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ddarker-dreams · 28 days ago

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A Deal's a Deal.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, violence against minor characters, descriptions of anxiety, mentions of alcohol. Word count: 5k.

“... Sorry. This one’s no good either.”

Sighing dejectedly, you sink into your seat.

You can’t tell if your companion’s disappointed. He maintains a neutral countenance, betraying nothing of his inner thoughts. Still, you study him, awaiting some visual indication before moving the conversation forward. He must sense your intentions, for he catches your gaze and smiles.

“Should we call it a day? You look tired.”

“The hell? Isn’t it considered taboo to tell a lady she looks tired?” You grumble. “And here I thought you were Casanova incarnate. You’ve got to work on your charisma stats.”

Chrollo shrugs halfheartedly. “What point is there if you’re immune to my many charms?”

“Let’s be real — ‘many’ is overdoing it, a little humility won’t hurt. I commend your budding self-awareness, though. At least we’ve made progress on that front.”

He hums, offering no rebuttal. You realize that you’ve perked back up, reinvigorated by his goading. He certainly knows how to get people going. Among his defining features, that’s one of the first you recognized; his uncanny way of orchestrating favorable outcomes.

Sipping your preferred warm beverage, you canvass your surroundings.

The café’s less crowded than when you came in. There are still a few students typing away on their laptops while consuming a concerning amount of caffeine. In the corner sits an elderly couple, whose order you overheard by virtue of the volume it was placed at — “Give me a regular coffee. Straight black, none of that ‘appaccino, grand venti’ nonsense. Decaf for my wife.”

(You prayed for the barista’s sanity when he tried explaining the different ways ‘straight black’ could come).

“... I am losing my touch, aren’t I?” Chrollo murmurs. You snap your head in his direction, having temporarily forgotten his existence. “You prefer older men?”

You almost choke mid-sip. “Pleh…! That’s it, I’m retiring, good luck sorting your issues out.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“How I wish you were wrong,” you deadpan. Lifting his phone off the table, you scroll through its contents. There’s nothing new to look at. “An exorcist, huh? You’re positive that’s a real thing?”

“They exist. They’re just rare, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I blame the Protestant Reformation.”

The skin beneath his eyes wrinkles. “... Cute.”

His compliment makes you frown.

“Quit it with the flattery, already.”

“Flattery implies a degree of insincerity, no?” He challenges. “You of all people should know when I’m being genuine.”

“You make it sound like I’m a walking polygraph.”

His lips part and close as he considers his response. “That isn’t how I view you.”

This guy’s clever with his word choice, you think. Too clever.

Disliking where this conversation might go, you redirect.

“This ‘Hunter’ site you’ve been using… is there any way for me to access it?”

“Feeling a bit impatient, are we?”

There’s a patronizing lilt to this tone that has you inhaling sharply. Closing your eyes, you ball your hands into fists, willing your agitated mind to relax. Your goal feels so close. This future you never believed possible dangles above your head, only to recede as if you were Tantalus whenever you grasp for it. Needling Chrollo won’t get you any closer, but at least it gives you something to do, mimicking progress.

“The Hunter site has various measures in place to prevent account sharing. You don’t want to end up on their radar,” Chrollo retrieves his phone and tucks it into his coat’s pocket. “While your enthusiasm’s admirable, I suggest you leave this part to me.”

You swallow thickly. “... Right.”

“Are you upset?”

“No, I’m not,” you rest your hands on your lap. “Just, y’know. Reminded that we’re from two different worlds.”

Outside the café’s windows, individuals from all walks of life bustle about. Some are on their phones, others chatting with friends, or holding their partner’s hands. It’s a picturesque display of normalcy. They’re likely thinking about what to have for dinner, when to set their alarm for the following day, if they can squeeze out of plans they halfheartedly agreed to over the weekend; you know this because you aspire to live the same way.

“You’re closer to mine than you think.”

A fervent disagreement blazes then turns to ash on your tongue. There’s an unidentifiable quality to his stare — neither kind nor outright malicious — almost clinical in its effort to elicit a reaction. You stir in your seat. Despite your time together, he’s as much an enigma as he’d been upon your first meeting. Charming and courteous, yet lacking genuine warmth, like a faux candle.

“Do you get some kick out of riling me up?”

“Maybe a little,” he admits. “Your expressive nature is endearing. I can’t help myself.”

His words resonate with such clarity that you can’t help but wish he’d been a little dishonest.

“I’m not a toy for you to entertain yourself with.”

His smile makes you squirm.

“I know you aren’t.”

“Then what—” you cut yourself off, fearing what might occur if you continue your original line of questioning. “Man, you’re exhausting to deal with. Has anyone ever told you that you have an awful personality?”

“Few get to be around me enough to comment on its quality.”

“I’m counting down the days until I’m no longer a member of that inner circle.”

Before Chrollo can respond, his phone audibly vibrates. Newfound excitement overwhelms you at the sound. He glances at the notification and nods, confirming your speculation. He places it in your eager hands. While you prepare, he steeples his fingers and leans forward, intrigued as always with your work.

