#like that scene was upsetting but that moment was gold

[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

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

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

[hacash]

I can think that watching the Richmond team playing dirty on pitch was fundamentally upsetting and a clear display of toxic masculinity and that it’s hilarious as fuck that the two smallest players on the team (Bumbercatch and Richard) got red carded for violent play, ok; it’s called multitasking

[strawberryyivy]

➜ GARDENS OF BABYLON

summary: clarisse la rue x daughter of apollo reader. reader hates clarisse until she doesn't hehe. reader is a little bit of a bitch sorry!! just a bit tho! ooc clarisse maybe? and no smut ofc :) just sweet girls in love mwah

warning: reader dates a man but there's not a lot of details about that, bad writing sorry:/

word count: 5k (im so sorry i got carried away)

Help Palestine 🇵🇸!

It could be love, we could be the way forward and I know I'll pay for it

You weren't sure about many things in your life, but one think that you were pretty sure about, was the that you and Clarisse had nothing in common.

She was rude and mean. She didn't hesitate when it came to hurting people. She was cold. She was exactly what you expect an Ares child to be like. So you tried to keep your distance as much as possible.

It was hard, though. The first time you went to camp, you were twelve, extremely scared and insecure, and she did not help your case, at all. You still remembered, how rude she was to you on your first week, how upset she made you and how she made fun of you for crying afterwards. You still remembered watching as the smile appeared on her face the second she saw the tears in your eyes. You could never forget that look. And you could definitely never forgive her, either.

After that, you had very small interactions, you got claimed after two months, which was good enough for you. You made friends, you grew up and gained confidence in yourself and in your abilities. And that whole incident with Clarisse just became a distant memory. But she was still always around. And you were always trying to pretend like she wasn't.

But your whole opinion on her was about to change, and it all started one night, at the bonfire.

At the time you were dating a guy, Jacob, and you liked Jason, you really did, he was nice – most of the time, he was funny– sometimes, he liked to spend time with you, and you never heard anything bad about him. And you were having fun, he was entertaining you, which sounded wrong, and although, you could never admit it out loud, that's all that he was. Entertainment. So the moment he expressed his wish for more, for something a bit more serious, you called it off.

Reality was, you didn't want a relationship, you didn't need one. Your life was crazy as it is, you didn't need one more thing to be preoccupied about, you just wanted to have fun, that's all you needed at the moment. But he did not take that well. That guy you knew disappeared the moment you told him you wanted to stop seeing him.

And yes, maybe it was kind of bad that you decided to end things at the bonfire, with people around – people that could easily listen to your conversation and spread the gossip later. And sure, maybe you were a bit cold towards him, but he did not need to make a scene, a huge scandal. And that was exactly what he did.

You still remember the dirty looks people gave you afterwards, all the whispers, all the rumors surrounding you two. And it made you crazy, people knew nothing about the situation, but they still talked like they did.

And that's when Clarisse came in. You didn't know she was there that night, you didn't know she saw the whole thing.

You were practicing your favorite activity, archery. It made you feel calm, in the moment, and that's exactly what you needed. That was, until you heard a very familiar voice, speaking close to you, way too close.

"Hi pretty"

You could swear your heart stopped for a moment, you turned around fast, the bow and arrow in your hands quickly forgotten.

The moment you met her eyes, your stomach flipped, a weird and unusual feeling making its way to your chest. Her eyes were locked on yours, her body was close enough that you could feel her breath in your face, you could see the gold in her eyes due to the sun light. And it all just added to that uneasy feeling.

And you were still trying to process the fact that she called you pretty.

"Hello." your voice sounded weak, it made you curse yourself.

"Do you have a minute? Promise it'll be quick." Clarisse tilted her head a little, a small smile on her face.

You looked around, trying to understand what was going on. She had no good reason to talk to you, you weren't her friend, or anything, for that matter. Maybe it was one of those times when she just wanted to bully someone and you were the chosen one. That thought made you back away from her.

"No, I don't."

You turned around, putting your bow and arrow on their place and ready to go back to your cabin, far away from her.

"Oh come on, princess, why not?" You could still hear her as you walked away, hoping she would get the hint. "Aren't you a little curious to know what I wanna talk about?"

You felt her hand on your wrist, making you turn around, face to face with her again. "It's about your little boy Jacob, you know? The one who humiliated you in front of everyone?"

She still had that stupid smile on her face, making you roll your eyes. "And what does whatever you want have to do with me? We are not together anymore, and I don't want anything to do with you. Or him!" you were about to leave when you heard her again.

"I want revenge. Are you sure you're not interested?" you turned around slowly, studying her face. "That little shithead hurt one of my sisters, and I haven't put anyone in their place in a while."

That last part made your heart skip a beat, you knew exactly what she meant, you were one of those people once. But different to Jason, you were just a kid, you didn't deserve what she did to you.

"No, I'm not. Have fun terrorizing him though, you always do anyway."

For the third time, you walked away from her, and much for your disappointment, she let you go.

•┈୨♡୧┈•

"Did you do anything stupid lately?"

You lifted your eyes from your food and looked at your friend in front of you, laughing a little at her question. "What?"

"Like, I don't know, did you do something that I need to know about?" the confusion in your eyes made her look behind you, making you turn your head to look as well. Clarisse was staring at you, a weird expression on her face. "She won't stop staring, please tell me you didn't do something against her, that girl could easily kill–"

"Oh gods, I didn't do anything!" You couldn't help but laugh again, turning back to Anya. "She's just probably upset I turned down an offer she made a few days ago."

"What offer? Why don't I ever know about anything?!"

"It's nothing important really, she wants to do something to Jacob, I don't know what, I just know he hurt her sister and I think she wanted my help to 'put him in his place'? Her words not mine."

"Wow, that's weird. And you just simply said no? Just like that?"

"I mean yeah, I don't want him to hate me even more than he already does."

"Makes sense."

You two went back to being silent for a second, before Anya spoke again. "You know, maybe she wanted to get close to you, or something, I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know, why would she ask your help on something she could easily do it on her own? I mean, it's a bit weird, right? Maybe she wanted to get to know you."

"I doubt that."

You tried not to think much about it, and pretend that you didn't like the idea of Clarisse wanting to be close to you. But as you closed your eyes that night, ready to go to sleep, the only thing you could think about was pretty brown eyes, with a little bit of gold in them.

•┈୨♡୧┈•

Two days later, as you were walking to practice you saw Jacob, he didn't see you, he was talking to his friend, something you couldn't really hear, but what really caught your attention, was when he lifted up his shirt, his stomach was dark purple, bruises all over it. And you didn't have to think twice to figure out who did that.

And you didn't know why, you just needed to see her, you needed to ask her so many questions, so that's exactly what you did.

You knocked on her cabin door, that heavy and weird feeling on your chest again, waiting for someone to answer. One of her brothers opened the door, looking you up and down. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, is Clarisse here?"

He nodded, but not to say that she was in fact there, he nodded like he knew exactly what you meant.

"Yeah, sure." he left the door open and started to leave the cabin, not before saying with a weird laugh: "Have fun!"

You looked at him confused, having no idea why would he even say that to you, but you decided to not think much about and just go in.

She was sitting on her bed, palm resting on one of her thighs, black nail polish in her other hand. She was painting her nails, and for some reason, that surprise you.

Sure, you've seen her wearing nail polish before, but the look on her face was a rare one, she looked so concentrated, almost peaceful, and you couldn't help but think she looked pretty like that, her curls framing her face.

"Who was it?" she didn't look up from her nails when she said that, probably thinking you were her brother.

"It was me."

You could see the smile on her face before she look up, her eyes shining when she saw you. "Hi pretty."

Ignore the nickname. Ignore the nickname.

"What did you do to him?"

"Sorry?" she got up, walking towards you now, her eyes were dark, the peaceful Clarisse you just saw disappearing.

"I saw his bruises, that was you, wasn't it?"

You didn't know why you were so mad at her, you didn't even like him, you couldn't care less about him if you were being honest, but the need to confront her about it seemed to be more strong than being reasonable.

She tilted her head, a smirk on her face.

"What if it was? Do you have a problem with that?"

"Yes, I do, actually, you shouldn't go around just beating people up."

"Oh really? Why not? He hurt someone I care about, he deserved it."

She didn't sound mad at you, she sounded amused, like she liked the fact that you were talking back.

In reality, she just liked that you were there, in her cabin, so close to her, your eyes locked on hers like you were scared that if you looked anywhere else, she might disappear. But you didn't need to know that.

"Like you care about anyone who isn't yourself, you did that just for fun. Because that's what you do!"

"And why are you so mad about that anyway, hm? You said you didn't wanna have anything to do with it, remember?" she took one more step closer to you, your faces inches apart, you felt her hand on your arm. "Do you still like him or something? Because if I remember correctly, you broke his heart, right? So why do you care so much?"

You didn't know what to say, she was right. And that pissed you off even more.

"I just- I–" You could see her smile growing at your loss of words, her hand on your arm making you even more nervous. "Fuck you, Clarisse."

The feeling in your chest got too strong, you realized how close she was to you, her pretty smile on her face. However her eyes were not on yours anymore, she was looking at your lips, breathing heavy.

Then her eyes met yours again. "Why are you here, y/n?"

"You know why." you stepped back a little, but before you could say anything else you felt her lips on yours.

And you didn't think twice before kissing her back. Her lips were soft, her hands were on your face, and yours made their way to her hips. She smiled during the kiss, making your head spin even more.

"No, wait– that's not what I came for!" you finally came to your senses again, breathing even heavier now. "I don't even like you! I could never like you! You're so... you're awful, you're an awful person!"

Before she could say something, you stormed out of her cabin. And she just stood there, not believing what had just happened.

•┈୨♡୧┈•

A few days since that afternoon had passed and you still couldn't believe that happened. She just kissed you, out of the blue, for no reason at all.

You could still feel her soft lips on yours, her hands on your face, and your heart beating fast against your chest.

But the worst part of it all, is that you liked it, and you couldn't deny it anymore. You couldn't deny your stupid crush on Clarisse. You couldn't deny that's the reason why you got so upset when she mistreated you years ago, that was the reason why you couldn't think straight when it came to her.

Yes she was mean, and a bully – most of the time, she was stubborn and impulsive, but unfortunately for you – and your stupid dumb heart, that didn't make much of a difference. You tried to convince yourself that you hated her for so many years, and yet here you are.

When reality sinked in, you felt panic, because she was the last person you wanted to have feelings for, she was the last person you'd give a chance. So you decided that you were going to repress those feelings, it didn't matter if it hurt you, you would never open your heart to her. You just couldn't.

But apparently the universe had other plans, because while you were at the beach, enjoying the sun, lost in thought, she saw you. Lucky for her, bad luck for you.

You heard her say your name, and before you could run away from her, she sat down beside you, making it impossible for you to look away.

"Where have you been? You just disappeared! Are you avoiding me or something?"

Her voice was soft, you never heard her speaking like this, almost like she was afraid you'd run away if she wasn't careful with her words.

Your stomach felt weird, your heart was beating fast again, and your hands were shaking. All because she noticed. She noticed that you were avoiding her. And for some weird reason, that made you feel special.

"Yeah, well, how did you find me?"

"I threatened one of your friends to tell me where you were." she said that like it was the most obvious think in the world, like you were dumb to even be asking her that question. "I just– I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

You looked up from the sand, surprise evident in your face, did she just apologize to you?

"You're sorry?"

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I'm really bad at this, I just wanted to say that, I'm sorry if I offended you by kissing you, I should've asked first, I just– I felt– I mean, I thought I felt something there but it was just all in my head and I didn't mean to–

You lost your mind, you were sure of it, because now, you were the one kissing her.

One of your hands went to the back of her neck, making her relax under your touch. Her lips moved with yours in the perfect rhythm, like it was meant to be, like you were made to do this, with her.

Her hands were on your back, bringing you closer and closer to her, as if that was possible, and you only stopped kissing when you felt the need for air. Her forehead touched yours, both of you breathing heavy.

"I thought you– I'm... confused." She leaned away a little, still holding you.

In that moment, you didn't know what to say, cause you were as confused as she was. You didn't know why you kissed her, you promised yourself you would stay away, and yet your lips were on hers the moment she got close to you.

"You said you didn't like me." her voice was still soft, but now, a little more serious, her eyes studying your face. "You said you could never like me, did I understand that wrong or what?"

You shook your head, you felt suffocated now that she was so close, asking you questions, making you rethink your terrible decisions and complicated feelings.

"You didn't understand that wrong, that's– yeah, I said that."

Your hand wasn't on her face anymore, and you were getting up. Why did she have to make you feel like this?

"Hey, you're not running away this time! Talk to me." She got up too, getting close to you again.

Her eyes felt like they were burning holes in your skin, making you avoid them. And before you could speak for yourself, try and explain, your anxiety spoke for you.

"What do you want from me, Clarisse? It was just a kiss, does a kiss have to mean anything? I wanted to kiss you, so I did, big fucking deal!"

When you got the courage to look at her again, you couldn't see the soft Clarisse anymore. She nodded her head, looking away from you, letting out a sarcastic laugh.

"You wanted to kiss me, so you did, hm?"

Her voice was cold and her eyes even colder. You nodded your head, if that would help you stay away from her, then you were going to run with it.

She didn't say anything back, she just turned around and left you alone. Not knowing that if she stayed just one more second, she would see the tears streaming down your face.

•┈୨♡୧┈•

You felt horrible, actually, if there was a stronger word for what you were feeling you'd use it, but no amount of words could really describe how you felt.

The guilt was eating you, and you couldn't stop crying, you didn't even know why you were crying in the first place; maybe it was because you realized that you actually had feelings for Clarisse, maybe it was because you were mean to her just because you were scared, or maybe you were just overwhelmed. Either way, the tears wouldn't stop scrolling.

And you did the only thing you knew would help you, you talked to your friend.

"Wait, walk me through it again... you have feelings for who?"

"Please don't make me repeat it!" your hands went to your face, too embarrassed to even think about it.

Anya let out a laugh before she grabbed your wrists, making you look at her again.

"I'm sorry! I just thought you hated her?"

"I guess the hate was just a cover up, I actually do like her a lot. Unfortunately."

"You don't think she likes you back?"

You thought about it for a moment.

You were sure she did, you were sure she liked you back, and was what made it all so scary to you. The fact that you both liked each other, the fact that she could easily hurt you, just like she did years ago, just with a few words. The fact that you could hurt her, just like you did, earlier that day.

