck one, rolling it between your fingers the skin is rough, yellow dots littering the surface of the red flesh. The sweet scent of the fruit travels to your nose and entices your palate you know better than to put anything in your mouth. Instead, you procure the small tin that you use to store food from your bag and fill it with the mystery fruit. 

BANG! 

Hastily you shove the container back in your bag, whatever was going on outside had you a fair bit more concerned now that you could hear Dogmeat barking wildly. You quickly get up and make your way out of the glass house, through the dark storage room, and past the kitchen. Not stopping until you've collided with a large solid mass, sending a plume of dust into the air as your ass hits the cushion of the couch. 

“You’re ‘sposed to say ‘scuse you after runnin’ into a fella sweetheart.” 

You look up, your eyes meet the dark shadow of the Ghoul's from under his hat. Yellowed teeth show through as he grins wide. You look down to see in his gloved hand are two Rad Rabbits, in the other an unopened can of purified water. Relief washes over you, knowing that your dinner would be more than just Cram and Sugar Bombs. 

“I believe a thank you's in order.” His stupid handsome grin growing even wider. Clearly proud of himself despite him having taken down much harder prey. 

You glare at him before softening, in some way, you feel like this is his way of apologizing for earlier. Any time he pissed you off he would at least make up for it with his actions. Stolen stimpak? Within the next day, you'd find it replaced along with a bag of RadAway. A few bottle caps would find their way into your bag too, when you brought it up to him he'd deny it, telling you to keep a better eye on your shit.

“Thank you,” you pause, it just dawned on you that you didn't know his name. He was the Ghoul, the Cowboy, your escort across the wasteland. But no name to attach to him. You fish for a polite title for him, and if you knew him better you would've punctuated your gratitude with a kiss, yet the older man didn't seem like one for physical contact. “Thank you, Sir.” Is what you land on. 

His smile fades as if your gratitude offends him and he tosses rabbit carcasses into your lap.

“Make sure Dogmeat gets her fair share. She found ‘em after all.” He says, patting the mutt beside him before making his way to the firepit, and lighting another cigarette. 

[devotedlypinkpeanut]

An Eternal Cycle: Fire, Blood and Venom — Curse

SUMMARY : In a world where fate seems cruel, you are condemned to relive an existence marked by suffering and the repetition of tragic encounters with your lovers who, although loving you deeply, always abandon you in the end. This curse binds you to them through several reincarnations, where, in each life, they forget your past ties, just like you. However, despite this collective amnesia, an intense passion is born with each encounter. But this flame of love is doomed to failure. In each cycle, your love for them is forbidden, a transgression of an ancient order, and the punishment is inevitable: they kill you at the end of each life. This is the price you must pay for defying fate, for succumbing to a love deemed impious. In this endless cycle, you are caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions: the hope that you can change the course of things and the terror of knowing that there is no escape from this curse. Love, no matter how beautiful, is doomed to destroy you again and again, until any possible redemption, or liberation, seems like nothing more than a mirage.

PAIRING : non!idols enha hyung line x fem!reader

GENRE : Dark romance, obsession, drama, slow burn, psychological tension, historical romance, reincarnation, fantasy, reverse harem, 18+ (MDNI).

WARNING : Upsetting and uncomfortable scenes, ancestral curses, violent deaths of the main characters, sacrifice of a main character, use of supernatural powers, psychological manipulation, passionate kisses mixed with desire and control, cruel betrayals, extreme emotional and physical suffering, deep despair, implacable fatality, forbidden love, transgression of rules, painful reincarnation, devastating consequences of destiny, oppressive and devouring atmosphere, crushing guilt, devouring obsession, suffering due to the transgression of destiny, relationships marked by domination. No explicit sex scene, but a strong emotional and psychological charge present throughout the chapter.

FINAL WARNING ‼️ Some scenes may be extremely disturbing or uncomfortable for sensitive readers. Mature audiences only (18+).

Number of words : ~ 25k

Hello or good evening! Don’t hesitate to like, share, and comment if you enjoy it! Your support is precious and means a lot to me!

Not read over, and English isn’t my first language, so please close your eyes 🙏🥺.

⤑ Main Masterlist — Series Masterlist | Next Chapter ⇢

You found yourself in House Astraviel, the one you had always belonged to, the one that had seen you born and grow up. The emblem of this house, a starry circle, was much more than a simple symbol: it embodied your heritage, your identity. The spiral constellation it represented seemed to twist and intertwine in an eternal movement, an infinite celestial dance. A bright star sat at the center of the spiral, shining with pure light, symbolizing the origin and convergence of souls, like a beacon in the darkness. Around this star, threads of gold wound, subtle and complex, weaving delicate patterns resembling invisible chains, a web woven by destiny, but also by the actions and choices of beings.

Beneath this constellation, a silver hourglass rested, its horizontal position suggesting the suspension of time, as if, at this precise moment, the flow of time was frozen. The sand did not flow; it floated, imprisoned in this perfect balance that House Astraviel aspired to maintain. This image symbolized the ability of the members of Astraviel to defy the natural laws of time. Their particular power allowed them to adjust and reshape the thread of destiny at will, aligning the lives of those who crossed their path according to their vision of a fragile cosmic balance. The central star embodied both the beginning of each existence and the end of a cycle, an infinite loop, that of reincarnation, where souls returned endlessly, to renew themselves, to purify themselves, or sometimes, to lose themselves.

This emblem, much more than a simple motif adorned with jewels or embroidery, was a mark of power, an invisible but indelible imprint. It was embroidered on the clothes of the members of the house, like a pride. It was engraved in ancient and precious stones, each engraving a silent prayer for future generations. And in their sacred temples, the most precious artifacts were adorned with this symbol, giving them a divine aura, a sacred protection.

House Astraviel was tied to the stars, and those stars themselves were tied to souls. With each birth, a new star appeared in the sky, illuminating the darkness, bearing the promise of a new life, of a soul awakening. But when the soul left this world, the star went out, like a candle blown out by an invisible wind. These stars, bright and mysterious, were the guides of the members of Astraviel. They allowed them to read the destiny of each one, which they wrote on a "leaf of life": a finely decorated, almost living parchment, detailing the lines of life, the choices, the ruptures, the rebirths.

You stood before the great sacred tree, a thousand-year-old oak with deep roots, a symbol of ancient wisdom and knowledge. The tree seemed to breathe with you, each leaf quivering in the breeze, like an extension of the entire universe. In your hands, you held one of these leaves, your own leaf of life. The lines drawn on it were clear, sharp, but… strangely broken. In places, breaks seemed to freeze the thread of destiny. As if, at times, life abandoned you, suspended itself, broke. With each break, a new line appeared, identical to the previous one, as if the universe was trying to repair what was broken, but the pain persisted, as did the fear of these inexplicable interruptions.

Troubled, you tried to get away from this disturbing vision. With an almost instinctive gesture, you took another leaf from the thousands that rested under the tree, without really knowing why. This one was marked by another soul, that of Park Jongseong. He belonged to a prestigious house, the House of Asphodel, mysterious and captivating, with close ties to the realm of the dead. Their emblem, an asphodel flower surrounded by thorns and topped with a silver moon, symbolized the passage between life and death, the passage of wandering, lost, and sometimes condemned souls. Their members were known to be spiritual guides or masters of curses, exercising a power that went far beyond the simple material world.

As you looked at Jongseong’s lifeline, a shiver ran through you. His destiny seemed strangely similar to yours. The same breakups, the same twists and turns. You suddenly felt connected to him in an inexplicable way. Your hands shook slightly, and you tried to control the anxiety that was rising inside you. But before you could think further, you felt a presence behind you, a gentle but firm pressure against your waist.

A hand, almost translucent pale, touched you. It seemed to belong to a being from another world, a soul suspended between life and death. A cold shiver ran through you, as if you had just felt the embrace of a ghost. The cold that emanated from this hand had the effect on you of a breath of lost souls, wandering in the darkness, without end.

You turned around abruptly, and your eyes immediately fell on hair as black as night, but a deep black, almost supernatural, with silver highlights sparkling under the light that filtered through the trees. His hair seemed to move by itself, carried by an invisible breeze, as if it were in perpetual motion, animated by a strange, vibrant energy. This hair, as dark as the night sky, reminded you of the ashes of an extinguished fire or the glow of a sky dotted with distant stars. It was magnificent, but at the same time, it seemed to speak to you of the inaccessible, the ephemeral.

His eyes, a deep silvery gray, pierced you like icy blades. They were filled with ancient wisdom, as if they had seen the rise and fall of entire kingdoms, as if they held the secrets of the universe. At times, flashes of icy blue lit up his gaze, a blue that pierced the soul and seemed to resonate with a frightening power, especially when he was moved or when he exercised his power.

Jongseong stood there, tall and slender, a ghostly figure in the shadow of the sacred tree. His movements were graceful, fluid, like those of an unreal being, and his appearance reinforced this impression of intangibility. His face, with its perfectly sculpted features, seemed almost too perfect to be true: a fine, well-defined jaw, a straight nose, lips of an almost supernatural pallor. But behind this beauty hid a deep melancholy, a sadness that you perceived in the softness of his gestures, in the intensity of his gaze. It was as if he carried on his shoulders the weight of all the lives he had condemned or lost over the centuries.

He wore the sumptuous dark robes of the House of Asphodel. His garments were cut from fine, dark and mysterious fabrics, embroidered with silver patterns representing asphodels, symbols of death and resurrection. A long, flowing cape draped over his shoulders, adding to his spectral allure. Around his neck, an asphodel flower pendant set with onyx shone with an eerie, almost supernatural glow. On his finger, a silver ring adorned with an hourglass, one of the key symbols of the House of Asphodel, was a reminder of his unbreakable bond with time and the cycles of souls.

Every detail of his presence seemed a contradiction: a living being yet dead, a guide yet a prisoner, perfect beauty yet silent pain. He was everything you had learned to fear, everything you didn't understand, and yet he seemed as familiar as your own reflection in a broken mirror.

You knew this wasn’t the right place for you, or the right time. Yet an invisible force seemed to draw you to him, like a magnet devouring everything in its path. “You shouldn’t be here.” Your voice barely trembled, the tension palpable, but it was a whisper that slipped into the night like a broken promise. “If anyone sees us together, we’ll be in trouble, you know?”

Your gaze drifted to the figure before you, your dress sparkling in the dim moonlight. It was a celestial dress, almost as if it were part of the universe itself. The light fabric caught every ray of light, every sparkle of a star. Silver, midnight blue, gold… each color seemed to weave a new web around you. Patterns of constellations and shooting stars intertwined on the fabric, symbolizing your belonging, your destiny, an invisible thread connecting you to the heavens. But despite this almost unreal beauty, a feeling of vulnerability invaded you, as if you were an ephemeral star ready to extinguish itself under the weight of his gaze.

He stared at you for a moment, a smirk on his face. “I just wanted to see you.” His words, heavy with meaning, slid through the air like a caress, as gentle as it was dangerous. Before you could react, he grabbed your hand. His icy skin closed around yours, pulling you roughly out of your thoughts. A shiver ran through your body, but it wasn’t simply physical. It was a much deeper sensation, a mixture of terror and desire that made you sway.

His grip on your hand was firm, unrelenting, and you felt like prey caught in an invisible web. “What if I showed you something more fun than that old tree?” He chuckled softly, a low, raspy sound that sent shivers through parts of your body you didn’t want to acknowledge. He tightened his grip, his fingers squeezing your skin in a possessive, almost brutal gesture.

The ground beneath your feet seemed to wobble for a moment, and you straightened up, more indignant than anything else. “Jongseong! This tree is older than you, have some respect.” You tried to pull away slightly, but he didn’t care. In the blink of an eye, he pulled you closer to him, and you didn’t have time to understand what was happening before his body was against yours. You felt the pressure of his chest against yours, a hot, heavy breath against your neck, and your legs faltered under this proximity that was too intense, too intimate. Every fiber of your being seemed to tense, a palpable tension between you, as if the air itself was charged with this invisible force.

His mouth came closer to your ear, his breath dancing on your skin. “A little respect, princess. I’m 400 years older than you.” His voice, low and raspy, rang out like a clap of thunder, a cruel reminder of the power gap between you. He gently brushed his finger over your nose, a gesture both tender and possessive, as if everything about you already belonged to him, even your annoyance.

Before you could react, a violent dizziness seized you, as if the ground had no consistency anymore. You understood that you were already far from everything you knew. The teleportation… he had taken you away without you even having time to understand what was happening. A nausea rose in you, but he caught you before you collapsed. His arms wrapped around you, pressing you against him, his body surprisingly solid and cold against yours.

“Still fragile as I see it, princess.” He whispered the words against your skin, his tone almost mocking, but there was something darker, a veiled threat that made your heart beat faster. He held you tighter against him, his silver eyes, now an icy blue, fixed on you. Behind his mask of amusement, you perceived a worry, a desire to understand something that even you couldn’t define.

You stepped back slightly, not paying attention to your surroundings, nearly knocking you off the cloud you were standing on, but he caught you effortlessly, his grip unwavering. “Be careful.” He growled, his voice deeper, more intense, and his eyes hardened. The tension between you was palpable, a taut thread ready to snap.

You wanted to answer, but your gaze involuntarily turned towards the sky. Shooting stars, streaks of light in the darkness, seemed to dance before your eyes, a silent symphony that captured you entirely. You fell silent, lost in the beauty of the moment. The stars traced graceful curves, bright flashes following one another, their light creating visions in your head, fragments of lives that you could not understand.

“It’s beautiful…” you whispered, your voice breaking with emotion. Tears shone in your eyes, as if the stars themselves were reflected in your gaze, as if your soul were floating, suspended in the universe. Those little stars that were born in your eyes, imperceptible to anyone but visible to him, began to shine brighter, like a reflection of the stars dancing in the sky. But it was also a reflection of your own inner chaos: a mixture of desire, fear, confusion, everything you could no longer repress.

The night was enchanting, almost supernatural. The deep night blue sky seemed to melt into the darkness, dotted with thousands of stars, like pearls suspended in the infinite void. There was something magical about this moment, an atmosphere charged with electric energy, heavy with promise, where each second seemed suspended, uncertain, almost unreal. And you, there, in this celestial dress, you shone under the soft light of the moon, like an apparition from another world. The silver and gold threads of the dress mingled with the darkness, clinging to the darkness as if you were destined to be swallowed up by it. But it was not the dress that dominated you, it was the man before you. Jongseong.

His eyes never left you, heavily fixed on you, analyzing every little gesture, every breath. There was an infinite expanse in his gaze, a sort of silent hold that gave you no respite. When he approached closer to you, his gestures were measured, almost calculated, as if he were savoring each movement. With a cold and imperious finger, he pushed back a lock of your hair that had escaped behind your ear. This simple contact, yet so light, made you shiver. You felt his gaze slide along your neck, brushing your skin with an almost palpable intensity. He invaded you with his attention, making you feel every part of your being as if he were devouring you with his gaze.

“Yes… beautiful,” he finally said, his voice low and caressing, but with a darker undertone. He paused, his eyes still locked on yours, before whispering, “Make a wish.”

You weren’t sure what you felt, or what you wanted. Maybe a part of you was still unsure, but another… another part of you knew that this wish could mean so much more than you were willing to accept. There was something in the way he looked at you, a silent form of domination, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking before you could even articulate it. There was also an implicit promise in his words, a warning that you felt deep in your flesh.