You relax your breathing. This entire process is based on intuition, chasing after faint sensations until your desired outcome manifests. A pliable force thrums through you — what Chrollo refers to as ‘aura’ — awakening from its dormant state. Mindful of your public surroundings, you keep your dominant hand beneath the table. Where there was once nothing, a three-dimensional object rests snugly against your palm. Buttons of varying utility jut outward along its perimeter. This small item, shaped like a cassette recorder, stirs antipathy in your heart.

Holding down rewind, the cassette whirrs to life. You prepare to record the latest audio note sent in for analysis.

Instant Replay (One More Time!).

These past few months have seen your ability frequently leveraged. It was your personal conviction to refuse its use, lest paranoia eat away at you. However, freedom from this bondage necessitates further entanglement. You’ve parted with your long-standing morals, primed to pick through the syllables of others for your own purposes.

Right and wrong no longer concern you.

All you care about is surrendering this loathsome ability to the man sitting across the table.

The night air is unforgiving in its chill. It infiltrates your layers of clothing with laughable ease, seeping into your marrow and demanding that you shiver as recompense. Gritting your teeth, you pick up your pace, cursing the parking garage’s elevator for being out of order. You knew parking at your friend’s apartment complex was sparse, but this is a new record.

The heels of your shoes click against the concrete staircase as you rapidly ascend. A pale, yellowish hue illuminates your path, the lights occasionally flickering. The moon must be feeling shy tonight, for it hides behind thick, stationary clouds, refusing the world its silvery guidance.

Upon arriving on the third floor, you hear an ominous crackle in the distance.

The consequences are immediate. Intuition tells you to pause, goosebumps erupting over your flesh from head to toe. Darkness swallows your surroundings whole in inky blots. Blinking rapidly, your eyes struggle to adjust. You feel around for your phone and turn the flashlight on. The sudden loss of power perplexes you, did the building’s breaker trip? From what you can see, the rest of the street is unaffected.

You’re about to resume your journey when you feel something cold press against your temple.

“Don’t move,” a deep voice demands. The roar of a car’s engine echoes nearby, as does the hurried screech of tires. “Not so much as a fucking inch.”

Anxiety sets your every nerve aflame. You go stiff as a corpse, and perhaps you may have been mistaken for one, if not for the thunderous pounding of your heart. The moisture in your mouth dries up. Tortuous seconds drag on, devoid of any further commands. You’re ready to offer up your purse, wallet, or anything else he insists on, but he’s eerily silent.

A pair of approaching headlights blind you.

Is this more than a robbery? You struggle to comprehend the nightmarish events. The man holding you hostage radiates agitation, shifting his weight from foot to foot. In doing so, the barrel drags along your sweat-slicked skin. His apparent sloppiness has you weak in the knees — it’s your life hanging in the balance, why is he acting like the situation is reversed?

Abruptly, the vehicle veers off course, crashing into a line of parked cars. A terrible cacophony follows. Glass shatters, metal debris shrieks whilst scattering, and car alarms angrily sound in disunity. What you’re witnessing doesn’t feel like real life. Your disbelief is mutual, for the man holding you captive spews curses.

You hear a click by your side; the gun’s safety being disengaged.

“Shit!” He maneuvers you in the direction of the crash like you’re a shield. “There’s no way we were followed, no way, we did everything perfect—”

The man never finishes his sentence.

There’s a wet gurgle, then a wheeze, as something warm splatters on you from behind. Bile rises up your throat as the wretched noises continue. He must’ve fallen to the ground, for you no longer sense his lumbering presence, or feel the cold kiss of metal on your skin. Regardless, you refuse to budge. You squeeze your eyes shut and tremble wildly.

“There, there. You’re safe now. ♥” A rich baritone speaks from behind.

His declaration comes out discordant, belying the reassuring contents. You bristle at the new threat that’s presented itself. If what came before was a house cat, then this is an apex predator, the king of the jungle. The air around him feels oppressive, almost noxious. Even without a firearm directed at you, your panic reaches its zenith, soaring to heights untraversed.

“Hm? Still scared? Ah, that’s right,” he muses to himself. “Chrollo said you’re sensitive to dishonesty. This could be troublesome.”

“You… you know Chrollo?”

“So you’re not in a catatonic state — how reassuring.”

Slowly, you turn around, sensing a distinct lack of ill intent. Flashlight in hand, you try to make sense of what you witness. The scene that greets you is gruesome beyond your wildest expectations. The man who you assume held you at gunpoint has collapsed onto the ground, his jugular slit clean. Blood gushes from the wound like a geyser, forming a crimson puddle around his head. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, nearly bulging from the sockets. Liquids ooze from every visible orifice and a foul odor rises alongside them. This pitiful creature could’ve been your end. Instead, he met his, departing this world in abject terror.

Unexpectedly, his muscles twitch. Out of reflex, you jump back and yelp.

“Rest assured, he’s dead as a doornail.”

“Why…” you wet your dry lips, “What… what just…?”