With Jacob, it was easy, he liked you, you didn't like him. The moment you got bored and he wanted more, you ended it, and you felt bad, but you also felt safe. You were safe that way, he couldn't hurt your feelings even he tried. That was easy.

With Clarisse,wouldn't be that way, she would know exactly what to do to make you feel pain. If you let her in, she would know just what buttons to push, and that scared you more than anything.

"I just think... I just think it would hurt too much."

Anya gave you a sympathetic look, a small smile on her face. "But if you really like her, don't you think is worth it? Don't you think she's worth it?"

Once again you went to sleep thinking about her. Your mind asking you again and again, is she worth it?

•┈୨♡୧┈•

You felt low in your life a few times.

First, was when your fish died, you were only six and as weird as it sounds, it was your best friend at the time. Second time, was when your grandmother died, when you were eight, she was basically your second mom, and seeing her sick and unable to do anything about it killed you to the core. And the third time was when you found out you had to live your life behind and go to camp, when you found out that you actually had a dad, an unusual one, but you did, and you had to get used to your new life.

And now, it was definitely one of those low points.

You could feel your heart break the moment you saw them together, Clarisse and some girl that you didn't know the name. They were sitting together on the steps of the Ares cabin, Clarisse was touching the other girl's leg, whispering in her ear and making her laugh. You felt sick.

You stopped walking, unable to breathe or to move, staring at them like your life depended on it.

"Oh gods." You could hear Anya say on your right. "Maybe we should go the other way."

Before they could see you, you started walking again, feeling anger and disgust after seeing that. But then it hit you.

You told her the kiss didn't mean anything. You said you didn't like her. You told her you could never like her. You made her believe you didn't feel anything. You had no right to be angry, you had no right to be upset. You just needed to accept that she was moving on, and maybe you should try doing the same.

•┈୨♡୧┈•

A few days later capture the flag happened, as usual the blue team won, which was good, it made you forget about Clarisse for at least a few hours.

But afterwards, at the bonfire, you saw her again, with that same girl. And she looked so beautiful, it was hard to be mad at her. Her hair was down as usual, and she had a black t-shirt on, and it was so tight that made you forget how to breathe for a second.

"Tough, huh?"

You looked to your left, seeing one of her brothers standing next to you, the same one you saw the day you went to their cabin, he was looking at Clarisse as well, his face expression hard to read.

"What do you mean?"

"Seeing her with someone else."

He answered that like it was obvious, looking over at you.

That made your head spin, did she talk about you to her siblings?

"What?! No! We weren't– we never–"

"No, I get it!" he interrupted you, your rambling annoying him. "I was just betting that you would be the one."

"Wait, what?"

This whole situation was giving you a headache.

"Well, you know, in between you and her, I thought you would win, Clarisse was never really fond of her, you know?"

You blinked at him a few times, letting his words sink in. Gathering up courage to ask what was on your mind.

"You think we could work? I mean, we don't even get along." it was supposed to sound nonchalant, like you didn't mean anything by asking that, but unfortunately, he read right through you.

"Yeah, I think you could work. I wouldn't give up on it so easy if I were you."

Before you could ask him anything else, he started to leave but not before saying: "And don't worry, I won't tell her that we had this conversation."

•┈୨♡୧┈•

You could swear you never felt more nervous in your life than at that moment, you were at the door of the Ares cabin, feeling anxiety wash over you. Trying not to shake too much because of the cake in your hand.

And before you could overthink what you were doing, you knocked on the door, taking a deep breath and smoothing your shirt.

She opened the door, her eyes were as cold as you expected, she was staring at you, and then the little box you were holding, and then at you face again.

"Hi." You tried to sound normal. "Can we talk?"

She tilted her head a little to the side, a smile on her face. "I don't think so."

Why did you think it was gonna be easy?

She went to close the door, but before she could, you held it open, getting closer to her.

"Clarisse, please? I really wanna talk."

"Well, I really don't care."

But she didn't move, she didn't back away from you or tried closing the door again, she just stood there, hand on the door knob.

"I have cake!" she looked a little confused, looking at the small box you were holding again. "Orange cake, it's delicious. It's... for you."

You sounded out of breath, like you just ran a marathon.

She sighed and turned around, leaving the door open for you.

"Everybody, get out!"

Without saying anything, her siblings left, some of them giving you a glare, but most left without even looking at you.

Clarisse looked over at your direction again and gesture for you to get in.

"Nice bow."

When you turned around to look at her, she was leaning on the door, like she was ready to kick you out at any minute.

"Thank you." You said touching the bow in your hair, trying not to smile at the fact she complimented you.

She stared at you for a few seconds and rolled her eyes. "What are you doing here? Because if you're just going to stand there–"

"I came to apologize." You took one step closer to her, feeling a little bit more confident. "The way I treated you at the beach... that was horrible, I'm so sorry. You don't need to forgive me or anything but I just– I just wanted to say that I like you. And I didn't want to admit that, because, it's so scary, and you make me feel like I'm gonna die sometimes because of how fast my heart beats when you're around."

"And I was so ready to just pretend I don't feel this way, but then I saw you with that girl and, I just can't do that. Giving us a chance might hurt me in the future but not having you right now hurts just the same, and I can't take it. And I know I'm a coward and–"

"Is that orange cake you said?"

"I'm sorry?" you looked at her like she just said the most offensive thing known to man. "That's it? That's what you took from all that? I'm opening my heart to you."

She took a few steps closer to you, an infuriating smile on her face. "Yeah, I heard that part, how did you even get this cake?"

"It was one of my sisters birthday yesterday and–, you know what, it doesn't matter, don't you think you have something to say to me?"

You were so annoyed, was she dismissing everything you just said?

"Oh, like what?"

"Like... like, you like me back maybe? Maybe an apology for being so horrible to me years ago? Maybe–"

"Gods, you talk so much."

And then she kissed you. But this time, it was different. She was kissing you like she was trying to tell you everything she couldn't put into words, hoping you'd understand.

Without stopping the kiss, she took the cake out of your hands, putting it on a table behind you. Her own grabbing your waist.

You touched the back of her neck, not wanting to let go of her, trying to make this moment last for was long as you could.

When she leaned away, she had a smile on her face, a genuine one.

"Did you mean everything you just said?"

You nodded, still holding her. "More than anything."

"I'm sorry I was mean to you." You were about to kiss her again but she pulled away. "And I like you too by the way, don't know if you were able to catch that."

You shook your head and laughed a little. "No, I got that part, but thanks."

"And also, I love orange cake."

You gave her a smile before leaning in to kiss her again.

•┈୨♡୧┈•

After that, you would spend most of your free time with Clarisse, you guys would go on long walks at night, she would help you practice whenever she got the chance and you would always end up in her cabin somehow.

"Oh gods! Just stop moving!"

You couldn't stop laughing, you guys were sitting on her bed, her hand on your thigh, while you were holding her tube of black nail polish, painting her nails.

"What? Can't I kiss my girlfriend?"

She wouldn't stop moving, trying to get close to you at all cost, holding your face with her free hand, making you look at her. She had a huge smile on her face, making you smile too.

"Am I your girlfriend?"

"Of course you are."

Her voice was so soft, and her hand on your face felt comforting. Making you want to melt into her.

"Okay then." you gave her a peck on the cheek. "Will you let your girlfriend finish painting your nails?"

She laughed and laid her head on your shoulder. "Yes ma'am."

A few seconds later, she heard your vocie again.

"Clarisse?"

"Yes?"

"I could spend the rest of my life with you like this."

She didn't answer you for a few seconds, watching her nails turn black, your delicate hands doing a way better job than she ever could.

She lifted her head from your shoulder, focusing on your concentrated face. A small smile on her lips.

"Yeah, me too."

Now you hang from my lips like the gardens of Babylon. With your boots beneath my bed, forever is the sweetest con.

[the-witch-of-one-piece]

🌸Tokyo Revengers Father and Daughter Moments🌸 Ft: Taiju, Hakkai, Ran, Rindou, Draken, Kakucho, Hanma, Mikey, Mitsuya, Nahoya Masterlist / Resident: @enchantedforest-network / WC:2.6kSynposis: Random moments of TR dads with their sweet little ones. Different scenes for each one of them! this is pure fluffy goodness! (unedited) Click below!

Taiju

Slightly exhausted, his sleep was interrupted once again. It only lasted 10 minutes when his wife put the baby down after feeding. Walking into the lowly dimmed nursery he saw his newborn daughter in her crib upset. Carefully picking up the fragile newborn, in his arms, cradling them close to his chest. “There there now…” he spoke in a low tone. He made his way into the nursery  sofa. The man who once had a short fuse in his younger days is now a father of this little one. He wouldn’t admit it but he was scared of holding his child for the first time when they were born. Doubts in his mind he wouldn’t be a good enough dad but that moment when he held his child those father instincts began to kick in. He wanted to protect them with every inch of his living soul.  

The newborn was calming down little by little hearing the steady heart beat of her father. Taiju closed his eyes for a brief moment, resting his head back slightly. He took a deep breath “I know you're fighting your sleep.. It’s okay.” The newborn seemed to calm down more as he spoke. Opening his eyes looking down at the newborn against his chest. His child knew his voice, not that he would often speak to his pregnant wife's belly but his wife was around him a lot during his pregnancy and accompanied him during the opening of his restaurants. “My voice is the only thing that seems to calm you down… usually it's the opposite for others..” he smirked. Taiju repositioned himself on the couch as laid his head down against the pillow as  the baby was still against his chest. He looked down at the newborn, his thumb gently caressing the delicate cheeks. 

Hakkai

He was on his ipad in his dressing room he had about a half an hour before the show began. He promised his daughter he would facetime her before the show. He had sent her a gift and was eager to see her open it. On the other side of the screen his daughter  was opening the gift he sent to her. Leaning against the counter “I hope you like it.” Hakkai smiled

Opening the pretty rose gold box with a gold ribbon around it her eyes lit up “It’s a bunny!!” She exclaimed, holding the white fluffy stuffed  bunny in her hands then giving it a big squeeze. “Thank you daddy!” Seeing his daughter's raw reaction to the gift made his day. “Your welcome sweetie. I’m glad you like it.” 

She nodded “When are you coming home?” she asked and looked at her dad. He gave a softer smile. “Soon baby. I know daddy has been away for a while now. But soon I will be home with you and mommy.” With his  career it did interrupt his family life. He did manage to still be active in his daughters and wife's life, face timing, photos and every now and then they would join him on his trips. Still he didn’t want his daughter around the cameras and the paparazzi since she was still so young he still wanted some type of privacy in his personal life. 

Looking at the time as it seemed to fly by “I’m sorry baby but daddy has to get going. I will call you when I’m done.” A soft pout on his little one's face “okay daddy, you promise?” “Of course, daddy loves you.” “I love you too daddy”

Ran

“9…10… ready or not here I come.” Ran called out opening his eyes as he found himself observing the living room. Walking around the living room searching for his child who was hiding from him. “I’m gonna find you.” he called out. 

He couldn’t hear a giggle nor a movement. They learned from the last time they played not to respond to their fathers comments. Ran began walking down the hallway carefully listening to see if he heard any sort of movement. Ran began to check obvious places they would hide that he knew about under the beds, in the closet, even behind the curtains but nothing.

He was rather impressed that he wasn't able to find them yet. He began to question where they could be hiding. He began to search for her in more and more places he thought she would be weren’t there. Few more minutes passed and no luck.  “Oi my  little one I give up. You can come out now.” he called out.

He waited to hear for some type of movement giving some type of idea what their hiding place was and what it could be. He didn’t hear a response, he was now assuming she wanted their father to look for her. He began walking through the rooms again checking them thoroughly. 

He noticed one thing in particular, the laundry room was slightly cracked and opening the door he noticed a large basket that had a blanket he knew he put in the dryer now it was in the basket. Coming closer he noticed a bit of movement. Gently pushing the blanket down he saw his daughter in a deep slumber. The blanket was still slightly warm, Ran carefully picking her up in the blanket still. In a groggy voice as they let out a yawn “daddy you found me.” 

“I did.” letting a low chuckle out.

Rindou

Rindou squinted his eyes seeing his daughter who was in pre-k holding hands with a little boy in her class. Every dads worst nightmare when they become a father of a little princess. Holding hands with a boy. As his little princess saw her father she let go of her friend's hands and waved to him as she darted towards her father. Crouching down as he greeted his baby. Embracing him with a tight hug. After a bit of small talk Rindou placed her in the car as he began to drive home. “So who was that boy you were holding hands with?” the father questions were coming out now

“Oh he is my boyfriend!” 

Luckily he was at a stop sign and he looked at his daughter who was in the back seat. “Come again? Boyfriend?” The words boyfriend ached his poor soul. 

Hearing a car honking for him to go, his eyes went back to the road. “Yeah daddy. He is a boy and he is my friend.” Taking a calming breath he was relieved by the comment. “I see… you don’t like any boys yet right?” 

“No, they are just my friends.” she chuckled

‘Good’ he thought to himself. “You would tell daddy if you did right?” 

“Mmmmm” she thought about it for a moment before responding “No.” “What??? Why not?” “Because I don’t want you to scare them away.” 

“I wouldn’t do that to them…”  he was lying to himself of course he would. 

Draken 

“Are we doing this right now?” Still on the edge of the bed seeing the covers pulled up little fingers holding the blankets up. 

“Mhmm” with a small cough.

Letting a small sigh out as he  placed the small cup of medicine down on the nightstand. “You know you need to take it.”

“It’s gross….” Lowering the blankets down to see the red cheeks of his kiddo. 

“I know it is, But the quicker you take this the quicker you will feel better.” 

The tiny child sat up in her bed seeing Draken reach for the small cup of medicine handing it to them. She looked at the cup of medicine scrunching their nose before taking the medicine. 

“See, it isn't that bad.” rubbing her head.

As she laid back on the scooting the covers up more. “I’m sorry you had to miss work today…”  

Giving a small smile, “It's fine I wanted to make sure you were going to be okay. Your my top priority everything else is second” A small smile on her lip appeared. “Get some rest, I will check on you in a little bit, okay?”

Throughout the day Draken checked on her. Checking her forehead to see how the temperature was going down each time he checked on them. He was relieved each time going in, still as a parent he did worry about his little one getting sick. They weren’t their happy go lucky self he is so used to seeing. As she were still asleep he checked on the one more time his hand lightly touching her forehead the fever seemed to be gone. He leaned down pressing his lips on their forehead.