“What could I possibly ask for… and most importantly, who could grant my wish?” You felt almost insane for asking the question, but you let it slip out despite yourself. He wasn’t just a man, he wasn’t even a human being. He was more, much more than you could understand.

He let a smile stretch across his lips, a smile that wasn't warm, but rather predatory. He leaned in closer, until he could feel his warm breath against your skin. "I will..." he said with frightening certainty. "I will bend the earth and the sky to do it if I have to." His words hit you hard, echoing in your mind like an ultimatum. It was a challenge, a promise of infinite power, but also a threat, a demand. He expected more from you, he wanted more.

His hands rested on your waist, firm, but almost disturbingly soft. You could feel the tense muscles beneath the cold skin, the raw energy he gave off. He didn't need more to make you feel vulnerable. In one movement, he pulled you closer to him, his body against yours, forcing you to feel the magnitude of his presence. The contact of his skin against yours was almost suffocating, and you had trouble breathing. The tension, the electrification of the air around you was becoming unbearable.

“Now make your wish. There aren’t many shooting stars left.” His voice was softer now, but with a piercing insistence. His fingers slid slowly over the bottom of your stomach, brushing the material of your dress. The gesture was intentionally light, but each movement sent a shiver up your spine, waking you to a feeling he knew he was awakening in you. A feeling you didn’t want to confess, but which flowed through your veins like sweet poison.

You didn't need to think any longer. A part of you, a dark and eager part, knew exactly what it wanted. You closed your eyes for a moment, searching for strength in the solitude of your mind, your fingers joining in a silent prayer. And as you formulated your wish, you felt his arms, like chains, holding you back. His hands were on you, but in a gentle, almost provocative gesture, as if he was giving himself permission to possess you a little more each second. But all this remained silent, within the framework of this invisible pact that you sealed without words.

When you opened your eyes again, he was there, in your field of vision. He hadn’t moved, not for a moment. His eyes were darker, more intense, as if he were waiting for an answer. But he knew, deep down, that you weren’t going to give him what he wanted right away. He moved closer, his hands sliding under your dress, a firm and assured grip. He waited for your reaction. His eyes hardened, almost impassive, but there was no pity in that look. You were in his clutches, and he was savoring every moment of it.

“So what did you wish for?” He leaned in close, his breath against your ear. His question was a challenge, a power play, a test you couldn’t avoid. He wanted you to give in, to push you to reveal what you were trying to hide. He waited, with the patience of a predator.

But you kept some semblance of control. A small smile slid across your lips. “I’ll tell you when it comes true.”

His lips curved into an unreadable smile, but he wasn't one to accept uncertainty. He pulled you closer to him, without any warning, and placed a kiss on the corner of your lips. It wasn't a tender kiss, but one filled with tension, defiance, and desire. A kiss that spoke louder than words, that told you that you were no longer free to make your own choices. You were no longer in control. He was already in your mind, in your thoughts, in your body. And you knew that you had no escape.

He straightened up slightly, his fingers gently resting on your chin, before tilting your face towards his. “Let’s do this, then.” He murmured, his tone deeper, more serious. “It’s a deal.” And without waiting for an answer, he sealed the deal with a deeper, more demanding kiss. His lips pressed against yours with an insistence that made you lose all sense of direction, erasing the reality around you, drowning you in the darkness of his desires. The beating of your heart echoed in your ears, just like his, perfectly synchronized in this dangerous game where there was no winner, no loser. Just two souls ready to burn together.

Sim Jake is a prominent member of House Feralis, a mysterious and ancient organization dedicated to protecting the wilderness, maintaining ecological balance, and preserving the ancient traditions of survival in harsh and beautiful environments. House Feralis not only defends nature, they honor and cherish it, viewing humanity not as a dominant force on earth, but as an integral part of the natural balance. They firmly believe that when man respects and preserves this fundamental connection to the land and its creatures, he can truly live in harmony with the natural world.

The primary goal of House Feralis is to protect this sacred bond by opposing outside forces, whether they be corporations greedy for natural resources or civilizations that, in their expansion, disrupt this delicate balance. These protectors of nature wage a ceaseless struggle to defend the fauna and flora, but also the mystical and legendary creatures that inhabit the most remote corners of the world. It is not simply a matter of preserving nature in its raw state, but of protecting the ancient wisdom written in the roots and the skies, a wisdom that modern civilizations have too often forgotten or ignored.

House Feralis also fights against those who, driven by the desire for power or profit, seek to exploit the land and its creatures. Members of the House are warriors, but not in the traditional sense. They are both guardians and teachers, ancient souls bound to deep and secret knowledge. Their mission is also to preserve ancestral skills, such as the art of survival in the harshest terrains, tribal rites, and the understanding of complex ecosystems. Each member carries within them the wisdom of the ancients, and their honor is tied to their ability to defend nature against the forces of destruction. It is a sacred trust.

Loyalty and cohesion are the core values ​​of House Feralis. They firmly believe that a close-knit community is like a wolf pack: each member is an essential part of the whole, but each wolf remains free, independent, and able to survive on its own. However, it is this same independence that guarantees their collective strength. They act together when necessary, and in unity they are powerful. This philosophy extends to the daily lives of each member, who must be able to keep their distance from others when necessary, while remaining deeply connected to the pack.

Their emblem is a representation of their deep respect for nature. The symbol of House Feralis is a silver wolf, powerful and elegant, standing against a dark backdrop of deep forests, with eyes shining like stars. The wolf, symbol of the predator, is depicted in a pose ready to pounce, signifying both vigilance and swiftness of action. The natural elements surrounding it, such as gnarled roots and swirling leaves, reinforce the connection to the land and the forest, an ode to wilderness in its purest form.

Sim Jake embodies this philosophy perfectly. Like a lone wolf, he often prefers to keep himself away from human and celestial society, wandering alone in dark forests or rugged mountains. His independent nature is evident in the way he moves and hides in the shadows. He is a master of camouflage, able to blend into his surroundings with almost supernatural precision. Whether under the thick foliage of a dense forest or among the rugged rocks of the mountains, he becomes an integral part of the landscape, invisible to outsiders. When he hunts, he makes no sound. Every movement is calculated, every breath controlled. He is a shadow among shadows, a predator that leaves no trace.

His skin is lightly tanned, marked by the passing of the seasons and hours spent outdoors, exposed to the elements. It is thick and sturdy, bearing the signs of many trials: subtle scars betraying his past battles, scratches left by bushes or sharp stones, deeper marks from clashes with dangerous creatures or storms. His features are strong and distinct, with high cheekbones and a square jaw, a face sculpted by time and trials, and an expression both hard and charismatic, commanding respect.

His hair, a deep black, falls in sparse, disordered strands around his face. Its slightly wavy texture and dense thickness add to its wild and untamed appearance. Sometimes, when practicality prevails, he ties it into a simple ponytail, but even then, a handful of rebellious strands escape, testifying to his free and unruly nature. During rituals or moments of contemplation, he adorns his hair with finely woven braids or leather ropes, a constant reminder of his belonging to nature and the tribal traditions that govern his life. These details are not only aesthetic, but carry a significant symbolic weight: each braid, each rope is a tribute to his connection with ancestors and primordial forces.

Jake's eyes are perhaps his most hypnotic feature. Deep amber, almost otherworldly, they glow with a fierce and wise light, an ancient flame that seems to catch the light with every movement. His eyes reflect the wisdom of the forest, the intimate connection with animal instinct and the mysteries of nature. Penetrating, they are able to see beyond appearances and discern lies. These eyes, although calm and measured, can transform into a sharp and ferocious gaze when Jake feels threatened or angry. When he is hunting or in danger, his gaze becomes almost animalistic, a light that seems to pierce the soul of anyone who dares to challenge him.

His face is carved from the harshness and discipline of the wilderness. His lips, thin and closed, rarely relax into a smile. He wears a serious, sometimes even somber expression, for he is constantly on alert, ready to react to any threat to his world or those he protects. His gaze is often distant, marked by an introspective nature. His eyes constantly scan his surroundings, as if analyzing every movement, every rustle, every breath of wind, always on the lookout for what might emerge from the shadows.

He stands nearly 6'3", with dense musculature sculpted by years of rigorous training and survival in harsh environments. His body is that of a man forged by nature: strong, resilient, but also incredibly agile. His arms are powerful, his legs long and enduring, adapted to long runs in the forests or mountain climbs. His silhouette is athletic, but functional: he has no useless muscles. Every part of his body is adapted to survival and hunting. His agility often surprises those who observe him. He moves without noise, silent as a predator prowling in the shadows, each step measured, each movement precise.

His gait is feline, elegant and silent. He moves like a shadow among the trees, light but relentless. When he walks, he seems to float, his feet barely touching the ground, as if he were always ready to pounce, always ready to react to the slightest threat. This agility is not only physical, it is also mental: Jake is always ready to analyze his environment, to assess the risks, to choose the moment and the place to act. He embodies the man who has learned to survive, a warrior shaped by years of struggle and solitude.

Jake often wears functional and practical clothing, made for survival in the wilderness. He favors sturdy materials, such as tanned leather, fur, or the hides of animals he has hunted himself. His clothing is often designed for camouflage, with natural colors that blend in perfectly with the forest or mountain scenery. The leather chains and ropes that hang from his shoulders or belt are more than just accessories: they are tools, weapons, or symbols of his connection with nature. He always wears an animal pendant, a protective symbol, or a talisman that reminds him of the wisdom of his ancestors and the sacred mission he carries on his shoulders.

The dim afternoon light filtered through the branches of the trees, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Sim Jake sat there, sitting on a rough trunk, his body absorbing the tranquility of the forest, despite the pain of the wood against his skin. He was in complete harmony with nature, every rustle of the wind, every murmur of the water against the stones, every bird call melting into his mind like a familiar melody. His eyes were closed, his face impassive, but his senses were alert. Slightly tense, he knew he was not alone. He had sensed movement, a brushing, a quickening of the air.

The sweet, sugary scent of vanilla, mixed with the rich scent of honey, brushed past him then. A scent he would recognize among a thousand: yours. His heart, hardened by the years, skipped a beat, like a crack in his mask of calm. He knew it well, this scent, he had engraved it in him. Slowly, he smiled, a smile that first formed on his lips before being cleverly hidden. He didn't need to turn around to know it was you. He could almost hear you approaching, your hesitant steps, the tension palpable in your body. Fear, excitement, all of it mixed in the air around you.

He waited a moment, savoring the closeness that consumed him from the inside. Then, when you froze, unsure of your place, he slowly opened his eyes, staring into your gaze. It was more than just an exchange of glances, it was a silent duel between two souls in confrontation. He pierced you with his amber eyes, their almost hypnotic glow, filled with barely contained desire, and the tension rose instantly. Your eyes widened under his piercing gaze, but you couldn't look away. You felt trapped by that gaze, by that invisible hold he had over you.

“I didn’t know you were here,” you whispered hastily, unable to hide the nervousness in your voice. A slight backward movement, and you lost your balance. Before you could even fall, he was there. His arms, strong and sure, grabbed you by the waist, steadying you effortlessly. A shiver slid down your spine. Even once he had you back on balance, he didn’t let go. His hands tightened around you, a deliberate, almost possessive touch. You could feel every muscle of his body beneath your skin, every pulse of his desire. His eyes never left yours, unforgiving, almost expectant.

Your heart was beating faster, each beat resonating in your temples. The stars in your eyes were twinkling with an uncontrollable brilliance, capturing the embarrassment, the excitement. He was almost amused by it. He watched you, saying nothing, delighting in the fragility of this moment, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Come,” he said, his voice low and authoritative, almost an order. He guided you to his makeshift chair with a sudden but controlled movement, as if there was no doubt about where you were supposed to be. You sat down slowly, your body still a little shaken by the embrace he had given you. He settled himself next to you, his body close to yours, his warmth brushing against you with every breath.

“Thanks… you didn’t have to do that,” you whispered, the words barely coming out, like a shy confession. You didn’t know where to look anymore, your hands moving nervously in your lap. The silence grew heavy, punctuated by your panting breaths and his, deeper and more controlled. Then, in one fluid movement, Jake reached out his hand to yours, grasping it gently but firmly. His touch was reassuring, but an unbearable heat was slowly rising between you. He wrapped his fingers around it, as if to anchor you to him.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he said, his voice deeper, more relentless, like a warning. He stroked the back of your hand gently with his thumb, each movement slow and measured, but each touch electrifying. The tenderness of his gesture contrasted with the harshness of his words, and you felt a wave of desire wash over you, uncontrollable. A moan held itself back in your throat, stifled by the tension. You didn’t even dare move, so intense was the intensity of his gaze anchoring you to his will.

Silence stretched between the two of you, a silence heavy with unspoken words. Only the wind blew, the leaves rustled softly. Then a majestic eagle flew near you, landing on Jake's forearm. He greeted him with disconcerting familiarity, holding out his arm as if the animal were a brother. You watched, fascinated, the silent exchanges between man and creature, and a shiver ran through you as you realized the intimacy of this moment. The animals were listening to him, had always listened to him. It was the magic of his clan, this mystical bond that you had always believed to be nothing more than a myth.

“So your clan really talks to animals?” you whispered, intrigued. You had seen these creatures interact with him, but seeing him in action, so natural, so sovereign, electrified you. A smile touched his lips as he looked away from you.

“Yes, but we avoid doing it. It takes a lot of energy,” he replied calmly. He pushed back a few strands of his hair, but even that gesture failed to quell the intensity emanating from him. His hair fell over his face again, creating a stark contrast to his fierce gaze.

A light laugh escaped you, unconscious, amused by the contrast between the ruthless man and the gentleness of his gestures towards the creature. Jake growled under his breath, a muffled but powerful sound. You gave him a teasing pout, and the dynamic changed. This tension between you, which had become almost unbearable, erupted in a moment of new intimacy.

“Let me help you,” you said suddenly, a shaky breath escaping your lips. You bit your lip, hesitant. Then, with a delicate but confident movement, you slid behind him, your fingers brushing his skin. His hair, thick and silky, slipped beneath your fingers. A shiver ran through him, and you felt his body tense under your touch, a low moan escaping his lips. Each movement of your fingers on his scalp seemed to break him a little more, and each gesture was a silent promise.

As you parted his locks to begin braiding his hair, you took your time, savoring the contact, the constant brushing of your skin against his. He let you, but you felt the tension growing, almost palpable. You felt his breathing intensify under your fingers, his skin burning. The gestures were simple, but the desire that emanated from them was heavy, almost suffocating. Each braid you made was a small victory over his discipline, a gradual disintegration of his reserves. And you knew it. Each movement brought him a little closer to the inevitable.

You had barely finished braiding his hair when Jake suddenly moved, with that precision and force that took your breath away every time. His hands, rough and powerful, grabbed you firmly, without care. Your body lifted as if you weighed nothing and he made you slide onto his thighs. The movement caught you off guard. You rocked against him, and a soft, almost involuntary moan escaped your lips. You felt the reassuring pressure of his hand against your back, preventing your head from hitting the wet, muddy ground. This contrast between brutality and this subtle protection destabilized you every time, as if he was perpetually dancing between primal instinct and total control.

You stood there for a moment, your hands instinctively seeking support on his broad, strong shoulders. Beneath your fingers, you could feel the warmth of his skin despite his clothes, the tension in his muscles contracting slightly under your touch. Your breath became erratic, uncontrolled, as you were forced to look up at him. His gaze literally pierced you, his amber eyes shining with an almost predatory intensity. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke for him: they were greedy, possessive, as if he was silently claiming this moment and your entire person.