While you stumble over your words, the building’s power makes a triumphant return. The lights flash intermittently, then go steady, allowing you an unobscured vantage point. Before you stands a tall, bizarrely dressed individual, with bright red hair. His beady, yellow eyes have a predatory gleam to them that he doesn’t bother suppressing. He holds a playing card in his claw-like hands, the three of spades.

It’s coated in fresh blood.

Your eyes fall to the fatal wound on your assailant's throat, the gears in your head turning.

You take a step back.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” With a flick of his wrist, the offending card disappears, though its memory burns strong. “I’m Hisoka, Chrollo’s… colleague of sorts. Now, there’s no need to introduce yourself. I’m well acquainted with you. ♥”

Is that supposed to make you feel better?

You couldn’t hide your suspicion if you tried. At the very least, there’s no indication that was a lie. However, his familiarity with you is a double-edged sword. If he’s crafty, he can outmaneuver your ability. Dishonesty isn’t black and white, there are loopholes to avoiding your detection. For instance, one can remain purposefully oblivious, lie by omission, or speak in vague terms. These gray areas pass you by as if you lacked this ‘sixth sense’ to begin with.

He was lying when he said I’m safe now, you recall. But he doesn’t seem interested in harming me…? Something isn’t adding up.

After much deliberation, you ask, “So you just happened to run into me?”

“Nope. I’ve been following you,” he freely admits. Your aghast expression makes him laugh. “What’s the matter? You were baiting me for the truth, were you not? You’re welcome to have it. ♦”

In your heightened state of sensitivity, you sense multiple presences converging nearby. Security guards, if you had to guess. You weigh your options. If you stay here, you’ll undoubtedly be harassed for a story that explains the chaos. Telling the truth would land you in a straight jacket whereas deception guarantees cuffs. Leaving in your car is off the table too, you’d be dubbed an important witness. There’s no way you can claim you drove by the carnage without noticing anything.

“I can help get you out of this debacle,” he offers. “We’re both seeking the same end — the return of Chrollo’s Hatsu. The latest recording I’ve obtained is most promising. So, I’d rather we don’t continue this conversation in prison. ♣”

Hisoka takes a step forward and extends his hand.

The security guards are getting closer, you think. There’s no time left.

And so you make your choice.

You didn’t think places like these existed outside of the movies, or maybe you just don’t get around enough.

You’ve found yourself in what you can only describe as a biker’s bar. The decor is old-fashioned, slightly worn yet authentic. There are pool tables, too many televisions to count, and a functioning jukebox nestled in the corner. Rough-looking men wearing leather jackets make up the main clientele. Fortunately, it’s Hisoka who draws the most attention, his gaudy getup acting as a magnet for the eyes. No one pays you any mind.

For the second time this week, a weirdo treats you to drinks. The main difference is that this is a depressant and not a stimulant.

You take hearty sips to calm your nerves. All that happened feels so surreal, like a collection of grotesque images that would be blurred out in a documentary. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You want to be normal, untethered by the oddity that is Nen, the ‘world’ Chrollo inhabits. You decided long ago that nothing good can come from it. Maybe if you were more adventurous, prone to taking high risks for high rewards.

But you’re not.

Endless money, power, and influence don’t sound appealing. Sure, there’s an allure initially, until you consider reality. Lots of money means either lots of taxes or lots of tax evasion. You barely know what a W-2 form is, much less the hoops you’d have to jump through if your income exploded. Power and influence aren’t all they’re cracked up to be either. All that scheming to stay at the top would take away from what makes life truly worth living — reading Wikipedia articles and watching eight-hour-long videos analyzing a video game from two decades ago.

“Holy shit,” you press pause on the cassette recorder. “This Abengane guy’s the real deal.”

“Oh?”

“He’s familiar with getting rid o’ Nen. During his… huh, what’s it called again… oh. Yeah. Audition. Durin’ his audition for Greedy Island—”

“ —Greed Island.”

You wave his correction off.

“—Yeah, yeah, whatever. But, basically, he’s legit. How’d ya even come across this?”

“Magic. ♥”

You make a face. “Is everyone who uses Nen annoying?”

“Some more than others.”

Speak of the devil. Craning your neck, you’re met with piercing gray eyes. Unlike Hisoka, Chrollo isn’t dressed like he’s auditioning for the circus. Instead, he comes across as a guy who’s going to pitch the worst idea for a startup you’ve ever heard. He’s wearing a dark blazer with a gray turtleneck beneath it, along with white pants and black loafers. You’re about to make your joke known when something about Chrollo’s demeanor changes your mind. Intensity pours off him in waves, giving you pause.

“Good news, boss. We found your exorcist.”

The title Hisoka uses to refer to him has you tilting your head. He did refer to himself as Chrollo’s ‘colleague,’ but the word boss implies hierarchy.

“I heard,” Chrollo smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m surprised you’re not rushing back to Greed Island to track him down.”