Kakucho 

A storm was passing through Tokyo. The sounds of thunder and lightning echoed in the quiet room. Walking up front her she could hear the rain and whistling from the wind. She looked around and her night light was on. The sudden lightning and thunder once again prompt the little one to rush to her fathers room. Opening the large door she crept to the side where her father was sleeping. She nudged her dad gently and whispering “daddy” 

Kakucho, feeling the small push, opened his eyes to see his daughter in front of him. “Baby why are you out of bed?” speaking in a groggy tone

“The loud noises outside.” She looked towards the window and then at her father.

“Do you wanna sleep with me and mommy?” He asked.

Nodding at her dad's question he scooted on the bed as she climbed in. “You don’t have to worry about anything sweetheart, daddy is here to protect you.” 

Another  struck from thunder and lightning his daughter snuggled into him more. Kakuchou’s arms holding his little girl making sure she felt protected. “I got cha.” He spoke in a soothing voice stroking his daughter's hair. He wasn’t going to sleep until he knew his little girl was okay. Kakucho watched as his daughter was becoming more tired. The sound of the rain was all they both could hear.

Hanma 

“Can I name him?” his daughter spoke as she held the tiny small black kitten. The walk from the convenience store just for snacks ended up being snacks and small kitten they found on their way back. 

“I was thinking Cujo, he looks dangerous.” He looked at the kitten who didn’t want to come to him, only his daughter.

“No! He is not a rabid dog! He is so cute!” she laughed, petting the kitten in her arms. “Figaro! 

He looked at the kitten who seemed to resemble the kitten from the movie she watched. With his free hand he scratched behind the kitten ears making the kitten let a little meow out. “Ferocious Figaro.”

“Do you think mommy will be okay with us keeping a kitty?” asking as they were approaching the home.

“We will see we were only supposed to get snacks. We came back with the snacks, kitten and food for the little terrorizer. I mean Figaro.” he was getting his keys out of his pocket. “Don’t worry mommy will be fine with the kitty, let me sweet talk her.” “Yeah! Tell her she is pretty and she is the best mommy!”

‘Among other things to convince her,’ he thought to himself. “That will work.” flashing a smile at his daughter as he opens the door. “Hey babe we’re back, we got the snacks and a kitten~!”

Mikey

“How do they make it look so easy there?” Mikey looked at the screen and the ingredients as he thought he measured correctly. He looked at the cookies they were supposed to be nice and pretty just like one the video he was watching. Instead he got flat cookies that resemble crepes. 

His daughter looked around the countertop that was messy and behind the mixing bowl and she saw another cup of flour. “Daddy, we forgot the other cup of flour.”

He turned his head towards his daughter, seeing the other measuring cup of flour as she was bringing it close from behind the mixing bowl. “That could have been the reason the batter was a bit runny…” Mikey scratches the back of his head. 

“It’s okay daddy, we tried our best.” giving her father a chipper smile.

Mikey looked down smiling at the child who had flour covered on her. “Let's try again and make sure we add that cup of flour.”

“Okay!” 

After the final attempt both of them were looking through the glass window of the stove seeing the cookies rise. “We did it princess.” “I bet they are going to taste yummy daddy! I want that one.” pointing to one of the corner cookies. “Next time we can make taiyaki daddy!”

Feeling a bit more confident in his baking skill “Why not right now?” Mikey couldn’t pass up making his own Taiyaki. He wanted to enjoy every moment of his vacation with his little one as much as possible before he returned to racing. 

Mitsuya

From the moment his daughter was born they had a strong bond. Mitsuya doted over his daughter any chance he got. Getting home he had a routine the moment his daughter's eyes landed on him he automatically picked her up. Today he had his hands full of items. Opening the door he saw the pretty bright wide lavender eyes of his daughter looking at his directions. The coo’s and excitement was all on her face as she sat on her mothers lap. “My little jellybean.” he smiled “Let daddy put this up really quick.” leaning down kissing the top of her forehead. 

Mitsuya shuffled to his office, placing the fabrics and sketch pads down. The moment his daughter lost sight of her father. Her eyes began to tear up wondering why he didn't pick her like he usually does. He could hear his daughter crying from the other room. Walking back to the living room he saw the little stream of tears from his daughter's cheeks. His daughter reached for her daddy as he picked her up. “I’m right here.” he slightly chuckled, “Jellybean daddy is right here.” 

Moments as she was in her father's arms the tears stopped and a smile peered on her cheek. He did get a kick out of it, how just picking her up in a matter of seconds made a difference. Confirming he was the favorite parent of his daughter. He wiped her eyes then placed a kiss on her temple. “This is a definite confirmation that I'm her favorite human.” flashing a smile as he looked at his wife who playfully rolled her eyes.

Nahoya

“Is it yummy?” Nahoya rested his elbows on the table as he watched his daughter eat her ramen. 

“Mmhmm!!” she was slurping the noodles. 

Few things he loved doing was watching his daughter eat. The expressions she would make as she ate made the food look 100 times better than someone else eating it. The way she did a little dance in her chair as she continued to eat. This was a sign the food was extra good.  Nahoya’s daughter was also his biggest critique too if something was missing she would point it out.

“Papa did you want some?” she asked, looking at her dad as she grasped more noodles with her chopsticks.  

“I’m okay. You eat.” he slightly chuckled 

She held the chopsticks closer to her father “papa have some please!” At that point he couldn’t say no anymore, leaning in as he ate the noodles from the chopstick. “It’s yummy!” 

Swallowing the noodles “It is. Now here is the biggest questions: whose Ramen is better, mine or Uncle Angry’s?” 

Angry was listening to the conversation he was behind his brother. He made eye contact with his niece. To slightly tease his brother a bit he lifted a bag a gummy bears up and pointed to himself. 

“Ummmm sorry daddy it’s Uncle Angry.” 

“What?!” He stood up from his chair. Angry, placing the gummy bears in his pocket. Smiley was now determined to challenge his brother to a Ramen battle.

 In a split second Angry walked to his niece, of course he loved his brother but him and his niece were pretty tight. Handing her the bag of gummy bears. “Atta girl.” 

Interested in joining the taglist please fill out the form below to get a notification of your favorite characters when they are being posted! Link here ->taglist Tagging: @the-haitani-baton, @satanlovesusall666, @galactict3a, @ratlovecat, @niko-ash, @iluv-ace, @captainmycaptainn, @strawberrychrome, @missgab, @anxious-chick, @spookiisopium, @bontensbabygirl, @txna04, @stygianoir, @kira-rrh, @intheafterall, @staygoldsquatchling02, @nightqueensk, @alexanderlightwoodii, , @sintyu, @missgab, @elmakimaki , @hana-patata, @ancient-vivarium @livefromnc , @mdibby @chronic-claire-universe @cxrxx @drakensdarling, @stephisokay, @lunatical, @q-the-rockaholic, @istanstraykids, @opchara, @twistedw0nd3rland3acc, @galliardsmaniac, @villsophie, @carixes , @kodzukein , @trevengersprincess, @wakasasbae , @wakashudou , @burpzz, @alexanderlightwoodii @opchara , @cloudsinthecosmos , @sushijimaaa , @haitani-maki , @wakashudou , @burpzz , @mztoman @heijihattori , @zzelan @toe , @leivane , @kenpachisbrat , @kr0wu , @donquixotehomura , @mizugami @ackerbaby , @levixsiren @bakugosgirl01

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️ Ranking Richonne

#7: How'd I Get So Lucky Finding You (S9E01)

Imagine feeling lucky in a fallen world. 🥹 Losing so much and still feeling like you won because you found the ultimate love of your life. 😭 It’s beautiful and powerful that Richonne’s love is so strong that it has them feeling fortunate even after enduring a series of unfortunate events. And in this stunning scene, we get to see so much of why Rick and Michonne have an everlasting love. This scene is an absolutely heartwarming delight and it features my favorite thing Rick has ever said to Michonne in TWD 😍...

I will forever love the state of Richonne’s relationship in s9. They finally had time to breathe and be a family with Judith, and I loved every moment they got to relish in being together.

I always knew Rick and Michonne wouldn't be the type of couple who were only compatible in fight and survival mode - they're equally compatible in just living and being mode. 

So I appreciate that this scene takes its time to just be as the two cuddle up and showcase yet again why they work so perfectly with each other. They truly belong together and fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. 🥰

Also, I will always like that this scene of Richonne snuggled up in bed takes place in the Sanctuary of all places. Just more proof that nothing, not even the oppressive reign of Negan, was going to break Richonne because now Rick and Michonne are up in that batty man's crib fully immersed in their sweet Richonne bubble. 🤗

They just feel so married with Rick washing up and then getting in bed with Michonne as the two just instinctively get wrapped up in each other. And the way Rick kisses her forehead. 🥹 It’s always so clear that they feel the most safe to completely decompress and let their guard down with each other and are so precious to each other.

And I’m just giddy every time I hear Michonne adorably and playfully call Rick “the famous Rick Grimes” with that shoulder shimmy while resting on his chest. Perfection. 👌🏽

I love their teasing banter and how she’s addressing the way Rick's a legend to the people. As he should be. And Rick’s playful, "don’t you start too" response to hearing her say that is just great. 😊

It’s adorable that she plays with his beard while noting that the reverence people have for him is sweet. She gets it. She says, “just don’t let it get to your head” and Richonne tones for the win once again in this scene. 😍

And again the two bring up Maggie and how they feel for her since she has to deal with losing that Hilltop kid, which is particularly sad too because R&M lost their own teenage son just about a year and a half ago.

Rick and Michonne then have this moment where they both just take a synchronized deep breath and these two seriously always feel like one, especially in the way they breathe in this moment. 

I like how Rick seems tired as he closes his eyes, but then Michonne says his name, and he can always be awake and alert for her when they need to talk.

I really like too how Michonne and Rick both get honest about the fact that they wonder if they should have just killed Negan. To which I was like, yes...

But I appreciate that Michonne says "we" when talking about this choice because she and Rick are a package deal. Saving Negan without consulting the others was Rick’s most controversial move among tf, and it clearly had some tf members feeling understandably upset. But it’s nice that, by saying "we," Michonne doesn’t make Rick feel like he was alone in that choice.

Rick thinks the Saviors just want food, not Negan back in charge, and Michonne reminds him they don’t know that for sure, which is valid, and it’s great they can communicate like this.

And then I love that Michonne lets him know she’s been thinking about an agreement between the communities and that she maps out the idea with her hand over his heart. Their closeness really is unparalleled.

Also the way Rick is looking at his wife throughout this scene is um...it's gold and damn near made me lose my train of thought so let me get myself back on track lol.

I love that Rick affirms Michonne's idea, telling her it’s good and smart, and how he looks right at her while saying it could bring people closer together. And the way Michonne touches him. I love that they really don’t take their hands off each other for pretty much the entire scene. 😊

And then Rick opens up and lets her know what's on his mind as he shares that Daryl isn’t happy, and it makes him worried about things breaking down. Scenes like this are why I believe Michonne is not just Rick's wife but truly his best friend. They always can confide in each other and express everything going on inside - their hopes, ideas, worries, and fears.

It’s sweet that Michonne acknowledges the validity of what Daryl feels. And Rick groans a bit and says Daryl cares too much sometimes. I appreciate that Michonne can sense Rick's headspace so clearly here and doesn’t want a divide to be caused between those two brothers (even tho it ends up being a bit too late sadly).

The way Michonne whispers 'hey' and then gently turns Rick's face towards her, it’s like a visible illustration of how she centers him and reminds him to stay focused on the good and how to move things forward. And of course, Rick is receptive to this redirection as he looks into her eyes. Love it. 😊

Michonne acknowledges that if Daryl is worried then there’s a reason. And again, because R&M are a package deal, she asks, "What do we do about it?" knowing however they handle it, it will be together. 

And then, like a well-oiled machine, Rick says he thinks they need to fix that bridge, and Michonne says she'll get the people to agree to a charter. Look at these leaders making big community decisions all while snuggling in bed together. 🥰

So then it’s Rick’s turn to do some teasing when he asks if it’ll be a "charter or constitution?" Again, I love how lines like these show Rick and Michonne know each other's humor as Michonne amusedly confirms it'll be a charter. And it's just sweet too cuz, while they're playing around, I'm sure Rick fully believes Michonne would be capable of drafting up a whole effective constitution for the new world lol.

Their synchronized smiles at this moment are seriously the best. 🙌🏽And then Rick kissing her three times is even better. The way Michonne smiles at him. The way he always has to come back for more. I live.😍

And I just absolutely love getting to see Rick and Michonne in such a relaxed happy state. Scenes like this make it so clear why Rick and Michonne haven't moved on from each other after all those years apart. You don't move on from a love like this.

Richonne gives each other joy like no other and this whole exchange shows how they work so effortlessly together as leaders and lovers. What a pair. 🤩 As Andy said, they truly are perfect partners in this imperfect world.

Plus it’s just always so sweet that two of the strongest, fiercest, most intimidating warriors in the world find each other so cute and cuddly. 😋

Y'all, Richonne + cars is a thing, and also Richonne + candle-lit scenes too, because they are always A1.

...But then the candles get blown out, and this scene proceeds to reach its peak of perfection. 🤩

As someone who loves a lengthy Richonne scene, I remember first watching this ep live and being so happy that they weren’t cutting away from them once the lights went out. I had no idea it was because we were in for something so heavenly. 😇

Cuz they turn off the lights and then immediately wrap their arms around each other again to go to sleep and it’s always so sweet seeing Rick softly touch her hair. All the little gestures just feel like this person in their arms is their treasure who has their whole heart. #ILoveEveryRichonneDetail

Then....y'all then Rick opens his eyes to utter the greatest thing he's ever said to Michonne thus far - “How’d I get so lucky finding you?”

BEAUTIFUL. Powerful, meaningful, romantic, fitting, perfect. I could go on. 👩🏽���🍳💋

I love the delivery of the line because it really feels like it’s this reoccurring thought for Rick that, at this moment, his mind was thinking and just had to utter out loud.

It's fitting he’d say this after the convo they just had because it really did capture why Michonne is so perfect for him, and I love that he knows it and vocalizes it. Michonne is a genuinely phenomenal individual, so it makes perfect sense that Rick feels not just happy but lucky to have her.

And just to think about their journey and know that we’d arrive at a point where Rick reflects on when he met Michonne and feels so personally lucky to have found her. 😭 She’s his soulmate, and he knows it wholeheartedly. 

And I love that beyond literally finding each other, there’s something deep about the way Rick and Michonne found each other in their truest form. They saw each other in a deeper way and brought each other back from the lost state they were in. 