He was scrutinizing you as if he wanted to dissect you, analyze every detail of your face, every imperfection that you thought you had, but which, under his gaze, became treasures. His hand, still placed on the small of your back, began to move, drawing lazy circles with the tips of his fingers. A gesture both tender and possessive, almost distracted, but which caused a wave of heat throughout your body.

He finally broke the silence with a hoarse, vibrant, almost animal voice.

“You are perfect.”

His tone was raw, without artifice. Those three words were a declaration, an immutable truth in his mind. Your heart clenched, pounding so hard in your chest that you were convinced he could hear it. Your face burned under the force of his words, your lips trembled slightly, and without thinking, you bit them. A nervous gesture, but one that didn't escape him.

Without warning, he reached out with his free hand, gently grasping your bottom lip between his thumb and index finger, extracting it from the prison of your teeth. The contact caused an uncontrolled shiver to run through you.

“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice lowered to a raspy breath that made you shudder. He didn’t look away, captivated by the way your eyelashes fluttered, your gaze oscillating between embarrassment and desire. His fingers gently brushed your lip, as if he were enjoying tasting it through his touch. Then, slowly, they slid down your cheek. The caress was so gentle, so careful, that it contrasted brutally with the force he had used to sit you on his lap. The paradox completely disarmed you, and a small noise escaped your throat—a mixture of surprise, confusion, but mostly pleasure.

You swallowed hard, searching for words to break the suffocating moment. “What if… what if we were seen?” you finally breathed, your voice weak, trembling, almost inaudible. The words sounded strange to you, as if they were coming from another version of you, one less overwhelmed by the warmth of his body against yours.

He hears you, of course he does. Jake always hears you, like he’s connected to you in a way you don’t fully understand yet. But his answer, when it comes, is a low growl that resonates in his chest. “It’s not a problem.” His deep, vibrant voice cuts through you, awakening something primal within you. It wasn’t a promise or an assumption. It was a certainty, an absolute statement. Nothing and no one mattered when it came to you.

Without giving you time to answer or object, he slowly leaned towards you. His warm breath brushed your skin, sending shivers down your spine. You felt his gaze linger on your lips, then your eyes, perhaps seeking implicit permission. Then, his lips met yours.

It was a disconcerting kiss, as gentle as it was intense. His lips brushed yours with an unexpected, almost experimental delicacy, as if he were trying to hold back all the passion and rawness that burned beneath the surface. But you felt it all, every shiver, every hint of repressed desire in that touch. His hand on your back tightened slightly, anchoring you against him, while the other moved up along your jaw to frame your face.

You hesitated at first, but the warmth of his touch and the energy emanating from him consumed you. You let yourself go, responding to his kiss with awkward shyness. It seemed to encourage him. The kiss became more insistent, his lips pressing yours with more force, demanding this time. You felt the urgency in his gestures, this almost desperate desire to have you all.

The atmosphere around you seemed to thicken. The sounds of the forest faded, replaced by the sound of your intermingled breaths. The tension was palpable, suffocating, but you couldn't detach yourself from it. A part of you, as frightened as it was by the magnetic force of this man, couldn't help but succumb to it.

You stand before the temple of the House of Aerolis, a celestial place atop a windswept mountain. This house, deeply connected to the air, the heavens, and the element of wind, is in perfect harmony with nature. The members of the House of Aerolis are renowned for their innate grace, their keen intellect, and their free spirit, capable of breaking free from the constraints of the material world. Yet behind this freedom lies an unwavering discipline, imposed not only by ancient traditions, but also by the very nature of their connection to the winds. They seek to maintain a constant balance between freedom of spirit and responsibility, between endless mobility and inner stability, between outer chaos and inner calm.

The House of Aerolis is located in a majestic landscape, on high plateaus beaten by the winds, overlooking the cliffs that plunge into the immensity of the ocean. The temple, with its airy and light structure, seems suspended in the air, blending harmoniously with the surrounding skies. Its translucent walls capture the light of day, folding it into subtle and shimmering nuances that dance on the surface of the stones. The architecture of the temple, made of soft and sinuous lines, recalls the fluidity of wind and clouds.

The large openings allow fresh air to flow in, giving a feeling of freedom and lightness, as if the building were floating above the ground. The interior of the temple is both minimalist and rich in symbolism: feathers carved into the walls, patterns of wind and light subtly integrated into the stained glass and decorations. Their emblem — a golden eagle feather crossed by a swirling current of air, on a light blue and gold background — adorns every corner, symbolizing lightness, precision and perpetual movement.

It is in this place of calm and beauty that you find yourself, lost in your thoughts. You were thinking about the rigor of the House of Aerolis, their discipline, the purity of their connection with the air and their ability to achieve perfect balance. Then, without warning, you hit something soft, almost ethereal. A sensation as light as silk, but endowed with an unexpected strength and resilience. You step back abruptly, preparing to apologize, but your words freeze in your throat when you see wings in front of you.

Bright white wings, almost supernaturally pure, spread majestically. Under the dim candlelight, they shine with a silvery sheen, as if woven from threads of moonlight and heavenly breeze. The tips of the feathers have golden or pale blue hues, capturing the light of the sky and the sun, shimmering with a soft, luminous intensity. These wings are not just beautiful; they embody a symbol of absolute freedom and divine purity. They seem to emerge from the wind, like a heavenly message.

The person wearing these wings turns around slowly, and you feel an aura of calm and mastery surrounding him. He gives off an impression of perfect control, like a calm sea whose depths hide a power ready to be released. His presence, far from being imposing, is of a silent nobility, like a breath of fresh air. He seems to belong to another world, as if he were never affected by torments or storms, whether internal or external. But in his calm, you also feel a discreet force, a contained energy that could, if necessary, transform into an irresistible gust.

His face, delicately sculpted, is marked by an obvious serenity. The defined jaw and slightly high cheekbones accentuate the elegance of his features, emphasizing a timeless and natural beauty. His lips are thin and slightly pink, often curved in a discreet smile, but filled with sincerity, like the one he displays at this moment. He does not need to speak to impose his charm: his beauty emanates from him like a soft mist, invasive and captivating.

Her hair, pale white, evokes the clarity of dawn, as if illuminated by a clean, soft, and almost unreal light. It falls in light waves on her shoulders, subtly curling to the rhythm of the wind that makes them play. A few strands frame her face, bringing a fluidity and lightness to her entire silhouette. Her eyes, a light gray almost translucent, capture the light in an almost supernatural way, diffusing silvery flashes that make her gaze piercing and captivating.

Every time he stares at you, his eyes seem to see beyond the surface, as if he were peering into your most secret thoughts and emotions. There is nothing intimidating in his gaze: on the contrary, it is like an open window onto a pure soul, capable of piercing the invisible.

His skin is almost translucent in its clarity, as if shaped by light itself. It captures the reflections of the sun, returning soft bursts, reminiscent of the first glimmers of dawn or the silvery light of the moon. He exudes an aura of quiet perfection, a natural beauty that is reflected in every detail, every movement. His body, slender and harmonious, has a discreet but present musculature, sculpted by the winds and the rigor of his education. His upright posture, noble and elegant, adds to the fluidity of his gestures, reinforcing the impression that he moves with the lightness of a breath.

He wears a bright white silk jeogori, fitted perfectly to his slender figure. The fine texture of the silk subtly catches the light, creating a luminous aura around him. The collar and sleeves of the garment are embroidered with silver and gold threads, forming airy patterns that recall the movement of the wind and the fluidity of clouds. The embroidery, depicting feathers, bursts of light, and waves of wind, symbolizes his deep connection with the air.

The sleeves are slightly loose, with thin edges that mimic the graceful movement of the wind, while the bottom of her outfit consists of a chima, a long, flowing skirt in silver and pale blue tones. This light and shimmering fabric accentuates her silhouette and follows each of her steps with perfect grace. At the front, the skirt is slightly shorter, revealing elegant boots, but it remains long at the back, creating a feeling of fluid and airy movement.

Celestial patterns, stars and wind waves, are embroidered on the bottom of the chima, adding a divine dimension to the entire outfit. At her waist, a feather-shaped norigae, a traditional decorative pendant, symbolizes her lightness and freedom, completing the entire appearance.

“It’s nothing, it’s just me.” Sunghoon’s voice is soft, almost whispered, but each word resonates with a firmness that touches you deep inside. He speaks with such tranquility that the air around you seems to hang, his tone warming the atmosphere in a delicate, yet overwhelming way. When he speaks, his words glide like a light breeze, but their weight lingers in the air, settling on you, enveloping every fiber of your being with a presence that doesn’t dissipate.

“Just you.” You answer, your lips whispering the words almost without thinking, but your body doesn’t lie. A warmth settles inside you, a tingling sensation that starts at the tips of your fingers and slowly moves up your arms, like a soft, irresistible burn. Your hands itch, an uncontrollable need to touch, to brush him, to grab him, but you hold yourself back. Not here, not in this temple. This is a sacred place, too many people around. The fear of transgression prevents you from giving in to the urge.

His smile is discreet, but piercing. He says nothing, but his lips curve slightly, as if he knows exactly what you feel, as if he perceives the desire that floats between you, as tangible as the air itself. He looks at you for a moment, but in a heavy silence, you see his eyes slowly detach from yours, as if, suddenly, you become insignificant, lost in the immensity of the room. And before you have time to react, he turns away from you, his back facing you in an almost supernatural fluidity.

Then, a gust of wind suddenly brushes your face. It is not a simple breath, but a caress, warm and effervescent, which seems to invade you, brushing your skin with an intriguing softness. This wind heads straight towards your ears, carrying an almost inaudible murmur, a word, a place, a secret meeting place. The air around you seems to thicken, to be charged with a promise, an invitation that you do not yet dare to understand.

You look up at him, but he is already far away, his silhouette disappearing into the crowd, in perfect harmony with the movement around him. Every gesture, every movement is astonishingly light, as if it were made of wind and air. His body moves with a captivating fluidity, a perfect sequence of calculated gestures, but with an almost magical ease. It is as if he is not walking, but floating, barely touching the ground, each step a silent dance. His grace is incredible, almost hypnotic, and each movement you observe seems more natural than the last. As if everything, in his gait, in his way of being, was governed by a law that only you can still understand.

And yet, this approach, as fluid as it is, carries a certain heaviness. He is not light by simple choice; he is a silent force, a calm wind ready to turn into a storm. Each gesture echoes a contained power, an energy ready to be released. And in this perfect self-control, there is something that draws you irresistibly. Each movement, each gesture seems to be an invitation, a silent promise that, perhaps, he is waiting for you to lose yourself in the intensity of this tension that is woven between you.

The urge to get closer becomes unbearable. It's as if you were suspended in an invisible thread, stretched between him and you, quivering with each step he takes, bringing you ever closer to this border that you dare not cross. The tension is palpable, vibrating, like a rope ready to give way. He is there, and you know that he knows what you feel, what you desire. And he lets you, gently, slowly, sink into this torpor of repressed desire, all the while controlling every second, every breath, every quiver that passes through you.

You are caught in this subtle and dangerous game that he plays effortlessly, and yet, every movement, every word of his brings you closer to the moment when you will know that you will no longer be able to hold back. When you will know that everything you desire is within reach, but that the moment has not yet come. And in this waiting, in this suspended tension, he leaves you there, panting, eager for more, without ever breaking the silence.

The lake before you stretches as far as the eye can see, a sea of ​​black ink that only the silvery shards of the moon touch timidly. The air is heavy, saturated with this strange sensation that no wind will break, a stifling and icy heat at the same time. You feel the humidity on your skin, this nighttime freshness that sticks to your clothes and seeps under your skin, but that's not what bothers you. It's him. Sunghoon. He's there, right next to you, and you feel every micro-movement of his body like a pressure, an invitation, a threat. He has this insidious power of not needing to touch you to invade you, to penetrate every corner of your being.

He's so close that you can feel the warmth of his body mingling with yours. Not close enough for his fingers to brush your skin, but close enough for each second spent by his side to seem to stretch time. His arms are folded behind him, his wings folded in an almost divine silence, but you know he's attentive to every detail: to the way you stand, to the tension emanating from you. You feel his gaze on you, burning and insistent, like an invisible caress. It's a piercing, almost intrusive observation that destabilizes you, reduces you to prey before his eyes.

You sit there, at the front of the boat, your eyes fixed on the black water, trying to focus on the darkness rather than on this presence that seems to engulf you. Your fingers brush the icy surface of the water, tracing almost hypnotic circles. The biting cold seems to penetrate your bones, but it does not reach the burning core inside you. This contrast between the outside and the inside makes you nervous, quivering. What disturbs you is not the cold, but the intensity of the situation. The weight of the air, heavy and suffocating, between you.

You feel his gaze, even when you refuse to meet it. His eyes, deep gray, are fixed on you with icy precision. You know he is scrutinizing you, trying to read every micro-expression on your face. Every quiver of your body, every press of your lips, he captures everything. And that is what irritates you. He watches you like a predator, ready to seize every movement, every misstep. His silence, heavy with meaning, is more intimidating than any words. Because he does not need to speak to make you understand that he knows all your secrets, all your desires.

You feel your heart beating faster in your chest, and you force your expression to remain implacable, to not let it show how much he affects you. But inside, each second of silence makes the heat grow, more and more burning. It's like a tension that strengthens with each moment, an inner pressure that you can't push back. His calm, his apparent control, plunges you into a state of nervousness, as if you were about to crack.

You finally break the silence, your voice cutting through the air with a barely concealed coldness.

“Are you going to stare at me like that all night, Sunghoon?” The question is more of a taunt than a real inquiry. But deep down, there’s a silent defiance. Because you know he likes it. He likes it when you try to push him away, when you try to draw out the emotion he knows he stirs in you.

Time stretches between you. An almost unbearable silence. He doesn't answer immediately, of course. He likes the wait, he likes to see how long you can hold out without giving in to this desire he awakens in you. Then, finally, he tilts his head slightly, his pale white hair moving gently in the nonexistent breeze, catching the faint light of the moon. The movement is of a calculated slowness, almost divine. He smiles then, slowly, a smile that hides no warmth, but that makes you feel as if the warmth itself has died down, giving way to a biting coldness.

“Maybe,” he finally whispers, his voice as deep as the whisper of a cold wind. It’s a simple word, almost innocuous, but you know every syllable weighs, every word calculated. “Watching you struggle with yourself is a fascinating sight.”

His words hit you like electric waves. A shock that runs through your body, but you ignore it, you force your mind to remain impassive, to not show how much he affects you. But deep down, a part of you knows that what he says is true. You fight. Against him. Against yourself. Against this desire that consumes you, and he knows it. He sees through your attempts to control, he sees the burn under your skin, the desire that rises with every look he lays on you.

You straighten up a little, clench your fists to keep your composure, and you answer, more curtly: "I'm not fighting."

A quiet chuckle escapes his lips. He leans back a little, his wings folded behind him in a studied gesture of relaxation. But you know he hasn’t let up. He’s testing you, waiting to see how far he can push you. You know every movement of his body is carefully considered, every word he speaks a strategic move in this silent game, and he loves it. He loves seeing how hard you try to stay in control of yourself while being utterly vulnerable under his gaze.

Suddenly, he moves. One of his wings spreads slowly, majestically. The movement is fluid, hypnotic. You can't take your eyes off his silhouette, the way his wings open slowly, like an invitation, a trap. Before you know what's happening, he slams the wing down on the water.