He slides into the booth beside you while never looking away from Hisoka. The tension brewing in the air perplexes you. Shouldn’t this news be a cause for celebration? You’ve helped Chrollo search for a Nen exorcist for months now. Chrollo’s been searching for a Nen exorcist for months now. You’re uncertain what reaction you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“All in due time. I’d hate to cut my time with your little assistant short.”

Hisoka makes a point of looking you up and down.

Somehow, Hisoka has made Chrollo seem normal by comparison. Disliking the attention, you reach for your drink, only to notice how light it is. Have you already drunk that much? While inspecting the near-empty glass, you realize the room’s starting to feel warm. The stress of what you endured must’ve impaired your judgment.

What time is it, anyway? Do I have work tomorrow?

Your watch reads 2:05 a.m.

Shit.

“I need— need to get going…”

“Why the rush?” Hisoka questions. “Things were just starting to get interesting. ♥”

You ignore him and stare Chrollo down, waiting for him to move aside so you can leave. Instead of getting up, he leans closer, pursing his lips. This is the closest you’ve ever been to him. Heat creeps over your face, from your cheeks to your ears. There’s no denying that the bastard’s handsome. Your friends love teasing you about him for that very reason. They never believe your insistence on having a ‘strictly platonic’ relationship, some even have bets for when you’ll end up together.

Maybe you would’ve considered it if you didn’t know about his Nen proficiency.

There aren’t any readily available statistics for Nen, but if you had to guess, you’d say most of the population is ignorant of its existence. People who do know about the Hunter’s Association consider it a private enterprise that specializes in exploration and taking on contract jobs. According to Chrollo, this is by design. You can barely go about your day pretending there aren’t superhumans roaming the planet, doing all sorts of crazy nonsense.

Society would plunge into chaos if the knowledge reached them.

You hear what sounds like your name coming from underwater.

Blinking sluggishly, you discover Chrollo’s hand on your shoulder. “Hm? What?”

“I’ve been calling your name,” he speaks languidly, likely for your benefit. “Are you alright?”

“Well…” you trail off, pondering the question. “... Mm, yeah, probably not. I gotta get home, and— god, my car— it’s still back there. I don’t want… I can’t…”

The anxiety you thought you buried resuscitates itself. It’s dull compared to earlier, yet your breathing grows shallow and your hands feel clammy. Your intenses churn like a parasite had been embedded inside. Everything feels far away, as if you’re in a dream, physically present yet mentally adrift.

You could’ve died.

You almost died.

You’d fought desperately to scrub your mind of this knowledge, but the bottle can only do so much.

“Say, Chrollo,” with a nearly imperceptible motion, Hisoka summons a playing card between his middle and pointer fingers. “If I were to slice her pretty neck, what would you do?”

The old-fashioned glass Hisoka had been sipping from cracks.

Pressure invades the air like a thick, heady fog, so tangible in its potency, that the chatter elsewhere dies down. The sudden silence allows for the clinging of billiard balls to reverberate throughout. Patrons glance around, vaguely aware that something is wrong, yet ultimately unable to identify the source. This primal sense of foreboding evaporates as swiftly as it arrives. The lively atmosphere reemerges, until all present seem to have forgotten anything unusual ever occurred.

Hisoka absentmindedly cleans up the glass shards, piling them into the corner while Chrollo drums his fingers along the table. Chrollo’s jaw is set and the skin between his eyes is pinched in contemplation.

Hisoka lets out an exaggerated sigh. “This is turning into a bore. I was confident you’d lose your cool, even if just a bit…”

“Pathetic.”

The unexpected vitriol has them both turning their heads in your direction. Chrollo blinks, while Hisoka tilts his head, staring at you owlishly.

He points to himself. “Me?”

“Yeah, you! You’re like— one of those birds, those showoff birds… dancing with your colorful feathers… ‘nd stuff…” your speech isn’t the most coherent, unaided by the irritation that’s boiling your blood. You leer at him, fed up with everything, especially whatever schemes he’s roped you into. A rough picture is presenting itself, one stroke at a time. To Hisoka, you’re nothing more than glorified bait. You don’t know if he played a role in engineering the evening’s events, but it wouldn’t be a surprise.

At the very least, he admitted to following you. Even if he was a third party, he could’ve disposed of the impending threat. Instead, he waited, exposing you to bloodshed for his own ends. You wish you could come up with a more scathing insult. Unfortunately, your temple is throbbing and clear enunciation grows harder as your body digests the liquor you inhaled.

Hisoka looks at Chrollo. “I’m a bird?”

“She’s calling your bluff,” Chrollo clarifies. “Had you intended to follow up on your threat, she’d know.”

You’re glad Chrollo realized what you were going for. The diatribe sounded better in your head. Nonetheless, he’s communicated the essence of things, lacking as it is in panache. Hisoka hums, eyeing you like you’d make for a fine appetizer before the main course.

“You must have kept that detail from me on purpose. What an intriguing ability. ♥”

Chrollo brushes aside his comment and refocuses his attention on you. “I’ll drive you home.”

“But my car—”

“I’ll handle it,” Chrollo reassures.

