#magic between the moon & sky

[blehblarghblah]

Hello, I recently read your Magic Between the Moon & Sky series, and I really like the college AU series. It's really wonderful. I want to know if there will be an opportunity to update in the future. If you don't mind, I would like to know why you Not a fan of TDP anymoreFinally, I wish you well. The novels you wrote really bring me great joy.

Ahh, it means a lot to know that you enjoyed my work! I really enjoyed writing Rayllum immensely and I loved to see that a lot of people liked it as much as I did (if not more, apparently 😅). The reason for why I dropped off TDP is kinda... strange to explain. My second oldest sister and I were big fans of the show, and as you can obviously tell from my blog, I was excited about it for a time!

But when Season 4 of The Dragon Prince was announced I was really excited about it! But at the time, my sister and I had others shows we were watching. I was also busy writing for The Most Undoing Thing at the time and didn't want to be too sidetracked with other fandoms. And then, as time went on, it kinda got away from us but we were shocked to hear that Season 5 was announced later in 2023 summer.

Now I know Season 2 and 3 had a similar time gap, for us, we were kinda worried about hearing such an immediate follow up when it felt like Season 4 just came out. Apprehensively, I looked at some reviews and such. I won't say that I haven't been influenced by what I heard, but I also know that there was good reviews and legitimate excitement too! I already read a small amount of the comic materials and books that came out in the break between Season 3 and 4, so I knew a lot of the changes to come.

And the time skip.

So, seeing a bit of a divide, my sister and I slowly just thought, "Well, we'll get around to it." But evidently, it just became something we kind of lost interest in. Season 3 was good, but there were some pacing things we weren't a fan of. For me, I enjoyed the heart of the story and the characters throughout. In the end, I was also aware of the rushed aspects of the narrative too at times.

All in all, I started to have less attachment to really wanting to watch or enjoy the media I was into, and just started focusing on MBTMS itself. Because I still liked Rayllum, and people still liked what I wrote. Though, it became an issue for me, because now I was essentially writing for a fandom I was losing interest in, which meant motivation was hard to muster.

I just felt like I was obligating myself to writing something I wasn't invested in, which made me worry that it would reflect in my writing. And the last thing I wanted, was to write something and put it out when I wasn't even happy with it. With that aside, time just kept moving on and suddenly there's 6 Seasons of this series, and I felt like it was just a lot.

The pacing of TDP has always been... strange. I understand that it's been separated into sagas as well. For MBTMS, I genuinely do wish to finish it someday. But the issue with most of MBTMS, is that it's largely set in an AU stories. And AU or not, I do my best to emulate the canon characters in their personalities and behaviours. So it's hard to do that when you haven't looked at canon material for so long nor if you're just not all too keen on getting back into it.

TL;DR: After putting it off for awhile, it got away from me and my interest slowly waned based on the overall pacing and output of the show. From the reviews and responses, I just felt less inclined to get back into it which affected my motivation to writing for MBTMS. I don't think I'll return to MBTMS, but I wish to someday.

Thanks for the ask, Anon. Sorry to disappoint, but I'm glad and pleased to know you enjoyed my stories for the time you shared with them.

Until next ask,

- Bleh

[lifemod17]

As time went by || 12/03/2024

[spikedfearn]

Bloodbound

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.

Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.

wc: 15.3k

a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes

warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements

tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!

They told you not to cry.

The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”

You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.

Not once.

The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.

Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.

The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.

One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.

They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.

Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.

Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.

And the sun is starting to go down.

They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.

Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream. Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.

None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.

You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.

She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.

You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.

You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.

And now here you are.

Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.

Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.

The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.

And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.

Remmick.

Your skin burns when you think about it now.

There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.

“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.” “He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.” “If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”

But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.

“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”

There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.

No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.

You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.

Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?

You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.

And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.

You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.

You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.

The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.

And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.

Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.

You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.

The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.

It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.

The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.

Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.

The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.

Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.

They say he prefers it that way.

Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.

The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.

You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.

You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.

The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.

The bell tolls from the chapel behind you. One. Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you. Two. You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs. Three. You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived. Four. The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.

You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.

The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”

The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."

Five. You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.

Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.

Six.

You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.

The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”

The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.

Seven.

The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.

Still, no mark.

You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.

Eight.

The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.

Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.

Nine.

The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.

You smell it instantly.

Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.

Ten.

The bell stops. The crowd holds its breath. The fire roars. The flame in the basin spits.

Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.

You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.

Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.

You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.

You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.

Until the silence begins to stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Too long. Too unnatural.

The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.

Your skin itches.

Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.

The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

And then the lamps flicker. All at once.

Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.

A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.

The flame gutters low.

You see your breath fog in front of you.

It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.

A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a mark. Not yet. But the presence. The knowing. It’s here. And it’s looking at you.

You don’t see him at first. You feel him.

Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.

The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.

Too stunned. Too still.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.

And still, you don’t look. You can’t.

Because your chest is burning.

It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.

No wound. Just pain. Just…change. You look down and see it bloom.

A mark.

Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.

She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.

And that’s when he speaks.

Not loud. Not rushed.

But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

“Lift yer head.”

You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.

And there he is. At the base of the platform. Not monstrous. Not grotesque.

But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.

He is the end of prayers. The promise of ruin. The reason the dark exists. Remmick. And he’s looking only at you.

Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.

“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.

And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.

You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.

The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.

Just silence.

The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.

Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.

Remmick waits at the bottom step.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.

You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.

Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.

Your knees nearly give.

The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.

And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.

“Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.

“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”

He leans in. And you flinch.

He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.

“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”

Your breath hitches so violently it hurts. And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales. A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.

“Smell like mine.”

He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

The mark burns.

And your body answers with something shameful and wet.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”

You want to say no. You want to say stop.

But your lips part— —and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.

The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:

“We begin tonight.”

They don't clap. No one dares.

The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.

Remmick doesn't take your hand. He doesn’t have to. You follow him. You don't look back.

The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.

And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.

The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.

You wonder if he feels it too. You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”

Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.

“Though I do like it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.

Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.

The carriage is waiting for you.

Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.

You pause.

Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.

You hate how much you want it.

Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.

Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.

You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.

And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.

Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.

He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.

Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.

The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.

You get the first button undone. Then the second. The third.

The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.

Remmick still hasn’t moved.

But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.

When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.

No underthings. No slip.

Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.

Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.

“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.

You obey. Your arms drop.

He finally leans forward.

His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.

Like he’s seeing something holy.

And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You bite your lip.

Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.

He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”

His voice drops even lower.

“That’s me.”

You shudder. The mark pulses.

And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.

You nod. Barely.

He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.

And he sees it.

Of course he does.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”

He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.

The bond throbs between you like a living thing.

It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.

Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?

His touch feels like command.

He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.

Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.

When you offer.

His gaze dips down.

And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”

You’re soaked.

Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.

“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”

You want to say no. You really do. But your body says yes in a dozen ways. The way your breath shakes. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.

You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”

Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

He moves then.

Not fast. Not rough. But with absolute, devastating intent.

He sinks to his knees in front of you. Not in worship. Not in submission. But in devouring anticipation.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.

Yet.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.

You jolt.

It feels like fire licking up your spine. Like something ancient waking up. Like something that says: Mine.

“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.

Because this is more than lust.

This is binding. This is belonging. And you’re about to be his—in every sense.

Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.

And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.

He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.

You do. Because you can’t look away.

His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.

It undoes you.

Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.

“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.

You shiver.

He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting. Just tasting.

You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”

You nod, dazed.

He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”

His hand moves lower.

Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.

You jerk. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”

You moan. You whimper. And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s magic.

You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.

You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.

He groans like your voice alone could finish him.

You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.

“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”

He stands. Unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning his trousers.

And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.

You’re still trembling when he rises.

Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Not again.

He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”

Your body answers with a pulse.

You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.

And he knows it.

He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.

Your eyes drop lower. And—god.

You freeze.

He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you want it so badly you could cry.

Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”

You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.

He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.

The weight of it grounds you.

“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”

You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—

You nod.

Remmick’s smile is slow. Tender. Like a secret finally answered.

“Atta girl.”

He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.

You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.

The mark glows white-hot.

Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.

Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”

You nod, frantic.

“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.

You whimper.

Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”

You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.

He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.

You gasp.

“Remmick—”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.

God.

It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.

Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.

You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.

“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.

You blink up at him, dazed.

He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”

The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”

His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You shatter.

You can’t breathe. Not properly.

Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.

Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.

What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.

You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.

You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.

He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”

You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.

And then he starts to move.

Slow. So slow it feels lethal.

He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in. Again. And again.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.

“R-Remmick—”

He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.

“Fuck, say it again.”

You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

But he won’t. Not yet.

He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.

You’re sobbing now. From pleasure. From pressure. From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”

You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.

Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.

And it’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s everything you never dared want.

Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"

You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.

"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.

"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."

You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.

Remmick lifts his head. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.

Not cruelty. Not hunger. But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.

And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.

Your body cries for him.

And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.

You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.

The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.

A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.

Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.

And maybe you would.

"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."

You sob beneath him, helpless.

Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."

You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."

"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"

The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.

You’re close again. Closer than before.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.

"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."

You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.

And then you fall apart.

Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.

The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.

Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."

You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.

And then—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

You offer it to him. Begging without words.

Needing it. Needing him.

Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.

You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.

You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.

You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.

Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.

His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.

"Never lettin’ ya go." "Made ya for me." "Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya." "My sweet girl. My bride."

The world fades to black around the edges.

Not death. Not fear. Just him. Only him.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.

When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."

You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.

He smiles.

It’s not kind. It’s not soft. It’s something far worse. Worship.

"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."

You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.

And he’s not done.

You see it in his eyes. That hunger. That certainty.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."

And somehow, impossibly—

You don't fear it. You crave it. You crave him. Forever.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

Of what you are now. Of what he made you.

The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.

Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.

He watches you. God, he watches you.

Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.

He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.

Forever.

And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.

A throb. A pulse.

Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.

Because now—

Now he feels it too.

A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"

Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.

He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."

You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.

But he doesn’t let you hide for long.

In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.

"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."

His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."

"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it." "Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"

He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."

You sob, overwhelmed.

And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."

You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.

And you know— You’ll never be free again.

You’ll never want to be.

You don’t even realize you’re begging at first. It’s not words—

It’s sounds.

Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.

Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.

Barely touching. Barely giving.

You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.

Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”

You bite your lip, trembling.

And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”

His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.

Your honesty. Your surrender. Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”

You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.

Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.

You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”

You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—

He pushes inside. All the way.

Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”

You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—

“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”

The bond hums louder. Hotter.

Closer.

You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.

And Remmick—

Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Gentle. Tender.

Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.

“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”

He kisses the tear away. Slow.

Lingering.

And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.

You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”

You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.

“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”

You keen high in your throat, mindless.

Gone.

And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.

And he loves it.

“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”

You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”

He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.

And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”

You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.

You shatter. You scream.

Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.

Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.

He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.

He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

A vow. A sentence. A promise.

And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.

Because you won’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re his. Forever.

You wake in his bed.

You don't remember how you got there.

One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.

It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.

Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.

The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.

But constant.

A reminder. A tether.

You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.

Because he’s gone.

He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.

And the bond—The bond screams.

The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.

You feel wrong without him. Empty. Fractured.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.

No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.

Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.

Your body wants him back. Needs him back.

You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.

And then—

You feel him.

Not physically. Psychically.

A thread tugging between you.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.

You whimper.

Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.

Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"

You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."

You shudder violently.

He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.

"Bet yer soaked again already." "Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me." "Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."

You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.

And Remmick—

Remmick drinks it in.

"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

You shake your head, trembling.

You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.

The bond rejoices.

Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.

You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.

Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.

You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.

Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.

And he knows it.

"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."

Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.

You whimper. Just from the first touch.

It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.

You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.

"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."

Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.

You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.

And he feels your desperation.

"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"

You sob out a broken little “no.”

Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.

And Remmick? He sounds delighted.

"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."

Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.

And then—

His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." "Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."

You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”

The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.

And then you feel him move.

Not just through the tether. Physically.

Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.

You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—

And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.

Eyes glowing deep red.

Cock already hard, leaking, ready.

He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."

You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.

“Please.”

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.

Triumphant.

“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.

You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.

The bond sings. Bright and brutal.

Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."

You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—

But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.

"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."

You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.

He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.

You cry out, hips jerking.

But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."

And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.

He presses inside an inch. Then stops.

You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."

You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.

"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.

You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"

And that’s what does it.

His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.

The bond flares.

Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.

You feel him everywhere.

And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."

You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.

And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."

He holds still for just a moment longer.

Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.

Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”

You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.

He begins to move. Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.

You cry out.

The sound is wrecked. Raw.

Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You nod—wild, desperate.

Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.

You were made for him.

The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.

You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.

“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”

You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.

He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.

Your back arches, vision blurring.

You’re close. So close.

Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”

You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

You break.

Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.

Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”

You don’t know who’s shaking more.

Your hands. His voice. The world.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.

Just holds you. Breathes you.

Like he needs to.

The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.

He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”

You nod, eyes wet.

“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”

You wake up sore.

Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.

There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.

Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.

Remmick.

He’s still there.

One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.

He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.

But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.

Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.

You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.

And then—

His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”

You freeze.

His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”

You stay still.

The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.

“You dream last night?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. You had.

Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.

“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.

Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”

His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”

You tense. Just slightly.

His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”

The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.

Yes.

And no.

And not enough.

You don't answer right away. How could you?

Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.

Makes it better. Makes it everything.

And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:

“You scared of me, love?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.

His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.

You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”

You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.

His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”

He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.

A contradiction to the words in his mouth.

“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”

You shiver. Not from cold.

From the way your body doesn’t recoil.

From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.

Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”

You whimper, cheeks burning.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.

He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.

This is knowing.

He feels everything. Not just your body.

Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.

And he loves it.

“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”

His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”

Your breath catches.

Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.

He feels that too.

“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.

Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.

The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.

You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.

Because the look in his eyes—

Low. Hungry. Worshipful.

It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.

“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”

He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.

Then—

Close.

Not touching. Not yet.

But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.

Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”

You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.

Soft. Closed-mouth.

More reverent than filthy.

It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.

He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.

And then his tongue finds your clit.

Just once. A soft drag.

Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.

Your back arches off the bed.

Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.

“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”

You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.

“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”

Your legs twitch.

You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.

And still—

No rush. No cruelty. Just… devotion.

Monster-shaped.

Blood-warm.

Endless.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”

You sob.

Because he’s right. You’re his.

Even in the fear.

Especially in the fear.

And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.

You don’t want to anymore.

You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.

Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.

You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.

He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.

“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”

But you can. He knows you can.

“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”

His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.

“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you do. You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.

Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.

You’re still shaking when he moves.

Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.

“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.

You nod.

Because it’s true. Because it always will be.

And he smiles.

Soft. Loving. Terrifying.

“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.

Your lip trembles. “Yes.”

He kisses you.

Then pushes inside.

Not hard. Not brutal.

Just deep.

He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.

Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

He starts to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.

And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.

“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”

You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”

Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

You nod again.

You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.

You don’t know how long he stays inside you.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.

Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.

He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.

You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.

But instead—He kneels between your thighs.

Again.

Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.

“Remmick?” you whisper.

And then you see it.

His knife.

The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.

He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.

You blink. “I thought we already did.”

He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”

He presses the knife to his palm.

“But not the keeping.”

He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.

You sit up slightly, heart pounding.

He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.

You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”

His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.

“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.” “Because someone’ll try to take you from me.” “Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”

Your breath catches. “Remmick…”

“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”

You swallow hard.

Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.

And still—he wants more.

You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.

The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.

Power.

Magic.

Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.

Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.

Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.

When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”

You press your forehead to his. “I know.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The bond answers for you.

You are his.

Forever.

Not because he took. But because you gave.

Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—

You opened the door. You bared your throat.

You said yes.

And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.

They’ll whisper in awe.

Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.

And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.

“I was scared.”

And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—

“But I loved him more.”

[ginger-and-rose-art]

DeVoid DeVoid DeVoid

[ID: A digital illustration of Lady DeVoid from Pretty Pretty Please I Don't Want to be a Magical Girl. DeVoid has dark purple skin, pointed ears, pointed demon horns with silver bands on them, and bright pink hair in a bob with bangs that lay between her horns. She wears a black leotard with a cutout at her belly button, large black shoulder pads, a mermaid skirt that attaches to the leotard with pink jewels, and black dress shoes. She has silver bands around her wrists, bright pink sharp nails, and a silver necklace with a bright pink jewel on it that transitions into her white bat-like wings. She is facing the viewer, flying in the night sky, backlit by the moon behind her. In the right corner in small text is the watermark, "@/ginger-and-rose-art." End ID]

[heavenlyraindrops]

World Building Checklist

Have you ever started writing a story and realized your world has a bunch of unexplained shit and you have to fill in the gaps as you go? Me too, buddy. Me too. Here’s a checklist so that you can fully flesh out your world to the max. (I’m dying)

How does Time work? (Minutes, hours, days, the daylight cycle, years, ect.)

Species (if Fantasy. Will probably make another post on this.)

Countries, Nations, Tribes, ect. (nationalities/ races. Will probably make another post on this.)

The geography of the world (draw a map. Doesnt have to be good. Just for a general idea.)

Rivalries between races (includes prejudice, racism, ect.)

Religions

Technology

The Magic system. (Will probably make a whole other post on this.)

animals, plants, ect.

The sky: Sun, Moon(s), Stars, Constellation, Are there rings? (If the planet has rings)

Educations system

Government system

Politics

Methods of transport (Vehicles)

Medicine

Can’t really think of anything else. If you have more to add then reblog and add to the list! :) bye bee

[frostyresolve]

washed away by the tides ꒰ ᝬ amphoreus men

you live on in the shards scattered around amphoreus. spoilers for 3.3 trailblaze mission: the fall at dawn’s rise. features phainon, mydei and anaxa. 2.7k words. angst. fluff.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧

“only the best for you," he says jokingly, stepping into the elevator and pulling you along with him. you’ve been a victim to his ideas before. secret moments in between his daily patrols, seen him in the most atrocious of outfits that he declares the pinnacle of fashion, watch him haggle for hours over an artifact. sneaking into the bathhouse after hours wasn’t really a crime, just something that was frowned upon. but being somewhere you shouldn’t was an entirely different story. 

you’re staring at PHAINON in disbelief, mouth parting slightly as he practically forces you in along with him. you shouldn’t be here, you feel; the hero’s bath was reserved for chrysos heirs and you most definitely were not one. your gaze is questioning, almost, unsure if he was breaking a rule by bringing you with him.

“the hero’s bath?” your breath hitches as the elevator ascends. immediately you think of the consequences of getting caught; you’d probably be breaking an unspoken law by being here without the permission of the lady goldweaver. 

he catches your questioning gaze, noticing the disbelief and uncertainty in your expression, chuckling softly at your questioning expression, and squeezes your hand reassuringly. "don’t worry; i’m allowed to bring guests. besides, i’m the only one here right now, so no harm in having some company."

it’s quiet and ambient without the sounds of the other patrons, only the two of you here. the water looks almost magical, tiny gold flecks shimmering beneath the surface. the tranquil atmosphere is a stark contrast to the crowded main bath area, and he enjoys having the entire place to himself. he’s even more gorgeous you realise suddenly when he beams at you, you don’t mind getting lectured now, if it means he’ll smile at you like you’re his world. 

looking at you with a cheeky grin, he sheds his tunic and enters the pool, the water lapping at his waist. "are you coming in?" he teases.

when you finally emerge from behind the shade, he takes in the sight of you, sitting at the edge of the pool, with your toes touching the water. with a teasing glint in his eyes, PHAINON pads over to you and stops by the edge, his hands on either side of your thighs. so he inches even more closer to the edge of the pool where you are, resting his chin on your knee and looking up at you with feigned innocence. instinctively your palm reaches out to cup his face; his cheeks puff at the gesture of affection. only to you would he melt in your hands, the blazing sun destined to rise now the moon aching for the presence of warmth.

he leans into your soothing motions as you thread your fingers through his wet hair, a small shiver running down his spine. you could’ve sworn the low hum rumbling in his throat sounds like a purr or maybe a moan, you’re not too sure with the sound of water rushing from the waterfalls. closing his eyes for a moment, savouring the feeling of your touch before opening them again, his gaze fixes on you. 

he clears his throat, beautiful ocean eyes sparkling in the night like stars in the sky, wet hair covering his gaze before your other hand gently brushes it away.

"it isn’t fair, i know," he says suddenly, the conflict in his voice palpable, catching you off guard from the sudden turn of a conversation. "but please, believe me when i say that my heart is yours."

you’re quick to reassure him, thumbs rubbing gentle circles onto his dimples as if soothing him with your mere touch alone. “i don’t doubt you for a second. so…don’t take it upon yourself to hold the weight of the world alone. i’m here if you ever need anything.”

he nods, his voice taking a tone that was gentle but yet intense. "i know you do," PHAINON whispers, his voice soft but firm. "and i’ll always be grateful for it. but i wish it could be different—that i could promise you more than just my heart."

“you’ve given me your time; that’s more than enough to me.” your words cut deep through your shared bond. his expression falters at the implication of your silent affirmations, so you take it upon yourself to turn that frown upside down.

so you splash water at him playfully, and he sputters as he’s caught off guard, water spraying his already damp hair, looking more like a wet puppy as he pouts at you. before he retaliates, of course, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you in with him.

you shriek while PHAINON laughs, a husky yet melodious sound that echoes through the empty bathhouse. for just a second, everything feels perfect when your eyes meet his, the purest blue you’ve ever seen, and his lips touch yours reverently.

══════════════════

“actually, i was wondering if you could try this. was thinking about replicating your own, but i think it's about the same.” you perk up, pulling out a plate of honey cakes coloured pink from behind your back, the same he usually prides himself with baking.

his golden eyes fixate on the pink-tinted honey cakes that you're presenting to MYDEI, his features subtly shifting to a state of perplexity and caution. a small wrinkle appears on his usually smooth forehead.

he observes the pastry with wariness, the sudden feeling of dread sending a chilling sensation down his tenth thoracic vertebrae. "i see," he begins slowly, his voice a mere hum, "where did you obtain these?"

“i made them, of course.” you’re a little puzzled now by his reaction, sparing a glance at the honey cakes before turning back to him.

“you made them?” he reiterates, his response tinged with disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite fathom the words you were speaking.

with slight hesitation, he picks up a honey cake from the plate, observing its appearance with a mixture of curiosity and caution. sniffing it carefully like a chimera cat, it smells the same as the ones he’d make.

yet, something nagged at him.

“tell me," MYDEI continues, his voice stern, “what did you add to these cakes?”

“pomegranate milk like you usually do? i know you like your treats pink.” you’re getting more confused by the minute, unsure why he was acting so off. guarded as if he was facing a titankin and not a plate of desserts.

“why don’t you try them? i really want to get your input.” you press on, looking at him intently as you hold the plate out to him.

his eyes harden at your insistence. sighing and looking at the pastries, he knew you meant no harm, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to doubt you.

“alright.” he relents, picking up one of the pink cakes and taking a tentative bite, his expression unreadable.

it’s like an assault on his taste buds. he’s died before, multiple times. that’s the reason why one of his many names was ‘MYDEIMOS the undying’, but he thinks this, has been the closest to actual irreversible and absolute death that he will ever get. instantaneously, his jaw locks as if preventing him from taking another bite.

his mouth is dry from the horrendous flavour that attacks his tongue, and the lump in his throat makes it difficult to swallow. wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he tries to eradicate the taste that lingers there, only to be left with a nauseatingly sweet aftertaste that clings to the inside of his cheeks.

you look at him expectantly, eyes sparkling innocently as you wait for his opinion, oblivious to the fact that you nearly sent him alone to the sea of flowers. “so…how does it taste?”

he swallows once, twice, to moisten his throat. his voice is hoarse as he responds, "it’s... wonderful."

“you’re sure? it seems like you didn’t like it. did i do something wrong?” you ask in scepticism, the paleness of his expression not reflecting the praise he’s just given you. looking back at the plate of pink cakes, pondering an idea for a moment. “maybe i should try just to be sure.”

his face contorts into one of mild panic, and his mind races.

so MYDEI quickly snatches the plate out of your hands and, in a twist of events, starts scarfing down the pink pancakes at an alarming rate.

his stomach aches with every bite he takes of the cakes, the sweet flavour now a torment he can’t escape. the texture, so soft and spongy, feels like sandpaper against his throat.

but, he manages to keep a calm demeanour as he swallows the last bite, his heart pounding as he looks at you, a forced smile plastered on his face.

"delicious," he manages to choke out, trying to sound convincing.

“really? i’ll get you something to wash away the taste. i have some juice.” you nod with a relieved sigh, about to make a beeline to the kitchen. he’s learnt his lesson, four times actually, with each honeycake he’s gagged over, catching your wrist before you leave and pulling you flush back to him. chests touching, your eyes are wide at the sudden proximity, and your hand brushes his bare chest where tattoos ink his skin.