The impact is brutal. Water splashes everywhere, crashing against you with icy violence. You don't even have time to react before the water hits you in the face, overwhelming you with cold. The shock is instantaneous, brutal. Your muscles contract under the impact, your breathing stops, and you feel your heart racing. An icy coldness invades your body, each drop of water hitting you like needles. And your dress, thin and light, becomes transparent under the water, immediately sticking to your skin.

You sit up abruptly, caught between anger and cold. Your body is tense, everything inside you is electric, ready to explode. “Park Sunghoon!” Your voice pierces the silence of the night, sharp, furious, but also full of this frustration that is rising inside you. He provokes you, pushes you, and he knows it.

He doesn't answer. He lets the water trickle down from his wing, the drops slowly hitting the wood of the boat. He seems detached, almost serene, as if this is all a game. He looks away, feigning innocence with an infuriating nonchalance.

But you know. You know that every move he makes, every word he says, is meant to test your limits. And it burns you. This power grab he has over you is so carefully calculated, so subtle, that you can no longer tell if you're losing yourself or winning this game. The line is blurring.

In an almost imperceptible gesture, he looks down at you, a predatory smile slipping across his lips. He moves closer. You instinctively back away, until your back hits the edge of the boat. You are trapped. He moves closer slowly, his wings spreading around him, cutting off any escape. And in his gaze, you see a new light. Darker. Hungrier.

The wind blew around you with an icy bite, making your already damp skin shiver from cold water, but no cold could penetrate the armor of warmth that emanated from Sunghoon. His eyes, dark and piercing, did not leave the quivering silhouette that you had become under his gaze. Every movement of your body, every tremor, seemed to attract him more, like a prey that he observed from afar before capturing it, slowly, inevitably.

You shivered more, but not only because of the cold. It was him, his presence, the intensity of his gaze on you, almost burning. You had never had the impression that someone could see you so deeply, pierce your most secret, most hidden layers. And yet, it was not just a look. It was a promise of possession, a veiled threat.

“You’re cold.” His soft, yet firm voice struck you like a barely grazed blade. He knew you were cold, he knew everything, and he was there, in that heavy silence, studying you with disturbing precision. But he didn’t wait for an answer. There was no need for words. He stood there, dominating, ready to destroy whatever independence remained in you.

Before you could even react, he stepped closer, a quiet strength emanating from him, and in an instant, you found yourself against him, glued to his muscular chest. The heat that emanated from his body enveloped you immediately, but there was nothing comforting about this heat. It was a devouring heat, a heat that seized you, that consumed you, and yet, you had no desire to get out of it. His skin, warm and firm against yours, made you close your eyes for a moment, an uncontrollable shiver running through your body.

He didn’t let go of you. His arms wrapped around you in a firm but not rough grip, pulling you closer to him, as if you were a part of him, as if he were claiming you for himself, without embellishment, without return. There was a dominance in the gesture, a claim that you felt deep in your gut. But this dominance wasn’t simply physical. It was in every word he spoke, in every silence between you, in the very air you breathed. It was a pressure, a palpable tension, that forced you to abandon what you thought was your will.

“Let me warm you up.” The words escaped his lips with a softness that contrasted strangely with the harshness of his gesture. There was no tenderness in the gesture. Only raw power, a need to possess you, to pull you closer to him. His wings, large and majestic, folded around you, a shield, a cage, but also a promise. Their warmth enveloped your body like a blanket, but there was something much darker in that embrace.

The feathers of his wings brushed your skin, but they weren't just soft. They were alive, almost organic, reacting to every movement of your body, your breathing. You shuddered at every brush, every furtive caress, as if they were tasting you, testing you. This contact, both tender and threatening, made a dull heat rise in your veins. Each movement brought you closer to him, but also pushed you into a form of submission that you could no longer ignore.

You didn't dare look up at him, but you knew he was watching you, every little shiver that ran through your body not escaping him. He felt you, he read you, and you were aware of it. His arms held you tighter, but it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted you more.

You let yourself go for a moment, your whole body pressing against his, seeking a more intense, deeper warmth. Your face nestled against his chest, and you felt the vibration of his heart beating, slowly, strongly, like a reminder of the life that bubbled in his veins, of the life that was happening in this proximity.

A soft sigh escaped your lips, a sigh that you couldn't even hold back. He immediately took advantage of it, his hands sliding over your skin, making you tremble even more. He knew exactly where and how to touch you to provoke this response in you. He didn't say anything. He let the tension rise, slowly, inexorably.

“You’re so mean to me,” you breathed, your voice cracking, your breath short. It was a complaint, but also an invitation, a form of resistance disguised as submission. You clung to him, your hands clenching on his clothes, as if to mark your territory in this embrace that consumed you.

He leaned in slightly, his breath warm on your ear. “I’ll be gentler with you then.” His voice vibrated with a desire you could almost touch, and you shuddered at the impact of his words. But his arms didn’t loosen. He held you close, forcing you to feel the heat he radiated, the dominance he imposed. There was a latent danger in all of this, a threat that hovered between you. It was an intricate dance, between control and loss of control, between what he wanted from you and what you desired from him.

The wind that had previously blown with an icy bite had turned into a surprisingly gentle warmth, like a burning caress that was slowly drying you, erasing the moisture from your skin still struck by the icy water. Each quiver of the breeze against your body only amplified the tension that was forming between you, as if the air itself was charged with this inescapable attraction. The wind brushed your skin with an almost sensual softness, making you shiver insidiously, but it wasn't the cold that was invading you. No, it was him. Sunghoon. His presence was omnipresent, a suffocating heat that was slowly gaining on you.

You didn't have time to think about what was happening, your whole being prey to this wave of contradictory sensations. You felt his hand, warm and possessive, slowly slide over the small of your back. The contact of his fingers against your skin was as intrusive as it was delectable, each movement controlled, each caress increasing the pressure of his hold on your body. You didn't have to see him to know what he was doing. When his hand moved down slightly, lingering on the curve of your buttocks, his fingers brushing the delicate skin before gripping it firmly, you made a movement of recoil, indignant, short of breath. A dark look, filled with defiance, escaped your eyes, but Sunghoon didn't flinch. On the contrary, he seemed to savor every fraction of a second where you tried to push him away, to resist the irresistible attraction he exerted on you.

He said nothing. No words left his lips. He was much more comfortable in this heavy silence, the one that filled the space with this palpable tension. His lips finally approached yours, slowly, with total assurance, as if the simple fact of doing so was his way of marking his territory, of making you understand that you had no escape. And before you could even make the slightest move to move away, he pressed his lips against yours in a merciless kiss, without warning, without the slightest gentleness. This kiss was an order disguised as a gesture, a silent affirmation of his power. He kissed you without any embarrassment, his lips imposing themselves on yours, forcing you to respond, to yield.

His body pressed against yours, harder and harder, as if every inch of space between you was unbearable. He had never touched you like this, so rough, so possessive. His arms held you so tightly that you couldn't move, a cage of bone and muscle that allowed you no escape. And his wings, those majestic wings, pressed slowly against you, the feathers brushing your skin, bringing a soft but threatening warmth, like a burning blanket.

You were trapped. He held you against him, his body pressed against yours, forcing you to feel every muscle, every breath, every beat of his heart in his chest. Every movement of his lips on yours bewitched you, besieged you, forcing you to lose yourself in this kiss that had nothing tender about it. It was a silent war, a battle of wills, where you were at the mercy of his domination, his absolute mastery.

Lee Heeseung wandered through the enigmatic garden of the House of Liraelle, a space where the boundary between reality and imagination seemed to dissolve. This garden was a suspended world, frozen in a forgotten era, every inch of land imbued with the secrets of the House, a dwelling marked by obsession, all-consuming passion, and the unfathomable mysteries of the past. The ground, covered in a carpet of dark leaves and faded petals, seemed to be absorbed by the shadow of the gigantic trees, which swallowed up everything under their canopy. Heeseung advanced slowly, his step measured, his gaze lost in the beauty of the place, all the while remaining deeply aware of the threatening aura that enveloped him.

The garden paths, lined with black roses with deep purple petals, were both sumptuous and fearsome. These flowers, of a macabre beauty, seemed to suck in the light, as if the night itself was hiding in their shadows. Their scent, both sweet and pernicious, floated in the air, causing a slight dizziness. Bewitching and almost intoxicating, it also awakened a sense of unease, a scent of forbidden desire and obsession. This scent wrapped itself around the skin, impregnating the soul of those who dared to venture into this garden. Heeseung stopped for a moment, staring at the roses as if trying to decipher their secret language. Each flower seemed to tell a part of the history of the House of Liraelle, a story woven of passion, suffering, pleasure and pain throughout the ages.

The black vines, twisted and tangled around ancient statues, formed hypnotic patterns. These sculptures, frozen in time, seemed to silently observe the young man's every movement. Some represented human figures, others mythological creatures: nymphs, chimeras, half-human, half-animal beings, immortalized in gestures of suffering or ecstasy. Covered in moss and lichen, marked by the wear of centuries, these statues had a strange glow in the eyes engraved in the stone, a glow of sleeping life. When the light filtered between the trees, it rested on these frozen forms, and dancing shadows seemed to come to life on their surface, like ghosts from the past, ready to emerge from their sleep.

The stone fountains, decorated with mystical carvings, gave off a constant murmur, a hypnotic melody that filled the air. The water, clear but dark blue, rushed into deep pools, lined with unfathomable patterns that seemed to transform under the reflections. These symbols, similar to the ancient runes of the founders of the House, carried within them occult secrets and forgotten knowledge. The steady sound of the water echoed in Heeseung's mind, a reminder of the permanence of time, of the inexorable flow of centuries. 

At the heart of the garden, a pond of inky black water seemed to scrutinize intruders. The smooth, still surface of the water seemed magical, as if the pond were a door to another world, where natural laws no longer applied. Black lilies, imposing and majestic, floated on the surface, their petals bursting with mystery and danger. The thin stems bent slowly under the weight of the water, but their beauty, fascinating and obscure, was undeniable. At times, a slight ripple crossed the pond, as if something was hidden in the depths, an invisible being, a ghost waiting for the right moment to emerge. The air around the pond was cold, impregnated with a strange humidity that made breathing difficult. The shadows under the water moved slowly, like nameless shapes, ready to emerge at any moment. The atmosphere of the place, both calm and threatening, reinforced the impression of mystery that reigned there.

With each step Heeseung took, the garden seemed to close in around him. The shadows of the trees and statues increased this feeling of confinement, while enhancing the haunting beauty of this place. He advanced with a slow, thoughtful pace, absorbed in contemplating the wonders and horrors of the House of Liraelle, his gaze gliding over each detail with intimate knowledge. His black clothes, made of velvet and satin, absorbed the light, just like the petals of the black roses. He moved with the grace of a being of shadows, the silver and crimson embroidery of his tunic representing black roses intertwined with brambles and vines, a reflection of his belonging to this enigmatic house, marked by danger and prohibition.

His figure, long and slender, seemed unreal in this setting, a solitary specter among the shadows. The tight but fluid cut of his tunic emphasized his majestic figure, while allowing him to move effortlessly, like a shadow among the shadows. The long, slightly flared sleeves floated around him, creating a hypnotic effect. His appearance evoked that of an ethereal being, both divine and demonic, depending on the eye that looked at him. The contrasts between the dark velvet, the satin and the delicate embroidery in silver and crimson added an almost sacred dimension to his appearance. Every detail, every fold of his clothes seemed designed to maintain a subtle balance between nobility and danger, beauty and menace.

His eyes, silvery white tinged with carmine, shone with an icy intensity. They captured the light in a strange, almost supernatural way, like mirrors capable of sucking the soul out of those they stared at. That piercing gaze seemed capable of penetrating the very essence of things, of revealing the secrets buried in hearts and stones. There was no warmth in his eyes, just a distant coldness, but that coldness was in reality an abyss, a well of desire and devouring passion.

Her face, with its sharp features and delicately defined jaw, exuded an icy nobility, a rare and almost frightening beauty. Her lips, perfectly drawn, remained motionless, betraying neither smile nor anger, but a controlled serenity, as if every gesture had to be measured, every emotion contained. Her nose, straight and perfectly proportioned, completed her impenetrable face. And her hair, an almost black burgundy red, was carefully styled, slicked back, falling lightly around her shoulders. Their fluid texture seemed made of living tissue, like the extension of a complex and profound soul.

Heeseung walked slowly, each movement weighed down by the weight of his thoughts, as if he were irresistibly drawn to the inevitable. Then, suddenly, he felt it before he could even see it. A vibration, slight but piercing, passed through the air around him, disturbing the eerie calm of the garden. It was as if the air itself was contracting, suspended in infinite expectation. A shiver ran down his spine, and he suddenly found himself unable to look away. He turned his head slowly, his body reacting instinctively to the silent call. There, in the dense shadow of the black roses, your silhouette emerged. At first blurred, a fragile form lost in this hypnotic setting. But there was something more than your mere presence: a dense energy, a magnetic force that seemed to make the space around him vibrate. It was like you weren't just a person, but a living embodiment of everything this garden represented: danger, desire, and pure beauty.

He finally stopped, frozen by the intensity of what he felt. His eyes fixed on you, anchoring themselves to every detail of your silhouette. Each movement seemed slow, almost calculated, as if you were making sure that his perception of you was as precise as possible. He could see the shadows playing on your face, accentuating your skin and the finesse of your features. The rays of light that filtered between the trees grazed your skin, creating bursts that danced on your body with an incredible sensuality. Your silhouette, wrapped in dark clothing, seemed to merge with the surrounding shadows, giving the impression that you were neither entirely real nor entirely spectral. An illusion from which he could not escape.

Heeseung took a step forward, almost unconsciously. The heady smell of the garden mingled with your perfume, a fragrance that wasn't simply floral, but seemed to belong to something more primitive, more carnivorous. A scent of decaying flowers, of raw sensuality, of an insistent and secret desire. He could feel your warmth, even from this distance. It was a silent invitation, but clear. He didn't hesitate to answer this call, his fingers brushing your arm, delicately at first, then more firmly, as if to mark his territory, to anchor you to him. The contact between his skin and yours produced an electric shock that made your entire flesh vibrate, a shiver that went up your spine and made your heart beat faster. You tensed under his touch, your breathing more jerky, more burning, as if his simple contact activated an uncontrollable physical reaction in you.

He spun you around slowly, his fingers squeezing your arm a little tighter, making you shudder under the gentle yet authoritative pressure. He wasn’t just looking at you. He was probing you, trying to read every detail in your eyes, every micro-expression on your face. The tension between you two was palpable, almost tangible. “I didn’t know you were interested in flowers…” His voice, low and caressing, brushed your ears like a whisper of promise, but also of warning. Each word was loaded with innuendo. His fingers slid gently along your arm, a light but striking caress, as if touching you belonged to him and he was slowly making it his own, with a delicacy that was only a shadow of the brutality hidden within him.

You stood there silently for a moment, your gaze lost in his eyes, as if listening to something deeper than words. Then, a barely perceptible smile played on your lips, a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “They’re pretty… and smell good. Besides, this is the only place I can find them.” Your voice was soft, but it carried an underlying weight. There was no simplicity in your answer, just a veiled invitation, an implicit challenge to want more. There was nothing innocent in your words. Each syllable was a silent promise, an invitation to a dangerous dance he couldn’t ignore.