He slides out from the booth and stares at you expectantly. You get the sense that trying his patience isn’t a good idea; his encounter with Hisoka must have soured his mood. He helps steady you as you stand, securing his arm behind your back. Neither of you acknowledges Hisoka while making for the door, though you can feel his eyes tracking your every movement.

Upon emerging from the bar, the cool air you deplored earlier feels like a godsend. You hear cars rushing up and down the street, indicating the presence of a highway. Other than that, you don’t recognize the area. It’s a small, decrepit outlet, featuring shops plastered with neon signs and bars over the windows.

Chrollo ushers you in the direction of a black, unmarked McLaren.

“If you’re gonna do all that, at least get a less basic color… like pink…”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

Once you’re in the passenger seat, he fixes the strap of your purse and then buckles you in. It isn’t long until you’re on the road. He stays in the slow lane, mindful to avoid abrupt motions. You recline back and rest your head, hugging your arms close to your body. At the next red light, he sheds his coat, draping it over your person. The cashmere fabric is soft on your skin, embedded with his cologne and warmth. This, paired with the low hum of the engine has your eyelids growing heavy. You try resisting the temptation.

“Thank you.”

“Hm? For what?”

“... Are you serious?” you murmur. “For comin’ to get me.”

“Of course.”

Relief rushes over you as the surrounding area becomes recognizable. Traffic is nonexistent this time of night, it shouldn’t be but a few more minutes until you’re home. Then you can crash out on your bed and deal with the existential weight of reality in the morning. Work can fire you for all you care, you just want to sleep. If you were on your deathbed, you’re ninety percent positive they’d ask you to find shift coverage before you croaked.

Chrollo pulls into your apartment complex, parking as close to the entrance as he can.

You fiddle with your seatbelt, intending to make the rest of the trip by yourself.

He places his large, calloused hand over yours, preventing further progress.

“... Chrollo?”

He doesn’t respond. His thumb rubs slow, steady circles against your skin. You swallow a growing lump in your throat. He hasn’t been himself all night. Or, to be more precise, he’s showing you a side of himself he’s hitherto kept hidden. You always knew there was more to him than he let on. You never wanted to open that Pandora's box, lest your plans be jeopardized. Playing with fire has its risks, yet cauterizing your personal wounds took priority. You don’t know if you have the right to pray the rest of your being doesn’t go up in flames.

“I assume you’re aware of my fondness for you?”

“I— well…” you stumble over your words, then meekly ask, “Is now really a good time for this?”

Chrollo lowers his head and smiles. “No, I suppose not.”

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air.

“One more question, then I’ll let you go,” he looks up at you through thick lashes, an enigmatic gleam passing over his eyes. “Do I frighten you?”

Your body tenses. He addresses you so softly, so sweetly, had you not witnessed his mouth moving, you would’ve mistaken his voice for belonging to another. Your facilities aren’t functional enough to properly process his query. Perhaps that’s the point — him cornering you at this vulnerable junction. You don’t get why. You don’t think you could even if you were sober.

Chrollo, for his part, seems to acknowledge he won’t get far in your current state.

Or maybe he gleaned his answer.

He lifts your hand to his lips, where he presses a lingering kiss. You can’t bring yourself to be the first to pull away. He lingers a while longer, as if stuck in a trance. When he does part, the skin tingles in his absence.

“I’ll be in touch.”

For the past week, you’ve carried on as if nothing ever happened.

It’s easier this way. There are instances where your performance is threatened, like when you ran across a news article detailing the ‘grisly murder of two men at a parking garage on 9th St,’ yet these lapses can be smoothed over. Ignore, distract, forget. This cycle lends you a credence of normalcy and eases you back into everyday life.

You haven’t seen Chrollo since that night. You suppose he’s preoccupied with his arrangements to meet the Nen exorcist. While you don’t know the specifics, you imagine he’ll have to meet this Abengane in person. In the recording, he addressed two men — named Battera and Tsezguerra — where he proved himself qualified to enter ‘Greed Island.’ Aside from a few anonymous forums, information on this mythical game is sparse. All you know is that the price is exorbitant and that Battera obsessively tracks down every copy available.

Wherever there’s Nen, things inevitably get weird, you think.

You begin tidying up your apartment. First is drying off the dishes, which saw their first use all week for a much-needed home-cooked meal. While doing so, your phone vibrates. You throw the damp rag down in a hurry and check the screen. All you find is a notification about your upcoming menstrual cycle. Sighing, you put your phone down on the counter.

Chrollo had been truthful when he promised to take your Hatsu for assisting in the return of his. A part of you is relieved by his absence; the other is frustrated. You want to get this over with. It’s like when you have an appointment later in the day and spend the time leading up to it in a limbo, not wanting to get involved in anything until the commitment is over. Is it possible he already took it? Curious, you hold your dominant hand out. You haven’t used Instant Replay since the night at the biker’s bar.

Aura surges through you, concentrating at the palm of your hand. Much to your disappointment, the light pink cassette tape appears. Maybe it no longer works? As a test, you rewind the recording of the audio Chrollo provided at the café. Once primed, you press play, listening attentively for certain cues.