Also, I always think it’s sweet how Rick said this with zero other motives - this was just his abundant love for her pouring out. I’m so grateful that in Rick's final season, they didn’t give him and Michonne any tiffs or division, but rather showed that they have only grown closer and more in love since the last season. 

Like after one of the series' longest time jumps, I adore that we return to a Rick and Michonne who have clearly spent the last year and a half strengthening their bond even more, and healing, and fully enjoying their life together. They are really and truly an unbreakable unit who only fall more in love the more time they spend together.

When I think about all Rick and Michonne have been through together and all they’ve built, it’s just the absolute greatest thing to know Rick thinks about his life and feels so sincerely lucky that he found Michonne. We knew that the day they found each other at the prison fence was life-changing, and it's great to see them two know it too.

If you were to tell Season One Rick that he was going to eventually lose his son, Carl, but would still have family that made him feel like a lucky man, he'd probably think you were crazy. And yet, this is the power of Richonne. The family found between Rick and Michonne runs so deep and is so authentic that, even after the most painful loss imaginable, Rick knows he still has so much to live for because he has Michonne and Judith.

Then it’s so sweet that Michonne hears Rick say this heart-bursting line and takes his hand because she feels the same way, and is likely thinking that's the...

#DirectQuoteFromHerMind you already know. 😋

And then Michonne softly tells Rick, "We both lost enough, it’s time we won a little don’t you think?" My heart. 😭 This moment is everything.

And y’all, I had gone back and re-read one of my old Richonne in Retrospect posts from several years ago where I reflected on a s6 scene between Michonne and David, that Alexandrian who got bit in 6.03. In that 6.03 scene, David talks to Michonne about his love story which completely and intentionally mirrors Michonne's own love story with Rick. And in that old post, I wrote this: 

"Rick and Michonne finding each other in all this is really one of the best things that happened to them. And in this type of world people take a whole lot of L’s so it’s cool that they were actually able to find such a big win in finding each other…and if R&M ever verbally imply a similar sentiment to each other about how finding each other in all this was everything, this will literally be me…"

So the fact that over a year after I wrote that, Rick and Michonne express exactly this...😭🙌🏾😭 It is the best ever. And just as I predicted, that gif above was and still is me whenever I watch this scene. It is just so powerful for Rick and Michonne to feel like amid all their loss, they still won big time by finding each other and falling in love. 

And then Michonne so lovingly kisses his hand, and Rick is perfectly content with that exchange as he shuts his eyes. But then, once again, the gift that keeps on giving gives us even more. 🤩

Cuz Michonne turns to look at him and then Rick...y’all, I’ll never get over how he looks at her right here. Like he looks right at Michonne with a breathtaking look that says, “I’m wholly and completely yours” and so clearly shows that she seriously means everything to him.

(also! y'all, I wrote this whole post before that V-day trailer, and so the fact that we've now got to hear Rick directly say, "I am yours," before the show even officially premieres 😍😍😍 my goodness TOWL is just blessings on blessings)

So then they kiss and it wonderfully ramps up with Michonne getting on top of him and reiterating "the famous Rick Grimes." 😏

…except this time, i think sis means he’s famous for reasons only she knows about. and that’s their business. 😋

As Danai has noted before, Rick knows how to make Michonne vulnerable, and Michonne knows how to make Rick laugh, which is just sublime.

And the way Rick laughs at the close of this scene - you know that if there’s one person he likes being "the famous Rick Grimes" to it’s Mrs. Grimes. 😊

Y’all, this whole scene blessed us ten times over. Our ship has it all. And we really do get whatever we want lol. 💅🏽

(Side note: it's also important to note that we don't just get whatever we want as some sort of forced fan service from the show. (Considering Gimple was planting Richonne seeds before viewers had even seen the two on screen together, that fan-service take simply can't be true). The real reason we get what we want is because the very love story we want to see is also the very love story the show wanted to organically craft. These TWD writers, actors, producers, network/production companies etc, fully recognize Rick and Michonne's relationship as a special marriage with crazy love between two tethered soulmates, and we're just in agreement and alignment with that. And I feel fortunate that the canon story being told is as beautiful, romantic, and authentic as we wanted and knew it would be)

I’m so grateful for this tender scene and that these actors are so capable of playing every shade of Richonne perfectly. Like we got serious, playful, romantic, steamy, and utterly heartfelt all in this one scene. 🙌🏾

And while Rick has expressed feeling so lucky to have Michonne in the way he looks at her for many seasons, it was wonderful to hear him also outright verbalize that in finding her he found a true reward. He doesn’t take her for granted, and Michonne doesn’t either, knowing that he is her win in all this too. 

This moment is also beautiful because Rick and Michonne are two selfless individuals who have been put through the wringer on their individual and shared journeys yet still remained dedicated to giving their all to protect their people - And then the universe sent them each other and said ♡ you deserve to be taken care of too, ♡ you deserve to be held too, ♡ you deserve a gift that's just for you too. ♡ oh and also the gift that we're sending you is...

Rick and Michonne are each other's blessing. This scene solidified that beautifully.

They won because of each other, and we won with special scenes like this that contribute so much to Richonne’s perfect love story. 😌

[scribble-dribble-writes]

MIGUEL X READER. SWEATY CAR SCENE.

please and thank u 🥹🫶🏻

THIS SCRATCHED MY BRAIN AND IS PROBABLY MY FAV TROPE 😩😩😩

Also hope it's ok that I mixed in a little bit of The Batman aesthetic.

Here you go I hope you like it!

GOLD RUSH

Warnings: kissing, lots of kissing

Word count: 1400

“What’s gotten into you?”, you asked as you trailed behind him. His hand wound firmly around your wrist as he led you away from the party.

“Nothing.” he mumbled but in the years you had known him, you knew that he was upset.

“Don’t lie to me.”, you told him, to which he spun you around as he pulled you in.

That when you stopped, you were facing him enclosed within his arms with you back resting on the car door.

“Well you’ve been lying to me for years.”, he held you in his gaze and all you could focus on was the slight manner in which his tie was askew and how the top button on his shirt was tempting you to set it free.

“Have I?”, you taunted him, wanting to get out of his hold because you knew where you were placed in his life.

You were his friend, his confidant, the one who cleaned up his messes and the one that was invisible. To love him meant, he never noticed you.

“How could you do this to me?”, he asked looking more distraught than usual, his eyes dosing your heart in gasoline.

“Do what to you?”, you grew tense. This game had to stop. You had said nothing wrong.

“Saying you loved me in that speech you dedicated to the company.”, he leaned closer.

“Everyone loves you, Miguel. So why is it a bother now just because I said it too.”, you shrugged your shoulders, the anger getting your words to have an edge to them.

Was it wrong that you said it?

Was it wrong that you meant it?

You bit back what you wanted to add and turned away but the distressed expression on his face pushed you over the edge.

“Besides it’s nothing new. All the women you take home every night would have let it slip the moment they saw you.”, you said, with what courage you did not know but you had had enough.

“Get in the car.”, he ordered to which you narrowed your eyes at him.

“I’ll drop you home.”, he softened and the sweet tone of his voice had a way of working it’s way into your mind, like it was magic.

But you knew how to resist it. You tilted his chin to his right, to get his gaze to focus on a woman that was about to approach him.

“Looks like she’s more your type.”, you leaned closer to whisper into his ear in an attempt to escape from him. Being around him had begun to be more painful that you realized.

But he grumbled, pulling his chin away from your hold to set his eyes back on you. He took a hold of your hand again as he instructed LYLA to start the car.

He held open the door for you, his actions dissuading the woman who was approaching him and now you were at odds. Because for so long you had wanted this, his attention and now you were unsure.

Where you just another accolade on his wall?

But your years of friendship meant you trusted him, and he trusted you, crossing over some of the most unspeakable losses in each other’s lives, you sighed and got in.

His black SUV was the most luxurious vehicle you had ever gotten into, sleek metal lining and black leather seats with the aroma of spiced coffee swirling around you. It felt like him. And that wasn’t doing you any good.

He closed the door after him and his AI began to set the car in motion. There was no one else except for you and him. A few minutes had passed before he spoke to you again.

“Did you mean it?”, he asked, his voice loaded with a vulnerability he only displayed around you.

“Like the way your mistresses say it?”, you asked before you could hold it back. It lashed out from within you and it was too late for damage control.

“Stop.”, he said slowly, the edge of his pinky finger touching yours.

“I’ve never taken them home.”, he admitted and it broke the illusion you were in.

“What do you mean?”, you asked, turing to see him, jealous that even the streetlights cast him in a beautiful haze.

“They get drunk, I drop them home. I stay the night and get the paparazzi to catch me in an awkward moment. But nothing happens. I spend the night watching your favorite movies, it's like I'm spending them with you instead.”, he spoke but his gaze was away from you, because if he had looked at you, he could have registered the look on your face.

“Why do you do it then?”, you questioned, now intrigued and hoping all the same time.

“To maintain a reputation that gives me an advantage to separate the vigilante identity I hold at night.”, he explained. You were the only one he had bestowed his beloved secret to.

You settled further into the seat, taking in this new information but he still hadn’t settled yet. He ran his fingers through his hair almost like he was restless.

“Did you mean it?”, he asked again and you were sure the answer was going to spill out of you.

“Miguel.”, you began to swallow that feeling that had begun to drill it's way into your heart again.

“Put me out of this misery.”, he turned to you, frantic as he pulled away his tie, he was unravelling and you didn’t know why.

“What do you want me to say? Everybody wants you, Miguel –

“But I want you.”, he cut you off impatiently.

“You’re the one I love.”, he said it with a passion that flooded into his eyes.

“It’s torturous, to see you and not be close. To hold you but never be yours. To love you and have you push me away.”, he argued and your brain has short-circuited. Some how as he put forth his statement you wanted to hold your own.

“But you never see me. All this while I’ve been here and all you’ve done is keep me at arm's length.”, you spoke back.

“Because I didn’t want to break what we had.”, his voice got louder.

“You couldn’t face your fears.”, you got closer.

“Well you should have spoken about it sooner.”, he got closer.

“Argh you are so –

“Why do you –

But then there was silence, because his hands were in your hair, his lips were on yours. You held your breath and he pulled you in closer as you pulled away in surprise, to witness the shock that changed into delight in his eyes. But after a pause,

His hands were on your thighs pulling you onto his lap, your hands were fumbling with the buttons as his lips worked their magic on your skin and kissed you everywhere he wished, his finger trailing up to slide away the straps of your dress to kiss your bare shoulder as you felt satisfaction sore through you once the first few of his buttons were undone, letting you trace your palm over his chest to feel the beat of his heart, to then slide it up his strong neck to find the ends of his hair.

His nose tucked under your ear to inhale in your perfume and the cold air inside the car had vanished to replace it with a warmth that made it feel like the sauna. Your fingers stuck onto the leather as did your knees, making you feel like you and him were metals, now bonding together. Fusing well in all the right places. His whispers in Spanish, his lips finding new places you would now hold his touch forever in, his hand slipped up to brace your neck as he found your lips again, to part your lips with his tongue to dig deeper, to move in a sync as though he had known you for ages and you met his pace. You were his equal, and he knew that well in how you dealt with business but here, he was certain you carried a part of his soul.

He slid to the side to lie down, stretching his legs a bit as you pulled shirt free from where had he tucked it in. Your hair was no longer in a bun, your dress was crumpled and his shirt had lost a few buttons, but you laid your head on his panting chest listening to the joy in his voice as he said this was beyond anything he had dreamt. It was. You could never have had made this up.

With new confidence, you rose slowly, tilting his chin to catch his gaze.

Because he wanted you.

He wanted you.

You bent to kiss him again and you were sure this was the start to many more.

[cyanide-sippy-cup]

Finally watched Caped Crusader and I have ✨thoughts✨.

Oswalda is straight up iconic. Loved every scene with her. I actually laughed out loud when the dude goes "Thorne got you to kill the wrong son?" and she responds "Not that!" I'd let her lock me in a suitcase and throw me in the sea. She gets a gold star ⭐

I like that we get to see Selina's origin. I like the classic suit. That's kinda it though. A bit sad that Bruce didn't feel any connection with her. Just not a huge fan of her character here. She doesn't feel like Selina (a problem most of this show faces tbh).

I was loving the Harley stuff. The bit with Renee was so cute, and I love that she really was passionate about helping Bruce move past his trauma. I really like that she's Barbara's friend. Was really upset at the fakeout death but at least she was just joshin. The villain stuff felt like fetishes which like okay. I guess Bruce needed to put in something to replace BruceBabs. Anyway, that's the final dig towards him. As much as this Harley episode wasn't my favorite, a promise is a promise. Although I do gotta ask, WHY CAN'T RENEE CATCH A BREAK IN HER LOVE LIFE >:(((

No fucking way the moral of episode 7 was "the system is totally not screwed, it's just a few bad apples and also a criminal is a criminal and should be jailed". Barbara literally says the system sucks cause the cops can do what they want and get in anyone's pockets and then nearly gets killed by a cop and then they end it with "actually, I think you do"?! I mean yeah that specific guy deserved prison but ending it on that note of Barbara feeling betrayed and confused on her morals tells a very not-so-delightful message. Glad the show backtracks on all that immediately but it's still weird and definitely could've used some revising to fit in with the rest.

Onomatopeia was awesome though. I remember people claiming his shtick couldn't work when he appeared in Superman and Lois. They said that it only worked in comics and would be too silly out loud. Happy to report that they're wrong.

I feel like I'm the only one who was excited to see Waylon but that's okay cause I got enough excitement for everyone. Love to see my mans kicking the shit out of potential perverts. You go, Waylon!

Dick, Jason, Steph, and Carrie. Definitely an interesting combination. But it's also so nice to see a Jason who grew up in a different environment and is therefore adorable with no rage in his heart. As opposed to Carrie who was ready to kick some ass. The ending to episode 8 really understood Batman, what with him saying he can't leave her there, carrying her and shielding her under the cape, and then asking about her later.

The Harvey bit is kinda cool but 1, I've always been iffy on the shotty DID stuff and 2, I think they coulda gone further. Just watch The Long Halloween for a better Two Face plot.

I like Harvey helping that guy get his stuffed animal back. That was a nice small character moment. If we had more stuff like that and Bruce being unable to confess his emotions to Alfred, I think this whole thing would be better. This one made up for episode 7's little message by having Barbara tell Harvey that it's not so cut and dry and that he deserves help too. I'm glad they went back to that after the whole "sometimes things are black and white" bit. Batman is about helping people just as much as Superman is and I feel like sending a message that "nope, bad is bad and he should just punch people" doesn't fit the entire thesis of Batman.