A soft chuckle escaped Heeseung’s lips, a low, guttural sound, almost animalistic. There was no joy in the laugh, just a palpable intensity, a burning desire that was just waiting to be expressed. “Are you talking about me… or the flowers?” His eyes, burning with desire, fixed on you, and he applied more pressure to your arm, hard enough to remind you of his presence, to mark your body with his imprint. He leaned towards you slowly, the warmth of his skin mingling with yours, the scent of your skin mingling with that of the black roses that surrounded you. His lips brushed yours, but he didn’t stop there. He waited. Every movement of your body, every heavier breath, every quiver of your lips was an invitation to him to go further.

The closeness between you was suffocating, each movement more charged than the last, each breath more burning. The tension, pure and raw, seemed to twist the air around you. He knew you felt that same pull, that you were struggling as much as he was not to give in to the temptation that hung in the air. But he was stronger than that. He was far too powerful to be ignored, to be pushed away. His hand slid slowly up your arm, up your skin to your shoulder, where his fingers rested with authority, but with an unexpected gentleness, a perfect contradiction to the brutality of his thoughts.

He was waiting. Every move from you, a gesture, a word, a sigh. All he wanted to know was what you were going to do next.

“What if it was… for you?”

Your voice, deeper, almost slides over your skin, like a hypnotic whisper that caresses each syllable. There is a bewitching softness in your tone, an apparent lightness, but beneath that surface, hides something much darker, a subtle threat and a silent promise. A smile brushes your lips, furtive, enigmatic, a touch of mischief that seems almost innocent. Yet, you know, just as he does, that this smile hides much more—a deeper, more troubling desire, that engulfs you both. It is not a smile that one shares without measuring the consequences.

Heeseung doesn't take his eyes off you. His dark pupils, like endless abysses, leave no room for escape. Every detail of your face, every micro-expression, every movement of your body is observed, recorded, as if every gesture betrayed you. He knows, he feels everything you can't hide, and he waits. You see that mischievous glint in his gaze, and once again, you feel like prey facing his predator. Slowly, patiently, he gets closer. He's playing with you, and he knows it. You too.

He leans closer to you, and every move becomes a test. Every inch that separates your bodies seems to become an abyss. The air around you fills with a tension that becomes almost suffocating, heavy, electric. He barely brushes against you, but the space he leaves between you is saturated with desire. His eyes stare into yours, observing every flash of light, every nuance that makes your gaze shine. He captures every movement of your body, aware of everything you feel, of what you can no longer hide. Seduction becomes a more tangible, almost palpable game, more captivating with each second.

“Then I should prove myself worthy of your attention.”

His voice becomes softer, almost a caress. But his eyes remain icy, uncompromising. They don't let go of you, scrutinizing every movement, every reaction. He waits, he watches. He is on the lookout, ready to seize the slightest weakness, to exploit the slightest hesitation. Everything is calculated. He gets closer, and you feel his hot breath against your skin, the electricity in the air. The world around you seems to freeze as he stops just millimeters from your lips. Time stands still. Each second seems more unbearable than the last. His touch is almost too light to be real, but it is saturated with unbearable promises.

You know what he's looking for. You see in his eyes what he's waiting for, and despite everything, you can't help but give in to this game. Each breath you take becomes shorter, more rushed. Your heart beats faster, harder. The intensity of his gaze warms your skin, makes you shiver. You feel suspended between him and the fragile line that separates surrender from resistance. The slightest of your gestures, of your words, could tip everything over.

“Are you satisfied, or… do you want more?”

He whispers, his voice sweet as poison, a suspended challenge. It’s both an invitation and a test. He waits to see how far you’re willing to follow him, how many steps you’re willing to take in this dangerous dance. You shudder under his hot breath against your lips. Your body reacts before you can even think. A soft, devouring heat spreads through you, a warm, dizzying mist. You feel every fiber of your being trapped by desire, something more powerful, more unfulfilled, pushing you ever further.

You bite your lower lip, trying to hold back the moan that threatens to escape, a sound that would betray your fragility. The slightest noise, the slightest movement could push him to cross this invisible border that he has placed between you. And you know that once this line is crossed, there is no turning back. However, your body has already taken the lead. It anticipates every shiver, every reaction. You no longer have control, or at least, you no longer want to.

Each breath becomes harder, more panting. The air seems to thin around you. It becomes heavy, burning. An intimate heat spreads in your belly, cruel, insatiable, like a fire that only his presence can stoke. 

“You know it’s never enough. I can never get enough of you.”

The words leave your lips in a shaky breath, your voice betraying your vulnerability. But you don’t even try to hide it anymore. You know it. He does too. And this is what he’s waiting for. You don’t even try to fight this desire anymore. You give yourself over to him, to this need that devours you. He smiles, a cruel smile, almost satisfied with having driven you to the brink of breaking.

His fingers slide slowly, almost lazily, from your shoulder to your chin, following every curve of your body with an almost unreal precision. With a possessive gesture, gentle but firm, he takes your face in his hand, straightening your head like a puppeteer. He forces your gaze to plunge into his. The intensity of his eyes mixes with the burning heat of his breath, and you feel your heart accelerate. The air between you is saturated with tension, heavy with unspoken promises, pleasure and pain.

He whispers against your lips, his voice husky and warm, a shiver running over your skin. “I know… I’m just having fun with you.”

The words barely leave his lips when his grip on your chin tightens abruptly. It's unexpected, almost violent, but with a violence that makes you shiver with pleasure. He finally presses his lips against yours. This kiss, you've waited for it, desired it, but it takes you by surprise, like a thunderbolt. His lips are hot, insistent, and you feel totally overwhelmed. This kiss is merciless. It devours you, takes you whole, prevents you from breathing, deprives you of everything except his desire. He gives you no respite.

Your hands, as if guided by an instinct you don't even understand, slide into his hair, squeezing it with desperate urgency. It's a last call to the illusion of control, but you know, deep down, that you've already lost it. The softness of his hair contrasts violently with the violence of his kiss. He dominates you, takes you in this merciless kiss, feeding on your desire. Every movement of his lips captures every shiver, every breath you lose.

And the more he kisses you, the more you want it. The more you lose yourself in his embrace. It's this contradiction that consumes you: every fiber of your being screams to escape, to run away, to regain some semblance of control, but every beat of your heart screams at you to give in, to abandon yourself completely to him.

This is a fight you can't win. And maybe, in reality, you don't even want to win it.

There you were, immersed in the stillness of a moment that at first seemed insignificant. Your fingers slowly traced the sacred characters on the parchment, each movement measured, each syllable carefully inscribed in the mystical flow of your task. Nothing could have prepared you for what was about to happen. A tremor. A subtle shudder beneath your feet, barely perceptible at first, an almost inaudible vibration that made your senses jump. You pause for a moment, a shiver running down your spine, trying to anchor yourself, to ignore the unexpected irruption. But the ground becomes unstable. Slightly at first, then more and more violently, as if the earth itself were trying to throw you into the void.

Your heart skips a beat. A crushing dizziness invades you, your body reacting with an instinctive jolt, a last effort to remain stable. But the ground is slipping away from under your feet. You are no longer in control of your body. Like a puppet detached from its strings, you fall forward, your head spinning, your gaze blurring in a whirlwind of light and darkness. Nausea invades you, tearing away all your grip on this dizzying fall. The world around you distorts. Then, suddenly, the intensity of the trembling ceases. An oppressive silence settles, heavy and absolute, as if the world had frozen. But this is not the end of the ordeal. It is the beginning of something much more terrible.

Short of breath, you open your eyes, trying to understand what is happening. The air here is strange. Thicker, colder, a feeling you can't ignore, as if the atmosphere itself is judging you. You slowly straighten up, the ground beneath your feet too cold, too hard to be natural. An icy shiver runs through you from head to toe, paralyzing you for a moment. This place is nothing like the one you knew. A feeling of unease tightens your throat. 

Where are you?

Around you, shadows dance, forming indistinct outlines that dissipate into the suffocating mist. The walls seem to close in, their gigantic stones, worn by time, with a rough surface. Dust floats in the air, a faint, dreary glow coming from nowhere barely lighting this hostile setting. Your eyes begin to adjust to the gloom, searching for landmarks. And that's when you see it. The engraving. The emblem. It hits you with such intensity that a scream of terror catches in your throat, repressed by a panicked fear that spreads like a burn.

On the stone wall, the image of a black flame, twisted and deformed, shoots out from the center of what appears to be a circle of chains, these metal links intertwining around the flame like an inescapable cage. The flame, deep black, almost empty, seems to quiver in the darkness. It is there, tangible, like a living entity, ready to devour everything in its path. The impression that it is staring at you, that the emblem is devouring you with its gaze, paralyzes you. It is as if you can almost feel the heat of this flame, burning and overwhelming, without it touching your skin. This heat melts all logic, all coherent thought, enclosing you in an invisible trap.

Your heart races as waves of anxiety wash over you. You feel your legs give way beneath you, a crushing pressure washes over you. This flame… it is not just a symbol. It signifies destruction. The end of all that exists. You recognize it. The black flame… the flame of Ignis. The House of Ignis. The relentless unity. The justice of fire. Destruction. Purification through annihilation. The truth of a world burned.

A cold shiver runs through you. Your eyes remain fixed on the emblem, but your mind screams to flee. Every fiber of your being screams to escape, to break free, to abandon everything. But there is nowhere to go. You are trapped in this place, this other world, this world of flames and chains. And you know that at any moment, the House of Ignis, or what is left of it, will judge you. Their flames will burn away your sins, but they will consume everything. Even your soul.

Memories hit you in devastating waves. The House of Ignis. You had heard of them, whispered in dark alleys, in disreputable taverns. But now, rumor turns into reality. A burning and threatening reality. Bloody rituals, sacrifices, executions by fire. Their justice is not that of the other Houses. It does not seek to rehabilitate, to reform. No. Their justice is absolute. Evil must be erased, eradicated, consumed by flames so that purity can emerge. There is no going back. Only ultimate pain can bring redemption, a suffering etched in the flesh and the soul.

Fear overwhelms you. But it is not just a physical fear. It is a deeper, more essential terror. This House, these beings who compose it, believe that evil can only be destroyed by absolute pain, by fire. You see them, the Executioners of Ignis, the arms of flame, terrifying beings, trained to inflict pure suffering. They are not here to punish. They are here to purify. To annihilate. Their flames do not discriminate, they consume everything in their path, without mercy.

A feeling of nausea rises inside you. What if you were their next target? What if you were judged by that merciless flame? Just thinking about it twists your insides. Images form in your mind: bodies burned, souls erased, justice served by incineration. And that black flame, that cold and violent abomination, stares at you, ready to devour everything you are.

Your breath catches. The world around you blurs, your legs tremble beneath you. You want to scream. But no sound comes out. The air is heavy. The space, confined. You feel trapped, the symbol on the wall staring at you with a morbid intensity. There is no redemption here, no escape. The only path open to you is purification by fire. But can you bear what that entails? The black flame, the chains… all of this is the end of one cycle, and the beginning of another. A cycle you did not choose.

The black mist that surrounds you doesn't just seem to envelop you, it slowly swallows you, a dense, cold mass that tightens around you like an invisible vice. It creeps into your lungs, mixing with your breath, weighing down each inhalation, each exhalation. Your lungs swell painfully, as if an iron weight were pressing down on them, forcing them to contract under a stifling heat, an inner fire that keeps growing, ready to explode. You try to breathe deeply, but the air is lacking, the space around you compressing, narrowing each breath. Your throat tightens in an uncontrollable spasm, the walls of your trachea burned by the heat, a painful acid rising inside you, devouring your will.

The air itself, laden with this oppressive presence, seems to grow thicker, heavier with each beat of your heart. Each pulsation, throbbing and brutal, vibrates in your eardrums, a dull and menacing echo that reminds you that you are no longer master of your own body. Your heart beats faster and faster, its cadence frantic, a war drum in your chest, both reassuring and terrifying. This agitation is only the reflection of your growing terror, a terror that distills itself in every fiber of your being. You know that you cannot flee, that what awaits you is inevitable. Yet you cannot help but try. Your legs, trembling and heavy, barely carry you. They collapse beneath you, and you fall, but your body refuses to land completely. Your arms instinctively reach out to support you, although the pain that crosses your wrists makes you scream inwardly.

The walls of this place, invisible but omnipresent, repress you, pushing you closer to nothingness with every step. The ground beneath your feet rumbles, as if it were a living entity itself, a creature of iron and stone that threatens you. Every movement on the ground brings forth a sharp creak, a broken alert, a promise of imminent destruction. You want to stop, but your body, in a last instinct for survival, pushes you forward. Pure, animal terror motivates you, but it does not allow you to flee. It is an invisible, twisted force that keeps you here, forcing you forward with no escape.

You feel a growing pressure, as if the ground itself were becoming heavier under your weight. Your joints crack under the tension, your muscles tense to the limit, but the inertia of terror makes you remain frozen, like prey under the gaze of a predator. The silence around you is oppressive, heavy with this indefinable anguish. Nothing dares to break this silence, except your irregular, panting breath, each breath seeming to be a fight in itself. There is no sound of nature, no wind, no sound of water, only the creaking of the ground under your feet and the jerky sound of your breathing.

Slowly, the door behind you, invisible but omnipresent, closes with a metallic screech. A heart-rending crash, a screech of rusted metal. The sound echoes through the heavy air like a bell of judgment, an irrevocable condemnation. You jump, your heart skipping a beat, a cold shiver of fear running down your spine. Your throat tightens as panic overwhelms you, invading every fiber of your being. A dull ache strikes your skull, each beat of your heart seems more painful, more furious. The air seems to grow colder, denser, almost icy.

You want to scream, but your throat is too tight, the walls of your windpipe on fire, your vocal cords choked with pain that refuses to release. There is no room for the scream. There is just this terrifying silence, this emptiness. All around you, the pain is palpable, a constant pressure that crushes you relentlessly. And there, in the middle of this suffocating darkness, you see them.

They are there, motionless in the shadows, menacing silhouettes that seem to be outlined in the flickering light of an invisible fire. Their eyes shine in this darkness, fixed on you like merciless predators. Their presence is a weight, a heaviness that pushes you to crush yourself even more under this invisible burden. The stench of sulfur, of burnt metal, of rusted scrap metal floats in the air, invasive, suffocating. Each inhalation is a struggle, each breath a poison. The metallic taste of fear, of danger, invades your mouth, burning you inside. You want to back away, but your legs no longer carry you, as if your whole being was already on the verge of giving way under the pressure, under the terror. Their gaze, merciless, icy, penetrates you, pierces you. You feel them on your skin, each glance a burn. You know it is too late. That it is all over.

The voice rises then, cold, devoid of all humanity. It cuts the air like a cleaver. It pronounces your name, but it is not you that it calls. "Y/n, of House Astraviel, we are waiting for you." It is a whisper from the shadows, a malevolent breath that makes the air vibrate around you. This voice has nothing human. It is only a snake, a venom that slithers into your head, slipping, crawling, devouring. The cold that surrounds you becomes more intense. The air itself seems to shudder under the voice, as if the whole world were rebelling against you.

You want to answer, but you can't. The weight of fear petrifies you. Your throat is a prison, a trap that leaves you speechless. You don't even have the strength to open your eyes fully, to look any longer at this silhouette silhouetted against the shadows. You don't have the strength to do anything. Helplessness is all you feel. And that sentence, those words, echo in your head like a death knell, a promise of infinite pain. "We're waiting for you." They're there, and you're there, on the edge of the abyss, too weak, too broken to run away.