“It is my great honor to profess that I, Lilith, can purge you of any ailment, even scourges derived from Nen — for a small donation of…”

The self-proclaimed Mistress of Panaceas sounds increasingly garbled as her lies surface. Clicking your tongue, you deactivate your ability. Everything remains operational. You don’t know what you expected, you’ve overheard the telltale sounds of lying the past few days. It just hasn’t been directed at you, which weakens the effect.

Will you really have to endure this the rest of your life?

Shortly into resuming your task, there’s a knock at your door.

You ignore it, not in the mood to deal with a neighbor asking for something. After thirty or so seconds, there’s another round of knocking. You suppress a groan. Why can’t the world sense that you’re moody and let you brood in peace? Trudging over, you try to put on a pleasant face, unwilling to lash out on others even if you’re in a terrible mood. Erring on the side of caution, you glance out the peephole.

Upon doing so, you almost lose your balance.

…

He must’ve decided he kept you waiting long enough.

#chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #chrollo brainrot #my stuff

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howtofightwrite · 3 months ago

Note

What kind of wounds would a shotgun give to someone thats not wearing any bullet proof vest but just thick, winter jackets? Like those heavy jackets with fleece on the inside that old guys wear alot. ( I think its called a work jacket?)

I've always thought a shot gun would give some sort of blast damage and make quite a mess, but in The Day of The Jackal ep 6 it didn't seem that bad when he killed that farmer guy in Hungary lol.

So here's a fun thought to play with. A leather jacket is made from treated animal hide. In most cases, they're actually softened a bit to be more comfortable.

Shotguns are frequently used to hunt large game. Large game where their primary form of armor is their skin. Their skin which does almost nothing to stop a shotgun blast.

So, unless it's loaded with something like rocksalt, a leather jacket is not stopping a shotgun.

In answer to your original question, “what kind of wounds?” Catastrophic ones. It would be really messy.

Also, remember shotguns are still usable up to ~100 meters, at which they'll have a roughly 2m spray pattern. Getting hit by a shotgun, even at 50 meters, is going to be really bad. It's a bit like hitting someone simultaneously with a hail of small caliber rounds. Individually one piece of shot isn't likely to be lethal, but get hit with five or six of them, and that's a real problem. It's going to create a bunch of wound channels, and each wound has a chance to hit something vital, or ricochet and try again. And even at best, you're going to be losing blood from each of them simultaneously.

As for actual armor, most Level III or higher armor should stop a shotgun blast. However, shotguns are pretty good at damaging body armor. So someone wearing a ballistic vest who takes a shotgun hit, probably isn't going to be safe from the next pistol round that hits their vest anywhere near where the shot landed.

Similarly, with plate carriers, it should be fine, but there's a real risk that some of the shot chipped the plate. That's not going to cause the next shotgun blast to punch through, but it does mean that carrier now can't be trusted to stop rifle rounds.

Now, none of that are things you usually obsess over. For the most part, ballistic armor is single use anyway. If you're wearing a Kevlar vest and get shot, it's time to replace that vest. So, having your vest soak a shotgun hit isn't some kind of special tactic on your enemy's part, and is really just your vest doing its job.

Against unarmored targets, shotguns can be downright horrific.

So, using a winter parka to stop a shotgun blast is probably the result of someone who heard the, “shotguns are horrible at armor penetration,” line and took it a little bit too seriously.

There are some AP shells out there. Including slugs that market themselves as armor penetrating. I've never looked too deeply in to these. I know of their existence, but not how effective they actually are.

There's also probably some close quarters scenarios where a slug might punch right through body armor, even though, generally speaking, slugs lose energy extremely quickly, and at mid to long range, they're not going to penetrate. Ultimately, it is an 18mm bullet without a lot of powder behind it, so the drop off makes sense, but it's still a lot of mass to deal with when it's leaving the barrel. Even if your armor holds up, taking that hit is probably not going to be fun.

-Starke

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#writing reference #writing advice #writing tips #how to fight write #starke answers

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girlgenius1111 · 1 year ago

Text

adrenaline junkie

r loves to do dangerous things, relishing in the thrill, the rush of ecstasy that rushes through her. until her overprotective teammates find out about some of her hobbies. and then others find out. it doesn't go great.

disclaimer- as has been established, i do not have BDE, so i haven't ever ridden a motorcycle. or done like most of the things r does in this.

At first, it was only small things that the girls noticed. How you would climb up on stuff and jump off, prompting intense scoldings from your captains and the coaches. If this was any indication as to how they'd act if they learned about your... more intense hobbies, you were pretty determined not to let them find out.

There were different rules for professional athletes than people who's jobs didn't rely on their ability to walk. While it wasn't in your contract, you weren't supposed to do anything physically dangerous. No motorcycles, no skydiving, no cliff jumping, no zip lining, no swimming with sharks. It was all very discouraged.

You were an adult, though, a whole entire individual who could safely decide to do dangerous things for fun. Your teammates still thought of you as a kid, Alexia and Lucy especially. And sure, you were young, but completely capable of making rational decisions for yourself.