“i have an idea of something that’ll help.” this is his revenge, MYDEI thinks; he’ll scrape the taste of those vile cakes away with a kiss, maybe one for each bite he's taken. he’s gentle as he can be, gloved hands tilting your chin up as his lips brush yours. you don’t notice the flavour of your failed attempt at desserts, addicted to the taste of him as your eyes shut.

══════════════════

"one wish, no boundaries, no limits. what would it be?” your voice a low hum that echoes across the room of his laboratory, feet barely touching the ground as you sit on the edge of his desk, watching curiously as he sifts through the papers. you’re not sure how he keeps track of his documents, from the essays of his students, his own personal experiments, and receipts for droma merchandise that he’s had shipped to the grove.

his gaze lingers on you for a moment as ANAXA pauses, breaking down your question into pieces before he carefully crafts his answer to fit his ideals.

"i want a world where truth,” he begins, “where truth isn’t locked away beneath the weight of power. where people could learn and understand without the fear of retribution."

“that sounds like a very… you answer, professor. you’re not scared of it? the truth and the consequences it may bring, i mean. sometimes…they don’t hold the answer you want.”

a faint, amused smile touches his lips. it was an answer he was accustomed to hearing, and yet, there was something about the way you said it that made it sound less like a rebuke and more like a warning.

"not scared?" he repeats, the words rolling off his tongue like a quiet laugh, "perhaps i’m not… or perhaps i’m simply too tired to fear anything any more."

he tilts his head slightly, gaze flickering over you again. "i never said the answer would be one you wanted.”

“you’re perceptive as always; it’s infuriating. i’d expect no less from one of the seven sages. you make the rest of us look like naive chimera cats next to a verax leo with your insights and observations, don’t you?” a huff of exasperation leaves your lips, shaking your head at ANAXA. there’s dry humour in your tone, a hint of sarcasm that he finds almost refreshing.

"am i now? i think you give me too much credit. i am but a feeble scholar with too much time in his hands." his faint smile deepens into a barely audible chuckle, a rare display of amusement. while many others might have bristled at your words, he only seems mildly amused.

he regards the night sky out the window as if for guidance, stars mocking. "naive chimera kittens, you say? i don’t doubt they’d scratch just as fiercely given the chance."

“didn’t answer my question. are you scared about what the truth brings? not everything’s sunshine and rainbows, especially in amphoreus. never here.” you roll your eyes at him, fingers digging into the side of the desk as you wait pointedly for his reply. a truthful one this time instead of an attempt at deflection.

he sighs, dry humour and nonchalance giving way to seriousness once more. "of course i’m not scared," he says quietly, his words a mere breath on the wind. "the truth is always a risk. it could be a miracle; it could be a nightmare. it could free us or condemn us."

he finally peels himself away from whatever he was doing, straightening to his full height from his previous slouching position over one of the laboratory tables as he approaches you. in the softly dancing light, he seems to cast shadows, a reflection of dark uncertainty that he’s familiar with all too well.

"but some risks", he murmurs, "are worth taking."

“even if it means losing everything along the way. even if it means you’ll pay the price with your soul?” you asks hesitantly, yelling inwardly at yourself for letting your guard down. you can’t help but lay your heart bare to him; it’s a curse in itself, one you can’t cure.

his gaze softens ever so slightly, the crimson of his eye flashing with a hint of something—understanding, perhaps. ANAXA took another step forward, closing the distance between you.

"even then," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "even if the world turns against me, i will not shy away from the truth. too long have i lived in the shadows, in deceit and lies. better death, better damnation, than to live in ignorance."

his words hang in the air like a promise, or maybe a threat. you’re not too sure, he wants you to figure it out on your own. 

“you’ve thought long about this, haven’t you? you’re always two steps ahead of me.” you nod quietly. your own confession is reluctant; you don’t know how he’ll respond to it, but that shouldn’t worry you. everyone has their own opinions and beliefs, but some part of you wants your answer to please him, but you speak up regardless. “i don’t know what i’d do actually. is that so bad?”

he seems to consider your question more carefully this time, and you hope he won’t go overboard with his reactions like he usually does, cackling himself into a frenzy out of his own lectures. "not bad," he says finally, "just...surprising."

reaching out, his fingertips barely skimming the edge of your cheek, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to touch you. his fingers lingered there, in that space just millimetres from your skin, and you resist the urge to lean your cheek into his palm to close the distance between you both. "you, with your secrets and half-truths..." he murmurs, words a breath against your ear.

“then i hope you don’t mind if you unravel the truth, with me by your side then?” another question, this one soft and gentle that it tugs on the heartstrings he thought he had severed long ago.

he purses his lips thoughtfully. he looks away, a glint of something in his scarlet eye.

"with you by my side..." he echoes thoughtfully. "i suppose i could make an exception."

he steps closer, his presence closer than ever before. eye lingering on your mouth for a moment before returning to your gaze. hand curling to cup your face, you feel the cold metal of the rings on his finger against your cheek.

"i think it would be...enlightening. shall we give it a try?” ANAXA murmurs, noses brushing and lips tantalising.

══════════════════

the memory shard whirs, crystals forever frozen in time as the pink creature floats around the two figures. it’s a stark contrast against the red sky and the fire falling from the horizon.

“do you think they got their happy ending?” the creature called mem asks, blue curious eyes staring intently at the memory, itching to replay it again despite knowing how the story ends.

with a heavy heart, the shard hums to a close, sealing whatever wish it carried. some romance stories end with tragedy after all, like how not all dreams come true. and this was just another memory lost to the black tides and cruel fate.

© FROSTYRESOLVE 2025. DO NOT PLAGIARISE, REUPLOAD OR FEED MY WORKS INTO AI

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown: Planets in The Fifth House

☉ Sun in the Fifth House There is a fire in you that refuses to dim, no matter how many times life tries to smother it. You burn with the ache to be seen, not for what you do, but for who you are when no one is watching. Yet with every step into the light, your heart races because you know the price of exposure. Still, you rise. You step forward, trembling but determined, carrying the wild hope that someone, somewhere, will see your flame and whisper: you were born to burn this way.

☽ Moon in the Fifth House You want to be felt, not just seen, felt in the way only hearts can feel hearts. There is a quiet ache beneath your boldness, a longing to have your soul recognized in its raw softness. You dream of someone reaching past the surface and holding your fragile hopes with care. You open yourself, even when it terrifies you, because deep down you know: it is better to risk the bruise than to carry the weight of feeling invisible.

☿ Mercury in the Fifth House Your voice trembles with unspoken hopes. Every word you release is stitched with the longing to be understood, not just heard. You speak like you're reaching across a canyon, hoping someone will answer back in a way that feels like home. Beneath your quick wit and bright thoughts, there is a quiet cry: see me in the spaces between my sentences. Feel me in the words I cannot say out loud.

♀ Venus in the Fifth House You carry your beauty like a secret prayer, hoping it will be answered without having to be spoken. You long to be chosen without pleading, to be desired for your essence, not for the mask you wear, but for the soul beneath. There’s a quiet yearning in you to feel someone's gaze settle on you softly, like a hand placed over your heart. And even when the ache feels endless, you still offer your light, hoping it draws the right soul near.

♂ Mars in the Fifth House Desire courses through you like blood through your veins, fierce and undeniable. You crave to live fully, to burn so brightly that the sky itself feels too small. But this fire comes with fear, the fear of falling, of burning out, of wanting too much. Still, you would rather set yourself alight than live dimmed. You run toward life with open arms, even knowing it might hurt, because for you, to feel alive is worth every scar.

♃ Jupiter in the Fifth House You want life to feel like a celebration, loud, free, wild with color. You open your heart wide, hoping that if you give enough light, the world will reflect it back. Beneath your laughter, there is hope: that your joy will be met with open hands, not empty echoes. You keep dancing even when the music falters, because you believe in the magic of your own rhythm, and in the wild possibility that someone will dance with you, without hesitation.

♄ Saturn in the Fifth House You fear what it means to be seen. You’ve built walls around your fire, afraid it might flicker too small to be worthy, or too bright to be safe. But deep inside, the longing remains, the desperate wish to be recognized beneath your careful armor. Slowly, painfully, you peel back the layers, letting the light escape in cautious beams. And with every brave step, you learn: it is not weakness to want to be seen. It is human. It is hope.

♅ Uranus in the Fifth House You were never meant to shrink for anyone. There is rebellion in your fire, a refusal to be contained. You show yourself boldly, unapologetically, not because you seek approval, but because hiding feels like suffocation. You know your spark might startle, might disrupt, but you burn anyway. And in doing so, you give others permission to rise in their own unruly light, free and fierce.

♆ Neptune in the Fifth House You dream of being seen in your softness, in the way sunlight touches water and turns it to gold. You long for someone to look at you and see past the surface, to see the dreamer, the believer, the soul behind the shimmer. But sometimes you fear that your light is too hazy, too faraway to be touched. Still, you let it glow, because you know: even in mist, your light reaches hearts that feel like home.

♇ Pluto in the Fifth House You carry a fire so deep it scares even you. To let it out feels like surrendering your power and yet, you feel powerless to hold it in. Beneath your intensity lies the fear of annihilation: that if you show yourself fully, there will be nothing left to hide behind. But when you dare, when you finally let your true fire rise, you don’t lose yourself, you become yourself. Fierce, unbreakable, unforgettable.

🌙 Everything’s in your birth chart and in my book - The Sky Within

[maielasworld]

✨ Signs in Your Birth Chart That You Might Marry Someone from Another Country ✈️💞

💭Have you ever felt like your heart is meant to cross oceans? That your soulmate might be living under a different sky, speaking a different language? The stars might be whispering the same…💭

1. A Sagittarius-flavored 7th House 🏹

If your 7th house cusp (the house of commitment and marriage) is in Sagittarius, or if Jupiter, its ruler, is sitting there — you're naturally drawn to people with different worldviews, backgrounds, or passports.

Bonus: If the ruler of your 7th house is in the 9th house (travel, wisdom, the "foreign"), or if your 7th and 9th houses are linked by aspects — love may come from far away.

2. Personal planets dancing in the 9th House ✨🌍

When Venus, Moon, Sun or Mars are in your 9th house, your heart speaks the language of distant lands. Love might find you on a journey, in a spiritual retreat, or in a conversation filled with wonder and wanderlust.

3. Jupiter's touch — blessings from afar 🍀

Jupiter is the planet of growth, faith, and international magic.

If he’s making sweet aspects to your Venus, Moon, or the ruler of your 7th house, love could arrive with a suitcase, an accent, and a soul connection.

4. A strong mutable vibe = open to the world ♊♐♍♓

Lots of planets in Gemini, Sagittarius, Virgo, or Pisces — especially if they influence your 7th or 9th house — suggest your heart is open to falling in love with someone from a different background. You crave stories, variety, and connection beyond borders.

5. Juno — The Goddess of Commitment and Partnerships 🌐💍

Juno is the asteroid that represents marriage, commitment, and deep partnerships. If your Juno is in the 9th house or in signs connected to foreign lands and expansion (like Sagittarius, Pisces, or Aquarius), it’s a strong indication that you might commit to or marry someone from another culture or country.

Additionally, favorable aspects between Juno and planets in the 7th house, or with Jupiter, reinforce this tendency. Juno in mutable signs or in the 9th house speaks of partnerships that cross physical and cultural boundaries.

6. Fixed stars sparkling with fate ✨⭐

Some stars hold whispers of karmic love from distant realms:

Fomalhaut (Pisces): dreamy, otherworldly love

Spica (Virgo): blessings in love, especially when you least expect

Regulus (Leo): a noble or powerful partner from afar

7. North Node in the 9th or in Sagittarius: love written in the stars 🔮

With your North Node in the 9th house or in Sagittarius, your soul came here to expand. A relationship with someone from a different culture may be part of your destiny — opening your heart and mind to something beautifully unfamiliar

[giantmultifandommasterlist]

"Marvel /Reader" Masterlist

Character pairings: Tony Stark/Reader, Bucky Barnes/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader, Bob Reynolds/Reader, Peter Parker/Reader, Moon Knight System/Reader, Matt Murdock/Reader, Frank Castle/Reader, Loki/Reader

Tony Stark/Reader

Battle Scars (18/18) ✨by @invisame

~ Reader goes to Tony Stark to confess that she's his soulmate, and accidentally becomes his assistant...without him knowing she's his soulmate

ink your blood on my heart ✨ by Anon

~ Major angst, ships passing in the night (a beautiful reflection on what could have been)

Hopesick ✨ by @astxrwar

~ Soulmate mark AU, during Tony's crashout in Iron Man 2 he meets Reader and they learn to be broken together...literally such a beautiful meditation on mental illness, grief, and healing; I love re-reading this

Steve Rogers/Reader

Consolation Prize by @arliddian

~ Reader wonders if she's just a consolation prize for Peggy (she isn't)

Dream Interrupted (2/2)  by @Lavendermagik (@lavendermagikwrites)

~ Reader is snapped, during Endgame Steve has the decision to stay in the 40s or reunite with her (happy ending)

This is how you walk on by @arliddian

~ 5+1 with love confessions

The Dignity of His Choice (8/8) by @LexiTRone

~ Reader is told that her husband, Steve, died on a mission

 where would we be without all the distance by @nightowlwriting

~ Telepathic! Reader is hated by Steve for their powers

Lantern of Evil (in my pants) (14/14)  by @antigone_ks

~ A De-Serumed! Steve learns to love, plus size! Reader, super sweet

The Open Space Between Us by Anon

~ Enemies to lovers with De-Serumed! Steve, love this fic so much

Out of Time (8/8) by @after_avenging_hours

~ Reader time travels to the 40s to get Erskine's serum in order to save her Steve...and falls in love with the past version of Steve too

Just a Coffee by @SweetDeath

~ 40s Pre-Serum! Steve and Waitress! Reader, fluffy

My Huckleberry Friend ✨ by @gamgees

~ Literally the best Steve Rogers soulmate AU, so funny and heartfelt, starts with Nomad! Steve and ends after Endgame

Thought it was a Fanboy (2/2) ✨ by @hopewritessometimes

~ Reader has Captain America's shield as her soulmate tattoo

Bucky Barnes/Reader

Sky Full of Song (11/11)  by @wkemeup

~ Siren! Reader and Pirate! Bucky

The Lucky And The Strong (5/5) ✨by @moondripletters

~ First words soulmate AU is complicated by time travel

Gonna Be Your Wound ✨ by @marelicarter

~ Shared pain soulmate AU

 set me free by @intrepidacious

~ Inspired by The Little Mermaid, Bucky is rescued after falling from the train

Vacant Mirrors (10/10)  by @pilotisms

~ Bonding with Bucky over having the same therapist and being traumatized

Time Has Brought Your Heart to Me ✨ by @softspeirs

~ Bucky Barnes' soulmate mark was on the arm that HYDRA took from him

These Ties That Bind (11/11) ✨ by @SweetAsCanBee

~ Soulmate AU with identity reveal and lovely miscommunication trope

Bathwater ✨ by @the-canary

~ Bucky Barnes is an asshole fuckboy...until he's not (Modern College AU w/ time skips)

It’s Been Calling Me ✨  by @godmadeaterribleerror

~ Shared dreams soulmate AU, smut

Robert "Bob" Reynolds (Sentry)/Reader

The Lighthouse (15/15) by @DreamingEveryMoment

~ After the events in New York, Bob moves in with the reader, a former Avenger who can use energy/light to heal, put people to sleep, or blind them. Story of what it means to love someone and learn to love yourself, very slice of life, soft and domestic

Disorderly Sorcery by @coffee-with-bucky

~ Reader is a sorcerer of the mystic arts whose powers flare up when she feels strong emotions...naturally, her magic flares up because of her huge crush on Bob

The Popcorn Incident by @gyugraphy

~ Bob falls in love with you, panics, and pulls away from you. You, hurt, confide in Bucky. Now Bob thinks you're in love with Bucky. Miscommunication sandwich, NO LOVE TRIANGLE

Loving You Is Easy by @blank-potato

~ When reader loses her memory, her stilted relationship with Bob blossoms in a way it never did before.

~ PART 2: You Exist Behind My Eyelids

Instant Crush by @em1i2a3

~ Angsty, smutty, fluffy. P0rn with feelings. The good ole "I'm not good enough for you" except it's mutual.

Peter Parker/Reader

Sunset Lovers ✨by @duskholland

~ Shared writing on skin soulmate AU, college AU

Out of Time by @mgparker

~ Heavy angst, reader dies

Crush by @ptersparkers

~ Spider-Man is in love with reader, who he visits enough as his alter ego to know she has a crush on someone; unknown to him, that someone is Peter Parker

One in the Same by @finnwrld

~ Same basic plot as above, but with its own special flare :)

Another Chance (5/5) by @mgparker

~ No Way Home The Amazing Spiderman x Reader

my reverie’s affinity remains to be you ✨by @indouloureux

~ Enemies to lovers, college AU

The Room Incident (23/23) by @lemonsandlimes

~ And they were roommates...OH MY GOD they were roommates. This is such a good fic but the ending is INCREDIBLY sad and angsty. The ride is great but no happy ending, sorry folks.

Peter Parker, The Idiot by @vampire_boyfriend

~ Mutual pining, caring for Peter when he's injured

Do You Like Pizza? (13/13) by @CrazyCookieCrumbles

~ Post-No Way Home The Amazing Spiderman x Reader

I Miss You by @defaulttwig

~ Fake character death, reader works for a super villain

That’s Rough Buddy (10/10) by @Cats_Cradle39

~ Peter B. Parker/Reader (my sad and pathetic little meow meow)

Left Behind (3/3) by @Sassi

~ Set during the Snap, reader deals with a world without Peter

Frank Castle/Reader

Don’t Walk Away (2/2) by @BellaGiornata

~ Love confession goes wrong, and then it goes right

Sometimes love isn’t enough (5/5) by @AnnaHawk

~ Angst, pining, porn with feelings

Matt Murdock/Reader

As your fingers brush my skin ✨by @silverwolf7850

~ Your soulmark is written in Braille

There will come a day we pass each other by, but we’ll probably pretend to not notice ✨ by @silverwolf7850

~ Guardian angel + time travel soulmate AU

I’m With You (2/2) ✨ by @RAParker

~ "You see color when you see your soulmate for the first time" AU

through the looking glass by @ver3eastloveuonica

~ TW: Reader has anorexia

untouchable by @ver3eastloveuonica

~ TW: Reader is sexually assaulted

Late Night Confessions by @courtforshort15

~ Reader wants to break up with Matt because he's keeping secrets

Daddy Issues by @farfromstrange

~ Matt accidentally triggers you

perhaps love by @alrighty-matty

~ 5+1 Matt realizing he loves you

These Broken Things by @courtforshort15

~ Matt's emotional constipation is putting a strain on your relationship

Strawberry Rhubarb by @ellephlox

~ Reader is kidnapped by Fisk

Go to him, therefore, by sea by @silverwolf7850

~ Merman! Matt x Human! Reader

Then Came You by @leossmoonn

~ Drunk Matt confesses his love

Billy Russo/Reader

Just Beneath The Flames (17/17) by @crossbows-and-moonshine

~ Zombie apocalypse AU, Frank Castle/Karen Page

Loki/Reader

The Eyes of the Beholder by @starks-hero

~ Gorgon! Loki x Blind! Reader

Passengers (5/5) by @BirdOfHermes

~ Passengers AU, space travel

never enough (6/6) by @lowkis

~ Reader is told that Loki is to be betrothed, and that she is to cut off all contact with him

 All at Once by @kaeorin

~ Reader babysits Loki while he's in the hospital, and they fall in love

one. two. three – one. two. three. by @TheStormWithinMe

~ Reader is captured by HYDRA, Avenger! Loki

The Nexus Event (18/18)  by @lokiedokiee

~ Reader kills Thanos after watching him kill Loki...this triggers a Nexus event

Litklœði (5/5) ✨by @GoldTrimmedSpectacles

~ Hanahaki disease, soulmate AU

From the Void, With Love (25/25) by @pilotisms

~ TVA! Loki x Reader, enemies to friends to lovers

Anywhere and Nowhere (15/15) by Anon

~ Inspired by Calypso's myth

Why Me? (15/15) by @EdenRhodes

~ TVA! Loki x Reader, Sacred Timeline! Loki x Reader

Moon Knight System/Reader

Tilt by @the-little-ewok

~ Steven missed your date, but it isn't Steven that comes around to explain why he did

Reverence for the Moon (6/6) by @raelwrites

~ You're the high moon priestess

Just a Touch of Your Hand ✨ by @mccn-bcys

~ An ink-stain appears wherever your soulmate first touches you

Complicated (26/26) by @lets_not_talk_about_this

~ Reader needs someone to walk hre home from work

Come Back to Me by @mgparker

~ Reader dies LOL (this hurts so good)

Canopic Jar  by @bruhstories

~ Marc isn't very nice to you, Steven's girlfriend

Batons and Unicorns (3/3) by @stormkobra-5

~ Avenger! Steven Grant meets the new recruit, a mute shapeshifter

Guiding You to Me ✨by @raelwrites

~ Soulmate animal guide AU

I’m getting to know someone by @davosmymaster

~ Marc's POV of reader's relationship with Steven

Letters to You (2/2) by @lowlymoon

~ Reader sends Jake letters in an attempt to bond with the elusive alter

Not Him by @loud-mouth-loser

~ You and Marc bond over the fact that Steven and Layla (your respective loves) are more into each other than either of you

Spirit (4/4) by @milohurts

~ Reader is a ghost haunting the Moon Knight system

Written on Your Skin (3/3) ✨ by @Coalix

~ Reader has 3 soulmate names

Two Sides of the Same Coin (4/4) by @TheRavynFire

~ Reader falls in love with both Marc and Steven

[stellarsecrets86]

"Written in the Skies, Etched in the Bones"

- Placements By Quotes

Readings are open for Valentine's. Here

🍁 Sun conjunct Pluto – "To destroy is to create. To die is to transform. I am never just one thing."

🍁 Moon opposite Saturn – "Loneliness does not terrify me. I have been my own home for as long as I can remember."

🍁 Venus square Pluto – "Love me, and you will taste both heaven and hell. I am not gentle."

🍁 Mars trine Uranus – "Freedom is not a choice, it is my nature. Chains are a language I never learned."

🍁 Mercury opposite Neptune – "I live between the lines of reality and illusion, never fully belonging to either."

🍁 Saturn square Ascendant – "You will never know how much I’ve carried because I make it look weightless."

🍁 Jupiter conjunct Sun – "The universe expands inside me. I do not fit in small spaces."

🍁 Pluto trine Mars – "I am made of fire and war. Be careful how close you stand."

🍁 Moon conjunct Chiron – "Even my scars have stories to tell. They whisper in the dark when no one listens."

🍁 Venus trine Jupiter – "My love is a flood, not a river. It drowns everything it touches."

🍁 Neptune square Mars – "I burn and dissolve all at once, like a star too tired to shine."

🍁 Mercury sextile Pluto – "My words cut like knives, not because I am cruel, but because I see the truth too clearly."

🍁 Uranus opposite Moon – "I was never meant to stay. Some spirits are built from storms, not soil."

🍁 Saturn conjunct Venus – "I love like an ancient promise—slow, unshakable, written in stone."

🍁 Mars opposite Pluto – "If you awaken the darkness in me, do not flinch when it looks you in the eyes."

🍁 Mercury trine Uranus – "My mind is a door to places even I do not understand."

🍁 Moon square Pluto – "If I seem distant, it’s because I have walked through fire no one else survived."

🍁 Neptune conjunct Sun – "I live in a dream I cannot wake from, and reality has never fit me right."

🍁 Jupiter square Mars – "I do not fear the unknown. I run straight into it, laughing."

🍁 Saturn trine Mercury – "I have learned to be quiet, but do not mistake that for silence."

🍁 Venus opposite Uranus – "You cannot hold me, only watch as I disappear."

🍁 Chiron square Sun – "Pain taught me everything I know about love."

🍁 Mars conjunct Ascendant – "Do not ask me to be soft. The world sharpened me long ago."

🍁 Pluto square Mercury – "My mind is a weapon. I do not hand it over lightly."

🍁 Moon trine Venus – "I have made peace with softness, but I do not live there."

🍁 Sun sextile Saturn – "My strength is not loud, but it is unshakable."

🍁 Uranus square Mars – "I will never be tamed. I was born to rewrite the rules."

🍁 Mercury conjunct Jupiter – "My thoughts have no limit, so neither do I"

🍁 Venus square Mars – "I love like a wildfire—passionate, consuming, and impossible to control."