The silence in the courtyard is oppressive, almost palpable. It is heavy, thick, like a lead weight that weighs on your shoulders, on your lungs. Each breath is a struggle, each movement an ordeal. You have the impression that the air itself is too heavy, that each breath is flaying you from the inside. The silence becomes a prison, a space that oppresses you, presses you, squeezes you until you suffocate. Each sound seems foreign, distorted by the intensity of the moment. Even the chains that resonate, their metallic quivering, seem to come from another world, from another time. It is as if the noise were too small for this universal suffering that invades them. The chains are a distant echo, a threat that never ceases to grow, reverberating in your bones, in your mind, like a promise of infinite pain. And yet, here, the pain knows no limits. It is tangible, raw, an endless reality.

You turn your head slowly, and your eyes land on Sunghoon. What he has become hits you like a blow to the gut: he is nothing more than a shadow, a tragic relic of the majesty he once embodied. The chains that encircle him seem almost alive, deep black snakes that wrap around him, squeezing his skin with relentless cruelty. These chains do not just bind him, they sink into his flesh, fusing with it, like a curse that has become one with his body. With every tiny movement he attempts, the metal bites deeper, tearing his skin, leaving gaping wounds that will never heal. Open gashes, red and bloody, run across his arms, shoulders, torso—indelible marks of pain beyond imagining.

Blood trickles slowly from his wrists, dark and thick, drawing sinister lines down his arms before dripping to the ground. It falls silently, drop by drop, each burst of sound amplifying the horror of the scene. A crimson pool spreads at his feet, its depth seeming to reflect the depth of his pain. The chains, meanwhile, vibrate slightly, as if they feed off him, as if every ounce of his energy, every fragment of his mind, belongs to them. They glow faintly, a dark and cruel glow, amplifying the contrast between their perverse beauty and the torture they inflict.

You can’t help but notice his wings. Those wings, once bright and majestic, are now folded, broken, crushed against his back by the weight of the metal that imprisons them. The feathers, once so white they seemed to catch the light itself, are now blackened, crumpled, some torn, others hanging, as if they have given up all will to resist. They shudder slightly, but it is not a movement of life; it is a spasm of pain, an uncontrolled reaction to the suffering that consumes them.

Sunghoon stands still, almost frozen in a pose of silent defiance. But it’s just a facade, and you know it. His features, as rigid as they are, betray the agony that eats away at him. His lips, pressed together until they turn white, tremble slightly, and his gaze, though filling the space with a cold intensity, cannot mask the darkness swirling within. His eyes pierce you, not with arrogance or superiority as before, but with a mixture of distress and desperate dignity.

Beside him, Jay offers a brutal and equally heartbreaking contrast. Curled up on himself, his body seems to want to instinctively protect itself from the pain that assailed him. His arms are pulled back, fixed against a pillar of black stone by chains thinner than Sunghoon's, but infinitely crueler. Their surface is bristling with sharp points, each link biting into his flesh with surgical precision. With each flinch, each attempt to adjust his position, the chains tighten like living traps, digging in a little deeper, until they split the muscles and expose the flesh.

The skin on his wrists is a chaos of cuts and tears, blood leaking from them in endless streams. The wounds are fresh, open, and yet they already seem to be festering, as if the metal itself were impregnated with an insidious poison. The red liquid flows in a stream that, though slow, shows no sign of stopping. It stains the black stone, creating a scene where suffering takes on a physical, almost palpable form.

Jay moans, a hoarse sound, barely audible, but it cuts through the air like a blade. It’s a restrained cry, stifled by exhaustion and pain. His jaw is clenched, his teeth grinding with the effort of containing a scream he doesn’t want to let out. And yet, even in this state, he still fights. His eyes, heavy with pain, meet yours, and what you see there breaks you further. They are filled with unfathomable distress, but also with a spark, fragile but tenacious, of determination.

His body is on the verge of collapse. His muscles tremble under the pressure, and his breath is ragged and uneven, each breath seeming to tear a piece of his soul away. Yet, despite everything, he refuses to give in completely. He fights against the inevitable, against the pain, against this relentless force that seeks to break him. But you see the truth in his jerky movements, in the way his torso rises laboriously: he is already broken, just like Sunghoon, just like everyone else caught in this cruel trap.

The atmosphere around you is heavy, suffocating. The air itself seems saturated with despair and pain, every breath an almost insurmountable effort. You feel helpless, crushed by the scene before you, unable to look away despite the horror that overwhelms you. It is a sight you will never be able to forget, a vision that burns into your memory. And deep inside, a nagging question gnaws at you: How much longer before they give in, before they are completely consumed by this infinite pain? How much longer before you, too, are broken?

And then Jake catches your eye, and in that moment, the unbearable magnitude of his pain overwhelms you. He’s crouched, his back hunched, almost folded in on himself, in a position reminiscent of a wounded predator, cornered and deprived of any escape. His arms are drawn up around his torso, his fingers clenched to the point of whitening his knuckles, as if he’s trying to contain a pain too immense to be expressed. His muscles are tense to the limit, every fiber of his being seeming on the verge of giving way, like a rope ready to snap under the strain. He remains silent, but it’s a silence that screams, a silence that weighs, that oppresses.

His face is bathed in sweat, each drop tracing furrows along his cheeks hollowed by anguish. His half-closed eyelids barely hide the flickering light in his eyes. That look… It is marked by a pain so deep that it seems to have consumed everything he was. His pupils, dilated, stare into space as if he were trying to mentally escape this hell, but reality catches up with him with every breath, with every shudder of his bruised body.

The crystal chains around her glow with a deceptively soft, almost ethereal light, but their beauty masks an unrelenting cruelty. These chains are not mere physical bonds: they seem alive, vibrant, pulsing in time with her pain. Each burst of light that emanates from them penetrates her flesh and mind, inflicting pain both bodily and psychological. With every movement, however small, they tighten further, their glow intensifying as if feeding on her despair. The crystalline metal bites into her wrists and ankles, leaving clean, deep gashes, from which dark blood slowly flows, almost black in the flickering light.

His hands, so strong, tremble slightly. The skin on his fingers is torn, raw, and each drop of blood that falls on the floor resounds like a death knell, amplifying the suffocating atmosphere of the room. You feel that he is struggling, that he is still resisting despite everything, but this resistance is silent, almost invisible. Jake does not moan, does not scream. He has passed this stage, crossed a limit where pain has become an omnipresent companion, a weight that crushes his mind as much as his body. His jaw is clenched to the point of breaking, his teeth clenched to contain a cry that will never come.

And yet, this silence is not a sign of strength. It is a forced capitulation, a resignation to the inevitable. He no longer fights against the chains; he fights to maintain a semblance of dignity in a situation that has ripped everything from him. His shoulders sag little by little, as if the invisible weight of this torture were added to that of the chains. It is an unbearable spectacle, a suffering that goes beyond words, that hits you like a blow. You want to look away, but you can't. You are frozen, caught in the horror of this scene.

Finally, your eyes slide to Heeseung, and the impact is even more brutal. He stands there, straight as a statue frozen in a mixture of pain and resilience. But it is not a noble force that emanates from him. It is a forced immobility, imposed by the massive chains that encircle every part of his body. These chains, deep black, almost seem to absorb the light around him, creating an oppressive aura that crushes all hope. They wrap around his arms, his torso, his legs, like voracious snakes, penetrating his flesh in several places. Where the metal comes into contact with his skin, black burns appear, marks of pain forever etched on his body.

The symbols that were once the source of his power glow faintly on his skin, like embers that have nearly died out. They are the remains of a past glory, reduced to a dying glow, unable to push back the darkness that surrounds him. His face is a mask of suppressed pain. Every feature is tense, frozen, as if he is forbidding himself to let any weakness show. But you see the shadows in his eyes, the darkness that betrays the state of his soul. He is broken, drained, reduced to a shell of what he once was.

His breath is irregular, short, almost imperceptible. Each breath seems to cost him a monumental effort, as if the air itself were a blade tearing at his lungs. His lips, pressed into a thin line, are pale, devoid of all color. And yet, even in this state, he remains still, refusing to give in to the chaos that reigns within him. But this stillness comes at a price. His muscles, tense to the limit, tremble under the pressure, and you know he is on the verge of collapse.

Around you, the space closes in. The walls seem to come closer, the air becomes denser, more stifling, leaving you barely enough to breathe. Each second stretches into an unbearable eternity. Here, only pain speaks. It swallows everything, consumes everything. It takes you, breaks you, tears you apart. Fear, insidious, grows in turn. It throbs in each heartbeat, infiltrates each panting breath. It is a voracious fear, fueled by pain, a fear of the inevitable, of this endless suffering. And all you can do is wait. But waiting is already suffering. To wait is to abandon oneself to anguish. And the suffering, relentless, continues to grow.

You don't have time to comprehend what's happening. The next moment, the brutality of the head of the House of Ignis hits you. He grabs your hand in an unrelenting grip, his fingers like clamps digging into your skin with such violence that you feel almost every bone break under the pressure. A dull cry of pain escapes your throat, but it is muffled by the brutality of his grip. The heat of his hand burns your skin, but the pain goes beyond the physical, running through you like an electric shock. You try to free yourself, to struggle, but each movement amplifies the pain in your hand, your wrist, and your entire arm. The violence of the grip is such that you feel the tendons in your arm tense, ready to give way under the pressure.

You don't even have time to breathe. The air seems to be getting thinner, as if your body can no longer take in oxygen. He pulls you roughly, forcing you to move too fast, too brutally, and your feet slip on the rough ground. Your body twists under the effect of his pull. A dull pain runs through you as you hit the hard wall, the sharp angle of the wall cutting your rib. You want to scream, but the pain in your hand, in your ribs, in your head, paralyzes you. You are nothing but pain, a continuous, unbearable suffering, of such intensity that you feel like you are no longer anything but a part of the suffering itself.

“I am generous today. Tell me, who do you want me to kill first?” The voice of the head of the House of Ignis is serious, filled with a palpable threat. His words hit like hammer blows, echoing in your ears like a condemnation. Each syllable is a tear, an additional pain that you feel in your belly. The world around you becomes blurry, as if your senses are blurred, drowned in terror. You do not even have the strength to respond. Your entire being screams silently for it to stop, but nothing moves. You shake your head frantically, your gaze pleading, desperate to avoid this decision he awaits. But he does not care. He sees your fear as a weakness to exploit.

“Please… not this…” you whisper, your voice breaking in your throat. Each word a desperate plea, a begging that dies before it even reaches his ears. Tears pool in your eyes, but you can’t even let them fall. Fear grips your chest, making it hard to breathe properly. You bite your bottom lip so hard you can taste the metallic taste of blood, but it doesn’t stop the wave of terror that engulfs every fiber of your being. Your heart pounds so hard in your chest it feels like it’s going to explode. The pain in your hand, the pain in your body, the pain in your soul is unbearable.

He laughs, a cruel, guttural sound that seems to dig its way into your bones. “You don’t want to choose? Fine, I’ll choose for you.” His words are spoken like a sentence. He nods at Sunghoon, an almost innocuous gesture, but the gesture changes everything. It’s as if the ground is giving way beneath your feet, as if the air is tearing apart around you. He doesn’t just want to make you suffer, he wants to break you, push you to the limit, make you pay for your indecision. You see Sunghoon there, in front of you, the chains holding him gleaming with a metallic sheen in the harsh light. He’s captive, just like you. And he too is suffering, he too is in pain. But you know that it’s you he wants to make suffer. It’s you he wants to destroy.

The leader's subordinates approach. You hear the sound of chains dragging on the ground, the clatter of footsteps on the hard floor, and it chills you. Their presence seems to crush the air around you, and you feel every fiber of your body tense, ready to explode under the strain. Terror pierces you, burning, like a fire in your belly. An uncontrollable shiver runs through you, and you can't help but scream, to plead again.

“No… no! I’m sorry, I’ll choose!” you scream, your voice strangled, torn by fear. Tears roll down your cheeks, hot and heavy, but they don’t relieve anything. They only add to the pain of the moment, like a confirmation of your weakness, your helplessness. You’re shaking so much that your knees buckle, threatening to make you fall. But he pushes you even harder, a blow that makes you stagger. You feel weak, faint, like an animal caught in a trap from which it can’t escape. You lack air, the pain lacerates you, and you feel lost, caught in an endless spiral.

He shoves you violently in front of Sunghoon. The impact almost makes you lose your balance, but you collapse to your knees on the hard ground, the palms of your hands hitting the ground with a thud. The contact with the ground hurts, but it’s the pain in your soul that is the most unbearable. Sunghoon looks at you, his eyes filled with a consuming anger. He’s there, but he’s far away, out of your reach, just as you’re out of his reach. His wrists are bound with an inordinate force, the chains that hold them bloody, and you see the blood slowly trickle down, beading on his wrists, but he doesn’t give in. He grits his teeth, he fights against his chains with a determination that tears him apart.

Desperate, you scream again, your voice cracking, torn by terror. “I said I would choose! And I choose myself!” The words come out with new strength, a conviction born of pain, born of the fear that devours your insides. It’s a final act of resistance, a heartbreaking cry to take back some power over your own destiny. But deep down, you know it’s a lie. You’re not choosing anything. You’re simply surviving.

In a burst of frantic courage, you lean forward and bite into his hand with all the force of your terror. The metallic taste of blood fills your mouth, a harsh, acidic taste, and you feel the flesh of his hand give way under your teeth. He groans in pain, a sound that tears a shiver of morbid satisfaction from you. But no sooner does that shiver touch you than the pain returns, infinite. In a movement of pure rage, he slaps you. The shock is so violent that you lose your balance and fall to the ground. The pain explodes in your head, a blast of heat and dizziness. Your head hits the ground hard, and the impact is so brutal that you see stars. Your vision blurs, a throbbing pain erupts in the back of your skull, a pain that makes you scream internally, but your mouth is too dry to let out a sound.

Blood begins to trickle from your temple, warm and thick, slowly sliding down your cheek. You feel the warmth of your own blood, but there’s nothing comforting about it. It’s just a reminder that you’re still here, still alive, still hurting.

Sunghoon is a broken man, but he has no intention of surrendering. His chains, thick and blackish metal, bite into his skin, his flesh tearing under the pressure of the bonds. He pulls with all his might, his entire body tense in a desperate struggle. The metal straps tear at his skin, leaving deep trails of blood that trickle down his muscular arms. The iron bites into the flesh, each movement rekindling a throbbing pain that he ignores, focusing only on one goal: to save you. The pain seems to crush him, but he pushes it back deep inside his being, each internal cry drowning under the rage that boils inside him. He is helpless, a caged beast. His mind drowns in frustration, his gaze fixed on you, on your body that is at the mercy of this man.

The leader, on the other hand, seems to be savoring every moment of this scene, as if his cruelty were an art he’s mastered to perfection. He lets out a cold laugh that tears through the air, a laugh that, with each echo, makes your soul ache a little more. “Fucking little bitch,” he sneers, a sly grin forming on his lips, as if he’s made a decision and nothing is going to make him change his mind. “I understand better why they all care about you so much.” He approaches you, his gait slow and calculated, savoring every moment of control he exerts over this situation.

Each step echoes heavily in the room, a sound that sends shivers down your spine, reminding you of how trapped you are here. His bloody hand rubs against his pants, glistening with macabre violence before sliding into your hair. He grabs them roughly, forcing your head up, your roots tugging violently, tearing at your scalp. The pain is immediate, sharp, a clean tear through your nerves. But that physical pain is nothing compared to what pierces you with every movement he makes.

The chief's fingers wrap around your locks with such force that you feel like he's going to rip them out. He slowly tilts your head back, forcing you to look him in the eye. Each strand that comes loose from your scalp burns, a sharp pain that makes every muscle in your body tense. You want to scream, but a painful knot tightens your throat, preventing you from making a sound.