You'd had a couple close calls; as big of a city Barcelona was, your teammates all lived near you, and it only made sense that it was only a matter of time before you were caught. Your motorcycle was parked in the building's parking lot, but none of your teammates knew that it was yours when they came over. At least, not at first.

-----

You'd decided to use your bike one morning to go grab coffee. The place was too far to walk, but it was a nice day, and you wanted to enjoy the fresh air. It was a few days into the holiday break, so you knew that a lot of your teammates would be out of Barcelona, at home with their families. This is why you didn't worry about going to the coffee shop that a lot of your teammates frequented. Which would turn out to be a mistake.

You'd had to circle the block the coffee shop was on before you could get a spot right in front. You pulled in, turning the engine off and taking off your helmet, leaving your jacket on. When you turned your attention to the coffee shop, or rather the little tables outside of it, you froze.

There, at one of the little tables with their coffees, sat Ingrid and Frido, jaws practically on the floor as they stared at you. Deciding to play it cool, hoping that if you acted like you hadn't done anything wrong, they'd be alright about it, you walked over to their table.

"Hey guys! I didn't know either of you were still in town." Ingrid was supposed to take Mapi with her to Norway, (Mapi had been complaining about the upcoming cold weather for weeks, but every time she even mentioned spending Christmas with Ingrid's family, she got this disgusting, love sick look on her face). Frido was also supposed to head home to Sweden.

Their only response was to gawk at you, stunned into silence.

"Guys?" You said, playfully waving a hand in front of their faces. This seemed to bring them out of their temporary stress-induced coma. Ingrid stood up, almost knocking the whole table over in the process.

"Are you CRAZY?" She shouted, hands flapping in the air as she spoke, gesturing wildly. Frido's mouth was opening and closing, as if she had so many things to yell, she couldn't settle on one.

"About...?" You said, looking between her and Frido, pretending that you didn't know very well what they were upset about.

"YOU KNOW WHAT ABOUT!" Ingrid yelled, pointing a finger insistently behind you.

"Ingrid, you're kind of making a scene." You mumbled, looking out of the corner of your eye at the pedestrians nearby staring at the Norwegian. She only scoffed in response, hands on her hips, waiting for you to explain yourself.

"You know who is going to make a scene? Alexia, when she finds out her perfect, precious, protégée rides motorcycles in her free time." Frido said finally. Your cool demeanor vanished.

"No, no, Frido you cannot tell her, she would kill me. Kill me dead. And if she didn't Lucy would. Actually, I'm pretty sure half of the team would kill me. Besides Pina. And Mapi."

Ingrid lets out an indignant noise. "Sell the motorcycle and we won't tell."

"You want me... to sell it? Come on, guys, it's not even that dangerous." You try, faltering when both girls rise to their feet again.

"NOT THAT DANGEROUS?" They shout together, and you throw your hands in the air, cutting them off before their lecture can really begin.

"Alright, alright, I'll sell it. You guys are boring. And you better not tell anyone about this. No one. Not even Mapi." You said, making them promise they wouldn't speak a word of it.

They insisted on driving home with you, following your bike in Ingrid's car. They honked whenever anyone came even close to you, and every time you caught a glimpse of them through their windows, Frido was staring at you like a cop tailing a murder suspect. At one point, you were going maybe 5 over the speed limit, and Frido stuck her head out the window, instructing you to slow down immediately.

If it wasn't so incredibly annoying, it probably would have been funny.

You parked the bike elsewhere, now, in case either of the Nordic girls decided to check and make sure the motorcycle was really gone.

-----

Mapi must have cracked Ingrid, you're sure of it. And you knew, too, that she only told Alexia on you because she was jealous that you had a motorcycle and she didn't. Of course, Ingrid thought you'd gotten rid of it. You hadn't. And Alexia, being Alexia, was suspicious enough to figure out that you still owned the motorcycle. She'd come over, accompanied by Lucy and Irene, completely unannounced. You'd let her in, somewhat confused. She snooped around without telling you what she was looking for, before triumphantly holding up the keys to your bike. They were hanging on the hook where they always were, but no one had ever thought to pay attention to them before.

Alexia yelled at you like she'd never yelled before, about the dangers of riding a motorcycle, about lying to her, about not listening when the older girls had tried to keep you safe. She was going on and on, and while Irene and Lucy had started off looking like they agreed with her, they were also definitely over the lecture after a few minutes.

You were in hot water with Alexia as soon as the words left your mouth; you weren't stupid, you knew how she would react to what you had just said, but you had always been hotheaded and her hovering and nagging had gotten to you today.

"You don't need to know about everything in my life, Alexia! I've gone skydiving, and I haven't died. I swam with sharks, and didn't die. Cliff jumping? Zip lining? Bungee jumping? Drag racing? I have done all of that, all since I've been with this team, and I am completely fine. You aren't my mother, and I don't need you to act like you are. I don't need your opinion on everything I do, I don't need you watching my every move. I can do what I want." You snapped. Alexia took a step back from where she'd been standing, a look of hurt flashing across her face.