This finale really encapsulates how this show doesn't quite understand the character of Batman. It may be comic-accurate for him to be an asshole and put on the voice randomly, treat Alfred like crap, and randomly break character with stuff like "don't start growing a conscience now, Dent" but as I said it goes against the whole thesis. This is more along the lines of the Nolan films with the "Bruce Wayne is the mask" bit. And we all know how I feel about those films.

And then it ends on a boring cliffhanger with the boss guy and then a shitty Joker teaser. Boo.

In short, this show is good but it's not anything special. I do really like the classic Batman aesthetic, but that's pretty much it. It doesn't really understand the characters like MAWS and WFA, the overarching plot is kind of uninteresting and it doesn't feel like we're building up to something great. I feel like this show really wanted to use the episodic style to take a look at all these different elements of Gotham's world with references to existing characters and aspects. But whereas MAWS smoothly slid those into its narrative and setting, this just kinda feels like a villain of the week show instead of working towards this grand narrative. And that can be a good thing, I mean I'm a Scooby Doo fan for crying out loud, but in this scenario, it just doesn't work that exceptionally. If it gets a season 2, I'll probably watch it. But this isn't something I'd be excitedly waiting to see new episodes of.

[ourolite2]

ᨳິ petites idées!　　nsfw, smut. xiao + wanderer.　what kind of bottom they would be?! *round of applause* themes — hinted dacryphilia, overstimulation, god complexes, edging, you name it! with other honorable mentions such as m!oral receiving, praise kicks, breeding kinks, blindfolding- oh, and cowgirl. ༄

❀ “You speak of my approval with such ease, it is no easy feat to make me approve such lecherous ideas.” — Says the cross-armed, baleful-eyed yaksha.

❀ “It is when you’re HIM!” — Retorts the smug-faced gn!adventurer who lacks every meaning of self-preservation.

✿ No because you felt like THEE shit when you managed to convince him to bottom for you simply because his confirmation evinced that he trusts you greatly. You’re also quite sure he understands the vulnerability of his position, hence his hesitation even towards your reassurance and lighthearted jokes. Anyway, I’m sure he’s a demanding yet pleasing bottom. Not an ounce of kinkiness or brattiness radiates from his sweet self. His primary focus is to please you, after all.

✿ He’d do anything to give and receive said pleasure, though when he’s on the receiving end, he’s more demanding simply because he knows what he wants. Surely he’s still somewhat timid when it comes down to it, but not enough to disclose discomfort. Though, you almost never cause enough discomfort for him to relent completely. Surely he’s still somewhat timid when it comes down to it, but not enough to disclose discomfort. Though, you almost never cause enough discomfort for him to relent completely.

✿ But the downside to such PARADISE is him tending to lose focus when he’s too stimulated, so without proper communication you’re likely to get harmed during the process. Such as him biting your shoulder to the point where you’re dripping with blood, for example. Hence he’s a runner not because he’s overstimulated, but worried for your safety.

✿ LIKE OKAY LET ME COOK RQ ITS OKAY JUST LISTEN—

꒰꒰　　“[Y/n], why aren’t you speaking?”

𝒲hile gyrating his pearly-white hips to define impatience, the bleary-eyed adeptus questioned the one between his thighs who was unsuccessfully managing to retain a smile on his face. His baltic gold eyes were lowered with intemperance as if the concept of composure has yet to fill his mind. Though of course, considering the titillating scene below him, an innate look of intimidation is the last thing he could perform at the moment, for his cheeks suffused with crimson once your lips enriched his rubified tip with an amorous smooch.

Conflicted, since your immortal lover twitched rhythmically in your palm as if he isn’t upset over something minor, you stared up at him as you seasoned kisses along the viridian designs that journeyed from his faultless abs to his soppy tip. His expression softened sequentially once you’ve acknowledged that you forgot something during your travels, which was to fetch a kiss from the agitated yaksha’s lips below you, earning a waspish whine from him. Confused, you did just that, and while speaking “Alatian” has its perks, you do wish sometimes he would just speak his mind at times.

“Would you like for me to talk to you, Alatus?” You asked him against his departing lips, which were faminished and quivering for more than just a meaningless peck. Shamelessly, he nodded, his arousal unbridled much like his leather-gloved hands that found solace within your thighs. He gripped them with imprudence, his fingertips excavating into your skin to the point where you moaned at the seething sensation. You tittered at his display of desperation with another one of those teasing pecks he learned to loathe, but he wouldn’t dare make his move. Not in the volatile state he was in. Not yet at least.

“Okay, my love. I’ll talk you through it. Just lay down and relax, and everything will be alright.”

Your promising tone was the personification of qingxins. It even sparked the coldest stare to convert into a dewy-eyed state, his dick throbbing relentlessly without a lick of consideration for his depleting composure. Once you lowered yourself back towards the issue, your siren-like glare fixated on him, and if your mouth wasn’t enough to have him clenching the life out of the silky duvets, your voice certainly did the trick. Despite being capable of maintaining eye contact, his head gradually tilted backwards, trotted by a shaky moan eluding his lips.

“I… Hah… Hah…” He panted brainlessly as your mouth enveloped around his aching shaft, roughly and greedily sucking him as your head bobbed at a reasonable pace. Although you believed that he was going to last a little longer, the excessive twitching down your throat begged to differ. Alatus’s forearm was concealing his line of sight as his hips uncharacteristically thrusts inside of your mouth in order to amplify the whirling pleasure. A muffed gag rumbled beneath your throat in response, though your warning was needless to the needy thing, for he only groaned ecstatically when the vibrations blessed his slobber-coated dick. Times like this, it’s practically an obligation to relent. Even though you’re alright with the idea of him obliterating your vocal chords, he tends to get a little too animalistic at times.

His dick slid from off your drooling tongue with a heavy breath, though the metallic connection between his tip and your mouth was inseparable; he needed to be in your mouth, desired to hear how you’d sound after he fucked your throat with such potency. Instinctively, with a low whimper to correspond with his impulses, he shoved himself back in your mouth, causing you to gag louder than before. You pulled back innately in order to let out a strained cough, but you still possessed the consciousness to continue stimulating him by wrapping your supple fingers around his drenched length. Alatus’s teary eyes widened apologetically once he processed his actions, but bestowing a raspy chuckle in response to his desperation made his worries dissipate within milliseconds.

“N-Not yet… not yet… Need.. more?”

He immediately begged without a breath in his lungs, but that was expected with the way he was panting as if someone was asphyxiating him. His look was still flushed with apologies that his arousal refused to verbalize (expect him to latch onto you apologizing once you two finish, however). It would be intrusive to force him to dwell in such an agonizing state, though the way his tears brightened his amber-blessed eyes only made you squirm even more in anticipation. It was a difficult choice, whether to make him cum now or see how long it would take for him to finally break.

Such a poor thing, please treat him accordingly, would you?　　꒱꒱

❀ “Huh… and what makes someone like you so worthy of that?” — Asserts the haughty, anthropologic doll.

❀ “Well, what do I need to do to deserve all of you?” — The hispanic!male adventurer replies with a similarly haughty appearance.

✿ You’d need an unreasonable amount of self-control to deal with him. I’m sure we’re all aware that he also fits in the switch category, and I’d also like to believe that he’s definitely a degrading, punishing top who would probably make you beg to cum only for him to refuse each time. Him bottoming didn’t change his personality much as well, because now he’s a power bottom brat who doesn’t understand when or how to be quiet. The most you could do is practice the term “patience”.

✿ Oddly, despite his disrespectful antics, he adores praise, just like any other individual with narcissistic tendencies. Adulation is something any God should bask in, yes? Instead of punishing him for his mouth, which takes longer to rectify, you should keep a kind smile and claim that his pretty face is better when drenched with tears. Now this nigga sobbing with each chance he gets, ordering you to compliment him.

✿ I also like to believe that Wanderer knows many variations of Spanish… iykyk. His Shouki no Kami was probably inspired by Latin American folklore and history. Y’all know them damn them Incas was unnecessarily strong. In order to study it, he needed to explore the languages first.

✿ Man, just let me cook- LET ME COOK, PLEASE.

꒰꒰　　𝓑illowing smoke of the burning Kalpalata lotus aromatized the bleak vicinity to help catalyze the whirling arousal in your abdomen in order to free yourself from exasperation, though even a sex-inducing flower wasn’t enough to reach a singular orgasm considering your doll’s intentions. Your senses were reliant on touch and smell, from remnants of padisarahs and plastic wafting in your face since Kuni’s hat was disrupting your line of vision, to your dick being swallowed effortlessly by the failed deity, who was also grunting waspishly because of such. Really, it was forbidden to even consider anything but him during such a pious session. How dare you burn something so useless when there was an intoxicant bringing ambrosial warmth, mewling and groaning endlessly around your shaft, embellishing the reddened beige with hallowed ivory? You were mocking him and he knew it.

“Dámelo,” He panted begrudgingly causing spittle to elude his lips that were perishing from desiccation. Without giving you a moment to relish in his faultless lilt that wasn’t programmed in his system, but rather studied simply by analyzing how you speak, he snatched the floral-based joint from between your fingers before tossing it elsewhere. You didn’t need it. You needed him to cum, but it was beginning to sound like he was convincing himself more than anything.

He could even feel you grinning puckishly underneath his meretricious hat, which he forbade you to remove since you didn’t deserve to bask in the glory he endowed upon you, but you could definitely rely on your imagination. From what you’ve learned was a cross-armed, disdainful-appearing doll converting into a needy, irritable lover who needs to feel you come undone beneath him. “Do you ever consider being more God-fearing, [Y/n], or do you have some sort of dying wish?”

Irreverently, you nodded to affirm his revulsion; he was on the verge of leaving you hard and impatient to accentuate his disappointment. You understood this, seeing as he placed his frigid palms on your pecs in order to ascend his hips, but you grasped one of them instinctively, coaxing his walls to remember why they contract to begin with. Meanwhile your other hand occupied his rubified dick, your thumb anointed with cum that seeped from his sensitive tip. A spate of overwhelming, awe-inspiring, sacrilegious images permeated your memories once your fingers journeyed along his maculated hips, your dick twitching harshly inside of him since the overwhelming desire to paint his ass with crimson handprints inveigled you greatly. It’s almost as if he hasn’t even threatened you to begin with, for the broken whimpers that were poorly disguised as resentful grumbles desired endless adulation.

“¿Ay, muñeco… Quieres más?” You questioned sonorously as your thumb gyrated around his tip, your tone somewhat strained due to the fact that Kuni pulsated and clenched around you because of appropriate addressment. Although he despised the fact that he needed to reduce to fragility to become utilitarian, libations of cum spluttering from his hole as you fuck him during plethoras of orgasms was considerable for the night. The mortifying idea left him ironically blinded, which was determined with the way his hips wiggled and rutted irregularly onto your dick.

Even with his condescending persona, it was evident that he wanted to be of some use to you; he could hardly restrain the tears that painted his porcelain-based eyes as a spew of no’s eluded his lips. In fact, he hasn’t even given you any time to process, since he already snatched your hand away from his tip to avoid finishing too fast… for the third time.

“W-Wait, please…” Imploringly, he hissed under his breath, an innate curse muttering afterwards when he expressed with vulnerability. Deplorable, to say the least. Extremely, to say the least. You adored every second of it; it took you the rest of your self-possession not to batter into him to the point he was charming incantations as if you were his lord. Though, you respected his wishes for now, especially because the cool zephyr kissing your sweat-painted face provided by him finally removing his hat was enough to bring solace to your impulses. “Don’t make me… not again…”

Kuni’s resilience was impeccable, and despite his muddled vision, tousled, empurpled blue hair, panting lips, and entirety of his fucked out exterior, he was willing for more that you had in store for him. You bit your bottom lip with another one of your infamous smiles as you finally grasped both of his hips with both hands. He was startled, let alone offended, at first, but once you began gradually lifting and plunging him down on your dick, the negativities dissipated like flower petals in February. His authenticity was enough, and you could already feel your orgasm approaching rather quickly since you preferred the stammered whimpers rather than the taunting comments. He was more appropriate like this, after all.

“That’s it, fuck me fast- mierda. Want an oblation? Then show me. Show me you need me to cum.” 　　꒱꒱

⑅ neso productions. all rights fucking reserved, do not plagiarize.

[ruiniel]

Hello!

I hope your feeling better, I myself have been feeling like crap lately so you have my sympathies.

I saw your post on glorfindel and was wondering if you'd be happy with more tolkien requests, though I definitely love your castlevania works!

That being said, may I request a glorfindel and a human lady reader?

Thank you for sending! And yes, welcoming Tolkien requests.

I redid an older Glorfindel scene for this... wanted to 'revive' it instead of letting it sit in my drafts. Might follow up with something NSFW, not sure?

General note: also working on the older asks, it's taking forever

Lairë

Pairing: Glorfindel x human fem!reader

Count: 0.5k

Rating: T

Forlond, Lindon, late Second Age

“Laurefindil, Laurefindil!”

He turns from his musing at the sound of his name, his eyes torn from the swaying waves. The day has given way to dusk, and it’s been one of clear skies and mild winds. He breathes the salty breeze, his chest filling with the rush and flow come from the sea depths.

You’re breathless when you reach his side, taking him by the arm. “Look, look a whale! Do you see it? Look there, to the East!”

Glorfindel watches you for a moment, smiling at the sight of your sparkling eyes. He follows your pointing finger. Indeed he sees the tip of a tail splashing silver foam away in the far distance, just where the Gulf of Lune flows into the sea. “I do see it… well done,” he glances back at you. 

Your hair is loose, your dress wet, the sheer material clinging to your thighs and legs after a spree in the shallow waters kissing the shore. Glorfindel himself is unshod, his plain grey tunic reaching his knees, his trousers rolled up to his calves. 

“Well done indeed, and I win, my lord,” you tease, a finger pointing at his chest. “And you know the wager. Tonight, you dance.” His frown makes you chuckle. 

“I most certainly will not.”

You cross your arms. “That was the wager. You took it. I said that I saw them, and you asked me to prove it. I did. Or does Lord Laurefindil only keep his word when it suits?” For a long time, you’d taken to calling him by his Quenya name, knowing it gladdens him to hear it. “No, you promised. Imagine the look on their faces!”

The Elf shakes his head. “You’re being childish.”