🍁 Neptune trine Venus – "You do not fall in love with me. You fall into me, like a dream you cannot escape."

🍁 Saturn opposite Mars – "They built walls around me, and I learned to carve doors."

🍁 Chiron sextile Venus – "Loving me is a lesson in patience. I heal in the arms of those who do not run."

🍁 Pluto opposite Jupiter – "The deeper I fall, the higher I rise."

🍁 Mercury square Saturn – "I speak in riddles because my truth is too heavy for most to carry."

🍁 Moon conjunct Jupiter – "My heart is too big for this world, and yet I keep giving it away."

🍁 Uranus trine Sun – "I was not born to blend in. I was born to break the sky open."

🍁 Saturn square Neptune – "Dreams build me, reality breaks me, and I exist somewhere in between."

🍁 Mars sextile Venus – "Loving me is like standing in the rain—some find it intoxicating, others drown."

🍁 Pluto trine Sun – "They tried to bury me, but I am the seed that does not die."

🍁 Neptune opposite Venus – "I love what I cannot have, and that is the tragedy of my heart."

🍁 Jupiter sextile Moon – "I have survived a thousand endings and still believe in magic."

🍁 Saturn trine Pluto – "Pain did not make me bitter; it made me invincible."

🍁 Mars square Moon – "I feel too deeply, and I fight too hard. It is both my power and my curse."

🍁 Sun opposite Uranus – "I walk my own road, even when it leads me into darkness."

🍁 Chiron trine Mars – "I do not wear my wounds as weaknesses, but as armor."

🍁 Venus conjunct Mars – "I was made for passion, not patience."

🍁 Neptune square Sun – "I am a collection of lost dreams and unfinished stories."

🍁 Pluto conjunct Ascendant – "You will never truly know me. I am an entire universe wrapped in flesh."

(PS: These are my own interpretations. For entertainment purposes only. Have fun!💚)

🪶🪺

[cup1drul3z]

★ — Salt in her lungs

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1 : ᴅʀᴀɢ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴏʀᴇ

ᴘɪʀᴀᴛᴇ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ᴍᴇʀᴍᴀɪᴅ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 5.7ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Age gap, Mermaids, Pirates, Fantasy world, set in 1600s, blood mentioned

A/N : another fic that has been collecting dust in my docs

Summary : A curious mermaid princess saves a drowning pirate, breaking centuries of secrecy between their worlds. Sevika can't forget the girl beneath the waves, haunted by her even in someone else’s arms. Now, both are searching for each other—drawn by a connection neither fully understands.

Long ago, before salt crusted the corners of maps and before ships carved paths across the sea, the oceans were ruled by song.

Mermaids—known to themselves as the Thalassari—were not the glittering fairy tales whispered to human children. They were warriors, mystics, daughters of tide and storm. Born with sharp teeth and sharper tongues, they shaped the ocean’s mood with their voices: lullabies that calmed tempests, laments that mourned lost ships, and siren-songs that could drag a fleet to the bottom of the world. They lived deep in the trenches, in palaces carved from coral and whale bone, protected by magic older than the moon.

But once—centuries ago—humans and merfolk did meet.

The stories say a fisherman’s net tore through the kelp curtain guarding a mermaid nursery. Curious, the humans came closer. They captured one. Dissected her. What they didn’t understand, they feared. What they feared, they destroyed.

A war followed. Not one of armies or flags, but of quiet ruin. Ships lost with no trace. Islands swallowed by sudden tides. Harbors cursed with empty nets and dead water. In retaliation, humans built stories—legends to bury the truth. Mermaids were dismissed as sailor myths, drunken mirages, hallucinations brought on by thirst and madness. A convenient lie. Over time, belief faded like a tide pulling back. Mermaids became fantasy.

Below the surface, the Thalassari wove their own stories. Humans, they said, were extinct—burned out by their own fires, vanished into the sky. “Surface ghosts,” they were called, used to frighten little mermaids into obedience. Don’t swim too close to the shore, or the ghosts will steal your voice.

Generations passed. The sea kept its secrets.

Until now.

Until you.

You, the youngest daughter of the Sea King—mouthy, reckless, and far too curious for your own good. You’ve always wanted to see what was beyond. Not just the reef wall or the border tides, but the world above.

You weren’t supposed to be awake this late.

The reef pulsed with sleepy biolight, soft and dim, like the whole sea was breathing slow around you. Your sisters had long since curled into their shell beds, and even the guards stationed at the edge of the inner currents had grown lazy—hovering with half-lidded eyes, tridents drifting just slightly out of reach.

Perfect.

You moved silently through your chambers, brushing past strands of sea-silk and coral trinkets. Your father had filled the place with gifts. A necklace of blood-pearls. A singing conch from the Mariana Trench. A polished mirror carved from obsidian that always reflected you looking smaller than you felt. They were all meant to distract you. Soften you.

But none of it mattered when your heart was pulling toward something outside.

You ran your fingers through your hair. Tugged on your travel wrap—lightweight kelp-thread woven for speed, not elegance. No crown. No sign of royalty. Just you. Just the water.

You moved to the back wall of your chamber, where a curtain of kelp swayed lazily over the outcrop. It looked like just another patch of rock, but if you pushed it just right—there—the shimmerline faltered.

Just a flicker.

Your heart thudded in your chest, a rhythm too fast for deep sea calm.

One look over your shoulder.

Empty room.

You exhaled.

Then you slipped through the crack in the reef—outside Sanctum for the first time in your life.

And the sea felt different out here.

Colder. Wilder.

Free.

“You call that a tie-down? That knot wouldn’t hold a drunk mermaid’s panties, let alone a cannon!”

The deck of The Harpy’s Grin was chaos—ropes whipping in the wind, gulls screeching overhead, crewmen scrambling like wet rats as the sails snapped angrily above. The storm had passed hours ago, but its temper still echoed in the waves. And Sevika, captain of this barely-floating beast, was not in the mood.

She stalked across the creaking boards with heavy boots, the scent of brine and old smoke clinging to her coat. The sun caught the steel of her mechanical arm as she grabbed a dangling line and yanked it tight with a grunt, shooting a deadly glare at the nearest crewman.

“Reefbreak’s balls, if you lot can’t manage a basic lash, I’ll start tossing you overboard one by one and see who floats best!”

“Cap’n, the wind changed too fast—” one of them started, eyes wide and voice shaking.

“And the wind’ll break your jaw next time you whine instead of workin’.” Her voice was rough as gravel, but cold. Controlled. She didn’t raise her voice unless she meant it.

The man shut up real fast.

Sevika took a slow drag off the half-chewed cigar clenched between her teeth, squinting out at the horizon. The water stretched out, glittering like spilled coin under the sun. Endless. Boring. Predictable.

God, she hated calm days.

“Where’s the chart?” she barked, already heading for the helm.

“Below deck, Cap’n!”

“Well get it! I’m not lettin’ this damn ship drift like a tavern whore waiting for a kiss.”

She took the wheel in one hand, metal fingers tapping restlessly on the polished wood. Her jaw worked against the cigar, tension in her shoulders she couldn’t seem to shake. Not from the storm. Not from the crew.

From the feeling. That gnawing itch behind her ribs like something was coming. Something that didn’t belong on the sea.

She spat overboard.

“Fuckin’ sirens,” she muttered.

Except she didn’t believe in sirens.

Not really.

Sevika barked one last order and turned back toward the wheel, the wind catching her coat as she narrowed her eyes at the far edge of the water. Something shimmered there—a ripple too smooth for open sea, a flicker of color where none should be.

Probably nothing.

But her gut said different.

And Sevika had learned long ago to trust her gut more than gods, ghosts, or gossiping crewmen.

She took another drag from her cigar and growled, “Bring up the scopes. I want eyes on the wreck fields.”

A crewmember scrambled up beside her, already raising the scope to his eye. He adjusted the focus, then stiffened. “There’s... something in the water, Cap’n.”

“‘Something’?” she snapped. “That’s real fuckin’ specific.”

“Not a fish. Too big. Looks like... maybe someone fell overboard?”

Her cigar twitched at the corner of her mouth.

“Lower the rowboat,” she ordered, voice flat. “Two men. Careful hands.”

Oren hesitated. “You think it’s a survivor?”

“I think I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she said, turning on her heel.

But as she walked away, she muttered under her breath, just quiet enough not to be heard:

“Or a goddamn lure.”

You’d gone too far.

You knew it the second the light changed—the way it bled through the water in slanted, unnatural beams, not the warm shimmer of Sanctum’s safe magic but the sharp, raw glare of the surface world. The current had tugged you past familiar coral shelves and singing stones. Now, the water was colder. Still. Heavy with silence.

And wreckage.

You kicked gently through the murk, weaving past twisted metal and splintered wood, ghost-ships swallowed by barnacles and age. Sails shredded like jellyfish skin. Harpoons rusted and bent. A graveyard.

Your brows furrowed as you muttered, “Why would there be so many here...?”

You’d always been told humans were myths—surface ghosts that vanished long ago, burned away by their own greed. Old stories. Scare tactics. Tales told to mares to keep them close to the reef. No one you knew had ever seen one.

But the wreckage told a different story.

You drifted lower, nearly brushing your belly against the ocean floor as you approached a strange shadow ahead—huge, looming, far too intact to be part of the graveyard. Not a reef. Not a creature.

And then you saw it.

Half out of the water above: a massive dark shape, long and wide like a sleeping leviathan. Wooden skin. Metal teeth. Some kind of strange… hump-backed whale?

Right next to it, floating just beside the beast, was a smaller one. Sleek. Smoother. Almost cute, in a crooked kind of way.

You froze, breath catching in your throat.

“...What are those?”

You stayed low, heart thudding as you pressed into the sand, eyes wide and glittering with curiosity. Whatever they were, they hadn’t moved yet. Maybe they were just strange surface creatures. Maybe they were whales. Maybe this was why your father forbade you from leaving.

But gods help you—you had to know.

The rowboat rocked gently beside the ruins of the old wreck, creaking as it drifted in the lazy current. Sevika stood near the bow, one boot up on the edge, arms crossed, cigar tucked behind her ear. She was squinting into the water, watching the way it shimmered around the rotted timbers below.

“See anything yet?” she muttered.

“Hold on,” one of her men called back, leaning farther over the edge. His fingers gripped the railing as he tried to peer past the sun glare. “I thought I saw—wait, yeah—somethin’ shiny. Looked like—”

The glint was gone before he finished the sentence.

A plink broke the stillness.

They all froze.

The man’s hand went to his bare chest like he’d been stabbed. His face twisted. “No—shit! No!”

“What now?” Sevika asked, already annoyed.

“My necklace—!” he barked, voice cracking. “It—it was my late wife’s—shit!”

And then he jumped.

Straight off the side.

“Godsdammit!” Sevika cursed as water splashed over the side.

“Man overboard!” the second crewman yelled, standing and nearly tipping the whole boat in his panic.

Shouts rang out from the main ship—sails snapping above, boots pounding on the upper deck. Sevika didn’t wait. She tore off her coat and dove in.

The water swallowed her whole.

She cut through it like a knife, teeth clenched against the cold. The man was below her, flailing, reaching toward the shimmer of silver glinting just above the ocean floor—lodged between sharp black rocks. Stupid, reckless bastard.

He grabbed it, fingers closing around the chain.

But then he panicked.

His chest heaved. His eyes went wide.

Sevika reached him, shoving him upward with both hands. Her grip was strong, steady. “Go!” she yelled, voice lost in a stream of bubbles. “Get up!”

He kicked off, disappearing toward the surface.

She turned to follow—and pain lanced up her leg.

Her boot had caught.

She yanked, hard. The rocks didn’t budge.

The pressure was already building behind her eyes. Her lungs were screaming.

She kicked again, twisting, trying to slip free—

Still stuck.

Still sinking.

The decision wasn’t a decision at all. It was instinct.

One moment, you were crouched in the sand, hidden beneath a ledge of coral and bone, eyes wide as the strange surface woman thrashed against the rocks. The next—you were moving.

Your tail snapped once, twice, and you shot forward through the murk.

Her foot was caught tight between two slabs of stone. You yanked on them, fingers digging into the crevices, but they wouldn’t budge. Too sharp. Too strong. The woman’s dark eyes locked onto yours—wild with confusion and quickly clouding. Her mouth parted, a stream of bubbles escaping.

And still—she fought.

But something else moved behind you.

A shadow.

The shark.

You felt it before you saw it—the ripple through the current, the low thrum of hunger. It circled from far off, but closing fast, drawn by the shimmer of your scales.

You cursed under your breath.

Too shiny, stupid tail, stupid.

You twisted, diving down just as it cut through the water in a flash of grey muscle and hunger. Sevika flinched as it passed—still trapped. Still vulnerable.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your fingers found the knife strapped to her thigh—slick and cold, the leather sheath wrapped in thick cords. You yanked it free, spun, and darted directly toward the open mouth of the predator.

It came at you fast.

You were faster.

With a sharp flick of your tail, you spun to the side and drove the blade into the beast’s eye with all your strength.

A hiss of blood spiraled through the water. The shark jerked, convulsing, and fled into the gloom.

You turned back, breathing hard. Sevika was struggling against the rock again—and with a final wrench, she broke free. You caught her as she kicked off the bottom, her strength already faltering.

She was slipping.

You could see it in the way her limbs moved—slower, heavier, like her body was made of stone. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to stay conscious.

You grabbed her hand.

Your fingers locked around hers as you pulled, kicking hard toward the surface, dragging her up through the light and salt and silence.

When her head broke the surface, she gasped—choking and sputtering—but you were already gone.

Back beneath the waves.

A shadow disappearing in the blood-tinged blue.

Rough hands pulled her from the sea.

“Got her! Cap’n—breathe! Come on—damn it—”

Water spilled from her mouth as she coughed, hacking and heaving onto the wood of the little rowboat. Her chest burned. Her lungs felt like they were made of rust. Her limbs, heavy and half-numb, barely moved as someone braced her shoulders.

“Is she bit?” someone asked. “Shit, there was blood—a lot of it.”

Sevika blinked, vision blurry with salt and sun. Her throat felt like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper.

“Wasn’t mine,” she rasped, voice like gravel dragged across stone.

The two crewmen looked at each other. “You sure? Looked like a fuckin’ massacre from the top deck.”

Sevika coughed again, this time spitting over the side. She sat up slowly, her shirt soaked and clinging to her, the weight of the sea still wrapped around her shoulders like a ghost.

“I said it wasn’t mine,” she muttered, jaw tight. “Shark came in. Got chased off.”

“Chased off?” one of them echoed, brows lifting. “By what, a fuckin’ miracle?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t have one.

There’d been something in the water. No—someone. She remembered flashes. A face. A grip on her arm. Eyes wide and unafraid. No legs. Shimmering skin. A tail.

And then—nothing.

The rowboat bumped against the side of The Harpy’s Grin, ropes lowered to haul her up. Voices crowded her ears—more concern, more confusion—but she didn’t register a word.

She stumbled onto the deck with help, boots squelching against the boards. Her mind was still half-drowned.

“You hit your head, Cap’n?” someone asked. “You’re out of it.”

“Fine,” she growled, brushing off a hand from her shoulder. “Fine.”

But she wasn’t.

Because when she looked down, just before the crew peeled her soaked coat away, she saw something wrapped around her wrist—delicate, green, and glinting like sea glass.

A strand of kelp, knotted into a perfect little braid.

And Sevika never tied things pretty.

You didn’t realize it until you were almost back—until the shimmerline came into view, flickering faintly around the outer reef like a curtain of moonlight.

The knife was still in your hand.

Your breath caught. You paused in the current, tail curling beneath you, the knife suddenly heavy in your grip. You turned it over, saltwater glinting along the blade’s edge.

It wasn’t just any weapon.

The handle was worn but beautiful—wrapped in aged leather, darkened by years of salt and heat. Carved into the metal beneath were delicate engravings: waves, stars, a compass rose. On one side, stamped into the base near the hilt, was a name in old surface script:

Sevika Vexley.

You mouthed it soundlessly, letting the letters roll through your mind.

That woman—she wasn’t like the stories. She wasn’t shriveled or monstrous or cursed with fire-skin. She was strong. Broad-shouldered and wild-eyed, all sharp angles and tension, even as she drowned. And... gods. She was attractive. In a terrifying, deeply unfair way.

You shook your head, cheeks heating. This was not the time.

And yet—your fingers didn’t let go.

You could’ve returned the knife. Left it near the surface. Let it sink back into her world. But a part of you didn’t want to. A part of you needed to keep it. Not just as proof that it happened—but because it meant something. She had a name. A face. A voice. A life.

Humans aren’t real, you’d been told. And if they were, they’re long gone. Dangerous. Violent.

But she didn’t feel like a ghost.

She felt realer than anything you’d ever touched.

You sighed, slipping the knife carefully into the folds of your kelpwrap and turning back toward the shimmerline. You passed through the magic, your tail tingling as you crossed the barrier and reentered Sanctum.

Guards drifted lazily nearby, none of them noticing you.

You exhaled in relief. No one saw. No one knew.

And no one would believe you anyway.

Your chamber was dim and still when you slipped back in—just as you left it, though your heart was hammering like you’d been gone for days instead of hours.

You crossed quickly to the corner near your bed, where the coral flooring dipped slightly beneath your vanity shell. With a careful glance over your shoulder, you knelt and pried up a loose tile of polished shellstone. It had cracked months ago, but no one had bothered to fix it. Lucky you.

The knife slid in perfectly.

You let your fingers linger on the handle—just for a second—before pressing the tile back into place and smoothing the sand around it. You exhaled. Safe. Hidden.

But before you could rise—

“Where were you?”

You froze.

His voice filled the room like a wave crashing against the reef—deep, commanding, too calm to be harmless.

Your father hovered just inside the entrance, broad-shouldered and impossibly regal even without his crown. The water shimmered faintly around him, a sign of his rising temper.

“I asked you a question,” he said, slower now. “Where. Were. You.”

You turned, schooling your face into neutrality. “Nowhere.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “I just... went for a swim. I stayed within the boundary.”

“Don’t insult me,” he growled, his tone sharp now, dangerous. “Your scent is soaked in brine and blood. You reek of the outer currents.”

You stiffened. “I’m not a child.”

“No, but you are my daughter,” he barked, surging forward. “And I did not build this sanctum just for you to go wandering into cursed waters where things that shouldn’t exist still might.”

Your jaw tightened, hands curling at your sides. “So I’m supposed to spend my whole life locked in a cage of pearl? Singing at court? Smiling for foreign envoys? That’s not living.”

His face twisted. “That is safety.”

You held his gaze, unflinching. “Then maybe I don’t want to be safe.”

The water between you crackled with tension. Silence hung, thick and bitter.

His voice, when it finally came, was low. “One day out there will get you killed.”

You turned your back on him.

“One day here will kill me slower,” you muttered.

You didn’t look as he left. You couldn’t.

Because your hands were still shaking.

The reef was asleep again.

Soft glows pulsed through the coral towers like slow heartbeats, and the palace was quiet save for the faint echo of guards’ tridents tapping stone. You lay still in your bed until their patrol passed your chamber door—then you moved.

You slipped from the silkweed sheets, every motion careful, quiet. The room was still dim, only the bioluminescent drift-lamps casting gentle light across your floor. You knelt by the vanity again, fingers brushing over the loose tile. It popped free with practiced ease.

The knife was still there.

You pulled it out slowly, cradling the handle in your palm. The engravings were cool under your fingers, familiar now. You traced the name again.

Sevika Vexley.

There was no going back. Not really. Not after today. Not after her.

You needed to know more. You needed to see her again. Ask what she was. What the surface was. What the truth was.

You slid the knife into the belt of your kelpwrap, letting the folds hide it from sight. You glanced once more toward your door. Still quiet.

You slipped out.

Through shadowed halls and gently swaying curtains of sea lace, past the silver fountains that never ran dry. Past your sisters’ chambers. Past the court’s main hall. You moved like a shadow, like a whisper. Like you weren’t the king’s youngest daughter.

Like you weren’t royalty at all.

Except—you forgot.

The moment you passed the final shimmerline, leaving Sanctum behind, you felt the cool rush of wild sea against your skin—and a gentle tug at your temples.

Your crown.

You hadn’t even realized you were still wearing it—so familiar, so constant it felt like a part of your body. The delicate chains brushed your cheeks as you swam, gold glinting faintly in the dark, seashells and crystal pieces catching what little light filtered from above.

The teardrop gem gleamed like a beacon.

If someone saw you—

You swallowed hard, but didn’t stop.

The knife was secure at your hip. The water was cold again.

And somewhere out there, above the wrecks and waves, was a woman who should not exist.

And you were going to find her.

The dock buzzed with noise as The Harpy’s Grin pulled into its usual berth, ropes thrown and sails furled with practiced speed. Salt clung to the air, and the wood of the pier creaked beneath hurried boots as the crew began unloading barrels, crates, and whatever scrap was worth selling from the old wrecks.

Sevika stood at the gangplank, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the chaos below. Her coat was back on, sleeves damp, and the braid of kelp that had been wrapped around her wrist was gone—tucked somewhere deep in her quarters where no one could see it.

She didn’t say a word as her crew barked and grunted, lugging gear onto the docks.

“Hey!”

A familiar voice cut through the noise.

Sevika looked up just in time to see Vi weaving through the crowd, her usual cocky smirk in place and a gleam in her eye. The crowd parted for her. It usually did.

“Finally,” Vi said, coming to stand beside her. “Took your sweet time.”

“Storm slowed us down,” Sevika muttered, voice low. “Got caught in a wreck field.”

Vi looked her over, brow twitching. “You good?”

There was a pause.

Sevika scratched the back of her neck, eyes flicking toward the crates being hauled off her ship. “...Fell overboard.”

Vi blinked.

“You what?”

“I said I fell overboard.”

Vi stared for a beat—then barked out a laugh, loud and obnoxious, smacking Sevika on the shoulder. “You idiot! I told you to stop standing so close to the damn edge when you’re brooding like a cliché.”

“I wasn’t brooding,” Sevika grumbled.

“You were,” Vi grinned. “You always are. Gods, you're lucky you didn’t drown. I’d be stuck drinking alone, and you know no one else can keep up with me.”

Sevika huffed a soft laugh through her nose, shaking her head.

“So?” Vi raised a brow, already turning toward the street. “We doin’ our usual, or what? I got us a table at the tavern.”

Sevika didn’t answer right away.

Her gaze drifted over her shoulder, back to the sea. The waves looked calm now—unbothered. Innocent.

But she could still feel the ghost of fingers wrapped around her wrist, dragging her toward the surface.

Not human. Not a dream.

Her jaw tightened. “...Yeah. Sure.”

She turned and followed Vi into the crowd.

But her mind stayed on the water.

The tavern was warm and loud—clanking mugs, the low thrum of music from the back corner, sailors laughing too hard over nothing. It was the kind of noise that usually helped Sevika drown out her thoughts.

Not tonight.

She sat at the booth, half-drunk cider sweating in front of her, boots kicked out under the table. Vi was mid-story—something about a guy trying to barter with a dead jellyfish and calling it “enchanted”—but Sevika wasn’t really hearing it.

Her eyes had drifted to the far wall, where a faded mural stretched across the plaster. It was chipped in places, water-stained at the corners, but still vivid enough to make her pause.

A mermaid. Painted in swirling blues and silver, hair flowing like seaweed, mouth slightly open in song. A fairytale. A warning. A joke.

Except it didn’t feel like one anymore.

“—and then the guy actually licked it, I swear on my—wait—”

Vi snapped her fingers.

“Hello? Not talkin’ to myself over here.”

Sevika blinked. Her gaze flicked to Vi, then back to the mural, then back again. She shifted in her seat, leaning back with a quiet sigh.

“Sorry.”

Vi raised a brow. “You good? You’ve been weird all night.”

There was a long pause.

Then Sevika just said it.

“Do you believe in mermaids?” she asked, voice low. “Or… sirens?”

Vi snorted a laugh, lifting her drink. “What, like the fish-girls with seashell tits and magic songs? That kind of mermaid?”

But Sevika didn’t smile. She didn’t even blink.

Vi’s smirk faded slowly. She lowered her mug and leaned in a bit, watching her friend’s face.

“…Did you see something?”

Sevika didn’t answer right away.

Vi scooted closer across the bench. “Sev. What happened out there?”

Sevika stared into her drink, fingers drumming once against the side of the mug. Her jaw worked like she was chewing on the words, deciding whether to spit them out or swallow them whole.

“I saw something,” she finally said, voice quiet enough that Vi had to lean in more to catch it.

Vi’s brows knit. “Like… what kind of something?”

Sevika hesitated.

“Something in the water,” she said. “When I was stuck. Thought I was gonna black out. Then she was there.”