The ground beneath you is hard, cold as stone, an icy abyss that devours you with every passing second. It's not just the cold of the ground, but a cold inside, as if the earth itself is rejecting your existence, as if everything is ganging up on you. Shame mixes with pain, engulfing you in a whirlwind of suffering. Every fiber of your being screams at you to get up, to run, but your legs are paralyzed with terror, your body rooted here, trapped in this situation. Suffering is a surging wave, it overwhelms you, crushing you under its weight, but there is this visceral fear of collapsing, of breaking you even more.

You bite your bottom lip until the taste of blood fills your mouth, trying desperately to hold back your cries, to not give in to the pain. You know that if you let out a single cry, it will be even worse, you will give this man exactly what he wants.

“Look at her, your little female dog,” he continues, his voice a cruel hiss, like a snake toying with its prey. “She wants to sacrifice herself for the four of you.” He lets out a short laugh, then leans closer to you, like a predator feasting on its prey. “I guess it will do a lot more harm than killing you now.”

Each word is a stab in your soul, an invisible wound that leaves an indelible mark, a sweet poison that slowly spreads through your veins. It is more than a threat, it is a judgment, a cruel verdict. He speaks of your sacrifice as a mere diversion, a method to inflict more pain, more suffering. All you see in his eyes is a pure desire for destruction, to control your pain, to make it last.

Sunghoon looks at you, his eyes filled with fury, his jaw clenched like pincers. But more than anger, it is an unbearable pain that pierces his gaze. You see his consuming rage, but you also see the agony, the distress of knowing he is stuck there, without being able to intervene. Each jolt against his chains is an additional tear, each movement, an act of desperation. His wrists bleed because of the chains, but he ignores all of that. 

“I will find you, and I will kill you,” Sunghoon growls, his voice cracked with hatred and the promise of merciless vengeance. The sound of his voice is that of a man willing to do anything to get back what he holds dear. He grits his teeth so hard he could break his jaw, but it is his pain that you feel through him. He screams in frustration, each word escaping his lips like a contained explosion. He pulls and pulls at the chains, the metal squeaking with the effort, his wrists split open in large wounds that bleed onto the floor. But for all his strength, for all his rage that could reduce this place to ashes, he remains trapped in these chains.

The leader shrugs, a mocking pout on his lips. “The dead don’t think about revenge,” he says, his tone detached, almost boring. His words resonate, cold, cruel. He leans even closer to you, his hot breath brushing your skin, his lips sliding over your temple, licking the blood that beads. The contact is icy, like a poisonous caress. Nausea rises in you, and the urge to push this monster away burns within you, but your body no longer responds. He raises his head, a burst of psychotic laughter in his eyes. He straightens, scanning the others behind him, as if waiting for their approval.

“Don’t touch her, you bastard!” Jake yells, his voice vibrating with pure rage, broken by helplessness. He pulls violently at his crystal chains, but they don’t give. The metal resonates in the room with a shrill sound, a metallic cry of pain that mixes with human suffering. The chains bite into his skin, but he doesn’t seem to care. The muscles in his body tremble under the force he exerts. Every fiber of his being is tense to the limit, like a spring ready to burst. The walls shake under the impact, threatening to crack, as if all the space around you will collapse under the pressure of his rage. But despite all this violence, he can do nothing. He is helpless, and the pain of his own helplessness touches you as deeply as his own rage.

“Look at yourselves. The four of you are so miserable because of your affection for her. It’s one of the reasons why crime of the heart is forbidden.” The leader speaks slowly, each word slipping from his lips coldly, calculated and relentless. He clenches his fists, every muscle in his arm tensing under the pressure, then abruptly unclenches them, fingers trembling with an energy he can barely control. His lips are pressed into a straight line, an expression of absolute coldness marked by the hardness of his convictions. He continues, without an ounce of compassion, “That is why I will cleanse your souls and bodies of this abominable sin, so that you may once again become the perfect beings you once were.”

His words hit like a whip, the steel of his voice ringing through the air, tearing through the silence with icy authority. The weight of his words seems to suspend the air around him, saturated with menace, with a palpable presence. The silence that follows is heavy, oppressive, almost suffocating.

“Don’t make fun of us!” Jay bursts out, his voice cracked with rage but vibrant with defiance. Anger explodes in his throat, bubbling like lava ready to pour out its violence. “The love I have for Y/n is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt! Before her, everything was pain and despair… But thanks to her, I was able to hold on, to cling to this miserable existence! So don’t you dare say it’s a crime!”

Jay's words tremble, fury mixed with a deep, heartbreaking vulnerability. He searches your gaze, a silent plea perhaps, as if he were searching for meaning, for truth, in your eyes. He drowns in your gaze. His eyes fill with tears, a raw, devastating, uncontrollable emotion. His pain hits hard, a nameless pain, but you also see the fragility that comes from it. His heart bleeds, and you feel that pain invade you too, devouring you from the inside. Your eyes fill in turn, but they are not tears of fear. No. They are tears of love and sadness, a devouring, heavy sadness that crushes you. Your heart clenches, crushed by the intensity of the moment. You offer him a weak smile, a desperate attempt to comfort the one who looks at you as if he would collapse under the weight of everything he carries.

But the leader doesn't react. He sneers, a dry, contemptuous, almost reptilian sound, before advancing slowly, his steps echoing in the room like a sentence. He drops his words with an implacable harshness, like stones he throws into a bottomless pit. "Everything you just said is an illusion, Jay. A perfect facade, but only a facade. It's not love. Love is a painful betrayal. It's a twisted emotion that breaks and destroys. What you feel, what you call love, is only a mirage, a decoy that your senses have created to lie to you."

He turns to you then, his gaze sliding over your body, slumped on the cold ground, broken and scarred by pain. Your body feels like an empty shell, skin bruised, and you know that everything is going to get worse, that the pain is going to intensify. He approaches slowly, a cruel smile stretching his lips, almost sadistic. He holds out his hand, a black and purple flame dancing in his palm, crackling with an unhealthy energy. The air around him seems to warm, as if reality itself is bending under the pressure of this power. The stifling heat begins to make itself felt, as your breath catches in your throat.

“Don’t do this…” you whisper weakly, terror strangling your voice. But his eyes shine with a senseless cruelty, devoid of pity, and he brings his hand to your thigh, a slow, inevitable gesture.

The contact is immediate and devastating. As soon as his hand brushes your skin, a searing pain washes over you, as if your entire body is being torn apart by an invisible force. A wild fire devours your muscles, your nerves, your flesh, each filament of the black flame etching a web of pain across your skin. You throw yourself back, trying to escape, but it is too late. The pain spreads like poison, invading every fiber of your being.

A primal scream tears through the air, a scream that is born in the depths of your soul, a scream of pure pain. The flames bite into your skin, burning it, eating away at it like hot iron, sinking into every pore of your body. You feel yourself losing your footing, sinking into an endless abyss of pain, of unconsciousness. Your muscles contract under the heat, unable to fight. Every movement, every breath worsens the burn, every breath becomes a torture, an endless agony.

The smell of burning flesh, of pain incarnate, rises in the air. It is suffocating, stifling, almost implacable. It is your smell, your body slowly burning, and there is nothing you can do about it. The contours of your being become blurred, unreal, engulfed in heat and pain. Your nerves, broken, no longer respond. You are nothing more than a soul in the grip of suffering, lost in an endless whirlwind.

The flame, sweet and cruel, seems to feed on your pain, amplifying it even more. It spreads, infiltrating every corner of your body, slowly engulfing you in an implacable fire. The skin on your thigh shrinks, blackens, deforms under the heat, transformed into an unrecognizable mass. But the pain does not weaken. It continues, inextinguishable, devouring. You want to scream, to howl at the injustice, but your voice is lost in the whirlwind of suffering.

If only you could die… If only this pain could stop. But there is no escape. It gives you no respite. The leader, smiling, observes your suffering with an unhealthy pleasure in his eyes. The flame grows even bigger, spreads, invading every part of your body, every area of ​​your being. The pain becomes so sharp, so deep, that it erases everything around you, until you are nothing more than pain, infinite suffering. Everything mixes together, everything collapses.

You finally collapse, your body inert, unable to react. The world dissolves into a sea of ​​suffering. The heat, the smell of burning flesh, the pain all around you, everything merges. The silence weighs heavily, heavy as a coffin. Only your short, panting, piercing breaths break the silence. A flickering flame that fights against the inevitable.

“No! No… no!” Heeseung’s scream breaks through the air, a hoarse, piercing howl that vibrates with pure terror, echoing in your ears, amplified by the roar of the fire. His eyes, filled with tears, are fixed on the leader of the House of Ignis, his pain and helplessness piercing the atmosphere. The flames, like raging snakes, twist and writhe in the leader’s palms, screaming and crackling as they unfold with blinding speed. There is no respite. No escape.

The leader leans in slowly, each movement calculated and methodically precise. His hand brushes the already black and charred skin of your thigh, and a shiver of disgust runs through you, intensified by the unbearable sensation that follows. The skin, hard and cracked, seems ready to shatter into fragments under a simple pressure, while the pain tears your body from the inside. When he removes his hand, it is glacially slow, but instead of relief, a new wave of pain invades you. The skin, left behind, is devoured by the fire, the inside of your flesh continues to burn, the muscles contracting under the relentless effect of the heat. The pain is so sharp that it takes your breath away, transforming into a suffocating sensation, an unbearable heat that devours you from the inside, engulfing every part of your being. His cold hands come to rest on your skull. The temperature difference sends chills down your spine before the heat slowly seeps in, invading every fiber of your body.

A crackling noise is heard, too calm in the face of the horror that unfolds. You feel your hair heating up, turning to ashes under the flames. The skull, so solid, gradually gives way under this extreme pressure. The scalp tenses, retracts like a drum skin, before slowly burning. The fire penetrates from the inside, attacking each root, each follicle. The first hairs burn instantly, falling in a shower of black ashes. But that is nothing compared to what follows. The soft skin of your skull turns into a mass of charred flesh, stuck to the bone. You can no longer move. You want to scream, but your voice is swallowed by the pain, a suffocation that paralyzes you. It is as if your skin, your flesh, and your soul were swallowed by hell.

Your skull is on fire. Your brain seems to be boiling. It's as if flaming needles are being driven into every cell, every nerve fiber. Every thought becomes an unbearable burn. You feel your mind melting, diluting in this heat, slowly escaping in an endless whirlwind. The pain is total, unstoppable. Every millimeter of your head is slowly decomposing. But you can't do anything about it. The fire is too powerful, too relentless. There is no respite.

The heat spreads, spreading through your neck, your shoulders, your back. The flames slip into the cracks opened by their passage, penetrating deep, reaching your bones. Your muscles tense under the burn, forcing you to withdraw into yourself. But your body, already burned, no longer responds. Each movement becomes an act of pure suffering. The heat is so intense that the air itself becomes torture. You feel like you are suffocating, the ashes and the heat burn your throat. Your lungs, too, seem to be on fire. Each breath is a titanic effort.

The flames spread, growing, spreading like poison throughout your body. Your muscles contract under the burn, your heart beats violently in your chest, as if to remind you that you are not yet dead, that the end has not yet arrived. But deep down, you know that it is only a mirage. One last spasm before the inevitable.

The flames engulf everything, your arms, your stomach, your torso. The pain becomes denser and denser, more inhuman. The skin tears, the flesh melts and turns into a black and bloody mush. The bones, too, begin to give way under the extreme heat. Every movement, however small, tears a silent scream from you. The space around you shrinks, saturated by the sound of the flames, the incessant crackling of the fire, as if the whole world were nothing but pain and heat.

You are no longer aware of your body, nor of your mind. The pain has taken over, devouring every thought, every memory. There is nothing left. Just a silent scream, a silhouette, a specter of what you were. The flames continue to destroy you, consuming you from the inside. All you feel is this emptiness that settles in, an absence that grows greater and greater, as the end approaches. Relentless. Inexorable.

Eventually the heat dies down. The flames recede, but the pain remains. They leave only the echo of a lingering pain. Even after they are gone, you remain there, in a heavy silence. An emptiness infinitely heavier than the pain itself. There is no more physical pain, but there is also no more you. No more body. No more existence. Just ashes, a vestige of what you were, an imprint of life erased in the suffering of a moment.

After your death, silence had fallen like a leaden blanket, stifling anything that might have resembled a cry. They remained there, frozen, their empty gazes fixed on your ashes that swirled in the air. These ashes, light, almost unreal, mixed with the wind, slowly dissipating as if your existence itself had been only an ephemeral breath. None of them could breathe normally. The weight of the irrevocable crushed them, their chests barely rose under the desperate effort to find air, but each breath seemed insufficient, painful, as if the whole world had closed around them.

Anger mixed with pain, an unbearable mixture that they could only express through their faces distorted by horror. No screams passed their lips; it was a deafening silence, even more terrifying than the roar of the flames that had taken over their entire being. They tried to understand, but nothing made sense. The void left by your absence lacerated them, an invisible blade that cut relentlessly, digging again and again into their hearts until there was nothing left but a gaping chasm.

With each passing second, the atmosphere grew heavier. The pain didn't just burn, it consumed them, it invaded them, even in the deepest recesses of their being. It wasn't just the physical flames that licked their skin and charred their flesh, but an inner, relentless fire that reduced their will to ashes. Their bodies screamed in agony, but their souls were already collapsing under the weight of despair.

Before them, the head of House Ignis watched with icy satisfaction. He stood tall, his imposing figure silhouetted against the flickering light of the flames, a victorious smile stretching his lips. To him, every stifled cry, every breath torn away by pain, was proof of justice. He regarded their end as a triumph, convinced that he was restoring a form of purity to the world by purifying the souls corrupted by their sins.

But his victory was not absolute. He knew that this was only a step, that a cycle had yet to repeat itself. These souls, deemed too impure to be freed, would return. They would be reborn, inevitably, drawn from the ashes of their bodies like cursed phoenixes. But this rebirth was not a gift, nor an immediate redemption. It was a curse, a torture intended to shatter every fragment of humanity still clinging to their essence.

The real punishment was not their death in those flames, but what would come afterward. They would be brought back to life, stripped of all memory, condemned to relive a carefully orchestrated tragedy over and over again. And this time, their ultimate test would be love, the insidious corruption that had led to their downfall. Each time, they would fall hopelessly in love, drawn inexorably to you, who would mean everything to them. And each time, they would be forced, by circumstances they could never control, to take your life into their own hands.

They wouldn't understand why their souls would bleed every moment. They wouldn't remember the previous cycles, but the pain would remain embedded in them, an invisible scar etched into their essence. They would fight against their own instincts, against their own hearts, until there was nothing left but total submission to the order imposed by the Houses.

The leader knew that this suffering was necessary. In his eyes, there was no redemption without pain, no purity without the total destruction of the individual. These souls had to be broken; every fragment of love, every trace of attachment or desire had to be reduced to rubble. Only after they had passed through the flames of their own torment could they become the perfect, devoted beings they were meant to be: unfailing servants, free from all human weakness.

And as he watched their bodies crumble beneath the onslaught of flames, he saw not deaths, but imminent rebirths. To him, it was a cycle, a promise that sinners would find the way, even if it were paved with their own suffering.

©️devotedlypinkpeanut, do not copy, translate or repost any of my works. Thanks for taking the time to read! 