Whatever else he may have uttered, it is lost with the way you barrel into him, and even Glorfindel loses his balance with the swiftness of your movements. The sand is warm beneath him, but it’s also in his mouth and ears. Your face hovers into view, framed by salty locks, eyes now twinkling mirthfully above him. “Rise and let me up, or you go unaccompanied to your dancing tonight.” He tries to sound demanding, but somehow, in the short years he’s known you, you’d come to see through most of his devices. 

A half-smile graces your lips, your arms propped on his shoulders. “Make me.” 

He could never stay upset with you for long, pretend or not. His hands slip along your thighs, up your hips, settling there. He closes his eyes at the warmth of your mouth, trailing along his chin, to his lips. His grip tightens on your hips.

And then he’s fast on his feet, even with you struggling and laughing in his arms.

“Put me down, you cannot! Put me down! Laurefindil! You will regret this!”

Still smiling he carries you, futile resistance and all, to the shore. Glorfindel advances into the lazy waves, painted gold and green in the sunset.  “No,” he takes your chin between his fingers. “You will.” And he drops you.

You gasp when cold water douses your sun-warmed skin, thrashing to be free of him. Anyone passing would stand perplexed at the sight of a famed Balrog slayer jestingly dunking the head of a young maiden beneath the sea while she grapples and tugs at his clothing like a writhing handmaiden of Uinen. Your laughter glitters along the shore, lost in the faraway winds.

[silviakundera]

The Double ep 15-16 reaction

I'm glad they added another flashback of her brother and included his escort friend from the novel. Minor character and a small tragedy but it humanizes him for me. He was just a sincerely nice guy who wasn't kind to her as an aim to possess her, but because he was a good person. And so she never forgot him. She thinks he forgot her - only to learn he never cut ties with her; he was killed. Little tragedies, small people that royalty step on like ants.

To me it feels important that as much as the drama gives her husband depth and makes us sympathize with his situation, it shouldn't allow us to forget that her family was destroyed. We didn't see it happen, like the shovel to her head, but her father was his teacher. Xue Zhao was his brother in law. Their names may no longer matter to anyone else, but our protagonist will not allow them to go unavenged. [lil note from the novel I liked - novel!Duke Su being perplexed and unable to figure out how FL is getting this successful escort to assist her, when even he seems to respect how impossible it is to get a handle on the woman - because she has a secure position as a popular escort & enough money & is satisfied being exactly where she is (doesn't want to fight for favor as someone's treasured concubine), independant and unable to be threatened or bribed. so what could possibly move her?]

(Now this is sorta thematically tying in with the backstory drama created for ML with this bandit. ML's general dad was a good person and so he wasn't forgotten by this person whose life he touched, so presumably he'll do ML a favor. FL and ML have turned into schemers and are willing to get their hands dirty; but are aided in their quest by the fact that their dead family had a positive impact on some people who still remember it?? Be interesting to see if this does become a minor theme 🤔)

ANYWAY let's get to the good stuff: Last episode ML started realizing he's catching feelings. This episode FL feels jealousy and isn't shy about it ('can't I?'). We're making real shippy progress here!

He very much still enjoys watching her strut and perform. But the distance between them is slowly closing. That whole drinking game scene was pure gold.

"Are you not upset now? "Huh?" THE LOOKS THEY EXCHANGE AT THIS.

He's entered the play, joining her on stage instead of coldly manipulating from a high vantage point. Her walls are down for a moment and he's not even hiding his bias. Blatant flirting and she has him smiling. Yes, he has 2 agendas here but unlike the last failed 'date' they were playing together, not her in the role of pawn. I love a smart ML. Boy is not gonna fumble this chance to have his schemes AND a woman who's perfect for him.

I found this subplot of FL foiling the Li clan's plans for Ye clan her most clever manuveuring in the translated novel (up to ch 113). Though it's being compressed for time & tweaked, still satisfying to see her outflank the corrupt local government. As well, very glad to see the ML point out that she has a double-motive... to intentionally make the Jiang and Li irreconcilable. (They're not her real family, they're her enemies!) Nooooooo don't have multiple layers to your plans, it's too sexyyyyyy

[celaenaeiln]

What's the deal with fanon Tim bc I read some comics with Tim and I've seen him in cartoons but all I see people talk about is "haha coffee addicted nerd who doesn't sleep!" and that just seems weird and wrong. Like my view of Tim has always been "he's a nice and extremely smart guy who sometimes pushes things a bit too far and maybe a bit set in his own ways/Batman's ways" but now I'm not even sure of that because I really haven't read THAT much (mostly seen him in other series) lol

No you're right!! Anon you're so right!!!

What the heck is up with fanon Tim Drake??

The thing about him not sleeping is actually true though

Detective Comics (2016) Issue #937

Batman: Contagion Issue #11

(I agree with Catwoman, Tim is so cute)

So I understand where the coffee addiction in fanon comes from but Tim's not actually addicted to coffee in the comics. I actually don't recall him mentioning coffee at all. At some point he might have but if he did, then those instances are so little in the grand scheme of things it might as well be called negligible if it's trying to be called an addiction.

But more importantly, Tim is so much more than that!! My favorite Tim Drake aspect of him is how sassy and sarcastic he is, it makes him so endearing!!

UGH NO ONE APPRECIATES HOW MUCH OF A LITTLE SHIT HE IS!!

Robin (1993) Issue #58

CMON CMON CMON LETS TALK MORE ABOUT THIS!!

Tim, you little shit, you know exactly what they say - cause you did it!!

HIS SELF-SATISFIED SMILE!!!

In all honesty I find Tim the funniest of the entire batfamily to read because he's so-he's so wholesomely quirky in a mean way. That's such as awkward way to describe it but reading his comics, you just can't get enough of them because he's just too funny!

At one point he has a massive fever and stuck underground with a bunch of weird kids and one of the girls is just like "please get better, please get some rest!" as she's wiping away his sweat and Tim has like no breath or energy at this point. But with the last remains of will power, he uses his breath to push one last question between lips.

Robin (1993) Issue #70

And as the audience waits in baited anticipation we get this-

Robin (1993) Issue #70

It's actually a very valid question and shows his detective thinking and yada yada yada but THE COMEDIC GOLD OF HIS TIMING!!

Like his situation and his question there's a massive gap that's almost incomprehensible about it all which is why it's so fantastic!!

The way he sasses batman is top 5 fav moments with him.

Azrael: Agent of the Bat Issue #91

Thanks @paladin-of-nerd-fandom65 for finding it again <33

But Tim overall is just like a normal kid. He's what authors tried to do with Stephanie but failed. They were able to make him relatable to the audience because the way he acts, it's so quirky but funny. Yes, he's a boy detective genius but he likes messing with people, he likes solving crime, he likes hanging out with his big brother, he asks for relationship advice, he can get insecure, he can get upset without acting cold, he gets tired, he gets anxious, he's determined, and he's super dorky.

Robin (1993) Issue #25

Like really dorky.

But what I think really defines him is this panel

Robin (1993) Issue #48

This scene is probably what explains him best. Tim is someone who ponders a lot. He thinks constantly all the time whether it's about cases or his personal life, he just goes over the choices he makes constantly because he's just soul-searching alot.

He always means well even if he's awkward about it and he's just a diverse personality overall. The fanon interpretation of his character doesn't really do him any justice because it doesn't address how funny he is or confused or just a likeable, real person in general.

[exo-raskreia]

Imma rant about Ichigo and Orihime cuz your blog has waken a outrageous fire in me!! And rightfully so! I agree with literally everything you said(btw Karin and hitsugaya are endgame for me too🤭🤭)

Ichihime makes literal sense and it genuinely sucks as a ship and i don't get why the shippers are satisfied with the results. I asked my friend who he wanted to be endgame and answered Ichigo and Orihime cuz they are a better fit. LITERALLY HOW?!! I didn't go psycho on him cuz if Ichigo and Rukia ain't your cup of tea then fine. But why are people answers automatically always Ichihime?? Is it cuz they are canon??? Where the hell was the build-up for it then?! It is nothing compare to ichigo/rukia or orihime with tatsuki/uryu. Idk if Kubo was trying to punk us by pairing them up or not. I feel like he didn't plan our their relationship properly! People say it was obvious from the beginning that ichigo likes her back but i sure as hell didn't see it! Maybe i'm just salty and refused to see the signs cuz Ichiruki is the best ship( and i had a crush on ichigo since forever soooo... 😖😖) ?? I've always been a rukia and ichigo fan rather cuz they actually had the chemistry and insane connection. I'm so mad that they weren't endgame. My girl Rukia was elite why didn't Ichigo went for her and vice versa?? Don't get me started on the poems, the speechs, the way ichigo always and always thinks of rukia. Like the ingredients for the cake was perfect, why the hell would you put gasoline in there💀💀

Some people say that cuz the show is shounen and not a romance, i shouldn't be upset about ichihime ending up together and not be mad of lack of their romance. I'm not expecting ichigo and orihime to have some epic EPIC love story or anything just make it more sense for ME at least. If Ichihime was some side-ship then i wouldn't care as much, but this is the MC of the show i want to see something greater than what we received! If they were to have a love story(ya know a real one) then they should've played it out like in Fruits basket

Ichigo and orihime actually remind me alot of kyo and tohru from fruits basket. And they're all very similar to think about it! Ichigo and Kyo: the grumpy orange haired protecters that have a heart of gold. Orihime and Tohru: the loveable sunshine character that are super traumatized but still manage to keep smiling. The only difference is that Kyo and Tohru actually have the emotional moments and had the chemistry and ya know they actually TALKED and were ACTUAL FRIENDS(as in kyo didn't treat tohru like a acquaintance) before dating. But since Orihime is so much like Ichigo's dead mom, their relationship would've been like Yuki and Tohru. I know the comparison might be dumb to do cuz they are very different anime and different genre but still!! Excuse me for caring so much about that my fav ain't canon. Yes this is a shounen anime but they could've at least squeezed in a bit of the love story of the mc to show they actually care about it. The MC of the show has a better and stronger bond with his bestie than his own wife. Like how is my girl Orihime not bothered by it?! Should've end up Tatsuku i swear. I mean they're literally Nana and Hachi!! 🍓🐶✨

I feel like orihime just exist to be his love interest and that's it! Girl had the potential to be a great character that ain't always there to be the love interest. Her becoming a housewife was insulting cuz what do you mean she ain't a robot destroying a city (i can't remember that scene from the earlier seasons but something in between those lines🤣) I do like Orihime enough but not that much cuz it's Ichigo this and Ichigo that. Like girl i get it. I wanted(and still do) him too but don't settle for being the second choice) HOMEGIRL YOU HAVE OTHER LUCKY DUCKS THAT WANNA BE WITH YOU!!

And another thing: I read somewhere that: just cuz Uryu had a crush Orihime that, that doesn't mean that Orihime should be together with him.... Okay then why can't that also imply to Ichigo and Orihime?? Like why just cuz "She'll fall for him in every lifetime" doesn't mean that he has to do the same too!! Rukia is already the queen of his heart mind you

BUT ANYWAYS!! It's a shounen after all so i shouldn't be expecting the mc to have a well-written love story and not to have high hopes of the MC love interest to be something more than that. But whatever at the end of the day they're CANON and have a kid together so all i can do is cry about it and live in fanfiction.

Ahem, I'm done with my rant thank you 😌 (And yes anti-IchiRuki fans I'll still be salty in my 40s cuz of the ending and I will never shut up about it just cuz they have canonically have kids)

No worries, anon! You've come to the right place! Let it all out~

Not surprised your male friend would choose Ori. Typical. For dudes like him, her appearance, superficial crush on Ichigo, & the word "canon" being slapped on are enough for them, despite there not being any actual chemistry between IH. It is also a common trope in other manga/anime, so they convince themselves that it was meant to happen, but it doesn't mean it makes sense for every story, especially not in Bleach's case; it doesn't make narrative sense if they actually looked into it.

(Canon ≠ good. Just look up what went wrong in 'How I Met Your Mother' or even 'Game Of Thrones' S8).

(While on the subject, since Rukia is a much better written character than Ori, if she had a body like Ori's, & Ori like Rukia's, even less dudes would care about IH 🫢, since they never even have good arguments in favor of it that aren't the 3 things I mentioned already up top).

Ichigo & Rukia had the most chemistry in the entire manga/anime, & it baffles me when people didn't/don't (wanna) see it. I went into Bleach almost blind when I first started watching it & IR really stood out. Their bond is right in your face, playing along the border between platonic & romantic, making you wonder what exactly it is, but knowing they aren't just mere friends. In the manga, I was constantly awed & amused by how borderline romantic it came off as, despite having already watched the anime (which did not do the manga justice in many ways; and then antis claim IR was mostly anime-based, PLEASE 🙄). Kubo really wasn't playing when it came to these 2. What a freakin' troll.

Haven't watched Fruits Basket, but I can see what you mean. Grumpy & Sunshine is a fun trope, however, as you said, IH just didn't have what it takes. If Kubo had wanted to, he could have properly developed IH at some points in the manga, such as the Fullbring arc, & it wouldn't have to be anything big, as Bleach is not a romance. He could have opened the arc with those 2 already going out, like them holding hands as they head to school or something, maybe showing some flashbacks of them talking things out, comforting each other since HM to show how they got together. Instead, in those 17 months since Ichigo lost his powers & contact with Rukia, you're telling me Kubo couldn't make IH bond? Instead, Ori's still pathetically pining after him while Ichigo is still thinking of, longing for, Rukia! How am I supposed to believe IH was meant to be endgame?!

Orihime had more chemistry with other people than the man she ended up with 💀. I personally ship her with 2 other men (Ishida & Ulquiorra). She was different with them. One selflessly cared for her, had her at the forefront of his mind in her own rescue arc (unlike Ichigo), while the other challenged her, found her fascinating & wanted to learn more... Not to mention they both protected her from Ichigo a couple times in the HM arc.

She really did have potential to be a great character but it all kept going down the drain, never achieved her dreams nor goals. She kept regressing as the story went on, especially when it came to Ichigo. She was never able to encourage him nor fully support him & was usually a complete damsel in his presence (he even seemed annoyed by her during the Ywach fight, which mind u, she was only there cuz there was no one else left & Ichigo had no choice?). She was more interesting whenever she wasn't around him. All her best moments were when she wasn't thinking about him. Saving Tatsuki? Bonding with Ishida in SS, standing in front of him to protect him in the Fullbring arc? Bonding with Ulquiorra (the only good thing she did the whole HM arc)? She could've done more in HM but didn't. In TYBW, she didn't do anything special, couldn't even encourage Ichigo & was treated like a ragdoll by Ywach. This is how Kubo wanted us to remember her. She was mostly reduced to fanservice by the end (and she's still not as popular as Matsumoto or Yoruichi in that department 💀). I sometimes think he didn't like her all that much with how he treated her character...