Vi blinked. “She?”

“...I don’t know what she was,” Sevika muttered. “Had no legs. Fast as hell. Got me loose. Dragged me up. Then gone.”

Vi sat back slowly, mug forgotten. “You’re serious.”

Sevika nodded once, slow and deliberate. Her eyes flicked to the mural again.

Vi followed her gaze, then let out a low breath. “And you think—what? Mermaid? Siren? Sea spirit?”

“I don’t know,” Sevika repeated. “But she wasn’t a hallucination. She had weight. Heat. A face.”

Vi was quiet for a moment, chewing on her lip. Then she scoffed softly. “Well, damn. I thought I had a good story tonight.”

That finally earned her a ghost of a smile from Sevika.

“You still do,” Sevika said, lifting her drink. “Just not as weird as mine.”

Vi shook her head and grinned, clinking her mug against Sevika’s.

“You’re buying the next round,” she said. “And if this ends with you falling in love with a sea creature, I better be the best man at the wedding.”

The water was darker here. Colder.

You'd been swimming in circles for what felt like hours, trying to retrace the path from earlier. The wrecks weren’t where you remembered. The currents were different, pulling wrong, whispering strange things around your ears.

But you had to find it. Find her.

You darted around a cluster of sunken crates, eyes sharp, heart thudding with a mix of urgency and hope. You couldn’t stop now—not after what you saw. Not after what you felt.

Then the current shifted. Cold. Heavy. Familiar.

Your blood ran colder than the sea around you.

You turned slowly, and there it was. The shark.

The same one from before, its wounded eye now scarred and clouded with rage. It hovered just a few body-lengths away, tail swaying in slow, predatory rhythm. It had followed your trail.

Of course it had.

You backed away, body tense, hand reaching for the knife at your hip—but you knew you couldn’t outswim it in open water. You were fast, but not that fast. Its nostrils flared. It inched closer. Closer.

It opened its jaws.

And then—

“Tch. That’s enough, fish-breath.”

The voice came from behind you. Smooth. Teasing. Dangerous.

The shark froze mid-lunge.

Its entire body trembled before it spun, darting off into the gloom with a ripple of panic you could feel in the water.

You turned.

Floating just a few feet away was a woman.

A mermaid, but not like anyone from Sanctum.

Her hair was long—long—a brilliant, electric blue that shimmered even in the low light, trailing all the way down to where her deep indigo tail began. She was tall, lean, and wore a grin like she knew every secret the sea had ever whispered. Sharp teeth glinted behind her smile.

She cocked her head at you.

“Hey, kid,” she said, voice curling around you like silk. “Wanna turn into a human?”

Your eyes went wide.

The tavern was even louder now.

The music had swelled into a full reel, all frantic strings and stomping boots, and the crowd had doubled since sunset. Lanterns glowed low and golden above the bar, casting warm light over sweat-damp necks and flushed cheeks. The air was thick with the scent of spiced rum, woodsmoke, and something fried and probably burnt.

Sevika was drunk. Very drunk.

She was slouched in a chair near the back, one boot kicked up on a barrel, her coat half-falling off her shoulder. The smoke from her cigar curled lazily above her head, ignored entirely as her attention was focused on the woman seated across from her.

She had a voice like honey, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other idly playing with the end of Sevika’s collar. She laughed too loudly at something Sevika said—and Sevika smirked, leaning in, words low and slurred just enough to soften her usual edge.

From a distance, she looked like any other pirate relaxing after a haul—flushed cheeks, hooded eyes, the swagger of someone used to getting what she wanted.

But if anyone looked close enough, really close, they’d see the difference. The way Sevika’s gaze flicked—not quite focused on the girl in front of her, but through her.

Because the girl wasn’t her.

Not her.

The girl was close, sure—dark hair, delicate mouth, a laugh that danced in the air—but her eyes were too pale, her chin too sharp. Her hands were wrong.

Still, Sevika played the part. She leaned in, voice rough and low. “You always drink like that, or are you tryin’ to impress me?”

The girl grinned, tipping her mug. “Maybe a bit of both.”

Sevika laughed, mouth curling around the cigar, smoke exhaled through her nose as she tilted her head. “Dangerous game.”

“And you’re the warning label?” the girl teased, inching closer, eyes glinting. “Please.”

Sevika took a slow sip of her drink. It sloshed slightly as she set it down, the amber liquid nearly gone. Her elbow hit the table harder than intended. She blinked a little too slow.

“Just sayin’,” she muttered, “You got no idea what I’ve seen. What I’ve touched.”

She didn’t mean to say it like that, but the words slipped out anyway, thick with drink and memory.

The girl’s brows rose, but she was still smiling, amused, leaning in close enough that her perfume—citrus and sweat—brushed Sevika’s senses. “Then maybe you should show me.”

A smirk ghosted across Sevika’s mouth. Her hand drifted forward, fingers brushing against the girl’s wrist. Her touch was practiced, steady, but her eyes…

Her eyes were miles away.

The other woman leaned in like she was expecting a kiss.

But Sevika didn’t move.

Not yet.

Because all she could see, in the flicker of candlelight on this stranger’s face, was another face—wide-eyed, glinting with seawater and moonlight. That tail. That mouth when it opened in shock. The shimmer of scales, the cut of a jaw that didn’t belong to any myth she knew.

Sevika blinked again.

The illusion cracked.

“You alright?” the girl asked softly, drawing back just an inch.

Sevika rolled her jaw, wiped a hand down her face, and laughed—low and hollow.

“Fine,” she muttered, tossing back the last of her drink. “Just thinkin’ about someone who ain’t here.”

The tavern blurred as the night deepened—faces blending into laughter, music thickening into static, the hum of drink and desire drowning out all reason. Sevika didn’t remember leaving exactly. Just the heat of the girl’s mouth on her neck, her fingers tangled in Sevika’s shirt, and the way the air outside felt cold against her flushed skin as they stumbled down the uneven cobbled streets toward her place.

They barely made it inside.

The door slammed shut behind them, the girl giggling as Sevika backed her into the wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding up her thigh. Their mouths met—hot and hungry, the taste of rum and desperation between them.

It didn’t matter that her name was wrong. That her voice was wrong. That the curve of her back didn’t fit Sevika’s palm quite the way she wanted it to.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t want to.

Didn’t let herself.

The bedroom was dark, lit only by the moonlight bleeding in through the thin curtain. Clothes came off. Hands roamed. The girl made all the right sounds, said all the right things, wrapped herself around Sevika like she meant it.

And Sevika gave in to the rhythm—fast, rough, breathless.

She chased the high, moving harder, deeper, fingers gripping, mouth biting, needing something to burn out the feeling gnawing at her ribs.

But just as she tipped over the edge—

Just as her breath caught, her eyes squeezed shut—

She saw her.

Not the girl beneath her. Not the one gasping and moaning and clawing at her back.

Her.

The girl from the water. From the wreck. From somewhere else entirely.

Except—this wasn’t a memory.

It was an invention. A split-second fantasy.

The mermaid—you—laid out beneath her, body slick and glistening like she’d just surfaced, hair tangled in seawater, eyes wide and dark with pleasure. Your mouth open, lips parted around Sevika’s name—not Captain, not help, but Sevika, like it belonged to her.

Her expression was soft. Overwhelmed. Beautiful.

It wrecked her.

Sevika came hard, breath torn from her chest, muscles tensing as the world went silent except for that imagined sound—the voice of someone she didn’t even know, someone she couldn’t possibly forget.

And when it was over—

When the girl curled up beside her, pressing kisses to her shoulder, sighing into her skin like she meant it—

Sevika just stared at the ceiling.

Eyes open.

Jaw clenched.

Haunted by a fantasy she hadn’t meant to have

comment to be added to the taglist!

[blehblarghblah]

Magic Between the Moon & Sky: Rayllum Oneshot Series - A 5 Year Anniversary

Today marks the five year anniversary of MBTMS’ release. (Technically it’s tomorrow for Ao3, but FFN I posted there first). A oneshot collection that is yet to be finished, I know, but one that I treasure deeply. I may have fallen out of my love for TDP in certain elements, but the writing and what I started with in regards to Rayllum was something else.

I don’t mean to be all, “I was there when it was written” but I joined this fandom in its season one days, when it was REAL small here on Tumblr. Which meant smaller ship circles too. I’m glad to have witnessed the fandom blossom and grow, and by that extension, Rayllum itself too.

I know many of my readers probably assume I won’t be returning to MBTMS, but you’re kinda wrong. I swear I’m not one of those 100 oneshot fics that stop halfway (no fault to them of course, sometimes passion runs out)! I legitimately have more than a dozen oneshots planned out. But, I’m also biding my time. I’ve learned with fic writing, that writing what I love is just as crucial as being passionate about it. I'm not currently into TDP but I still enjoy the oneshot concepts i thought up for my fics, so I'll probably only work from those.

I mean, I can probably just grind out the last oneshots and meet the 100 quota, but they wouldn’t be good. Or maybe, they would be to some of you, but they wouldn’t be something I could be proud of. Least of all, I wouldn’t have fun writing it. So yeah, I do believe I know my limits and the extent of my creativity.

But the main reason at the end of the day, as to why I won’t drop this fic, is because it has quite literally spawned some of my best writing. “Loyalty & Light”, “The Most Undoing Thing”, my Taang oneshots, “Legends of Avatar: The Untold Story”, they’ve all had great prose that I’m proud of. Some not so much, but that’s growth.

“Magic Between the Moon & Sky” houses many different styles and concepts I could never explore with most of my fandoms. I’ve written a modern college AU grounded in the slowest of burns, I’ve written childhood AUs diving into the naivety and hilariousness of a kid's mind, and I’ve written an emotionally powerful (as readers have said) Soulmate AU even though I don���t like Soulmate AUs. And I have many more mind, but I’ve also managed to explore the canon and interpret my own ideas from before we learned anything of the lore.

Some were at the requests of fans, others were because I wanted to try and get my feet wet. Much like Callum and Rayla themselves, this fic was a great avenue for me to explore my abilities as a writer and try new things. And in the end, I’m proud of that. And I cannot wait to see what I do next.

Thank you all, for an amazing five years of patience and love. Again, no idea when I'll return to this fic but I'll get around to it.

Until next post,

- Bleh

[gainercontent]

The Naughty List - Part 1

It was Christmas Eve, and 20-year-old Jason Price was in his usual rebellious mood. As the snow fell gently outside, blanketing the small suburban neighborhood in a layer of white, Jason lounged on his couch in a dark hoodie, earbuds securely in place, blasting music that was anything but festive. The rest of his family had gathered in the kitchen, baking cookies and humming carols, but Jason wasn’t having any of it. 

For years now, he'd grown cynical about Christmas. The magic he once believed in had been replaced with indifference and apathy. He hadn't cared about Santa Claus in ages, and to him, the holiday was just another marketing ploy to make people buy things they didn’t need. He never cared for the usual Christmas cheer—family gatherings, gift exchanges, the whole “being together” thing. In his mind, the whole season was just one big commercialized joke.

To make matters worse, Jason had learned that he was on Santa’s naughty list this year. Not that he cared; he’d long stopped worrying about whether or not he got presents. His rebellious nature had only grown over the years, and he wore it like a badge of honor. Sure, he’d gotten a few reminders from his parents, and even a half-hearted lecture about “the Christmas spirit,” but he had rolled his eyes and shrugged them off. If Santa didn’t like it, well, that was his problem.

The house was quiet, except for the sound of Christmas music drifting from the kitchen. Jason scrolled through his phone, avoiding the festivities and ignoring his family’s attempts to engage him. His mom had baked a fresh batch of gingerbread cookies, filling the house with the sweet, warm smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and molasses. But Jason wasn’t in the mood for any of it. He wasn’t interested in the cookies, the hot cocoa, or even the Christmas tree standing tall in the corner of the living room, its lights twinkling with innocent holiday joy. 

He tossed a glance toward the window. The world outside was still, save for the occasional flurry of snowflakes that danced in the light from the streetlamps. Everything felt like it was frozen in time, caught between the present and the past, and Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong in this world of traditions anymore.

Suddenly, a strange noise broke his focus.

**Thud.**

It wasn’t the sound of a car driving by, or even the wind against the windows. It was too heavy, too deliberate. Jason sat up, pulling out his earbuds and staring at the ceiling as the sound came again.

**Thud.**

A faint rustle, like something—or someone—was shifting on the roof.

Jason furrowed his brow, rubbing his eyes. What the hell was that? He’d heard noises on the roof before—possibly squirrels or the occasional raccoon—but this was different. The thuds were slow, steady. Almost rhythmic.

**Thud. Thud.**

He shot a glance at the clock. It was well past midnight. His parents had long gone to bed, and there was no one else in the house. It was just him and the sound of whatever was walking—or stomping—on the roof. 

Jason got to his feet and cautiously moved toward the window, pulling back the heavy curtains just enough to peer outside. The yard was still—no one was out there. The sky was dark and clouded, and the only light was from the moon reflecting off the snow. He listened again, straining his ears for any sign of movement, but the thudding had stopped.

Confused and a bit unnerved, Jason shook his head. "Stupid raccoons," he muttered under his breath. He was about to turn away when a faint, sweet scent reached his nose. 

The smell of freshly baked cookies.

It was the same warm, spicy smell of his mom’s gingerbread cookies. But it wasn’t coming from the kitchen. Jason’s eyes widened as he looked toward the staircase. He could smell it more strongly now, wafting down the hall.

“Mom?” he called, but his voice was hoarse from sleep, barely a whisper.

No answer. His parents were definitely asleep—he would have heard them if they were up. Still, Jason’s feet moved almost on their own, pulling him into the hallway, the smell growing stronger as he passed the kitchen and toward the living room. But the cookies... weren’t coming from the kitchen. They were coming from the fireplace.

His breath caught in his throat. The fireplace. 

He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he was paying attention, it was almost as if the whole room seemed... different. The Christmas tree lights were flickering in a way that made him feel dizzy. A low hum seemed to fill the air, almost like a song playing beneath everything else.

Jason took a hesitant step toward the fireplace. The hearth was cold, empty—nothing unusual. The chimney was clear, but that strange scent—those gingerbread cookies—lingered in the air like an invitation.

He was about to turn away when, out of nowhere, there was a loud **CRASH** from the roof.

This time, it wasn’t a thud or a rustle. It was a full-on slam, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps—big, heavy boots thumping down onto the chimney.

Jason froze. This wasn’t a raccoon. Or a squirrel. 

Suddenly, the air in the living room grew thick with a strange energy, and the lights flickered once more before going completely out. For a moment, the house was plunged into darkness. Jason’s heart raced as he stood there, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Then, from the other side of the room, there was a noise—a deep, heavy breath, like someone exhaling after a long day of hard work.

Jason’s stomach dropped as he realized: something—or *someone*—was in his house.

He didn’t have time to react before the sound of boots against wood echoed down the stairs. A heavy, jolly laugh filled the space, reverberating in the room.

“Ho, ho, ho!” 

Jason’s mind went blank. He couldn’t believe his ears. Standing in the doorway, just beyond the shadows of the hallway, was a large figure dressed in red. A thick, snowy white beard covered his face, and his eyes twinkled in a way that made Jason feel as though he was staring at something from a dream.

There was no mistaking it. It was Santa Claus.

The old man looked at him with a knowing smile. “Well, well, well, Jason Price. You’re still awake?”

Jason could only stand there, his mouth hanging open. His head spun, trying to make sense of what was happening. “Santa...?” he managed to stammer.

Santa chuckled, adjusting the massive sack over his shoulder. “I see you’re on my naughty list this year, young man. But don’t worry, I’ve got something special for you.”

Before Jason could say another word, Santa reached into his sack and pulled out a plate of warm, freshly baked cookies. The same ones that filled the house with their intoxicating scent. He held them out to Jason, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and understanding.

"You’ve been a little too rebellious, haven’t you? Maybe it’s time to find some balance." 

Jason stood there, speechless. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t the Christmas he’d been expecting.

With a deep breath, Jason took the plate of cookies. As he did, he realized something—the world outside, the cold, snowy night, and the strange magic filling his house, felt like a new beginning. Maybe being on the naughty list wasn’t the end of it all. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to be learned about Christmas after all.

Jason stood in the middle of the living room, still in disbelief at what was happening. Santa Claus, the jolly old man in red, had just handed him a plate of fresh gingerbread cookies, their spicy scent filling the room and tantalizing his senses. It didn’t seem real—none of it did. But there was Santa, smiling knowingly at him as if he’d been expecting Jason all along.

“Go on,” Santa said with a twinkle in his eye. “Try one. It’s part of the magic, you know.”

Jason hesitated. His stomach, still a little uneasy from all the holiday food he’d already eaten, growled at the prospect of another treat. But despite himself, the cookies looked too delicious to pass up. He picked up one of the small, perfectly shaped gingerbread men, still warm from the oven.

Santa leaned back slightly, his large belly shaking as he chuckled. “Ah, don’t worry, they’re not just cookies. They’ve got a little bit of magic in them. And trust me, they’ll change things for you.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, looking down at the cookie. The idea of magic seemed ludicrous—he wasn’t a little kid anymore, after all. But the cookie smelled so good, and for some reason, he couldn’t resist. He took a bite, letting the sweetness wash over his tongue. The spices, the warmth, the soft crumble of the cookie—it was like nothing he’d ever tasted before.

At first, there was just a sense of satisfaction. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he chewed, feeling the holiday warmth spread through him. But then, something strange happened.

A **tingling sensation** spread from his stomach outward, radiating through his limbs like a wave of warmth. Jason froze, feeling a strange tightness around his waist. His jeans, which were already snug after a day of indulgence, suddenly felt even tighter. His stomach rumbled—not from hunger, but from something else, something *different*.

He looked down in disbelief, his hand instinctively reaching for his midsection. 

Jason blinked, his breath catching in his throat. He could feel it—his clothes were tighter, the waistband of his jeans digging into his belly, and his shirt was now stretching across his chest and stomach. He hadn’t imagined it. It was real. He’d just gained weight. Right there, in the span of a few seconds.

Santa, who had been watching him closely, broke into a warm grin.

“Magic cookies,” Santa explained, his voice as jolly as ever. “Each one makes you gain 10 pounds. I can see you’re starting to understand the magic now.”

Jason’s mouth went dry. “Wait... what?” He stepped back, his mind racing. “You mean... this is real? I just gained 10 pounds in like... a minute?”

Santa chuckled heartily, his belly shaking. “Indeed. Those cookies are no ordinary sweets, my boy. They come from the North Pole, crafted in the heart of the workshop, and they’re a part of my gift for those on the naughty list.”

Jason’s mind was spinning. "But why? Is this your way of punishing me?"

Santa waved his hand dismissively, his eyes gleaming. “No, no, it’s not about punishment. It’s about balance. You’ve been living with too much stubbornness, too much defiance. These cookies are a way to teach you a little lesson about... well, about how good things can come from unexpected places.”

Jason stared at him, still not fully comprehending what was happening. His belly was already feeling heavier, the pressure of the extra weight making him uncomfortably aware of his body. He could feel it in his limbs, in his posture—the slight shift in his center of gravity, the tightness of his clothes.

“So... every cookie I eat—what, I get fatter?” Jason asked, incredulous.

Santa gave him a knowing look. “Not just fatter, my boy. You gain weight in a way that mirrors the choices you make. Each bite reflects the way you approach life, and how much you’re willing to let go of your pride, your ego, and embrace something a little more... *sweet*.”

Jason looked at the plate in his hands. The other cookies were so tempting, so warm, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep going down this strange, magical rabbit hole. He’d already felt the effects of the first bite. His jeans were visibly tighter, the waistband straining against the added weight. He could feel his stomach protruding a little more, his face flushed as he glanced at Santa in confusion.

“Don’t worry,” Santa said softly, as if reading Jason’s mind. “You don’t have to eat them all at once. But you should know—you *will* feel the effects. If you keep eating, your body will change. But it’s your choice, Jason. You’re not forced to indulge in the magic if you don’t want to.”

Jason swallowed hard, looking down at the cookie in his hand, then back up at Santa. There was something undeniably *inviting* about it. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do in the moment. Maybe he could let go of his defiance, even if just for a while. Maybe he could try something new, something he’d never considered before.

“Just one more,” he muttered to himself, almost against his better judgment.

Santa gave him an approving nod. “Ah, good choice. A small step toward a new understanding. Go ahead.”

Jason, a mix of curiosity and temptation swirling in his chest, picked up another cookie. This time, he didn’t hesitate. He bit into it, feeling the warmth and the magic all over again.

Almost immediately, the tingling sensation returned, this time more intense. His stomach seemed to expand as if it were a balloon being inflated. His pants, which were already tight, seemed to fit even more snugly around his hips. His chest felt fuller, as though his body were adjusting to the new weight with an almost *unnatural* rapidity.

He wasn’t sure if it was the magic or his own choices catching up with him, but as the pressure in his belly increased, Jason could only stare at Santa with wide eyes. 

“Okay, that’s... that’s enough,” Jason said, trying to steady himself as his balance shifted. But even as he spoke, the strange sense of satisfaction grew stronger. He felt fuller, heavier, but oddly more *content* than he’d ever felt in his rebellious, defiant existence.

Jason looked down at himself. He didn’t know how much weight he’d gained this time, but the sensation was undeniable. He couldn’t ignore the tightness in his shirt or the weight of his stomach. It was clear that he was becoming a different version of himself with every bite, both physically and, in some strange way, emotionally.

“You’ve learned a lot tonight,” Santa said, his voice kind but firm. “But remember—there’s always room for change. Christmas can be magic, but only if you let it.”

Jason stared at the remaining cookies on the plate, still warm and tempting. His stomach was already uncomfortably full, and he could feel the pressure in his waistband increasing with every passing second. He was getting heavier, and each bite seemed to make the weight more apparent, pushing against his clothes, straining his chest, and making him feel like his body was no longer his own.

He looked up at Santa, who was watching him with that infuriatingly knowing grin, as though he’d anticipated Jason’s every move. 

“I think I’m done,” Jason muttered, trying to push the plate away. The first two cookies had been enough—too much, in fact. He was starting to regret even eating the first one, feeling the weight settle around his stomach and chest. But the strange part was... he didn’t *hate* it. 

His belly groaned beneath his shirt, a reminder of the two cookies already devoured. It was so full now that the idea of eating any more seemed impossible. Yet, there was something about the air in the room that made him hesitate. It was as if there was an invisible pull toward the cookies, a magnetic force he couldn’t quite explain.

“No more cookies for me, Santa,” Jason said firmly, setting the plate on the coffee table, but even as he spoke, his stomach rumbled loudly, almost as if protesting his decision.

Santa chuckled softly, stepping forward with a gleam in his eye. “Oh, Jason. I think you *might* be mistaken.”

Jason's brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Santa placed a finger on his chin thoughtfully. Then, in a flash, he poked Jason’s belly—just a light tap, right on the soft, bloated area just below his ribs.

**Poke!**

Jason gasped. The instant Santa’s finger made contact with his stomach, a strange sensation flooded his body. His belly seemed to *deflate* for a second. It wasn’t just that the pressure lessened—it was like the food had disappeared. The bloating, the fullness, it all seemed to vanish in an instant, leaving him feeling... strangely empty.

And then, the hunger hit. 

A powerful wave of gnawing emptiness swept over him. His stomach growled, louder than before, a deep, almost painful rumble that seemed to echo in the quiet room. Jason’s eyes widened in shock as the hunger intensified, his gut aching with the need for more food. The pangs were so loud, so insistent, that they drowned out everything else around him.

Jason's hand went instinctively to his stomach, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if he could somehow keep the sensation at bay. But the hunger didn’t stop. It was as if his body was screaming for food, his insides hollow, desperate for more.

“What the hell—?” Jason breathed, his voice shaking.

Santa just watched him, still grinning, his arms crossed over his chest. “I warned you, Jason. Every bite of these magic cookies does more than just fill your stomach. It changes how you feel. It alters your desires. And now... you can’t stop. You *need* another bite.”

Jason’s hands trembled as he looked at the plate, the third cookie sitting there innocently, just waiting for him to take it. His mind screamed at him not to do it. He didn’t want to eat another cookie. Not now, not after what had already happened.

But the hunger... the gnawing, relentless hunger in his gut... It wouldn’t stop. His body wanted it. Desperately.

“No...” Jason muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t need another cookie. I *don’t*.”

But the moment he said it, the hunger seemed to intensify. His stomach growled so loudly it nearly rattled his ribcage. The pressure returned in full force, and before he knew it, Jason was hunched over, clutching his stomach as if he could somehow stop it.

Santa watched him for a moment longer, his eyes full of knowing mischief. “I think it’s time for the third one, Jason. The hunger can’t be ignored, no matter how much you try.”