Taglist : @strxwbloody @wilonevys

[mrmeepsmadmind]

Tf One au where b-127 is older than optimus & when cybertron is free from sentinel, b is going around talking to as many cybertronians as possible, happily introducing himself & waving energetic goodbyes when they end up shoving past him to get where they originally wanted to go before he intruded, & then his optics spot a wary red bot conversing lowly with a happy blue bot & something in his processor Clicks. primus- that's. that's his Brother. he tugs along Optimus, who's been apologizing to grumpy mech but also lecturing them about sparing some kindness on bee's behalf, along, telling him all about cliff, why- why had he forgotten Cliff?? how could he have forgotten his hero?? his big brother!! Optimus never heard any history of cliffjumper ever mentioning even having a brother, let alone mention b-127, no records, certainly, but cliff did have one history of a bad crash against darkwing during a race with terrible processor damage ever since that even altered some of his personality into a more solitary, stand-offish nature, so- maybe he-

& then b-127 introduces himself to the red racer mech already long ago alarmed to their presence, bee's grin large, little antennas brightening highlighter yellow, ' cj!! i missed you so much!! i missed you!! big bro!! it's me!! it's b-'

& cliffjumper glares at him, unnerved.

" after scouring All of my memory files regarding this rather intrusive matter, i report with a Strong firmness of there being no record of you nor our supposed 'relation' located .

i either fail to recognize you, or You have failed to recognize your own fault . & i will affirm you, i almost Never fail . "

bumblebee laughs, nervously. cliff, he was always such a snarker!! mirage & optimus cast uneasy glances. mirage mutters, ' cliff doesn't joke. ' & bee's smile falters a little at the metal corners, but remains against it all. "Cj's conjunx!!", the smallest bot brings his arms up, babbling on about his recent exploits, his new & older (sparkless) friends, his new moniker, how happy he is to see them again, stepping in for a hug big enough to hopefully hold the both of them & optimus too!! and then a big mountain climbing boot with sharpened spikes adding intimidation, both height-wise & appearance regarding in general, step heavy forward, impaling ground beneath it, a blaster poised to b-127's golden temple, the user's cold scowl & even icier sapphire optics narrowed with a permanent, distrusting scrutiny sharpened into whomever was unfortunate to end up their apathetically revolted target.

" you appear to have mistaken my history & my functioning. you assume me for a mech who repeats himself . i do not recommend continuing such grievances . & i certainly-

do Not recommend taking one step closer to my Comrade- Not* conjunx .

your ongoing issues only further surmount my increasingly Decreasing expectations of you, small one. you regard me with far too much fallacy, so allow me to elucidate this-- i am Not a mech who tolerates mistakes .

Abandon our premises, or i will assure you, this laser will abandon this barrel,

close associate to the matrix bearer, or not. i will Not allow you to tread so Crossly upon my company . "

bee backs up, right into optimus, and holds there, only to try and halt his friend's attempts at peacemaking for his accidental aggravation ( yet again.. optimus thinks bee doesn't recognize the groans he gets when he approaches others, when he smiles, when he tries to make conversation with all the thrilling trills of a mech doing his best to entertain & keep everyone from leaving him, abandoned, alone, but optimus- .. optimus is wrong . ). b-127 rambles, no, none of them are making a mistake, not on.. purpose!! anyway! please don't, optimus, please, prime, please don't take his brother away from him again. please, don't take away the only mech who didn't have to feel like he had to apologize for him. .. cliff never really apologized to anyone, really. that's one of the many reasons why he's so cool .

he just wanted cj back, he was right Here!! why couldn't bee hug him, why couldn't bee tell him how much he missed him while cj listened, why doesn't anybot ever just want to Listen--

b-127 scours files too, taking a page from big brother's book.

he scoured EM files, to be factual.

mirage's was.. full of hurt & confusion. maybe he was hurt by cliff's disregard. he wouldn't be the only bot. Optimus held pity, & b-127 instantly moved on from delving any deeper into that.

but cliff's- cj's- Cliffjumper's-

Error : no EM found .

& from the frantic way sapphire optics bore into him, trying to dissect him with their daggers, he could guess, maybe --

cliffjumper's no longer felt his, b-127's, his younger Brother's EM either, no longer felt Anybot's EM, for that matter,

not even his own .

not anymore .

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 2)

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

​GIF: Originally posted by @harleytudinous

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Threat. Dream manipulation. Masturbation. Voyeurism. Plot related cigarette use. Dubious consent.

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: So I know I initially billed this as a two shot but the story has run away with me in the most lovely way. Part 3 will be coming soon. Thank you for all your kind responses to part 1, it honestly means so much to me. Hope you enjoy this one too. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

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

The veil of sleep comes down upon your weary body with a feather-light touch, trying to coax your mind back into the world of dreams.

Dreamscapes have been a whole new experience for you in the past month of your life. Before, you would wake with no recollection of what had played out. Not even the slightest inkling. Now, you remember everything.

They are staggering; bursting with details and ideas beyond your most outlandish daytime imaginings. The emotions that are conjured by them, both when asleep and also awake are just as bold.

And even though it's been 23 nights since it started you are still finding them predominantly jarring and disorientating. You are baffled by how other people cope with the sheer vividness. The unpredictability. Maybe they have become desensitised. You can only hope that the same will happen for you in time.

One thing you tell yourself with each sunrise:

Thank goodness they weren't nightmares.

At least, you don't think they are. There's no resemblance between yours and what you have heard others describe over the years, nor to those outlined in a dream decoding book you had checked out of the library last week. There's no obvious threat or fear. No re-living of traumatic events. Just weird subtext.

The first dream found you standing barefoot on a beach. A mirage distorted the particulars of the scene making it impossible to see further than half a meter in front of you. The temperature of the sand under your soles was verging on painful and as such, it forced you to walk into the unknown before you.

A groaning wind started to brew and lifted the sand into sparkling flurries. You shielded your eyes from the abrasive particles.

The sun was at its apex when you heard the ear splitting bangs. Unmistakably gun shots; you didn't last much longer in the dream and woke with a start.

For the next week, your dreams had been like a series of video clips edited into a supercut.

Raven wings. Black cats. Hellfire. Ruby red glow. Sprawling library shelves. Landscapes hewn by earthquake fissures. Hotel corridors. A handsome, blond haired man wearing sunglasses, holding a blood covered knife.

If you didn't know any better, you would begin to suspect that your new box of tea bags had been laced with a psychedelic. Alas, no. Your hypothesis was unequivocally disproved when you friends had been completely unaffected after stopping by for a Sunday afternoon catch up.

This quick fire of snapshots eventually stopped, transforming into lucid long form dreams. You often think back to the first one where it happened.

Standing in the the empty room, and the appearance of the figure dressed in black. The colour that had flashed in their midnight eyes had the quality of liquid silver. Sometimes you wonder if you see the same image in other dreams, standing in amongst a crowd.

From that point on, regardless of what dream you are in, you cannot shake the intuitive prickle down your spine that tells you someone is watching you.

You reason that it is nothing to be concerned about. Humans dream, and you cannot deny that some of them - swimming in a sea of clouds, re-visiting childhood haunts, trying out superpowers - have been quite fun.

You roll over on to your left side and close your eyes.

You dream.

The room you see is expansive in breadth and depth. Impressive windows bring brilliant light into the space which bounces off the ivory stone of the floors and walls. There are statues positioned at equidistant intervals, implying that the chamber is a gallery of sorts.

One effigy, fashioned from bronze, and rich in colour draws your attention. The lines and curves of its form intrigue you, despite not knowing the creature it was portraying.

You are about to move on when the feeling of being watched sparks through your skeleton.

Everything changes.

Clarity gives way to haze. Sun is swapped for moon.

You see a man across the room. He stands with a perfect posture. Graceful, powerful. His elbows are bent, fingers interlaced, palms facing upwards. Sheer black fabric floats around his frame. It moves languidly, giving glimpses of his bare body beneath.

The man's face is imperceptible. The distance between you too great but somehow you know you are the focus of his attention.

His robes fall to the floor with a gossamer sigh. The pale, unmarked skin of his slight form glows beautifully in the moonlight. You look down in embarrassment as arousal flushes through you, and you see that you are suddenly as naked as he is.

You gasp, and snap your gaze back up.

The sight you see is rather unexpected. The man is intimately touching himself.

You feel compelled to mirror him. You immediately reach between your legs. The man groans as you make contact.

All it takes is a little bit of attention on your clit before you are ready to slide two fingers into your core. The noise you make at the feeling of the stretch is salacious. The man echoes you with a sound that is just as dirty.

It spurs you on and you burrow deeper.

You curl your fingers until your legs are weak and quivering. You long to sink to your knees so you can finish in a more comfortable position yet you can't. An invisible force is preventing you.

It keeps you on display.

Just like the statues to your left.

You wonder if it is for the man's benefit.

You try to focus on him but it is impossible to do so through the trembling glaze over your eyes. All you are able to sense from him now is the sound of the rhythmic pump of his palm around his cock and his panting breaths.

Desperate whines escape your lips. You are teetering on the edge of an orgasm but you can't seem to lose your balance and fall into the abyss. The unsteadiness in your legs is too much of a distraction. You rub at your clit again in the hope that it will bring the satisfaction you need.

It does nothing.

You are so frustrated by your body's disobedience that it is almost painful.

"Please. Please. Please," you mutter under your breath.

A voice suddenly speaks next to you ear. A velvet voice with the timbre of a thunder rumble. It pours like a soothing syrup into your brain and commands you to do exactly as it bids.

"Let go."

You climax intensely, crying out in relief, squirting all over your fingers and onto your hand as you legs finally give way.

The fall jolts you back into consciousness and you wake with a barely contained scream of pleasure in your throat and adrenaline lighting up your nervous system.

Daylight is peeking through a little gap in the curtains. You take a deep, grounding breath.

That was obscene.

The context, the actions, the sounds. That sultry voice at the end. From the throbbing in your vulva and the twitching of your legs it seems like you didn't just finish in the dream.

There is really no point in looking it up in the dream decoding book.

You were clearly horny on a subconscious level. Or craving attention, hence the exhibitionist behaviour. The latter is not usually in your nature to seek out but if it is the reason, you might not have to wait long before the desire is fulfilled. There is a work event happening this evening that may require you to accept an award and address the crowd.

You love this time of year where community projects get recognition; a nomination alone is a sure-fire way of garnering publicity which in turn helps the charity's outreach.

But first, a normal day at the office. You throw back the covers and go straight to the bathroom to rinse off the evidence of your wet dream.

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

Your right hand connects with the metal push plate of the function space's front door. The heels of your boots click and clack as you cross the threshold, moving from floor board to paving slab.

It's fortuitous that you brought a long, thick coat with you this evening for the wind is wintery and unforgiving. You stay close to the wall of the building to try and shelter from it as much as possible.

The pavements are slick with recent precipitation, streetlamps bouncing off of the water with caustic white light.

Then you see him; a figure cut from shadow.

He's breathing in such a laboured way that you wonder if he is sick.

Your phone is still inside the venue, currently being guarded by a colleague along with your bag but it wouldn't take long to retrieve it and call for medical assistance.

"You okay?" Concern colours the simple question.

His reply comes quickly and assertively, "I am well, thank you."

You nod, not entirely convinced for the stranger's response was as stiff as his posture, and reach inside the pocket of your coat for the box of cigarettes and lighter stashed within.

You settle one of the sticks between your lips and use your thumb to bring forth a flame. The crackle of smouldering paper and tobacco perforates the damp air and you take a needy drag. The nicotine taints and tantalises in equal measure, filling you with guilt and relief. You've been trying to give up but the little voice inside your head had won this evening. You close your eyes and focus on the pleasure it brings before flicking some ash into the tray mounted to the wall.

Your attention now back on your surroundings, the stranger steps into the scope of the streetlight. The angles of his cheekbones, jaw and nose are accentuated to an incredible extent in the gleam. His dark hair is being buffeted about the wind, locks of it very close to falling in the blue eyes that are unwaveringly trained on you. He begins to talk again, showcasing his deep baritone.

"I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with you just now. It is not how I envisaged our first interaction transpiring. I hope that you can forgive me for my deception."

You laugh nervously and take another quick drag. "It makes no difference if you're honest with me or not. I don't know you."

"You are correct. You don't know me. Not yet -"

"Oh," you cut in quickly. "I'm not looking for a hook up."

While you cannot deny that he is arrestingly beautiful, you are technically working and have never been one for one-night stands.

"You mistake my meaning. I have been searching for you for so long. I oftentimes doubted your existence however I was wrong and I find myself humbled to be in your presence at last."

The grandiose declaration is one of the stranger things you have heard in your life and you used to deal with drunken patrons when you worked at a university bar. Maybe he was intoxicated; it would explain a lot.

"Look, this might work on other people but I just came out here to have a cigarette -"

It is his turn to interrupt you now. "You will have no need of those going forward. Your addiction to them will be replaced by me."

"Excuse me?"

You are trying to sound incredulous, however, inside you are rather frightened by the turn the conversation has taken. His gaze is not helping either.

The crystalline eyes are embodying every part of the descriptor; a hard, chill inducing blue. Ash drops from the smouldering cigarette as a tremble of fear rattles through you. The man sees this and the ice suddenly melts to a warmer hue.

His tone turns soft and gentle. "We are supposed to be together. Our union is fated."

He's staring at you expectantly even after your two attempts at rejection. You swiftly stub out the part-finished cigarette and take ownership in ending the interaction.

"I've had enough of this. I'm going back inside now. If you try and follow me, I will speak to the venue's management. If you are still here when I leave later, I will call the police."

You turn towards the door.

He calls your name. Your full name. Middle name too.

Despite your brain chanting at you to go inside, you can't stop yourself from looking back at him. "H-how do you know my full name?"

The profound rumble of his voice resonates deep in your ears. "I know everything about you, Y/N."

He's right in front of you now. His posture is bordering between desperate and predatory. Like he can't quite decide if he is seeking comfort from you, or if he wants to consume you.

You are fumbling behind you to find the door handle. "Please get away from me," you say hoarsely.

He reaches for your hand.

You jump back and struggle to get out of his grip but his strength is inhumanly strong. His skin of his palm is glacial against yours and yet somehow, the touch makes heat snake up your arm and settle in your chest.

You become aware of an internal feeling that you've always had, like that of chapped lips. Low level but something that constantly nags. Something that existed every minute of your life until the moment he touched you.

You grip his hand and look up at his face in astonishment.

"Good. That's it. Look into my eyes. See what you know is there."

You do as he says, totally stunned by the depths that seem to reside within them. It's as if there are universes suspended inside. Maybe there are. Perhaps you could float among the celestial bodies if you asked him to show you how.

You feel so alive and overstimulated that you welcome the delirious thoughts taking over your mind.

You welcome him.

It's like there is a cord connected between your heart and his that is shortening in length. The intensity scares you.

"Give into the pull," he urges darkly, sensing your anxiety.

You obey, feet moving of their own accord and then you are standing before him, just centimetres apart.

He smiles triumphantly and presses you flush against his body.

His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers brushing the sensitive skin of your neck. More heat sears through you from the additional skin-on-skin contact.

Your peripheral vision closes tighter and tighter with every passing moment. The outside world is gone.

He leans in further and you wonder hazily if he is going to kiss you or break your neck. Both options are equally viable given the behaviour he has exhibited. You keep staring at him regardless.

His irises flash silver as he intones his next sentence. "Y/N, I claim you as my soulmate."

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"Am I your dream girl? You think of me in bed. But you could never hold me. You like me better in your head."