While watching the anime, I seriously had been hoping she'd get over Ichigo in the SS arc when she wistfully said Rukia was a very special person to him who changed his world (oh, boy, was I in for disappointment). Right off the bat, there was nothing interesting/exciting about her interactions with Ichigo (I was shipping her with Ishida by this point). He was just so blasé with her, I almost felt bad for her & it only kept getting worse. I then hoped she'd finally get over him after the traumatic experience at the dome in HM, but her ongoing silly crush made my eyes roll & lose hope in it. LIKE GIRL, HE'S HUNG UP ON ANOTHER GIRL, & U SHOULD'VE STOPPED PUTTING HIM ON A PEDESTAL BY NOW; HE'S NO PRINCE CHARMING & ESPECIALLY NOT FOR U WHEN HE BARELY GAVE U A SECOND THOUGHT IN UR OWN RESCUE ARC & ALMOST GOT U KILLED LIKE 3 TIMES & U HAD TO GET SAVED BY ULQUIORRA & ISHIDA, LIKE-

Orihime doesn't have anything in common with Masaki other than maybe their appearance (which imo, Masaki looks more like short-haired Matsumoto anyway?). Besides the cheerful part, their personalities are very different. Masaki was more like Rukia: brave, strong, selfless, teasing & annoying Isshin/Ichigo, etc... IR has actual dynamic parallels with IsshiMasa in the narrative... Kubo just copied IR moments, especially considering he wrote as he went... So, don't be fooled by those morons who go by appearance alone & even those weird lines in one of the novels (Oedipus complex anyone?) instead of the legitimate parallels between IR & IM shown in the manga, such as these:

What was going thru Kubo's head if he supposedly "intended" for IH to happen? Ichigo & Ori had more chemistry with other characters than with each other. Kubo went about this all wrong. Bleach not being a romance is no excuse for shoddily pairing up characters in the end. In a few scenes scattered throughout the manga, he could've implied them. Every time they interacted, their relationship should've progressed somehow. And he actually did this with IchiRuki. (In regards to Naruto, for example, Kishimoto at least admitted he didn't put enough effort into his ships by saying romance was not his forte & he's not good at writing female characters, but at least most of the ships made sense & esp NaruHina had actual good moments scattered throughout the manga...).

Sigh, I've said this before, but why can't more battle shounens be like Fairy Tail when it comes to developing the ships throughout the story? There'd be less drama. Even Gintama did a better job at developing the main ships, lol, that if they became canon, hardly anyone would've been surprised (they were somewhat implied if u squint, tho 🤪).

There are theories Kubo wanted to spite Shounen Jump for their treatment over the years so he ended things this way (and maybe to spite the fans too, since his manga sales had been on the decline for years). Ever heard of the "choosing unhappiness" theories? Basically, remember that Ywach said he'd come back at Ichigo's happiest moment? Well, he didn't come back at Ichigo's wedding with Ori, not even at the birth of his son. He came back when Ichigo reunited with RUKIA after 10 years.

So what could this be telling us? That Ichigo chose to be unhappy by not getting with the one person who made him the happiest. Rukia gave him that push by choosing unhappiness first (since she knew Ichigo couldn't make the first attempt to) & married Renji, who in turn, also gave Ichigo that push to go for Ori. IR chose unhappiness to defeat Ywach. Could this actually be what Urahara meant when he said he'd leave everything to "Kurosaki-san & Kuchiki-san" after his defeat in TYBW?! (we deserved the IR tag-team we never got in the final fight, screw Kubo)

One could also say his friends chose unhappiness to help too? Ishida becoming a doctor he'd never expressed interest in & seeming isolated from the friend group (maybe not agreeing with the farce they're all in), Chad becoming a boxer instead of using his fists to protect, Ori marrying a man who doesn't love her & she knows never will, Renji marrying a woman who doesn't love him & never will (and whom I think he doesn't love either? My view on that here)... Isshin is nowhere in sight, could it be he also doesn't wanna be a part of this farce in which his own son chose to marry a woman he doesn't love?

Still, everything about this ending is so wrong, makes no sense, a bunch of retcons too. Heck, remember the rebuilding of Sokyoku Hill in SS? Made Ichigo destroying it meaningless 🙄.

Anyway, I didn't mean for this post to be too long. There's so much to rant about lol. There's also so much to make fun of 👀. As I said in this post, IH was never popular & never will be. Kubo himself can't bring himself to give them content & his affiliates (like Shounen Jump, Studio Pierrot, etc.) can't be bothered either, as IH doesn't sell. Canon for almost 10 years & still no official couple/family arts nor merch 😂. If they end up getting thrown a bone in the future, the fact it took them that long would still be laughable.

In the end, it's best to ignore canon, its fans, & engage with what you like. It also doesn't hurt to sometimes make fun of Bleach's failures~ Kubo has made it so easy, can you blame us? 🤷‍♀️

Also, glad u like HitsuKarin as well 🤭. Would you believe it's my #1 Bleach OTP? I had brainrot for it a few years ago, like I literally scoured almost every bit of content that I could find, & while it's died down, I just know that if Kubo &/or his affiliates were to feed us HK content now, I'd eat it up like a starving dog-

Sorry for the late reply, anon! 😓 Been having brainrot for a different fandom, if u can guess

[shinyshade8026]

Ramble about Vizzy headconons. Go 😉🫵

- Mod Cosmos

>:]

VIZZY HEADCANONS

Lizzy gives V a phone for the sole reason of her wanting to talk to her when she isn't at the bunker, but she doesn't say that

V appreciates the fact Lizzy isn't super scared of her and is very chill. While they adore drones being scared and strive for it, they're glad that there's one drone who isn't scared to death of her.

You know that scene of V and Lizzy sitting on the roof together? Oh V def bridal style carried Lizzy up there so they could sit together

V calls Lizzy 'Liz' most of the time

Lizzy enjoyed every moment of her time with V (Talking about the pictures we saw in episode 3)

Lizzy TOTALLY suggested that red is V's color and actually went and found a dress for V before prom happened and was the one who told V to send N to get that one

Lizzy smells like vanilla, this is V's favorite scent to smell other than oil

V smells like cinnamon, this is something Lizzy likes to smell

Lizzy has a designated pillow V uses during their sleepovers, that is V's pillow and she'd probably get upset if anyone used it

...V has a pink heart sticker on her phone case, Lizzy has a gold/red one

That's all I got

[wednesdays-buck]

. . . a 9-1-1 abc fic rec!

🚒❤️🚒❤️🚒

everything (nothing) has changed by bizarrestars

[Explicit]

After Eddie gets shot, Buck confesses his love. From there, things get a little out of hand.

***

Buck breathes for a moment, then sets his shoulders. "Eddie, there's something I have to tell you."

"Do you?" Eddie asks flatly, still alarmed and doing his best to hide it. "I would've never guessed."

Buck swallows. "Eddie, I love you."

"Are you softening the blow, or buttering me up? Because, I've got to tell you, I'm still very worried regardless," Eddie tells him.

"No, you don't understand. I love you. I'm currently in love with you," Buck says as evenly as possible, and even then, his voice wobbles precariously there for a moment. He exhales. "You don't have to worry about it, though, because I've processed it and decided to—to find relief in telling you before moving on and moving forward."

Eddie stares at him. No response at all.

Well, at least he's not freaking out.

what if i can't have us by woodchoc_magnum

[Explicit]

In which Eddie is dating Marisol; Buck's dating Tommy, and Eddie has feelings about that, which he simply does. not. understand.

forget a six pack, i need the whole damn keg by bucksbicycle

As soon as the shop was cleared and they started getting the scene cleaned up, Joe reached out to say hello. His light greeting and catch-up small talk is then followed by a “Damn, Buck, I know it’s been a while, but what are you doing? You’re looking big, man.”

With that, Eddie walked away and tried to shut it out.

“You’re looking big, man.”

Why don’t you shut up, man? Why don’t you think about Eddie’s mental health, man? Can’t you see that Eddie is trying not to notice how big Buck is, MAN?

-

5 times Eddie admires Bulking Season Evan Buckley in the gym + 1 time the attention is reciprocated

-

title from Big Boy by SZA

c'mon baby, rip it by drh0rrible

(Part 2 of THIS SERIES)

It was only a matter of time before one of Buck's sleeves ripped. Buck knew it, everybody at the 118 knew it. Bystanders on the streets of LA knew it.

But when it actually happens, Buck just wants to know why Eddie is so upset.

A Perfectly Normal Reaction by Ailelie

Eddie knows his reactions to each milestone in his or Buck's relationships are not normal, but he can't stop. He needs some way to make the connection he feels with Buck real and untouchable by anyone else.

Basically, Eddie has a lot feelings he doesn't understand. So, instead of thinking about them, he keeps doing more and more to cement Buck's place in his life.

deep inside a gold mine by marviless

Eddie is all fucking over him. He falls asleep with his body sprawled over the broad expanse of Buck’s chest and wakes up with his face buried into the skin of his neck. They watch a movie together on Eddie’s couch and Eddie practically sits in his lap, head tucked under Buck’s chin as he blinks at the screen. When they’re alone, Eddie can’t stop himself from peppering kisses to Buck’s lips and his cheeks and his forehead as Buck giggles and pretends to try and duck. Under the dinner table every night, Eddie will hook his foot around Buck’s ankle and make Buck duck his head into a flushed smile. And Eddie is always, always holding Buck’s hand—running errands and in their own bed and at the grocery store and across the console while Buck’s driving them to work. Maybe he’s just in the honeymoon stage. Or maybe this is how he’ll always feel—like every second he’s not touching Buck is a second wasted.

in which eddie is in love and a bit clingy about it.

squeeze the day by fallingthorns

“You all are delusional,” Buck squawks. Eddie lets out a low giggle and Buck turns to glare at him. “Oh, so now you have something to say?” He directs it at Eddie, and Eddie laughs again.

“I don’t know, Buck,” he teases, gesturing at the orange. “You have been slacking on the bicep curls lately.” He pokes Buck’s bicep and Buck lets out a yelp. “Hm. Soft.”

It is decidedly not soft. Eddie will probably be thinking about that for the next two business days, but that’s between Eddie and Eddie’s thoughts alone. -- Or, the one where Buck squeezes an orange with his bicep and Eddie has some thoughts about it.

up against the wall by orphan_account

[Explicit]

In the months that passed, Eddie has been able to carefully work through his trauma from the shooting, with a therapist that he finally clicked with, and slowly but surely, the events of that day become a thing of the past.

Well, almost, because even when he was in excruciating amounts of pain and in and out of consciousness, he was able to register the fact that Buck had lifted him up and shoved him into the truck like a rag doll.

And yeah, maybe it was the adrenaline that gave Buck the strength, but the thought of Buck being able to lift him so easily has firmly planted roots in his mind and refused to let him go.

Or: That gratuitous wall-sex fic.

the soft animal of your body by heygirltimeformorning

[Explicit]

It hits him like a bullet, like a tsunami, like lightning: he is in love with Evan Buckley.

Alternatively: The accidental edging of Evan “Buck” Buckley.

Your Touch; Brands and Burns, Heals and Holds by marry_writes

Buck's eyes widen as he realises he’s about to get backhanded. His eyes fall shut involuntarily but the hurt never lands.

He slowly blinks open his eyes to two pairs of wide eyes. The girl’s are mixed with guilt but it’s Eddie’s eyes that have him flinching slightly. He catches the slightly murderous intent that is slowly fading away giving way to pure concern. Buck looks down to where Eddie’s hand is holding onto the girl’s wrist. Oh

“Watch it.”

He’s never heard Eddie use that tone on a patient before.

OR 4 times Buck doesn't question Eddie and the one time he does.

Whumptober - Touch

[leesmustardgarden]

When the Sun Comes Up

P x (gn) reader — Drabble

Warnings: mentions of the horrors of Krat (idk how to put a warning tag on it), general game spoilers, Reader is written as a painter, very short drabble, something something trauma, P’s trauma response is to shut down or start swinging I don’t make the rules sorry

A/N: I am horrible at the game, but I am playing with the intention of making him happy, so have this for my struggles

Your brush glides along the canvas surface, your hands masterful and the motions practiced. There’s a level of peacefulness and concentration etched onto your face that P has seldom had the chance to really observe. There’s something beautiful about it, as there always is with you. Sunlight splatters through the open window in long reaching lines across the walls, bathing your figure in gold.

P is leaning carefully against the doorway, and he has been for a good 5 minutes now, quietly watching you work. There’s something about the scene, so quiet and perfectly peaceful, that is uncanny to P. It might be that his life is marked by tragedy and that the trauma of seeing Krat in such a derelict state leads him to always be on high alert; but he can’t help it. He cares for you deeply— cherishes you with every tick and click of his mechanical heart. It would take one thing going wrong to lose you. To lose everyone. The thought makes it harder to move.

“Hey, lovely,” you say, snapping him out of his thoughts. Your face is twisted in worry, and the creeping thoughts settle in his head. You’re so beautiful, even when you look upset. “Have you just come back? Is everything ok?”

You’re halfway through the room to him, and he knows he should be meeting you halfway but he feels frozen. Maybe it’s the fear, or the worry, or everything he’s had to face and take down today taking a toll on his metal body but he’s exhausted and scared. Somehow you know and take his cold face in your hands. You’re sweeping a thumb across his cheek, and the world comes back with every sweep.

The faces of the dead haunt him in the shadows of the room, dancing along the walls and taunting him. Some of them are the citizens of Krat lining the streets, some of them are the faces of those not dead yet. On tougher days, it would be your face taunting him; today is not a tougher day. Today, it’s easier to ground back into reality where he meets your loving eyes.

“Do you want to sit down and take a break with me for a minute?” You ask when he doesn’t answer. It takes all he has to nod.

He doesn’t know if he can ever have the right words to say it aloud, but you make him feel. As if you were painting his heart with splatters of emotion; as if your smile was the sun etching itself into the shadows of his mind. As if loving you was something he was made to do, he sits there and loves you.

He has his head in your lap and his legs splayed over the loveseat, your hand sweeping the fringe of his hair. The anxiety creeping up his throat settles in his stomach, and in comes the relief he feels around you. Sunlight in your smile and warmth in your eyes, it is both dawn and midnight in your arms. Dawn, because seeing you after a long day is like watching the sun rise from the dark horizon. Midnight, because having you near makes the whole world go dark like the night sky, with you the moon shining down.