Jason’s resistance was faltering. He didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to give in to this strange magic. But his body was betraying him. He was too hungry, too empty, and the cookies were too close.

In a moment of weakness, Jason reached for the third cookie. It felt like an almost automatic response, his hand moving before his mind could even catch up. He didn’t want to, but his body needed it. Desperately.

Santa’s grin widened as Jason took the cookie and, without a second thought, bit into it.

As soon as the warm cookie hit his tongue, Jason could feel it—more than just the sweet flavor. His body reacted instantly. The warmth spread through him like a shock, and that empty sensation he’d felt only moments ago vanished, replaced with an overwhelming fullness. But this time, the fullness was different. It felt deeper. He could feel his stomach stretching, his pants tightening around his waist, and yet... it wasn’t painful. It was almost *comfortable*, in a strange, indulgent way.

Jason’s shirt grew tighter as he chewed, his chest expanding slightly with every bite. He could feel the extra weight settling on his body, his stomach swelling visibly beneath his shirt. With each bite, it was like he was ballooning outward, the weight accumulating rapidly.

He didn’t even notice how much he’d eaten, how much his body had changed until he looked down. His stomach, already soft and heavy, was now noticeably larger, pushing against the waistband of his jeans. His shirt strained to cover the growing mound of flesh beneath it, and the tightness in his pants was unmistakable.

Santa observed the transformation, his eyes gleaming with approval. “There it is, Jason. Just let go. Embrace it.”

Jason’s hands gripped his belly as if to hold the weight in place, but it was no use. He had given in. The hunger had won. 

But something else was happening now. Jason felt a strange, euphoric warmth spreading through his body. It wasn’t just the cookies that were filling him; it was the feeling of *acceptance*. He could almost hear the soft hum of magic surrounding him, as though the cookies had done more than just make him fat. They had somehow made him *feel* full—complete.

Jason swallowed, feeling the heaviness in his stomach, and for the first time, he felt something that wasn’t just hunger or defiance. He felt... *satisfied*. 

Jason had barely finished the third magic cookie when he felt an overwhelming shift in his body. At first, it was subtle—just a slight tightness in his stomach, like it had been stretched to its limits. But it didn’t stop there. 

The first thing Jason noticed was the pressure around his midsection. His jeans, which had already been snug before, felt almost painfully tight now, digging into his waist. His stomach, once slightly bloated from the previous cookies, had ballooned out significantly, pushing against the fabric of his shirt, the soft fabric straining to contain his expanding form. 

His chest had broadened too, his ribcage seeming to expand with every breath. As he looked down, his belly had swollen outward, a soft but firm mound of flesh that jutted noticeably past his waistline. The buttons of his shirt were pulling at the seams, and the waistband of his jeans was digging into his lower belly, the skin a little pink from the pressure. He could almost feel the weight accumulating beneath his hands as they hovered over the growing mass.

Each intake of breath made him acutely aware of how much he had consumed, and the feeling of fullness washed over him in waves. His belly had become an undeniable presence now, a heavy, rounded expanse that clung tightly to his body. It was as if every inch of his skin was occupied by this new weight, the feeling of it seeping into his legs, his arms, his chest. He wasn’t sure how much he had gained in total, but it was clear that his body had changed significantly with each magical bite.

But as he sat there, dazed from the strange magic, he realized that the hunger still hadn’t fully left him. His stomach rumbled again—louder, deeper than before. It was like a growl that reverberated through his entire body, leaving him feeling *empty* despite the vast amount of food he’d just consumed.

And then, before he could even process what was happening, Santa raised his hand with a knowing smile. The plate of cookies seemed to levitate, the two remaining gingerbread men sliding across the table toward Jason. 

Jason blinked. “Wait, what?” he said, still reeling from the effects of the last three cookies. But it was too late—the cookies were already in his hands, as if they’d been beckoned by some invisible force.

Santa's voice was calm, his tone warm. “You didn’t think it would stop at three, did you, Jason? The magic works in ways you can't predict, but now that you're here, it's almost a part of you. Go ahead... just one more bite.”

Jason’s hands trembled as he held the cookie in front of him. The pressure in his stomach was intense, a reminder of the weight he was already carrying. The thought of eating another one should have made him want to stop, but that gnawing emptiness still lingered in his gut, an insatiable, magnetic pull. His eyes traced the cookie’s edges, the sugary glaze gleaming in the soft glow of the Christmas lights. It was impossible to ignore.

Without fully realizing what he was doing, Jason took the first bite of the fourth cookie. His body immediately reacted, that same sensation flooding through him—the warmth, the magic, the sense of immediate satisfaction, and yet, at the same time, a deepening hunger. 

His stomach seemed to lurch, pushing outward with the added weight. The softness of his belly was now undeniable, the expanse of flesh that had once been confined beneath his shirt now visible as it pressed outward, expanding beneath his hands. 

Santa watched him, still smiling. "The magic doesn’t just fill you—it *changes* you, Jason. Every bite is a step toward something new. Something different.”

Jason couldn’t speak as the second cookie was placed into his hands. This time, he didn’t hesitate. He bit into it almost greedily, as if his body needed it. The flavor hit him all at once—spicy, sweet, with a warmth that spread from his mouth to his belly. 

And as soon as the cookie entered his system, he felt the unmistakable weight of it. 

His belly, already massive from the previous cookies, grew further—his stomach expanding with a slow but undeniable pressure. The tightness around his waist was almost unbearable, the waistband of his jeans digging in, as if threatening to burst. His shirt stretched across his chest, pulling tight over the soft, swollen mound of his stomach. The feeling of fullness had become almost overwhelming, as though his body had reached its absolute limit.

And yet, it wasn’t over.

Jason felt a deep, parched thirst suddenly wash over him. His throat felt dry, his mouth cottony. The hunger had finally receded, replaced by an almost desperate need for something to drink. 

Without thinking, Jason reached for the glass of whole milk Santa had left on the table. The cool, white liquid seemed like the only thing that could quench the fire in his throat. 

He brought the glass to his lips and began drinking, each gulp feeling like it was soothing something inside him. The cold milk seemed to settle in his stomach, cooling the heat from the cookies, and for a brief moment, he felt a little relief. But as he drank, his stomach continued to react to the magic in his body.

The pressure inside him was no longer just physical. His body was growing heavier with each swallow, his stomach expanding and stretching with the milk, the cookies, and the magic working its way through him. The fullness in his body wasn’t just in his belly anymore—it was in his arms, his legs, his chest. Jason could feel the weight of it spreading through him, sinking into his bones, his skin. He was *growing* with every bite, every gulp.

The milk, thick and rich, slid down his throat easily, but with every swallow, he could feel the weight of the magic pushing him further, making him feel more bloated, more *filled*. His body felt like it was expanding not just with food, but with *everything*. The magic was seeping into every part of him.

Finally, after Jason finished the milk, he let the glass slip from his hand. His stomach was so full now that it felt like it might burst. He leaned back into the couch, the weight of his belly pressing against his legs. He was *huge*—his shirt now clung to his swollen stomach, unable to cover the full expanse. His pants, once comfortably snug, now felt like they were cutting into his flesh. The waistband dug painfully into his soft belly, the fabric stretching in ways it wasn’t meant to. He couldn’t even move without feeling the tightness, the heaviness in every part of him.

Santa watched all of this unfold, a satisfied look on his face. “You’re learning, Jason. The magic isn’t about controlling you; it’s about showing you how to embrace what’s already inside of you.”

Jason could barely focus on Santa’s words, his mind fogged by the overwhelming sensation of his body. His stomach was so distended, so *full*, that all he could do was sit there, helpless against the pull of the magic. The once rebellious, defiant Jason had surrendered to it, his body irrevocably changed, his appetite insatiable.

Jason let out a loud, unintentional burp as he leaned back into the couch, the pressure in his overstuffed stomach making the sound escape from him. It was so loud, so sudden, that it echoed in the quiet room, a perfect, embarrassing punctuation to the magical meal he had just consumed.

"Excuse me," he muttered sheepishly, though a part of him was too full and too dazed to really care about the manners he normally would’ve worried about. His stomach was so large now that the idea of sitting up or moving was almost laughable. Every inch of his body felt stretched, as though he was on the verge of bursting from the sheer volume of food he had taken in.

Santa chuckled at the sound, an amused glint in his eyes as he looked at Jason’s swollen form. The old man’s gaze shifted down to Jason’s belly, now a soft, round mound pressing against his shirt. It was clear that Jason had eaten well—too well—and now, he was feeling the full force of that magic.

Jason sighed deeply, rubbing his hands over his belly as it grumbled, still not fully content despite the massive intake. It wasn’t just a growl anymore, it was an ache—one that he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much he tried to distract himself.

"I’m... I’m going to go back upstairs to bed," Jason muttered, his voice thick from the fullness in his stomach. He could feel the weight of the cookies pressing down on him, and though he had no desire to move, he knew he had to. His body felt like it had been stretched to its limits, and sleep seemed like the only reprieve from the intense pressure he felt within.

Santa grinned, watching Jason shift uncomfortably on the couch. "You’re going to need a little more than just bed to recover from all this magic, Jason."

Before Jason could protest, Santa’s gloved hand reached out and poked Jason’s bloated stomach lightly. The action was playful, but the effect was instant. Jason gasped, his belly jumping at the poke, a shudder of sensation running through him. The pressure that had been building seemed to momentarily *shift* as his belly responded, like a balloon inflating and deflating under his shirt.

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Jason said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll try to be better next year. But… can I just go to bed now? I feel like I’m going to explode.” 

Santa stood up, his merry eyes twinkling as he patted Jason gently on the belly, a soft tap that felt like the final nudge to keep him in place. “You’ve done enough, Jason. Just remember—next year, you’d better be on the nice list if you want to avoid more *magic cookies*. The world can only handle so much Christmas spirit, you know.”

Jason gave a tired but sincere nod, rubbing his now-aching belly. “Yeah, yeah… I’ll be good, I promise.”

With that, he pushed himself slowly to his feet, feeling the weight of his stomach shift as he stood, and made his way toward the stairs. Every step was a little slower than usual, his body heavy, swollen, and full. But it was Christmas, after all. He had indulged in the magic, and now, all he wanted was to sleep it off.

Before he disappeared up the stairs, he turned to glance back at Santa, who was still standing by the tree, watching him with that playful smile.

“Merry Christmas, Jason,” Santa said, his voice full of warmth.

Jason nodded, a smile tugging at his lips despite the discomfort. “Merry Christmas, Santa. And… thanks for the cookies.”

Santa’s eyes twinkled, his voice low and full of mirth. “Don’t mention it, kid. Just remember, no more naughty behavior next year.”

Jason was already regretting every bite as he made his way up the stairs. It wasn’t just the slow, lumbering pace of his steps, but the deep, weighted feeling of his body. Every movement felt heavier, every step more sluggish than the last. He had never felt so *slow* before. His legs seemed to protest with each step, the weight of the magic cookies settling into his body like a dense, unshakable fog.

Fifty extra pounds felt like a mountain on his frame—his stomach, still swollen from the five cookies and glass of milk, jutted out in front of him like a balloon. It was soft, round, and *massive*, and with every step he took, it seemed to pull down on him, making his movements even more labored. His shirt stretched uncomfortably across his chest, and his waistband was cutting into his belly, the fabric straining against the sheer size of him.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, Jason was panting, exhausted from the simple effort of going up. He stopped in front of the bathroom mirror, his reflection hitting him like a slap. 

The sight of himself was almost foreign—his once lean frame had been completely transformed. His belly now looked like it was carrying a small beach ball in it. His shirt clung tightly to his swollen gut, the fabric stretched to its limits. Jason’s chest had widened as well, and his arms, once muscular but lean, now seemed thick and heavy, filled with the extra weight that had accumulated over the course of the night. His pants, which used to fit comfortably, were now pinching at the waist, the fabric pulling tight against his thickened thighs and hips.

Jason stared at himself for a moment, taking it all in. His face looked rounder too, a soft flush of color on his cheeks, as if the weight had even settled there. His lips parted, a silent exhale escaping as he looked down at his bloated belly once more, still feeling the pressure build, almost as if he had more room to grow. The fullness inside him was so intense that he could hear his own stomach growling softly, even though he knew he couldn’t possibly eat another thing.

“God, this is insane,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. The discomfort was real, but so was the strange sensation of satisfaction—like he’d just indulged in something he couldn't control. Magic had a way of making everything *feel* so much more intense. And now, he had no choice but to live with the results.

With a sigh, Jason turned away from the mirror, giving his stomach a gentle rub as if comforting the weight inside him. He felt his body shift, a slight jiggle in his belly as he moved toward his bedroom. It was impossible to ignore the strain on his clothes, or the constant pressure on his stomach, but there was nothing he could do about it now. 

He collapsed onto his bed, the soft mattress groaning under his new weight. The cool sheets felt nice against his warm skin, but his stomach was too tight, too swollen to allow him to get comfortable. He shifted a bit, but his belly was so large now that it wouldn’t let him relax fully.

Just as he was about to close his eyes and try to forget about the strange night he’d had, a familiar scent wafted through the room. It was faint at first, but unmistakable—the sweet, warm smell of freshly baked cookies. Jason’s eyes popped open, his heart skipping a beat.

“No way…” he murmured, lifting his head from the pillow to sniff the air more intently. The scent was drifting in from somewhere. The familiar, inviting aroma of gingerbread, sugar, and spice. It wasn’t just in his mind, he could *smell* it.

Jason groaned, his stomach grumbling again, this time from something more than just fullness. It was that same deep, empty hunger he had felt earlier—magically induced, of course—but it was so overwhelming that he almost couldn’t fight it. His body *wanted* more. 

His eyes darted toward the door, half-expecting Santa to appear, carrying another plate of magic cookies. He could already picture them—those warm, sugary treats, the kind that filled him with a sense of indulgence and the promise of more weight, more fullness. 

The thought alone was enough to make him sit up, but the pressure in his belly made him stop. He didn’t know if he could take more, but the smell—*oh, the smell*—was so tempting, so irresistible. 

He groaned and turned over onto his side, clutching at his belly, trying to settle himself down. *Not again,* he told himself. *I’ve had enough for one night.*

But the scent was still there. Faint, but lingering. And Jason realized, with a sinking feeling, that no matter how much he tried to ignore it, that magic had already sunk deep into his bones. It wasn’t just in his body—it was in his mind too.

With a frustrated sigh, Jason closed his eyes again, trying to push away the hunger, the pull of that magic. 

But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that the next time he smelled those cookies, he might not be able to resist. The thought made him shudder, even as he drifted off to sleep, his body still heavy and full, his stomach aching from the weight of what he had already consumed. 

Part 2 will be posted on December 25th

[obsessivevoidkitten]

How to Advance Your Career

Yandere Magic Space Moth Hybrid x Male Space Elf Reader CW: Noncon, abuse of authority, power imbalance, size difference, age difference, oral sex, anal sex, fingering, bondage Word Count: 2k (Commission for @mothmaniacs with their OC Eros.)

The Starforged Federation, an interplanetary organization spanning across hundreds of star systems. It’s goal? Keeping the member worlds from falling apart from threats both foreign and domestic. Mostly foreign, space was vast and there was no shortage of enemies that would see The Starforged and its member planets fall into ruin.

But that would never happen, not if Captain Eros had anything to say about it. He was the leader of the military branch of The Starforged. An imposing man. He was an alien of unknown cosmic origin, looking like a cross between a moth and a human.

On paper, he did not seem too intimidating. A shirt that had frills at the wrists and going up the center of the abdomen, a golden starburst brooch centered in a large blue jabot, and trousers with the phases of the moon going up the side. And that was just what he wore, his body was equally outlandish. He was a bit chubby, with long blue hair of multiple shades, long thin antenna that exuded a starry aura, golden eyes, a blue crescent on his forehead, long pointed ears the tips of which were blue, which contrasted well with his lightly brown skin, but his most striking feature was his wings. When folded they looked like a cape, a cape made of the night sky itself, glittering and celestial, tipped with light blue-grey.

When you saw him in person you couldn’t help but be amazed by his beauty but silenced by the weight of his stare. It was said that he was the oldest living member of The Federation. It was even rumored that he had a hand in forming it hundreds of years ago. No one really knew his true age.

But any scuttlebutt was quickly silenced when he walked into the room, no one would risk his ire. He wasn’t cruel but he was a stern leader.

Though you didn’t really understand what everyone’s fear was. He had seemed pretty up tight when you first started on as a crewmen under him, but you got to know him and pretty quickly he was pretty relaxed around you.

You didn’t realize that he was ONLY like that with you though. For some reason you were special to him and he found himself unable to stop himself from treating you like the rest of the crew.

Perhaps your naivete came from inexperience? Or maybe it was because you were an elf and elves were known to be a little obtuse. Whatever the reason you hadn’t taken note of how he treated you differently in comparison to your fellow co-workers.

It wasn’t long at all until you found yourself already getting a promotion of sorts. Not one in any official capacity, but you became kind of like his apprentice. He spent a lot of time teaching you things and granting you private lessons on what it took to be successful in your line of work. You thought he was like this with any dedicated personnel, but no, only you got the benefit of his private tutelage. He even gave you combat lessons, hand-to-hand training that always seemed to end with you pinned beneath him while he smirked down at him.

Beyond that it seemed that every shift you had on the bridge was when he was at the helm. If you had a shift elsewhere he also happened to be there at that time. You were around him more than the second in command was.

Eventually you wanted to be put into a command position, maybe even captain your own ship. Of course to take command of your own vessels, even a smaller one, would take years, possibly decades. But that was okay. You’d climb the ranks and hopefully get there eventually. With all the advice of your kind captain how could you fail?

After over a year of dedicated employment you were still in the same position you had started in and it was almost time for your performance review. Nothing had really changed between you and Eros. He still sparred with you and gave you tips about other things when it was relevant for him to do so.

Though you had finally noticed an occasional flirty undertone to some of his jokes when the two of you were alone together, you figured it was a sign of your friendship deepening. Of course wanting to be on good terms with your boss and friend you flirted back here and there.

To him it was a sign that maybe you were starting to like him in the same manner that he liked you.

You were on your way to his quarters, most of the ship was empty due to being docked between missions.

After taking the long way to get there to calm your nerves you finally arrived at his room. Your nerves, having not been calmed at all, insisted that you stand outside his room awkwardly for what seemed like an eternity before you finally buzzed his door to let him know you were there. He seemed pleasantly surprised to see you and invited you in immediately.

Eros watched you curiously and you did your best to mumble out why you were there and ask for a recommendation so that you’d be much more likely to get a higher rank.

"Well it might help you get that recommendation if you sucked me off."

You assumed it was another of his crass jokes.

"Haha, yeah I'll get right on that!"

In your laughter you dropped the telepad you had brought with you to get his note of recommendation. You bent down to retrieve it and when you looked up there was suddenly a girthy cock right in your face. Fairly long, very thick, and the tip was blue like his ears.

It appeared Eros was absolutely not joking.

You stared at it blankly. Eros thought you were so impressed with his fat dick that you were at a loss for words. But that was okay, you didn't need to talk for what he wanted to do with your mouth.

Eros took his prick and gave it a couple shakes as he smirked.

"Well?"

He wanted you to suck THAT!?

There was no other choice. You didn't want to offend him or risk losing your friendship or job...

Blush crept across your cheeks as you grasped it timidly. You fondled and massaged his nuts while licking up the shaft.

It was a struggle to get more than just the head in your mouth.

Eros didn't mind too much though, it was a thrill just to see your mouth on him, giving his cock such undivided attention. He ran his fingers through your hair before caressing from your cheek to the tip of your pointed ear.

"Having trouble?"

You removed the troublesome appendage from your mouth, rubbing your jaw as you did so.

"Uh, yeah sorry... it's pretty large..."

He didn't mind watching you struggle with his dick, your inability to take it in your mouth did give him the opportunity to move on to something more engaging for the both of you.

While you were stroking it with both hands and just licking at the tip to give your jaw he snapped his fingers.

With a flash, your clothing vanished, ethereal ribbon made of glitter and light wove itself around you. Your mouth was bound, legs spread, and arms tied behind you. He wasted no time in picking you up and placing you on his spacious bed.

While he hoped you liked him back, especially since you returned his flirtatiousness, he was also aware you were doing this primarily for your advancement and couldn't risk giving you a chance to say no.

If he had asked you probably would have complied anyway just for the sake of your career. But why risk it when he knew he could use his position over you to finally experience how you felt around his cock?

The moth used his magic once more, this time to conjure lube right into your exposed hole. The size difference between the two of you was significant, even his fingers were thick you realized as he pressed one into you. Your jerked and spasmed at the sudden entry, he rolled it around inside you to loosen you up before eventually adding another.

He was surprised at how you stretched so easily. Even with the lube and prep no one was like this so easily. It must have been a gift from your elven heritage. He certainly wasn’t complaining, it allowed him to slip into you much more quickly than he thought he’d be able to.

You struggled against the unyielding power of the magic binds as Eros lined the blunt tip of his cock up with your asshole and drove it into you. You shuddered at the new, and much larger, intrusion.

Out of instinct you flinched and tightened yourself up, though it didn’t feel at all bad. Quite the opposite in fact, it was the best thing that you had ever felt. In and out he plunged into you, his cock caressing every inch of your insides in a way that could only be described as perfect.

The muffled sound of moans could be heard escaping the magical binds around your mouth. A sound more angelic than any chorus as far as Eros was concerned.

The moth gripped your hips as he pounded you with more urgency, yearning to paint your insides with his essence. Laying claim to you in a way that only he ever would. Definitely only the first of many times if Eros had anything to say about it. And as your commanding officer and someone of extreme rank and prestige he certainly had a lot of say.

Since your thoughts were well fucked into oblivion at this point he felt safe in removing all the magic fabric that kept you tied up. There was no chance that you would tell him no or try to escape by that point.

He was glad he did because then he could hear you more clearly as he slammed into you.

“Ahh, mmmm, uhhh AHHH!!!”

You cried in orgasm as he stroked your cock, hard and drooling for attention. You splooged cum all over his hand, he put his hand to his lips and licked it clean without even slowing the pace at which he was fucking into you.

The taste of you on his lips, the sound of you moaning, the sensation of your insides clinging to his dick so warm and wetly, he couldn’t help it. All the sensations pulled him right over the edge soon after you. He flooded you with his hot semen, enough to visibly bloat your belly just a bit.

You were a mess, sweat soaked hair, panting, drooling. Muttering almost incoherently about promotions and recommendations and making him happy. It was quite a sight for the moth, almost enough to make him go another round. But no, you clearly needed your rest.

He took you into the bath with him and cleaned you as you leaned back against him. Completely obedient. Oh yeah, he could get used to this. And he planned to. He cleaned all the cum off and out of you, changed the sheets, and let you lay in his bed bundled up in a robe that was much to large for you.

“Awww, asleep already my little elf?”

Indeed you had fallen asleep almost immediately. All the anxiety that had filled you earlier mingled with the toll that being fucked senseless had on you and culminated with you softly snoring on his bed in no time.

You sleeping in his bed as easily as if it were your own. He planned to get used to that too.

As you rested he had the telepad that you brought earlier. He was busy filling out his thorough recommendation for you to rank up. Though he made sure that any new position you received alongside your new rank would be one beside him.

You would ALWAYS be beside him.

[slylycurioustreasure]

The Bleeding Sky

Summary: Heir to a cursed line of sorcerers, you carry on your shoulders the weight of an ancestral pact: to prevent the destruction of the world, you must unite with four men from clans once enemies of your own kind—a demon, a celestial, an immortal fox, and a human.

But nothing is simple when love, hate, desire, and betrayal intertwine. Torn between your curse and your feelings, protected by some, judged by others, you will have to face the truth about your blood... and what you are willing to sacrifice to survive.

What if it wasn't you, but them... who were trapped from the start?

Genre: Fantasy, Dark Romance, Drama, Action, Reverse Harem, Supernatural, Wuxia, Historical

Pairing : Enha hyung Line x reader

Warning: Death, pain, blood, injury, hatred, loneliness, despair, psychological suffering, fear, anguish, black magic, ritual, sacrifice, intense emotions, fatality, forced marriage.

word : 15k

NEXT (PART 2.1) ✘ SERIES MASTERLIST ✘

Long ago—so long that even immortals have forgotten the taste of memory—there existed a clan whose name was erased. Erased from the royal chronicles. Strictly erased from the celestial tablets. Defiled and then buried beneath centuries of silence and fear.

A clan that should never have existed. A clan born from a crime against the laws of creation.

It is said that when the world was young, before the mountains rose, before the stars aligned, a fragment of chaotic essence wandered freely at the edge of the worlds. 