In this moment he is not metal and undying, but mortal and human in every way that matters. He is a real boy in love with the moon, a tree in love with the sun. His hands reach out to hold your smile, to hold the kindness of sunlight in his palms, and your grin widens. A laugh slips from your lips all and he wishes he can bottle up the sound and keep it with him.

“What are you up to, love? What’s going on?” Your worry shines through your eyes, but you keep your voice level. He knows he is worrying you, but he doesn’t want to burden you with the horrors of the city.

So instead he keeps his mouth shut and lets his palms press against your warm cheeks. He is holding sunlight and dawn and midnight in his arms— it is holding him dearly in return. The horrors of yesterday, today, and tomorrow can give him this moment’s rest.

[urne-buriall]

so you've told me now you like sotw alternate realities. well here's the river scene were Dean opens up to Cas about John's abuse way ahead of schedule, mere days after the 4th of july:

“There are things I want to tell you,” said Cas, “and questions I want to ask. But I’m never sure if I can.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dean.

“Sometimes I want to tell you about my family because I think you understand,” said Cas. “Other times… I’m just not sure.”

“You could tell me if you wanted,” said Dean. He wished Cas would say. He wanted so badly for Cas to trust him. “It wouldn’t change anything. You’d still be my friend, no matter what you said.”

Cas slowly nodded his head. “Right,” he said. He turned again. Started walking. “I don’t want to burden you. And like I said, talking isn’t my strength.”

There had been a test and Dean failed it. He was sure of it. He just didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Had he come on too strong? Had he seemed insincere?

Maybe he was supposed to offer something first. Maybe he needed to be the one to break open that levee, the one that would never close again. To find out if they shared anything, perhaps it was on Dean to say, my dad beats the shit out of me and has since I can remember.

“Cas, wait,” said Dean. He caught up with Cas, then continued walking. He didn’t quite look over his shoulder as he said, “I’ll tell you.”

At the river. He needed to be still, not in this in-between space on the path.

And as he walked, feeling Cas trail slowly after him, studying Dean, he wondered what he was about to do. How would he say it? Could he really confess this? Could he trust Cas with it?

He went to a rise above the river, where grass and clover turned into a straight-edged bank a few feet above the water. He took off his boots and set them aside, bare feet coming to rest in the cool green clover.

Cas came beside him and cautiously did the same. Dean wrapped his arms around his knees, unable to look at Cas next to him. Nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

They’d sat like this the day of the rainstorm, talking idly before the downpour. That night, Cas stayed over and wore Dean’s clothes. Had stripped to nearly nothing on the covered porch, skin gold in the light and shining with rain.

Dean buried his face in the crook of his arm and tried to forget that.

“Dean?” said Cas, patience giving way to desperate curiosity.

Cas would say he seemed upset again. And if Dean took an outside look at himself, it was laughable to try and deny. He lifted his head.

He’d promised to tell Cas. It was the only way to find out more about Cas in return, and it was something Dean wanted badly enough that it brought him here. He was going to risk everything. For Cas.

“It’s my dad,” he said, surprised by the weakness of his own voice. Shaky, hoarse.

Cas looked Dean over carefully as he waited for more. He gave a faint nod.

“He’s… Tough.” That could be taken so many ways and Dean knew it. “On me,” he added, like it clarified anything. “Sometimes.”

Cas didn’t shift his posture, but the lines of his face became more deliberately contained. He took a moment to say, clear and even, “Does he hurt you?”

Dean looked sharply to the water. Only because his eyes began to burn, because he was losing his grip on the control he thought he had. He wasn’t supposed to cry over this. He was supposed to bear it. He was just going to state a fact, a fact he had lived with for so long and was strong enough to deal with. And it would have been different if Cas asked ‘does he hit you?’ but instead he’d said hurt, and that was a different question, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be easy to say hit, yes and move on without the impact of that action. But hurt made it so much more lasting.

He winced, trying to find another way around the answer, but then he nodded, a concession timed with the tears that came bitter and fast. He quickly bowed his head into his arms, not enough to hide the catching sound his breath made as he tried not to choke on this feeling.

He wasn’t supposed to be so upset. He wasn’t supposed to be this reactive. He wasn’t dead, it was nothing worth crying over.

Cas’ arm wrapped around his shoulder, a solid warmth that gave shape to Dean, keeping him from coming apart.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, voice deep and low.

Dean tried to push down his feelings, raising his face even if it was tear-streaked and flushed. “About what?” he asked. Cas had nothing to be sorry for.

“That you’ve had to go through it,” said Cas.

Dean had never imagined anyone saying that to him. He thought he deserved to be called weak for putting up with it, or for crying about it now. He thought nobody would care if it happened to him or not. That anywhere he might’ve grown up he’d have been treated just the same because of the way he was. Never enough. All the things John implied and made him believe.

“You should leave,” said Cas.

“Is that what you did?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t,” said Dean. “Sam—”

“Does he hurt Sam, too?”

Dean shook his head. He felt oddly defensive. Of course John didn’t hurt Sam. Dean would never allow it. “I keep Sam out of it,” he said.

“You still shouldn’t stay.”

“It’s not that bad,” said Dean, like he hadn’t been trembling with the force of his tears just moments ago. His voice came thin. “Not enough to leave.”

“Any amount is enough to be worth leaving,” Cas said, so certain of himself.

Dean retreated back into denial. “It’s more complicated than that,” he said. “I’m— I’m not a kid anymore so…”

Cas’ arm fell away from Dean so that he could look at him better. Which was more dangerous and less comforting than his touch had been. “When was the last time it happened?”

Dean rubbed the edge of his hand against his wet cheek, not wanting to answer but unable to resist a direct question from Cas. He looked down at the river and cleared his throat. “Day before yesterday,” he said. If Cas were to roll his eyes, it wouldn’t be undeserved, but Cas stayed perfectly still. Dean’s fingertips brushed against his throat, wanting to say what happened, but unable to describe that part. “He was mad I brought Sam home. Against orders.”

He dropped his hand again, but Cas’ eyes stayed on his throat. Where a fading bruise could be taken for a smear of motor oil. Cas sharply inhaled, putting pieces together. His eyes scanned the rest of Dean’s body, pausing on his shoulder.

“Your broken arm,” said Cas.

“Yeah, uh,” said Dean. Thinking he’d find something better. “Yeah.” There wasn’t really a way to allay it. “He caught me— We were arguing. About eventing, and Zepp, and I thought if I could just get away from him. And he caught me on the steps and I— I fell down.”

“He’ll kill you,” Cas said.

Dean’s head jerked upward, facing Cas directly. “No,” he said. “He doesn’t want to do that.”

“So he’s in control when he hurts you,” said Cas.

“No!” said Dean quickly. Because that couldn’t be true. His father loved him or could. “When he’s mad he just— It flares up and then it’s over. And he’s sorry about it.”

“So he’s out of control,” said Cas. “Which means you’re in danger. Every time.”

Dean parted his lips to answer but Cas had him in a bind. Either John’s anger was out of control and a constant threat or it was in control and was used with full intention. Neither was good for Dean.

“I don’t want to leave,” said Dean, and that was more true than any of the apologies he’d tried to make on John’s behalf. He looked down between them. “I just want it to stop.”

Cas took a breath, almost started to say something, then didn’t. There was a kind of understanding in that holding back.

“What was it like for you?” Dean asked. It was the only reason he’d said anything. So that Cas would open up to him in turn. Cas thought there were things they had in common that Dean would understand.

“Different, probably,” said Cas. He went quiet, struggling with what to say, his eyes gazing nowhere as he grouped his thoughts. It was far easier to talk about Dean’s troubles than his own. “My mother was… unstable. Religious. Which made her hard to live with at the best of times. Never knowing which mother you were going to get.”

Dean could understand that. John was volatile too. It was a lot of work just planning for what version of John he’d meet in any given scenario.

“Would she hurt you?” he asked. He used the same word on purpose.

Cas didn’t cry, but he looked distant. “Yes,” he said. “She’d… She had punishments. She’d drag me by the ear to lock me in a cupboard for— for hours, when I’d done wrong.” Dean knew without Cas having to say that ‘doing wrong’ could be anything from causing trouble to colouring too loudly. He couldn’t imagine Cas being a trouble-making kid, not on purpose. But he mentioned being different when he grew up. Too emotional, finding it difficult to connect. That would be ‘wrong’ too.

“If we didn’t listen or were found impertinent, she would slap us,” said Cas.

“We?” said Dean.

“My siblings and I,” said Cas.

“I never knew you had siblings,” said Dean.

“Four of them,” said Cas. “They never left. I think. If they had, I hope they’d find me.” He shifted, picking at clover. “Then again, they had less trouble listening or understanding the right answer. I could never seem to figure it out. I was… different. And because I was a… a target, I think they didn’t always know that they had more in common with me than her.”

“And that’s why you left?”

Cas looked away and it told Dean how much more complicated it was than that.

“You said once…” Dean wet his lips before he spoke. “You said you didn’t feel like you had a choice.”

“I didn’t,” said Cas. “It was either live the way they wanted me to live, or leave. And I chose to leave.”

That made Cas probably the strongest person Dean knew. And just as Cas found it simpler to talk about Dean’s troubles, Dean found it easier to think of all Cas deserved.

“Remember what else you said?” Dean asked, the idea lighting up his mind as a fix for Cas’ incredible loneliness. “That you’d want a place with fresh air and animals where everything’s right. What if that was us? You know, like, around here so I didn’t really have to leave, but not with my dad, and—”

Cas was looking at him strangely. Dean’s excitement must have been somehow out of place, or the idea unappealing when Dean included himself. Cas hadn’t been making an offer of somewhere to stay, for Dean, when he warned him that John was a danger. This must not be what he was thinking of it all.

“Sorry,” said Dean quickly. His face flushed again, not helped by the heavy heat of the day. “I thought— When you said that, it sounded— It sounded so nice. But you want that on your own.”

“No, not on my own,” said Cas. “That defeats the point.”

“Right,” said Dean, and he placed his hands on the ground beside him, about to launch himself away from his foolish entry into the conversation. He needed to get away from Cas. He was hot. He should swim. If he could bear to get undressed.

Cas curled a hand around the inside of Dean’s arm just above the crease of his elbow. It wasn’t an iron grip, but it was solid, keeping him in place when he otherwise would’ve gone.

“I like spending my time with you,” Cas said in a rush. It was like he was answering something else, something neither of them had said. He didn’t look at Dean. “If I could give you somewhere to stay, away from your father— If you wanted that, I would do it.”

“We’re just—” Dean hesitated. “We’re just talking dreams, Cas,” he said.

“Why should it only be a dream?” said Cas.

This was more than Dean had ever reckoned on. So heavy it felt like lifting a weight from the bottom of a river.

“I mean that if you want to leave,” said Cas, “then you should. You could do it.” He let go of Dean’s arm, fingertips dragging away from his skin.

“It’s not as simple as that,” said Dean, finding himself confused. In one breath he suggested buying a farm with Cas, and in the next that he could never leave his father. It was just that what they talked about sounded too perfect to ever truly exist. How could Dean put any faith in something that exceeded his wildest dreams like that?

“If I bought a house with space for horses,” said Cas.

“Jeez, Cas,” said Dean.

“Would you come stay?”

“Are you for real?”

“If I could do it this minute, I would,” said Cas. “I don’t want to say goodbye and know you’ll go back to that house with John.”

“Could you do it?” said Dean. “Is that even possible?”

“I could figure it out,” said Cas. “One word. From you, and…”

“You think we can do this?” said Dean. “Then… Okay.”

And that was all it took. Cas leaned forward and kissed him.

Dean didn’t have time to think of it or react. The press of their lips was warm, sudden. A dangerous spark in a dry forest. As he pulled back, so did Cas, looking anxious.

“What was that?” said Dean.

Cas hadn’t looked away from Dean’s face, although there was something to the way he held his body, like he expected to run. “I just—” he said. His voice was every bit as gravelly and flat as usual, but he sounded uncertain, a rare note. “I…”

Cas had kissed him. Dean’s brain and body couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t work together in any sensible way any longer. His heart started pounding. The heat of the day made sweat rise on the back of his neck and above the lip of his mouth. He was frozen but he was supposed to be doing something. Running from this, striking out, kissing Cas, jumping into the river.

“I shouldn’t’ve—” Cas looked stricken now. “I want to help you and it’s not— I made a mistake.”

Wasn’t this Dean’s fault? Just days ago he had wrapped himself around Cas in the shade of a garden and silently begged for his affection in any shape. He’d had that untoward dream the same night. The colour rose high in Dean’s cheeks and he looked swiftly at the river. Cas hadn’t kissed him in the dream, only touched him, but already Dean’s mind was conflating the real and the imagined, completely out of his control. Dean had stared too long the night of the rain storm. He’d been wrong to and he’d made this happen and it was all because he was broken up into pieces and he got things confused and now there was this, which was too much to handle.

Next to him, Cas rested his forehead against his fist, eyes scrunching closed. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said.

Dean’s mouth remembered the touch of their lips and wouldn’t let go. He felt they were reddened by Cas’ kiss, the same as that day in the attic, that day when enchantment poisoned itself into sharp fear and which was exactly like right now. There was something wrong with him for all of this. For the fact that he wanted to kiss Cas again and really know what it felt like. If he was damned he wanted to know what he was damned for.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said again. “I thought you were like me.”

It struck Dean for the first time what that would mean. What it would be to be like Cas. What it meant Cas was. And how if he were to say Cas was correct right now, that Dean was not like him, it didn’t feel at all true. How if he were to be able to act on what was true, that would mean giving over to what was in him. He felt so miserable and scared and all he wanted was for Cas to cover over Dean’s body with his own. To hide in Cas’ collar, in the very hollow of his clavicle, the place he’d wanted to kiss just three days ago when he stole comfort from Cas in the garden.

He dragged his gaze back to Cas, who looked equally mired in his own despair.

“Cas,” he said, not certain of what he meant to follow. And when Cas looked at him he leaned in and kissed him.

Cas lost a sound against Dean’s mouth, a melting hum. His hand found the small of Dean’s back. This kiss came with another renewed one, chasing it, then Dean bowed his head, breaking it off but not breaking away. His body shifted deeper into Cas, his hand clutching Cas’ shirt, his forehead resting against the base of Cas’ neck. Cas held onto him this time, cheek brushing against the top of Dean’s head. A hand came up to stroke through Dean’s hair.

“Cas,” he said wretchedly.

“It’s okay,” said Cas. As much as anything could be okay. For a bare second, Dean wanted to believe it would be.