Neither life nor death. Neither order nor destruction.

An ancient, formless spirit, hungry for form. His name was Wu Hei, the Nameless Shadow. And one day, in his drift, he met a woman who had fallen from the sky. A banished celestial, whose wings had been burned for loving a mortal. Her name was Yun Qiao, the Bearer of the Red Star.

He possessed her. Or she accepted him. No one knows.

From this blasphemous union was born a lineage the heavens had not foreseen. Neither human. Nor demons. Nor celestial. Something else. Something too ancient to be named. They were called sorcerers. But that word, in itself, was a betrayal.

Their bodies were of shadow and flesh. Their veins carried a black fire—not a fire that illuminates, but a fire that consumes, slowly, silently, until nothing remains but ashes of soul. Their gazes troubled mirrors. Their voices disrupted the seasons. They were born with screams, and died in silence.

They lived for a long time on the fringes of the world, slipping into the invisible faults—where maps end, where laws lose their power. They built cities from the roots of ancient trees, dug palaces beneath acidic lakes, carved temples from the skulls of dead beasts.

They didn't pray. They remembered.

They were cursed at birth. Not by a god or a demon, but by the very nature of their blood. For their magic was unchanneled: it burned unhindered, transforming them, devouring them little by little. Each spell cast cost them a part of their being. But they had no choice. It was that or disappear. And then they became powerful. Too powerful.

The world noticed them.

Men, jealous of what they did not understand, decided they were heretics. Demons, intrigued by their raw magic, wanted to capture and domesticate them. The celestials, frightened by what they perceived as a threat to the balance of cosmic laws, condemned them without trial.

And then the purge began.

Sorcerers were hunted like beasts. Shrines were ransacked. Children were torn from their mothers' arms to be purified in flames. Sages were executed, their tongues torn out and nailed to the doors of celestial temples. Pregnant women were disemboweled under the red moons, so that their lineage would not survive. The rivers where they had washed were rendered unfit for life. Even the demons eventually retreated. Too unstable, too dangerous. Too human, too inhuman. And in the final hour of their fall, a single name was whispered among the ashes: Wu Zhen.

Wu Zhen was the last of the Negative Fire masters. He had been trained in the depths of a forgotten sanctuary, beneath the Heiyan Sea of ​​Mist, where the sky was no longer reflected. He knew the 49 languages ​​of pain. He could make a blade cry, or a corpse sing.

But he never wanted war. The world imposed it on him.

They took his sister—hung her naked on celestial chains, her womb cut open, her eyes burned with divine light. They took his son—a three-year-old child with diaphanous skin, whose heart was offered to the gods to sanctify a harvest.

They took his name, his clan, his history.

And then Wu Zhen, the last, the tombless, lost his mind. But it wasn't a madness of screams and blood. It was a madness of order. A madness of silence. A madness of purpose.

He carved a forbidden incantation into his own body, right into his bones. A curse so ancient that even immortals feared it. He shattered the barriers between worlds, reversed the flow of rivers, disrupted the cycle of the seasons. He opened gates even demons barely dared to touch.

And into that gaping chasm between existence and nothingness, he cried out a single wish: “Let all perish.”

It wasn't revenge.

It was an end.

Not a war. A sentence.

The three great clans, panicked, forgot their ancestral hatred.

Humans—weak but cunning.

The celestials—pure but cruel.

The demons—powerful but divided.

Together they forged a pact. A new curse, born of fear.

They could not kill Wu Zhen. But they sealed his work. And they swore that never again would such power be born. So they turned the curse on his own line. The sons were erased. But the daughters… The daughters still carried the seed of chaos. 

Every generation, a witch would be reborn. And to control her, to prevent her from opening the gates again, she would be bound—body and soul—to four representatives of the enemy clans.

A demon, to contain his violence.

A celestial, to watch over her.

A human, to humanize him.

A fox, to disturb her.

This wasn't a marriage. It was a cage. A punishment. A living seal. Each bond devoured the witch a little more. Each oath bound her essence to enemy souls. She wasn't allowed to love. Nor to choose. She had to obey, survive, bleed, and then die. Her heart was a tomb. Her body, a key.

And as long as the key remained in the hands of fate, peace, fragile and corrupt, could be maintained.

But with each generation, the same tragedy began again. The witch suffered. Her husbands fell, slowly, consumed by the curse. And despite everything, despite the fear, despite the pain—they fell. Into her eyes. Into her distress. Into her cursed light. And the circle began again. One girl. Four men. A cracked world. And love, like a double-edged sword—beautiful, fatal, and always bloody.

500 Years Later — Guangyin Si (光殒祠) – The Temple of Falling Light

In the forgotten languages ​​of the ancient Celestials, the name Guangyin Si is broken down as follows: Guangyin , the light that no longer shines, the clarity that falls, fades, slowly collapses into the abyss without a cry—and Si , a funerary word, a term of sacred exile, which does not designate prayer, but mourning. Not that of the living, but that which the dead impose on the survivors. A complaint that even the gods no longer console.

Guangyin Si is not a temple. It is a scar.

A fracture in the celestial order. A chasm in the memory of the immortals. A remnant of an act of betrayal so pure, so absolute, that no tongue yet dares to name it.

It rests—or rather, hangs—on the edge of reality. Where the celestial realm frays into mists of frost. Where the sky ceases to be a shelter and becomes a precipice. The temple hangs over an infinite abyss, like a black fruit plucked from the world tree, held together only by ancient chains of fossilized light, stretched across the last pillars of a vanished era.

They creak sometimes. Not in the wind, because here, the wind is dead. But under the weight of centuries and captive souls.

It is said that Guangyin Si was sealed, not built.

The Immortals themselves speak of it only in hushed tones, as if they feared being overheard by the shadows that still sleep there.

The temple is carved from celestial obsidian so dense, so pure, that it absorbs light. The walls are black, but shot through with dull reflections, dead glows—memories of collapsed constellations.

Each slab is engraved. Not mere characters, no—but psalms of eternal penance, calligraphed in the funerary script of the High Immortals, a language only the fallen can read without losing their minds. They are forbidden to be spoken. Some have. Their bodies froze. Their mouths vanished. And their names were blotted from the sky.

The sanctuary rises like a vertical tomb. Its columns, twisted with runic chains, bear the weight of ancient, petrified celestial guardians—mutilated statues with bandaged eye sockets, severed wings, unearthed hearts. Each blind gaze seems to cry out for a punishment they did not choose. Their hands implore the heavens. The sky remains silent.

The wind doesn't blow here. It moans.

A deep, slow rattle that seems to come from within the walls. As if the stone were sighing under the sins it contains.

At the exact center of the temple rests the Altar of Lost Tears. A translucent, almost living monolith. It doesn't always shine. It doesn't vibrate with prayers. It waits. And when a soul collapses, when a being swears without believing, when a heart opens to mourn what it can never have... Then the Altar lights up. With a soft glow. Tragic. Deadly.

Guangyin Si does not welcome crowds.

It opens its doors only to those whom destiny has marked with a sacred seal:

The witches, descendants of the cursed blood. And the husbands, those who will be bound to them by the Pact. But this is not a marriage. It is a divine judgment. An offering. An execution.

The Celestial designated for this bond is never a weak being. He is chosen for his righteousness, his faith, his ability to obey without question. But when he enters Guangyin Si, he understands. He understands that he will not be a protector. That he will not be a lover. He will be the chain. He will take an oath not out of duty, but out of condemnation.

The ritual is long. Slow. Cruel.

He is temporarily stripped of his wings. To remind him that he is not a god here. He is made to kneel before the Altar. His hands plunge into the crystal. He then feels the memories of others, the fragments of those who came before him.

Their screams.

Their doubts.

Their useless love.

Their fall.

The bond is woven not with flesh, but with essence. An invisible vein opens between him and the witch. She doesn't see it, not yet. But she feels it. A burning deep in her heart. A trace of ash in her bones. From that moment on, she is his—not like a wife, but like a sacrificed key. And he is condemned to love her without ever being loved.

It is said that some Celestials tried to flee. Others begged. Some tried to break the pact at the final moment, facing the Altar. The Altar does not judge. It absorbs. We can still see their traces. Luminous silhouettes, half-melted into the walls, like star specters.

They don't scream. They no longer have a voice.

But if you listen carefully, if you listen for a long time, you will hear... Their regret.

You were only twelve years old.

Twelve silent winters spent growing up within the hushed, treacherous walls of the Black Lotus Pavilion. There, nothing was truly alive. Everything was only forms and appearances. You were fed bitter herbs and carefully measured poisons, twisted truths and dire premonitions. You were spoken to softly, like a precious doll... but every step, every word, was watched like a sin in the making.

You were neither a child nor a student. You were a warning. The cursed descendant of a blood the immortals had tried to erase, a living echo of a time the books no longer dared to mention. A shard of chaos embodied in a body too young, too thin, too still trembling to bear such fatality.

So you ran away.

Not forever.

Just… for a few hours.

You wanted something other than the acrid smell of black incense, something other than the long processions of mute sorcerers, the lessons delivered with voices of stone, the stares that weighed like blades balanced on your neck. You wanted to see something other than the dried blood in ritual cups, the tattoos seared with hot irons on the arms of the elders, the sacred ashes that served only to hide fear.

You had run barefoot, unprotected, unguided, through withered groves, hills where twisted trees seemed to weep. You had crossed the remains of ancient battles, fields of ashes where souls never truly rested. The wind carried whispers there that no one listened to.

And then you saw it.

A temple. Broken.

Half collapsed, half engulfed under thick brambles, roots bleeding black sap.

A forgotten, or perhaps hidden, shrine. Something in its silence had called your blood.

You should never have come in.

This was not an abandoned shrine, nor a lost ruin. This was Guangyin Si. Where even immortals dared not set foot. Where oaths were bound by blood and silence. Where the living were sealed like upright coffins.

The ground beneath your feet was icy. You felt the stone vibrate—not like matter, but like memory. Each slab seemed to weep. There was a strange heaviness in the air. No smell. No light. Nothing but emptiness. A palpable chasm opening inside you, as if this place already knew who you were. What you carried. You reached out toward a worn relief, a sculpture eaten away by the centuries, half angel, half beast. Your fingers barely trembled—and that's when it appeared.

Not a sound.

Not an alert.

Just… the pain.

A hand, large and cruel, had fallen upon you without warning, seizing you by the hair with animal brutality. You felt your neck twist. Your feet leave the ground. Your breath catch. The grip was that of an executioner: assured, disgusted, sure of his right.

You had screamed.

But the sound had crashed into the walls, absorbed by the stones. No echo. No response. Even the shadows had turned away. Your tears had flowed at once. No shame, no fear—just a flood of naked pain. You felt them slide down your twisted jaw, mingling with your blood. Whole strands of your hair had fallen to the ground, some clinging to your scalp, tinged a dark red, almost black. Your stomach twisted. Your vision rippled.

And he spoke.

"What's a little witch doing here?" His voice was a low whisper, laden with suppressed anger, but also with a kind of cold disgust. Not like an outraged man. But like an insulted god.

As if your presence desecrated not only this place, but also its essence.

You wanted to speak. Scream. Spit out your rage. You wanted to bite him. Scream your name. Throw your curse in his face. But your body no longer responded. So you struggled. Your hands, too thin, too fragile, reached out toward his face. You scratched, struck, screamed silently. Like a cornered animal.

But with each attempt, the light pushed you back. A barrier. Thin. Invisible, but burning hot. You felt your skin melting. Your palms sizzled from the impact, marked with red, painful blisters.

You'd never touched anything so pure. So... unattainable.

It wasn't a spell.

It was him.

A Celestial.

Not a simple guard. Not a priest.

One of their own. An immortal.

One of those who think that their gaze is enough to judge, that their silence is a sentence.

He watched you, suspended in midair, like an anomaly he needed to crush. But he wasn't crushing you. He was waiting. He was sizing you up, like a scientist with a rare insect. Maybe he hoped you'd cry more. Beg. Break down like the others.

But you didn't.

You were in pain. The world was spinning. Blood pounded in your temples like funeral drums.

But you growled. A hoarse sound, coming from deeper than your throat. A scream that wasn't human. A howl of bloodline, of curse. Something that came from the shadow of your clan. Something that wouldn't die.

The Celestial sneers. A shrill, broken sound, like a bone being bent until it cracks. There is no mercy in this laughter. No hesitation. Just a cruel, tiny joy that pierces beneath his voice, as if what he is about to do is not only a duty... but a forbidden pleasure.

Then comes the shock. Brutal. You don't see it coming.

Your body is thrown to the ground with such brutal force that the air suddenly leaves your lungs. You hit the stone with your lower back, your legs, your arms. A sinister crack mixes with the impact: your shoulder, perhaps. Or your hope.

The pain is immediate. Acute. You want to scream, but only a hoarse breath escapes your throat. Your face contorts, not from fear, but from this unbearable, pure, white suffering. Your legs refuse to move. Your back screams.

You stand there for a moment, face down, listening to the irregular beating of your own heart. The echo of the Celestial's sneer floats above you like a mocking specter.

And then you crawl. You have no more strength, but you crawl.

Your fingers, covered in burns from his barrier of light, are already bleeding. But the stones here aren't mere pebbles. They're engraved with ancient runes, ancient celestial oaths as sharp as blades, encrusted with obsidian crystals and purifying salt. Every movement tears at your skin. Every step forward tears the flesh of your hands a little more, opening deep cracks that are instantly blackened by blood.

You swallow your screams. You refuse to give him that.

Tears fall, heavy, hot, silent. You feel them slide down your cheeks, mix with the sacred dust of the ground, form a sticky red mud beneath you.

Behind, his footsteps still echo.

One. Two. Three. Slow. Measured. As if counting the beats of your heart before the final silence.

“You think you can run away?” His voice is low, calm, almost gentle. And it’s that gentleness that chills the blood. “You think you can escape what you are? Little scum of the world… Your kind should have been eradicated generations ago. You are a mistake. A blasphemy.”

He doesn't scream. He just observes. As if your existence violates some fundamental law of the universe.

You keep crawling, a little, just enough to get away from his shadow. You're out of breath. Out of strength. Your body is a field of pain.

So you stop.

You close your eyes. You breathe in. Slowly. Once. Twice. Your hands are shaking, covered in blood and tears. But you place them flat on the floor. You clench your jaw. And you straighten up. Painfully. Trembling. Like a flame that refuses to go out.

Facing him.

He watches you. His eyes are pale, shot through with a hard glow, as if forged in the glare of divine judgment. But you don't lower your eyes.

“We didn't do anything…” you say. Your voice is raspy, barely above a whisper. But it's there. Alive. “Nothing… to deserve this. We didn't choose. The universe rejected us. But… You chose to hate us.”

You swallow. Blood rises to your mouth. You wipe it with the back of your hand, stained, soiled, and continue:

“If living is a crime… if being born a witch is a fault… then kill me. Now. But look at me well, and tell me if your oath gives you the right to treat me as less than a beast.”

You challenge him. Your eyes shine—not with light, but with that shadow so ancient it predates even the laws of the gods. It is a spark of chaos. A promise of destruction. And he sees it. He frowns, a breath hesitates on his lips. Doubt? Fear? Perhaps. Or perhaps a simple shudder. Then he raises his hand. A sword materializes in a shower of golden shards. Its light is almost unbearable. It sings. A crystalline music, pure, sharp. A blade fashioned to kill beings like you—living curses.

He points it at you.

“I'm going to kill you, for the good of this world. For peace. So that my people can sleep without nightmares.” He smiled. Cold. Empty. “Don't take this the wrong way, little one. I have no choice.” 

But you see it. You feel it. He's lying. He loves this scene. He enjoys this terror. And he chooses, every day, to hate what he doesn't understand.

And in the silence that follows, as the blade lights with the will of the gods, something within you awakens. Something older than your name. Deeper than your blood. Older than the temple itself.

At first you feel a dull tension gnawing at your being, like a poison slowly seeping in, then a hot ember igniting in the hollow of your chest. This ember becomes a cruel fire, a voracious fire that consumes your veins, devours your flesh, consumes your will.

Your breath quickens, gasps, becomes hoarse, like a trapped animal. Your hands tremble, your whole body screams silently.

Then this fire explodes.

A storm of white light erupts from your heart, violent, blinding, torn with deep-black shadows, as if the sky and the night themselves had been unleashed within you. The blast surges forth in furious waves, devastating everything around. The ground trembles, the temple walls vibrate with the force of your power.

A pungent smell of blood mixed with that of dark magic fills the air. The very air seems to be cracking.

The celestial, until now frozen in a deceptive calm, is swept away by this storm. His body flies backward, crashes against the thousand-year-old stone of the sanctuary wall with a dull, dry thud, his skull hitting the stone with a sinister crack.

A shudder of pain twists his face. He collapses to his knees, gasping for breath, overcome by the violence of your power. Blackish blood seeps from his temple, slowly sliding like a river of darkness across his pale skin. The thick liquid seeps into his hair, stains his face, and falls in silent drops onto the temple's engraved flagstones. He half-closes one eye, his gaze clouded with pain and surprise, but refuses to sink. His saber, planted in the ground, is his last anchor.

And you, at the center of this chaos, no longer resemble the child you once were. You are no longer the vulnerable girl who sought light amidst the darkness.

Something ancient, dark, unfathomable, has taken possession of your soul.

In your palm rises a sword. It is forged in your own blood, mingled with swirling black smoke, as alive as you are. The blade is deep black, veined with incandescent red, smoking like the maw of a sleeping dragon. It throbs, a cursed heart beating within the steel.

You take it without hesitation. It's heavy, but it feels like a natural extension of yourself. It's cold, yet it burns your skin like frost and fire combined.

You advance, slowly, inexorably. Your bare footsteps hammer the sacred ground, leaving crimson prints, bloody traces that seem to dance beneath the grim glow of the torches.

Your gaze is a blade. Empty. Icy. Merciless. Your heart no longer beats for yourself, but for one thing: revenge, survival.

"You won't blame me..." your voice rises, foreign, broken, woven with a veil of shadow. It is no longer that of a child, but that of a being who has seen too much, suffered too much, lost too much. "...for killing you to save my clan. To save me."

The celestial lifts his head, barely conscious, panting, a vein pulsing in his forehead. His eyes, half-lidded, are a mixture of pain, disbelief, and a final spark of defiance. He knows that this gaze is no longer that of a child, but of a demon inhabited by a curse. He knows the battle is lost.

"I don't have a choice either." You say the words with a cruel smile, a grimace distorted by pain and determination, which is anything but childish.

You suddenly disappear in a swirl of thick black smoke. Then you reappear before him, a specter of vengeance and despair. Your saber raised, but too slow, too weak. 

Your blade pierces his chest. The black metal pierces flesh, splits bone, pierces a heart that still beats, but weakly. A deep, muffled rattle escapes his throat. It's not a scream, but a final breath laden with pain, regret, and silent forgiveness.

His eyes open wide, filled with indescribable grief, a silent goodbye. His fingers weakly grip your wrist, searching for one last connection, one reason, one forgiveness. His breath comes short, uneven. His body trembles, slumps, like a wilted flower in a black rain.

He dies.

You slowly back away.

The sword in your hand is still warm, steaming, saturated with its essence, its ripped life. Heavenly blood trickles from the wound, falling in heavy drops onto the sacred ground. You watch it crumble, motionless, slowly absorbed by stone and shadow.

You don't look away. You smile. A broken, torn, heartbreaking smile, somewhere between the bitter jubilation of having survived and the visceral horror of having killed.

And in this silence, you don't see.

The child.

Thirteen years old.

He stands there, in the shadows, like a frozen ghost. He still wears the uniform of the celestial novices, clumsy, too big for him. His face is pale, his eyes too light, frozen in a mixture of fear, pain, and despair.

He saw everything.

Your unleashed power. The death of his master, the one who had taken him in, raised him, loved him like a father. Your smile, that of a witch lost in her own night. His lips tremble, his hands clench the hilt of a saber he has never wielded.

Then he screams. A heart-rending, shrill cry, a sound that pierces the silence like a blade.

He throws himself at you.

You no longer have time to think, nor to flee. A sharp pain explodes in your shoulder. The blade is thin, clumsy, but it penetrates, brutal, cruel. Your cry of pain tears through the sanctuary, awakening echoes of the past. Your magic breaks free, uncontrollable. A new explosion of dark and luminous energy propels him backward. The boy is thrown against a column, collapses, half-conscious, gasping for breath.

You stagger, breathless, your body bruised. You tear the blade from your flesh with a scream of agony. Blood flows, a red river on the cold stone. You tremble. And in this absolute pain, you see it.

He is not a warrior.

Not a celestial.

Just a child.

A boy with a face still round, his eyes full of tears. And you have just stolen his world. He looks at you one last time. A look full of sadness, fear, hatred.

Then it sinks. And you... You run away. You become mist again. Silence. Shadow. A nightmare we prefer to forget.

That day, Sunghoon didn't just see his master die. He saw a demon born. And this demon had the eyes of a girl. Eyes that, one day, he knew, would find him again.

16 Years Later — Shīhún Qiáo — The Bridge of Lost Souls

You've always been told legends. Tales to lull children to sleep, or to nurture the bravery of young soldiers. You've been told that true warriors don't bleed. That their skin is as smooth, immaculate, and fragile as a newborn's, protected by an invisible, impenetrable force. That their flesh refuses injury, like a mystical shield insulating them from pain. That their bones, tempered in fire and iron, are as strong as the immortal blade they wield. You've been told repeatedly that they never fall, that their bodies are living fortresses, invincible, eternal.

They lied to you.

For at this precise moment, on this bridge suspended over the sacred river—this thick, black stream, whispered by the ancients as the incandescent border between the realm of the living and that of the dead—there is a body. Or what remains of it.

The wood of the bridge groans beneath your cautious steps, slippery, soaked by the recent rain, drowned in a thick winter mist. The worn ropes hang like vines covered in mold and, above all, stained with blood. Ancient blood. Blood mingled with lost souls.

The air is icy, laden with an almost palpable humidity that clings to your skin like a shroud, heavy and suffocating.

Amidst the blackened, war-scarred planks, you see a collapsed figure, clinging to the worn wood, like the last castaway on a worm-eaten raft.

A man. No. A soldier. A survivor. Or rather, a dying man.

He is slumped, overwhelmed, on his knees, but his legs seem to have broken themselves, or perhaps they have betrayed him. He can no longer support them, he no longer feels them. His body is curled up, folded in on itself, as if the pain, as unbearable as death, were trying to suffocate him. His chest heaves painfully, each breath a hoarse, wheezing rattle, each inspiration a struggle against the approaching nothingness.

Behind him, a trail of blood stretches across the wood, long, thick, and winding, like a funereal mark carved into the bridge. In places, the bright red color has darkened, coagulated into thick, almost solid black stains. In others, the carmine liquid still drips, warm, fresh, vibrant with the life slowly escaping from his body. Every step you take splatters this bloody ground; you walk on the remains of a battle, on the vestiges of a broken army.

You step forward, your muscles trembling with emotion, your breath caught, and what you discover draws a stifled cry from you. His armor, once gleaming black and gold, bears the scars of hell. It is cracked, torn, twisted. The protective plates, once solid, now hang in shreds of bruised metal, some melted, cracked, as if burned by magic too devastating to be human.

His flesh appears, torn, burned, shredded. Blood flows in invisible, sticky streams between the plates, trickling down his pale skin, splashing the wood of the bridge in a macabre fresco. On his left side, a gaping wound spreads like an open carnivorous mouth, revealing the red and black pulp of his entrails, which throb painfully with every breath.

And yet, despite this devastation, he is still alive.

His fingers, stiff and tense, desperately grip the hilt of his sword. A long, cracked blade, eaten away by rust and fire, its metal blackened by the infernal heat of spilled blood and raging flames. This once-proud sword now bears the scars of a war that poets would sing of as an epic tragedy. But this blade is twisted, worn, tired. Like its master.

His forehead rests against the cold, icy pommel, covered in dried blood. You might think he's praying, finding some final comfort in this contact. But his lips barely move. These aren't prayers. They're names.

« Jiang… Lu'an… Fei… »

You crouch down beside him and scrutinize his face, hidden by soaked locks of hair, stuck to his pale skin. He's young. Far too young. Maybe not even twenty. He could have been handsome. He could have laughed. But today, that face is broken. Fractured. Fragile like porcelain abandoned in torrential rain. His gaze, red and glassy, ​​expresses an indescribable pain. An immense fatigue. A pain of the soul. And suddenly, you hear. It's not just the wind that slips between the ropes.

These are voices. Barely audible whispers. Forgotten breaths. Gaunt sighs. Smothered cries that tear at each other. Moans distorted by eternity. These are the spirits of the dead. The black souls floating on the river. Those who sank into its waters, believing they would find rest there. Those whom the soldier himself perhaps sent to the other bank.

They circle him like invisible vultures, carried by the wind. Drawn by the smell of blood, of despair, of the end. You reach out hesitantly to touch his shoulder. He groans, a heart-rending rattle, and your heart clenches painfully. He looks at you. And in his eyes, there is neither fear nor anger. It is a consuming, infinite shame. The shame of having survived. Of having seen his brothers fall one by one. The shame of not having died with them.

“They… told me to run away… I… I left. I left everything…” His voice is a hoarse breath, a painful rattle, a whisper of death. Each word seems to cost him his life. And yet, he speaks. Because there is nothing left but the words. The memories. The ghosts.

You see his tears. But they don't run down his cheeks. They mix with the blood. They slide from the corners of his eyes, mix with the grime, and fall silently onto the sticky wood of the bridge. He grits his teeth, but his body trembles, shaken by fever and pain.

You look at his wounds again. Not all of them are visible. Some go far deeper than flesh, to the very heart of the soul. Wounds that neither magic, nor time, nor tears can heal. 

You tear off a piece of your garment, soaked with moisture and blood, and press it against his gaping wound. The fabric immediately soaks, bright red, bursting like a cry of despair, red with death, red with stolen life.

You feel the heat escaping from his body, the end near, the flickering light. And as you try, with all the strength you have left, to right him, he collapses, sliding against you. His forehead rests on your shoulder, his weak but firm hand grips your wrist like a desperate anchor.

“Tell them… we didn’t run away. Tell them… we fought. To the last man.” Her voice fades little by little, like a flame blown out by the wind. But her grip, fragile and trembling, remains. Almost stronger than her breath.

The wind howls through the bridge ropes, carrying with it the funeral melody of wandering souls. The river roars, black and untamed, engulfing the dead and their secrets in its waters. And you stand there. Frozen. Holding this brother of blood and pain against you. The sky is a thick gray shroud, laden with ash and despair. The world seems reduced to dust. And you... you finally understand.

Heroes are not immortal.

They are bleeding.

They cry.

They die.

And sometimes they howl into the night, alone in the cold, on a bridge between two worlds.

You hadn't thought. You hadn't had time. Your instinct had screamed louder than reason. Your heart, drowned in a storm of invisible tears, had screamed louder than your magic itself.

And in the blink of an eye, you had left that bridge. You had left the world suspended between life and death, this theater of blood and shadows, to appear within the Black Lotus Pavilion—this forbidden, ancient sanctuary, which even the most powerful hardly dared to name.

A black mist engulfed you before spat you back into your room, its walls draped in dusty silk and the faded scent of forgotten incense. The man's inert body hung in your arms, heavy, icy, wet with the blood of former comrades, enemies, or perhaps both.

He'd slipped from your grasp once as you staggered to your feet. You'd screamed unintentionally, in pain or rage, or perhaps both. But you'd finally hoisted him onto the black brocade bed, the sheets of which immediately became soaked with the blood that kept flowing, slowly, mercilessly, like the grains of an hourglass whose fall you could no longer stop.

His breath was almost imperceptible. A weak, broken whimper, somewhere between life and agony. You placed your hand on his chest. Cold. So cold. And then you understood. He was dying. And you were going to have to save him. But he wasn't an immortal. He wasn't a celestial, a demon, or a spirit beast. He was just a man. A wounded, broken, shattered man.

You knew what it would cost.

This wasn't a simple healing. It wasn't a stitching of flesh or a bandage of light. What you were about to do… was about to tap into an ancient magic. A dark magic. Forbidden. A magic that drew on your life force. Your blood. Your memory. Your essence.

And you knew that by triggering it, you would never be the same again.

Every ounce of power used to save him would be ripped from your own soul. Once given, it would never return.

You looked at him one last time. He looked so young… almost peaceful, in that moment. Like a child exhausted by war. Like a brother you never had. A king without a throne. A soldier without a war.

You made your decision.

Your fingers began to dance in the air, despite their trembling. You formed the first mudras, the first sacred gestures, precise, sharp as blades. Each one made your bones creak, as if your flesh refused to obey this forbidden invocation.

Then your mouth opened. And the spell flowed from your lips like a river of curses. A deep, guttural, ancient whisper. Words in a language no one spoke anymore. The walls of the pavilion seemed to shudder at their sound. The room began to shake slowly, then more violently, in time with your voice.

The wind rose in the closed room. Yet there were no open windows, no half-open doors. But magic called for a storm. The candles flickered. One by one, they went out, swallowed by an invisible breath. The shadows fell. And suddenly, your body began to burn. Your blood turned to fire. You felt a pressure burst in your chest, your veins twisting like angry snakes, your breath caught.

You leaned forward, gasping for air, and vomited blood onto the floor. Red. Thick. Hot. You didn't stop. You couldn't stop. You continued the actions. The words. The sacrifices. You lost track of time. Hours. Or maybe seconds. Your body was on fire, and your soul was bleeding, but suddenly you felt a jolt in the air. A pulse.

The soldier's body rose slowly above the bed. He floated, his arms dangling, his head hanging. Around him, a black aura, like liquid ash, formed. Black flames—no, spiritual burns—rose from his torso, his arms, his wounds. They devoured the pain. They stitched the flesh together, slowly, brutally, like incandescent needles. His bones cracked. Snapped back into place with an unbearable noise.

And yet, he didn't scream. Because he was unconscious. But you felt every wound as if it were tearing at you. You screamed silently. You felt your power melting, your essence burning away, your heart beating like a war drum ready to explode.

Then, like a dying wave, the spell fell. The body fell back onto the bed with a shudder, its wounds healed, its breathing more regular. Still weak. But alive.

You collapsed. You fell to your knees, your hands pressed against the ground, in a pool of blood—your blood. You were shaking. Your breath was nothing but a rattle, a painful hiss. You raised your head. A tear fell. Then another. You tried to speak. Nothing came out. You coughed up more blood. It was darker this time. Almost black.

You placed your hand on the wall to keep from falling. Your eyes burned. You couldn't see anything anymore. You were empty. And in that almost total silence, broken only by your broken breath, you understood. You had saved a man. And you had just sacrificed a part of yourself that you would never get back.

You closed your eyes. You were no longer whole. But he… he was alive.

A few days had passed, but they had brought no relief. The echo of the forbidden spell still screamed through your bruised flesh, reverberating through every vein like a blade that was both cold and burning. Your body, once a proud and solid sanctuary, was now nothing more than a cracked receptacle, tainted by the dark, corrupted magic you had summoned. Forbidden, unholy magic, an open wound in the very fabric of your soul.

Every night, you lay on the frozen floor of the Black Lotus Pavilion, your wide eyes fixed on the ceiling of shifting shadows, frozen between life and death, like a motionless offering in an abandoned temple. Your breaths came in short, ragged gasps, a hoarse rattle that seemed to come from the depths of an abyss. Your blood, that vital liquid, had become a burning poison, distilling pain and fatigue with every pulse. You had given everything, sacrificed everything. And something inside you, that day, had ceased to exist.

Time no longer had any contours. The hours ticked by in a thick fog, slipping like black sand between your icy fingers. The nights coiled around your throat like poisonous, endless snakes, strangling you in a silence echoing with the howls of the past war. Nothing made sense anymore, except this dull, tenacious pain, this gloomy wait, and the silent figure lying a few feet away from you, this fragile body that you had torn from the grim reaper, without it ever knowing.

Sitting cross-legged, arms clasped around your bruised stomach, you meditated in the icy silence. You tried to reconstitute that sacred IQ, that mutilated vital energy, torn apart by your forbidden act. But the gaping rift remained, hungry, insatiable. It was a bottomless pit, a void that nothing could fill. Your body was still bleeding, despite the magic. Streams of thick, black blood, weighed down by the curse, escaped from your nostrils, ran down your palms, sometimes even from your eyes. The metallic smell of iron, of rust, of misfortune had permeated you, sticking to your skin like a second flesh, an invisible gangrene.

And yet, despite this ignoble agony, you knew you had to make him leave. He must never know. Never discover that you had slashed your own heart to snatch his from the clutches of death. He must not see you as you were—the damned witch, the outcast of heaven, the guardian of a silent and monstrous sacrifice. You refused to let him bind you to this desecrated magic, to this horror that even the heavens refused to bless.

So you got up.

Your body reeled, heavy and broken. Your legs suddenly buckled in a wild spasm, as if refusing to bear such a heavy burden. You clutched desperately at the rough stone wall, your fingers trembling, your flesh bruised, to keep from collapsing into a pile of ash. A sharp pain, as sharp as a rusty blade, pierced your spine. You bit the inside of your cheek until it bled, to keep from letting out a scream of agony.

But you walked.

Your bare feet slid across the cold, damp, black-moss-covered flagstones, each step echoing in the icy silence like a funeral drumbeat heralding the end. You walked through the stagnant mists of the cave, where the air seemed laden with ancient deaths, oozing from the walls like a promise of despair. The smell of decay and blood permeated your matted hair, and your breath came in short, harsh gasps. Even the wind, once free and alive, seemed frozen here, trapped in an invisible tomb.

You finally reached the bedroom.

And then… your eyes find him.

He was sleeping.

You stopped, panting, unable to go any further. Your breath caught in your tight throat. The name of this man, this mutilated soldier, echoed in your head like a profane incantation you had never dared to utter aloud: Lee Heeseung.

This stranger, this fragment of humanity torn from the demons of war, this broken body that you had saved, at the cost of your own sacrifice.

He lay on the black wooden bed, unconscious but alive. His chest rose and fell gently, almost timidly. His skin had become a little lighter, his wounds healed, cleansed of clotted blood, but the scars remained—etched into the flesh like so many silent witnesses to the carnage. His gaze, even closed, seemed to bear the weight of an unfathomable abyss, a void as black as night. You had felt his last breath slip through your fingers, and you had refused it, clinging to him by a thread of forbidden magic.

You approached slowly, your hands trembling, hesitant, as if haunted by the fear of profaning this fragile miracle. You wanted to hide them in the sleeves of your worn robe, but they slipped away, nervous, uncontrollable. You leaned over him, observing the rebellious locks falling on his forehead, still damp from the cold rain of the resurrection spell. He wore a black hanfu, woven in a secret whisper by your trembling hands—a robe of shadow, made of silence, ashes, and oblivion, the garment of a fallen king.

You looked at him for a long time, too long, as if you were looking for an answer, a release. Then, slowly, with infinite delicacy, you placed two fingers on his chest, where his heart beat weakly—that slow, hesitant drum, fragile like a last breath.

The black mist rose around you, dense and heavy, enveloping you in a veil of oblivion. And with a breath, you disappeared with it.

When you reappeared, it was in front of the Lee Residence. It was a shadow of its former self.

The stone bore the scars of a recent battle: arrow shards embedded in the walls, gaping breaches like open wounds, the ground stained with fresh, damp blood, filling the air with a metallic smell of iron and death. Distant screams rose muffled, drowned out by smoke that rose in thick curls toward a low, gray sky. The war was over here, leaving behind a silence of ashes.

You moved slowly, each step heavy, almost solemn. The lanterns hanging from the branches of the surrounding trees trembled, half-melted, casting flickering lights on the faces carved in the stone—dead heroes, forgotten ancestors, frozen in a time that would no longer pass.

You gently placed Lee Heeseung at the foot of the rough wall, his legs bent like those of an exhausted man, his back pressed against the cold stone. His head tilted limply to one side, exposing a pale, vulnerable throat, bare to the world. You knelt before him, and for the first time, truly, you looked at him.

He didn't look like a survivor.

He looked like a sacrificed king.

To a forgotten martyr.

To a bloody offering.

You reached out your hand. A black lock of hair fell on his cheek, which you pushed back with a gesture of infinite gentleness. Your fingers brushed against his burning skin, slid slowly across his forehead, beaded with cold sweat. You felt the warmth of his life flickering, that fragile beat in the night.

And there, in that tiny touch, your heart nearly broke. No love. No pity. Something ancient, crueler, more voracious. A savage need, a burning desire. A hunger born of blood and war.

You jerked back, gasping for air. 

His brows furrowed in an almost imperceptible spasm. He was about to wake up. You shouldn't have been there. You were only the shadow, the silent sacrifice. Then, without a word, without a goodbye, you withdrew. You were dissolved into the mist, erased by the night.

When Heeseung opened his eyes, it was like a blade slashing through the black mist of unconsciousness. At first, it was a pale, harsh, unbearable light—as if his soul, snatched from the clutches of death, was not yet ready to return to life. Then, slowly, the outlines of a silent world appeared around him, blurred, twisted, bathed in an almost supernatural calm.

He no longer felt pain. And that alone should have alarmed him. For before… there had been only pain. Fire, blood, screams, swords slicing through flesh. The chaos of a battlefield that even the heavens had denied.

But all of this… seemed to belong to another life. A life he had left behind.

A veil covered his memory, not like natural forgetting, but like a curse. Thick, sticky, oozing with that dark, ancient magic that men should never touch. A painful absence, a hollow in his mind where something should still have burned. Someone. But there was nothing.

Not even a trace.

Not even an emotion.

As if the memory of someone he had unknowingly loved had been torn from him. When he looked down, it was to meet the gaze of a woman kneeling before him.

A celestial one.

Her immaculate dress floated in the still air as if it obeyed no laws of this world. Her skin was unblemished, her face marked by serene compassion. In her open palm, a soft light pulsed, like a heart ready to offer a second life. She looked at him gently, like a goddess descended from the heavens. And he… he believed her. He believed this illusion.

Because he needed to believe it.

Because a man returned from the dead, covered in healed wounds and clotted blood, no longer had the strength to doubt. His soul was too damaged, too weary, too broken to question what fate offered him. So he accepted. He accepted this lie. And in this choice—or this non-choice—was the most terrible cruelty. For it was not she who had saved him. It was not this woman of light.

It was you.

You, the shadow, the forbidden one, the witch with the torn heart. The one who had vomited blood to give him life again. The one who had sacrificed years of existence, burned away his power, lost part of her soul. The one who had carried him, inert and covered in wounds, to your home to snatch him from death.

You, of whom nothing remained.

Not a trace in his memories.

Not a hint of warmth in his gaze.

Heaven, in its cruel justice, had erased your name from its destiny. It had made you invisible. And while the celestial placed a benevolent hand on its brow, you were nothing more than a faded memory, a phantom presence that even the wind refused to name.

But your blood was still there. It stained the stones in front of the Lee house. It seeped into the roots. It called your name silently.

And if Heeseung had paid a little more attention... if he had listened a little more to his heart, he might have heard that silent cry, that tiny dissonance in the false harmony that was being held out to him.

But he didn't. He accepted the lie. He accepted his "savior." And you, somewhere in the mists, watched. Heart broken, body hollow. Knees in the mud, fingers covered in ash, eyes wide open in the night. You were the one who had loved him enough to disappear from his memory. The one who had saved him... so that he could live without you. 

And in a world torn apart by war, in a time when life was sold for pieces of soul, there was perhaps nothing more tragic...

…than having given everything to be forgotten.

20 Years Later — Yǒng míng huī diàn (永冥灰殿) — The Shrine of the Ashes of the Eternal Shadow 

It is said that the sanctuary of Yǒng Míng Huī Diàn stands on a desolate plateau, swept by icy, howling winds, atop a barren mountain, torn by centuries of storms and battles. Where life once tried to cling, today only black stones, split and splintered, remain, mutilated remnants of a world consumed by the fury of flames and the wrath of the gods. 

The ground is dry and cracked, crevassed like the skin of a dying man, and the few tufts of grass that dare venture there are quickly scorched by a burning dust laden with ash and dried blood.

The temple itself is a grim colossus, rising like a scar on the devastated landscape. Its dark stone walls appear to have been eaten away by fire and time, covered in thick, still-damp ash, as if war had just been raging within them once more. 

Massive columns, as black as the purest ebony, soar into an inky sky, heavy with clouds that stretch as far as the eye can see, threatening to engulf this place in an endless abyss. Each stone bears the scars of ancient battles, engraved with forbidden and cursed runes, engravings that glow faintly with an ashen, malevolent light, as if the temple's tormented soul itself manages the boundary between this world and the underworld.

The air is so thick with dark magic that it constricts the chest and tightens the throat, each breath becoming a painful struggle for breath, as if the shadows themselves were trying to penetrate your being. The wind, laden with dust and ash, never ceases to moan, carrying with it strange whispers, sighs of lost souls and the muffled laments of vanished soldiers. These voices haunt the temple, echoing through the empty corridors, mingling with the distant creaking of walls cracking under the weight of centuries and curses.

With every step, the ground becomes more menacing. It is littered with shards of broken bones, fragments of shattered weapons—swords, spears, axes—silent witnesses to a forgotten massacre, buried beneath layers of dried blood that blacken the earth. In places, dark, sticky pools, remnants of unspeakable carnage, betray the violence of the fighting that robbed this place of every ounce of life. The blood has mingled with the dust, creating a dark, viscous paste that oozes between the stones, like the indelible memory of a suffering that even time cannot erase.

Once sacred altars lie shattered, their mystical symbols half-erased by flames and the passage of time, but still imbued with a sinister energy. Reddish traces—a mingling of blood and ash—still stain their surfaces, evidence of ancient, bloody, perhaps forbidden rituals that resonate in the bleak silence of the sanctuary like an echo of immemorial horror.

The temple seems alive, breathing a dark, almost palpable melancholy. It echoes with a dull, incessant murmur—a spectral chorus of forgotten chants, muffled cries, and distant laments that twist the soul. The wind carries these sounds like a morbid lullaby, a funereal symphony mingling pain, anger, and despair. 

In some places, a thick black magic spreads in the air, undulating like a black and toxic mist, capable of plunging the heart into an icy night, of weighing down each beat, of constricting the lungs to the point of suffocation.

It is said that this sanctuary is not simply a place of contemplation or prayer, but a living tomb, a crossroads where tortured souls and vengeful spirits intertwine. Here, the boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead is fragile, and the shadows of fallen warriors wander in a dance of death, trapped in an endless cycle of suffering and blood. 

This place embodies the end of all things—absolute destruction, inexorable fall—but also the terrible power of that which refuses to die: the eternal shadow, the black flame, the incandescent ashes of war.

A marriage sealed in this place does not celebrate the sacred union of two souls, but a fatal pact, a fragile and unstable alliance between the unleashed forces of destruction and the resurgent forces of pain. It is marked by suffering, by the cruelty of fate, by the bloody violence of an oath forged in fire and blood. It is not an oath of love, but a commitment to bear the cross of a fragile balance between life and death, between light and darkness, sealed forever by sacrifice, pain, and the memory of torn souls.

You wore a blood-red hanfu, as bright as an open wound. It slid across your skin like a stream of fire, its long sleeves trailing behind you like the funeral ribbons of an offering. Motifs of bridled phoenixes, with folded wings and dull eyes, snaked along the fabric. They weren't sewn to fly. They were there to remind you of sacrificed nobility, aborted rebirth, the chains that even mythical creatures could not break.

The bottom of the hanfu was so dark it looked as if it had been dipped in ashes, blackened by the flames of a sacred pyre—that of your freedom.

And you, silent, you walked.

On your head rested a phoenix crown, forged from gold too heavy, engraved with imperial motifs and encrusted with ancient jade and pearly beads. With every step, it pulled you toward the ground, weighing like the sky itself. Every pin stuck in your hair seemed to pierce your skull to reach your mind, and the gold chains that hung from it vibrated gently, tinkling like funeral bells. They didn't celebrate a union. They mourned an execution in disguise.

You were dressed like an empress...

But you felt like a prisoner being led to sacrifice.

Your face was hidden beneath a veil of red silk, embroidered with gold threads that outlined ancient characters—perhaps prayers, or perhaps curses. No one dared read them. This veil was the last bulwark between you and the world, between dignity and collapse.

Around your neck, stiff, tight collars hampered your breathing. On your arms, dark metal bracelets, engraved with pact seals, bound you to the four clans that had shared your fate.

You moved slowly, each step painful. You felt the muscles in your legs protesting under the weight of the fabric, the metal, and the memory. The shoes were thin but stiff, and small patches of blood were already appearing at the tips of your toes—your body was reminding you that it refused to get used to this pain.

Since childhood, you had been trained. Yes, trained.

Uneducated. Untrained.

Trained as one forms a weapon, a tool, a bond.

Each ceremony, each ritual, had distanced you a little further from your humanity, making you the living heart of a fragile peace pact, the final barrier between war and the end of the world. And yet, today, atop this bare mountain, you understood that it was not peace you carried, but war frozen in a silk coffin.

The path to the Yǒng Míng Huī Diàn shrine was steep, lined with sharp stones and broken bones half-buried beneath the black dust. With every step, the mountain seemed to whisper, speaking to you in a language made of biting wind, scorched sand, and dried blood. The wind slapped you, sometimes lifting your veil, reminding you that you were only a body offered to the ancient gods.

When you finally reached the summit, a wave of dizziness washed over you. Before you, the temple stood its black silhouette against an inky sky, its walls cracked by war, its columns covered with forgotten symbols. There were no wedding decorations. No ribbons, no flowers, no music.

Only silence.

The cold.

And the ruins.

It was right. It wasn't a marriage. It wasn't a union. It was a ritual of mutual submission, an offering of flesh and soul to delay the inevitable—the next conflict, the next fall.

You saw the representatives of the four clans, posted at a good distance. Each of them wore mourning in their eyes, or in suppressed hatred. None of them really looked at you. You were not a woman. You were not a wife.

You were the knot in the rope, the one that bound them all in this senseless trap.

Your heart was beating.

No fear.

No hope.

Of rage. Silent. Burning. Ancient.

Because no one had asked your opinion. No one had looked at you as you bled. No one had mourned the dead you left behind. And today, you were alone, terribly alone, surrounded by men, legends, pacts, and ruins. Your name, your past, your future had been torn from you. And now they wanted your body, bound by blood and the chains of an ancient oath.

And you walked towards the altar.

The chains of your jewels rattled like funeral gongs.

Your veil fluttered like a shroud.

And beneath your feet, the mountain was still bleeding.

You walked slowly toward the altar, each step echoing off the icy stone of the shrine. Your blood-red hanfu, weighed down by the gold, silk, and chains that snaked around your body like so many silent oaths, trailed behind you like a living shroud. The black phoenix embroidery seemed to stir in time with the howling winds, as if they too rebelled against your fate. The golden crown on your head seemed to dig into your skull, each pin like a sharp claw. It was not an ornament, but a cage—a sentence.

Your veil obstructed your view, but you didn't need to see to know where you were going. You felt the presence of others. Their gazes. Their judgments. Their silence. You kept your head down, not out of submission, but out of necessity. To avoid looking at them. To avoid giving them the satisfaction of gazing at your broken face.

Because you didn't want them to see. Your pain. Your anger. Your fear.

You arrived before the altar, frozen like a statue. The wind rushed into the open nave of the temple, carrying flakes of ash, the smell of iron, ashes... and blood. The entire mountain seemed to contract around you, as if the earth itself were rejecting this marriage of ashes and chains.

You had been prepared for this moment since childhood, conditioned to obey, to endure. But none of the forced prayers, none of the cruel training, none of the mock ceremonies had prepared you for this real horror.

Five bowls were placed before you.

Then a knife.

You grabbed the weapon, the cold metal biting into your palm before you could even move. Your hands were barely shaking, yet you felt your heart pounding against your ribs, like a captive beast.

Without a word, you cut into your flesh. The pain was sharp, acute, almost clean at first. Then it became deeper, duller, settling into your bones, your nerves, your stomach.

You poured your blood into the first bowl. But it wasn't enough. So you started again.

Again.

And again.

Each time, the blade cut more slowly, as if resisting, sinking more painfully into your already tortured flesh. Your blood was hot, viscous, almost black red in the funereal glow of the temple. It flowed slowly into the stone bowls, sliding down your wrist, dripping onto the sacred ground. You heard the pearls of your ornaments clash against your hanfu, and the shudder of the metal echo against the oppressive silence.

You weren't allowed to cry. Not now. Not here.

Because you knew you were already in chains.

You were just afraid of breaking yourself even more.

When the five bowls were finally filled with your blood, you put down the knife, your purple-covered fingers trembling slightly, but you straightened up, back straight, eyes still hidden.

Then came the others.

The celestial. The cold embodiment of divine law. He poured his blood into two bowls, one for him, one for you. His expression was fixed, solemn, almost inhuman. He wasn't afraid. Perhaps he felt nothing. Or perhaps, like you, he had learned to hide everything.

Then came the demon, the fox, the general. Each offered their blood. Each wove a scarlet thread between you.

One by one, you mixed your essences.

The mixture was thick, almost black. The blood pulsed in the bowls as if it were still alive. You could hear murmurs rising, ancient, guttural, as if the temple itself were awakening, hungry.

So you lifted your veil. The silk slid slowly off, revealing your pale, frozen face, bursting forth like a poisoned flower in this funereal setting.

You grab the bowl.

And you drank.

The first sip was lukewarm, metallic, disgusting.

The second, a test.

You wanted to vomit, to spit out this abject agreement, this carnal pact, but you didn't. You swallowed every drop, your gaze empty, your hands clenched. And as the black liquid went down your throat, you felt something tear inside you—a last innocence.

Then the pain came.

Not normal pain. Holy agony.

As if a burning blade were slowly inscribing itself between your shoulder blades, carving an eternal seal into your flesh. You fell to your knees, your breath caught, the cry frozen in your throat. You heard ancient chants, muffled cries, the crash of armies, the suffering of the dead, fire and ice mingling.

And on your skin, the mark took shape.

A black and red swirl, like a cursed galaxy.

At the center, the demon's devouring spiral, blood red, pulsing like a heart. A vivid, barbaric energy that seemed to want to engulf you. 

Around them, the stylized wings of the celestial—elegant, but burned, tarnished, broken. Justice corrupted. Duty sacrificed. 

On the right, the dancing flames of the fox—graceful, undulating, deceptive, dangerous. The cruel charm of the manipulator. 

On the left, sharp fragments of armor—the general. Fallen honor. War in the flesh. The weight of responsibility on broken shoulders.

And you, at the center, receptacle of their power, prisoner of their war.

It wasn't a wedding.

It was a curse.

An eternal condemnation.

And in the silence of the temple, while your blood still steamed at the bottom of the bowls, you understood that nothing would ever be the same again.

You would never be free again.

The marks of the pact were not mere symbols.

They weren't painted or tattooed. They had been burned into their flesh like a hot iron, but this fire wasn't made of ordinary flames. It came from another world. From an ancient magic, closer to a curse than a blessing.

On Sunghoon, it had formed on his right wrist—not on the palm, nor on the arm, but right there, between the fineness of the tendons and the pulsing of the artery. Where the blood beats regularly. Where chains, in other times, would have been attached.

At first, it was only a shudder. Then the pain came, sharp, dull, as if a needle of pure light were piercing every nerve. The mark had carved itself, slowly, in silent agony, like an invisible hand tracing an ancient incantation on his skin, indecipherable to mortals.

It depicted a broken circle, surrounded by vines of lightning and celestial runes half-erased by the centuries. Each line seemed to breathe. Sometimes the mark would pulse with a dull red light, whenever he came close to you—or whenever his heart wavered between duty and anger.

He no longer dared raise his arm without feeling the mark burn. As if it reminded him with every gesture that his hand was no longer his. That it belonged to the pact. Yours.

For Jay, it was a more intimate torture. The demon's mark opened in the center of his left palm—the hand he extended when he made deals, killed, or caressed.

It appeared as a crack in the middle of his skin, as if a lightning bolt had split it from within. A breath of shadow escaped from this mystical wound during the ritual, almost as if something living were screaming silently. It wasn't just a wound, it was a door. A rift into the dark. Into everything he had repressed, locked away.

Black filaments, like dead veins, extended from the mark, running up his forearm like snakes ready to burst beneath the skin. It burned him whenever he used his magic. Whenever he thought of you. Whenever he wanted to run away from what he had become.

Sometimes he would slam it shut, his fist trembling, as if to stifle a voice that only he could hear.

But the voice came back.

And she whispered your name.

In Jake's case, the mark was more insidious, almost elegant in its cruelty.

It had drawn itself behind his right ear, where the whispers of yesteryear slip in, where promises are made in hushed tones. An intimate place. Fragile. That no one can see... unless they get closer. And few were those he let approach.

The mark was shaped like an inverted crescent moon, surrounded by thin claws, like a forgotten bite. On its surface, ancient symbols appeared and disappeared like illusions. They glowed with a murky purple radiance, a reflection of moody and unstable magic.

When his thoughts became too vivid, too painful, the mark would come to life, pulsing against his skin like a stray heartbeat. Sometimes he would scratch it until it bled, but it remained there, unalterable.

A secret.

A curse.

A subtle and cruel chain that he wore in silence, with the lying smile of those who prefer to hide their pain behind laughter.

For Heeseung, the mark had taken root on his left collarbone, where the heart beats strongest, where the burden of command weighs like invisible armor. It had burst from his skin like a blade's shard: brutal, sharp, silent.

It looked like a gash in the shape of an inverted cross, lined with black fragments like pieces of shattered armor. The surrounding skin was purple, as if bruised by fire. Through the lines, screaming faces could be seen, silhouettes in flames, memories of ancient battlefields.

When he breathed deeply, the mark spread. As if it were soaking up every breath, every thought. Once, he lay alone, shirtless, in the freezing rain, hoping the water would wash away the seal.

But nothing worked.

The brand remained. Alive. Red. Living.

Like you.

And at the center of each of their bodies… The mark sometimes throbbed in unison. A silent, barely perceptible shudder, like the breath of a memory thought forgotten, but which never quite dies. An ancient echo, buried in the flesh, engraved in the bones. A cursed pulse that responded to the most visceral emotions, as if each heartbeat was no longer entirely theirs. As if a part of you lived through their pain.

When one of them thought of you—not with tenderness, but with that confused burning between hatred, regret, and desire—the mark would awaken. Red. Dark. Cold, at first, like the shiver of a warning. Then hot, burning, devouring. It vibrated beneath the skin, as if something inside them wanted to come out, scream, flee… or come back to you.

And when you suffered—when you wept alone, under the weight of the pact, when your knees touched the stone floor and your blood flowed again to assuage the curse—their marks would flare for no apparent reason. They would awaken in the middle of the night, in the midst of battle, or in the silence of a deserted palace. They pulsed like a reminder. A bond. A shared pain, foreign yet intimate, as if your grief screamed through the bones of the world.

And when one of them used the magic of the pact... When the forces sealed in their flesh were activated, when they invoked forbidden techniques born of common blood, then the five marks would light up together, even from leagues apart.

They answered each other, clashed. They screamed. Not an audible scream, no. But a scream from the soul. A scream that only those who suffer understand.

A red light—dense, almost black—emerged from those open cracks in the skin, those scars that never healed. It shone for a moment, like an eye opening. An ancient eye. Witness to the horror. And then… the pain returned. Not the pain of an injury. Not the pain of a torn muscle or a broken bone.

No.

That of a heart forced to beat for a cause it didn't choose. That of a love buried alive, beneath duty, war, and black magic. The demon shuddered, growled, his fangs clenched, his palm branded with fire beneath his chains. The celestial, for his part, closed his eyes, trying not to show anything, but his wrist trembled, and his breath broke in the prayer he never finished. The fox, still smiling, held his hand behind his ear as if it were nothing—but his eyes lost their sparkle, and his laughter became empty, hollow, broken. And the general... He placed his hand on his left collarbone. He said nothing. But his silence bled more than all the screams.

And you. You, at the center. Voluntarily imprisoned by a destiny that no longer allows you the right to love or hate freely. You who drink their pain like one drinks poison that never ends.

Your own seal, lodged between your shoulder blades, pulses every time they think of you. You never know which one. But you feel it. You feel their rage. Their confusion. Their sadness. And sometimes, that burning in your back becomes unbearable. A silent agony, a fire beneath your skin, as if each of them is calling you, claiming you, cursing you… or loving you, all in the same breath.

And you, what can you do but stand upright, veiled in red and silence, your back burning, your hands bloody, and your heart poisoned by four souls who can neither love you... nor forget you?

It wasn't a bond. It was a chain. A blood oath, twisted, impure, sacred. Impossible to break. Impossible to escape.

A mutilated love.

An exiled love.

A love that bleeds and lives, against the will of the gods.

Yè Mó Gǔchéng – Ancient City of the Night Demon

You find yourself in Yè Mó Gǔchéng — the Ancient City of the Night Demon.

Suspended in the heights of a cursed valley where dawn never breaks, it is a relic of a forgotten age, a chasm of shadows frozen in stone. As you advance, the wind crashes against the fractured walls like an ancient sigh, carrying with it a thick, reddish, almost living mist. It seeps between the collapsed arches, winds between the mutilated columns, and coils around your ankles like bloody chains.

The cobblestones creak beneath your feet. Not because of the cold, but because the ground is made of crushed bones and memories frozen in stone—fragments of war, betrayed oaths. They say every wall in Yè Mó Gǔchéng is a tomb, every roof an open coffin, every tower an unfinished prayer. And you hear them, those whispers of pain—muffled, tiny, like tears that even death could not silence.

The Demon King's palace sits in the center, like a black heart wrapped in obsidian chains. It has no stained-glass windows or light. It offers no shelter, only the weight of its silence. It is said that this palace still beats like a wounded beast curled into itself, infected with forbidden magic, growling with every sigh of the wind.

This is where you must spend your wedding night.

You were not led to him with tenderness or music. There was no procession or flowers. You walked alone, draped in red, the veil falling over your eyelashes, escorted only by the ghosts of the virgins who had died before you. You were the offering. The pact. The blood sealed in a cup of agony.

The bridal chamber does not resemble a love bed, but an execution cell.

The bed, immense, is made of a blackened wood that even flames refuse to consume. The sheets are heavy, red silk woven with tarnished gold threads, embroidered with scenes of war and ancient pacts. From the ceiling, a mobile of hanging bones creaks with every movement of air, emitting a macabre music of dry clicking. Chains hang from the walls, unused but present, like a silent threat. The room is saturated with overly thick perfumes, burning black jasmine candles, and immortality incense—an aroma too sweet, almost sickening, like the taste of something too beautiful in a mouth full of blood.

You are here.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, straight as a marble statue, frozen in a dignity that crumbles with every second. Hours pass and your gaze wanders to the floor, then to the wall, then to the moving shadow cast by the dying flame of a lantern. You say nothing. You hardly breathe. Waiting is a blade against your throat.

You are hungry. But hunger is a suffering you know how to contain.

For it wasn't your stomach that groaned the loudest—it was your heart. Your heart, which, despite the pain, despite the betrayal, had held onto a shred of hope. A shred of humanity. You had thought, maybe… maybe he would come. Not for you. But at least for the honor of the pact. For the blood you had shed. For the pain that had scarred you forever.

But he doesn't come.

Not a step. Not a vibration in the air.

Just silence. And cold. And shame.

When the door finally creaks, it's not him.

She's a young maid, pale-faced, arms outstretched, trembling like a candle in the rain. She doesn't speak right away, as if your anger will strike her before it even takes shape.

You don't even turn your head. You no longer have the strength. Your eyes stare into space, the moving shadows of the red veil hanging over the wedding bed, that bed where no oath was ever consummated, that bed where your heart emptied itself in silence.

"He won't come... will he?" Your voice rises, weak at first, then colder, sharper than a blade drawn in the dark. It's not a question. It's a sentence. The kind you carve on a stele, funereal, irrevocable.

The maid jumps as if she's been struck. She lowers her head so low that her forehead almost touches the black stone floor. Her fingers tremble on the coarse fabric of her dress, as if she's trying to sink into it, disappear.

"I... I apologize, madam... the lord... he is overwhelmed this evening."

"Overwhelmed"... The word resonates, bitter. Like a poison distilled in a low voice. You stand slowly. You don't leap—you rise. Like the rising red tide, unstoppable. Your robe, a vast hanfu of scarlet silk embroidered with dead phoenixes, spreads around you, heavily, like spilled blood that never dries.

Your hair, tied back in a crown and studded with golden thorns and precious chains, quivers under the weight of silence. Your eyes, shining with a pain you refuse to let flow, stare at the maid who barely dares to breathe.

“Get out. I no longer require your services.” Your voice is calm. Too calm. A chilling calm, where you can sense entire worlds crumbling beneath the surface. “And tell him this: if the king of hell thinks his throne is too heavy to honor a pact sealed by blood and pain… let him know that some things never forgive forgetting.” You don’t scream. You don’t cry. Feelings are an offering you refuse to make to those who trample them.

You reach out. The black mist envelops you. A mist born of the pact itself, a cursed magic, contracted in blood, worn like a chain around your soul. It devours you and carries you away. In a breath, you are gone.

And you reappear at the Black Lotus Pavilion.

A sanctuary. A refuge. No… not anymore.

The lanterns are out. The silence is so dense it crushes you. The walls, painted gold and jade, seem narrower than ever. As if this room has become a tomb. Your tomb.

And then you collapse.

You let out a scream. A howl. Not of pain. Not yet. A scream of rage, of shame, of loneliness. You tear down the draperies, you smash the precious objects you were given, you toss the censers, the vases, the instruments. Everything that reminds you that you were an offering. A bride. A thing to be consumed and forgotten.

The mirror shatters against the floor. It reflects your own face back at you, shattered into a thousand shards. A thousand versions of you. All lost. All hated.

You fall to your knees, your palms bleeding against the shards. You gasp, your lungs burning. And your eyes… your eyes, they still refuse to cry.

Until you see her.

The pin.

Just one, slipped into the storm. A thin golden stem, adorned with a black pearl and a drop-shaped ruby. It was your mother's. One of the few memories not taken from you. A promise, long ago. That you would never be alone.

And you grab it. Your fingers tremble. You press it against your palm. Hard. Hard enough to feel the bite. Hard enough to make the blood flow again.

“I'm an idiot… an idiot…” Your voice breaks. Each word is a fragment of soul you spit out like shards of glass. “I should have known… Hope… hope is poison… And love… love is a curse.”

You curl into yourself, your dress crumpled, your body twisted. You lie down on the cold wood. Your cheek against the ground. Your hands close around the void. You shiver. With grief. With shame. With anger.

And the tears come.

Not human tears. Ancient tears. Tears that carry within them all the sacrifices you've had to make, all the sleepless nights, all the sacrifices imposed on you.

You cry.

Until your eyelids close against your will. Until sleep tears you from the pain. A dark, haunted sleep. A dreamless sleep. Or perhaps populated by just one: that of a man with red eyes... who will never come.

And in the icy silence of the Lotus Pavilion, the shadows close in on you.

Some cry with you.

Others… laugh softly in the darkness.

And that night…

As your body lay on the floor of the Black Lotus Pavilion—this place now a tomb, this sanctuary now empty—an ancient breath rose in the air, imperceptible, but laden with a forgotten memory.

A thrill.

A whisper in the spine of the world.

A call.

And beneath your skin, just between your shoulder blades, where the flesh had been marked by the pact, a glow ignited. Faintly at first. Like an ember thought to be extinguished. Then the light grew brighter. A pale blue. But it wasn't the blue of the morning sky, nor that of a distant dream.

It was a spectral blue.

The blue of the abyss.

The blue of goodbyes.

It rose from you like a silent complaint, a wave crossing heaven and earth, striking, without pity, the hearts linked to yours.

And with that light… came pain. Not for you. No. Not this time. It hit them.

One by one.

Slowly.

Irremediably.

At the top of the world, where the air is too pure for mortals, the celestial Sunghoon meditated, seated on a pale silk cushion, in the silence of a temple suspended in the void. Circles of ancient ink floated around him, chains of celestial prayers, all intended to purify his soul, to sever the bonds of the lower world.

But no seal, no prayer, no divine law could stop what happened.

Without warning, he tensed.

His right palm began to burn.

Not on the surface, but deep within the flesh. The blue light seeped into his veins, sinuous, painful, as if a river of ice and fire were flowing against the current of his blood.

His breath caught.

He leaned forward, his hand pressed against his wrist, where the mark pulsed like a second heart. A scream rose in his throat… but it didn't come out. He didn't scream. He closed his eyes.

And in that inner darkness, he saw you.

Collapsed.

Extinct.

Something tore inside him. Not his pride, nor his celestial dignity. No. Something older. More primitive.

A link. An oath he had sworn to hate… but which survived the hatred.

He didn't think. His body acted on its own. And his steps, free from all logic, began to move.

Towards you.

In the bowels of a cursed temple, beneath blood-soaked stones, the demon king Park Jongseong uttered the final words of a forbidden spell, his forehead covered in black sweat, his body surrounded by ancient glyphs.

But even the dark magic stopped, as if terrified.

A blue flash split the shadow.

His left palm burst into flames, and he howled—a guttural, primal sound, a wounded beast in the darkness.

He fell to his knees. His heart skipped a beat.

The tattoos along his arm activated, pulsing, as if your name were etched into them in letters of fire. He spat out blood. And in that blood, a fragment of your grief.

He slowly straightened up, his eyes wild.

“You again… what did you do to me…?”

But it wasn't anger that drove him. It was something else. Even more terrible.

A dull fear.

A worry he never wanted to feel.

In the heart of a pleasure house hidden beneath red lanterns, the fox Sim Jake played the lute, his laughter hanging on his lips, his charm diffused like sweet poison.

He seduced. He played. He forgot.

Until the pain hit him. Just behind his ear, where his mark, so subtle it might have seemed inexistent, began to glow an electric blue.

He dropped his instrument. The lute shattered on the ground.

He staggered, one hand on his temple, his eyes wide. He stood up, unsteady, his legs weak. He leaned against a wall painted with flowers, which now looked faded.

"You really are... incorrigible," he murmured, his throat tight.

He wished he didn't feel anything. But that fire in him was yours. That pain was your heart screaming into the void.

And even in his cowardice, he could not escape it.

On a training ground abandoned since the war, General Lee Heeseung tirelessly repeated the same movements. A blade. A step. A breath. The saber dance in silence.

But on the fourth move, his sword slipped from his grasp.

His left collarbone flared up.

He fell to his knees, his hand clutched at his chest. His mark glowed like a firebrand, blue cracks spreading across his skin like frozen lightning.

And suddenly… he knew.

He saw you. Not with his eyes, but with that part of him you had locked away in the pact.

He felt your shame, your loneliness, your silent rage. He felt your cold body against the floor. Your muffled sobs. And he bowed his head. Without a word. He wouldn't come. But he didn't forget you.

And in the silence, a tear traced a bitter furrow on his cheek.

Four places.

Four pains.

Only one link.

The mark throbbed on their skin, a single beat. An invisible chain.

You, forgotten witch, rejected, abandoned in the room where no lover came... you made them suffer. Not out of revenge. But because you bled.

And they bled with you.

Not because they wanted to.

But because the pact does not forget.

You crawled slowly towards the bed, your gaze drowned in absence, your hands pressed against your stomach as if you could contain your pain, and you whispered, to no one:

“Hope is poison… Love… damnation.”

And the shadows around you wept too. Or cursed you. But it didn't matter. Because that night, you were all bound together.

Not by desire.

But by blood.

And blood… never lies.

Taglist : @weepingsweep @immelissaaa

[yanderecrazysie]

A Dragon's Hoard Part 1 (Yandere! Malleus)

Title: A Dragon’s Hoard (Part 1)

Pairings: Yandere! Malleus Draconia x Reader

AU: My Fantasy AU

WARNINGS: yandere themes

Notes: Malleus's story was voted for first! (BY A LOT) So here you go!

Part 2: here

Mt. Diasomnia’s peak pierced the night sky, cutting the full moon in half. As intimidating as the impossibly tall mountain was, it symbolized hope for you. There were plenty of caves to hide in and a surrounding forest for hunting.

If any place would hide you from King Riddle’s court, it would be this mountain. After all the rules you had broken, the king of the fae would surely clip your wings permanently if you were found. You were a hunted woman so the sooner you disappeared the better.

You spread your transparent wings and took flight. The wind was strong tonight, lifting you higher and higher. The freedom of flying was intoxicating and, for a moment, you allowed yourself to forget the weight of your circumstances.

But then the memory of King Riddle’s cold stare cut through your mind, as sharp as a blade. “Rulebreaker”, he had called you in such a cold voice. You might as well be a traitor to your kind.

The mountain loomed over you as you scanned it for any sign of shelter. A sudden gust of wind caught you and threw you off course for a moment. You gasped as you realized it wasn’t the elevation making the air unpredictable, but magic.

Your wings faltered- you knew this feeling. This was ancient magic, the same used in the time of The Great Ones. Something powerful was stirring inside this mountain. Still, there was no turning back. This was your only hope.

You spotted a wide, dark mouth of a cave yawning above a set of cliffs. You folded your wings and descended towards it. As soon as you set foot inside, a series of chills ran down your spine. It was cold and the air was strangely still. You could hear the sound of dripping water and took that as a good sign.

A faint green glow, barely visible at first, pulsed from the darkness deep within the cave. Something’s here… But anything was better than the fae court finding you, so you pressed on despite the fear rising slowly within you.

You stopped walking suddenly, your heart stopping altogether. A tall figure emerged from the shadows, two glowing, emerald eyes locked on you, piercing through the darkness and causing an otherworldly glow.

“You trespass upon my mountain,” the figure’s deep voice rumbled like thunder.

He stepped into full view and you gasped. He was much taller than you, draped in dark robes, with black horns that rose from his head like a crown.

A dragon in humanoid form!

You couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything, couldn’t breathe. 

A knowing smile curled on his lips, “What have we here? A little fae, wandering into my domain?”

You opened your mouth to speak- to apologize maybe- but no words came out. He began to close the distance between you.

“Tell me,” he said as he drew close, “What brings a rulebreaker to my mountain?”

You flinched like you’d been slapped, “How did you-”

“I know many things,” he hummed.

You stumbled backwards, trying to get away from his approaching form, your wings twitching as if you were about to take flight. But for some reason, you couldn’t move.

He raised a hand and a ribbon of green magic slithered towards you, curling around your wrist like a snake. “You don’t need to be afraid. I will not harm you. On the contrary…” his voice was like silk, “I offer you my protection.”

“Protection?” Stunned, you stopped trying to back away.

“Yes,” he stepped closer until you were forced to look up, “In exchange for something small.”

“What is it?” you asked, voice trembling.

“Companionship.”

You tilted your head in confusion, staring at the mysterious man. Companionship? Is he serious?

“You are hunted, are you not?” he asked, “King Riddle’s court will find you eventually. Unless, of course, you accept my offer.”

You hesitated, looking down at your hand, which was encircled with green magic, “What is this for, then?”

“Proof of our agreement,” he replied, “If you agree, I will mark your wrist with the symbol of a promise.”

“I…” This mysterious stranger had ancient magic, perhaps the only thing that would keep you from being taken in to King Riddle and losing your wings. If companionship was all you had to offer… “I agree.”

There was a sudden pain on the back of your hand and you cried out in pain. The green magic tendril retracted and a strange green symbol was left glowing faintly on the back of your hand. It reminded you faintly of a dragon.

“It is done,” he said simply, “You are now under my protection. None shall harm you.”

“And what does this companionship… entail?” you asked.

A faint smile tugged on his lips, “It is simple- you stay with me, here on Mt. Diasomnia. You speak with me on a daily basis and you do not leave without my consent.”

Your wings fluttered instinctively at the last part, but you nodded. It was a fair trade- if anything, you were getting the better end of the deal.

“You may call me Malleus,” he said, inclining his head, “I am the Dragon Prince.”

“I’m…” Giving your name to someone with such powerful magic was dangerous, but you couldn’t hide it forever, “(Y/n).”

“A fine name,” Malleus said. He gestured deeper in the cave, “Come. I will show you to your quarters. You must be tired from your flight.”

You hesitated, glancing back toward the cave’s entrance. It was almost as dark as the inside of the cave. What was waiting for you, if you were to change your mind? Endless rules? The promise of clipped wings?

With a deep breath, you turned away and followed Malleus deeper into the cave. Somehow, the cave grew warmer the deeper you went. Green crystals jutted out of the walls, casting magical light over the two of you and vibrating your wings with energy.

“This is my sanctuary,” Malleus told you, “Few have set foot here. Consider it an honor.”

The cave opened into a massive chamber with stone walls lined with shelves. Ancient artifacts gleamed under the green light, most of which you’d never seen before. But what was truly amazing was the hoard. Piles of golden coins and gemstones reached towards the ceiling. Silver cups and golden crowns and all sorts of treasure littered the area around a huge, golden throne.

A smaller alcove off to the side held a simple white bed. “That will be your space,” Malleus said, “You will find it comfortable.”

“Thanks…” you said softly. You looked back at the gold towers and watched them shimmer in the green light.

“All dragons have a hoard, little one,” Malleus said. Something about the way he said it made you shiver. His tone softened as he continued, “Sleep now, I won’t keep you from your rest. We will speak more in the morning.”

You hesitated for a long moment, watching him return to his throne, before finally retreating to the alcove. The bed was indeed comfy and, overwhelmed by the day’s events, you fell asleep quickly.

Even with the pain on the back of your hand.