"Y/n, you're way out of line," Lucy said, looking angry again. Irene nodded her head in agreement.

"No, no. She's right. I'm not her mother. She can do what she wants." Alexia said softly. She dropped the keys onto the counter, and walked out your door without another word.

You were flooded with guilt. Alexia had been more of a parent figure than anyone else in your life had ever bothered to be. You were grateful for it, you really were. She was part of the reason you were the person you were today, having spent the last of your teenage years on the team with her. She'd always watched out for you, always took the time to make sure you were okay. She'd expressed to you, before, her worry that she was overstepping, doing more than you wanted her to do. You'd thrown that right back in her face.

"You need to apologize. That wasn't fair of you." Irene said coldly.

"I just-"

"-No. You and I both know everything that Alexia has done for you, gone out of her way to do for you. She loves and cares about you, obviously you doing stupid and dangerous things is going to bother her." Irene's voice was deadly serious, arms crossed over her chest as she stared you down.

"When you moved here from England, do you know that Alexia called Leah, and talked to her for hours trying to get to know you, and make the transition as easy as possible?" Lucy cut in.

"When you got that concussion last season and you were in the hospital, she sat awake, all night, next to your bed, too worried to rest." Irene continued.

"She has an England shirt with your name on it that she wears to watch you play, did you know that? No one is allowed to see her in it, but she doesn't miss any of your games for England. Not one."

"Your first Christmas here, she went all out with Christmas decorations. You were living with her then, and she wanted the day to be special, even if it wasn't the way she normally did it."

They were switching off, seemingly having endless examples of all the things Alexia had done for you. You were blinking, hard, memories of how easy Alexia had made everything for you flashing through your mind. Lucy spoke more gently.

"You were 16 when you got here, y/n. She has done more for you than anyone. You're her kid whether you like it or not. It doesn't matter that you're 19 now, it doesn't matter that you don't live with her anymore."

"She deserves better than you lying to her about your dangerous hobbies, and she deserves better than how you just treated her. Fix it." Irene finished, tone still just as cold as it had been. She was, herself, rather protective of Alexia, you knew. Her reaction was completely warranted, you knew that too.

Irene turned then too, walking out your door and shutting it behind her. Only Lucy remained, staring at you critically.

"I didn't mean to hurt her feelings." You said weakly.

"I know. You did, though."

"I don't know why I said any of that, I was just annoyed."

"You're young, it's a young person thing to not think before you speak. You do it all the time, normally it doesn't end as poorly as this did." Lucy tried to joke, hating the sad frown on your face, even if you probably deserved it. You just shook your head, looking up at her as a single tear fell down your cheek.

"What do I do, Luce?"

"Give it a couple hours, and then go apologize. And sell the damn motorcycle. Or I'll remove the engine or something." At this, you did smile, if only weakly. "C'mere," she said gruffly, pulling you into a tight hug. "It'll be fine, kid. Alexia would forgive you for anything."

You hoped she was right.

-----

You stood at Alexia's door, about a half hour later. You'd meant to wait as long as Lucy had said, but you couldn't do it. You were fidgeting with your fingers as you waited for her to answer, not really sure what would greet you.

You'd seen Alexia mad, obviously. And you'd seen her sad, though less often. But you'd never seen her sad because of something you'd done. It made you feel sick, that you'd repaid her years of kindness with rude comments that completely disregarded how much she had done for you, because you were slightly annoyed with her behavior. If she was sad, you weren't sure how you could fix it.

When she answered the door, you were stunned, stunned, to see Alexia's eyes slightly red and puffy, like she'd been crying.

"Hola pequeña," she said roughly, wiping at her face as if to rid it of the evidence as to how upset she was.

"Can I come in?" You asked.

"Of course," she said, stepping to the side immediately to let you in. She led you to the living room, and you both took seats on the couch. The Alexia sitting next to you was not one you were used to seeing; you could tell how hurt she was by what you said. You could also tell she was trying to pretend she wasn't hurt, whether because she didn't want to make you feel bad, or because she was embarrassed at the obvious and uncharacteristic display of emotion. You chewed on your lip for a minute, trying to figure out how to apologize.

"Ale, I'm so sorry," you began.

"It's fine," she said, brushing your apology off. She tried to smile at you, but it was weak, and it didn't reach her eyes. It was going to be hard for you to get out what you needed to say, you knew. You weren't good at expressing your emotions, and you'd never really admitted to Alexia what an important role she had played in your life. You tried to show her through actions, but your words earlier had undone anything you'd accomplished in terms of letting her know how much you appreciated her.

"No, it's not fine. I was completely unfair to you. I didn't mean what I said, not at all. I... you've been... for me..." You trailed off, words getting jumbled. "I don't know why this is so hard for me to say."

"It's alright, pequeña, I get it," Alexia said, and she did sound less upset, like she knew what you were trying to say.

"I'm not used to having people in my life that care. I mean, I am now, because I have you and the team, but it still surprises me sometimes when I do something, and people... people care about what happens to me. You've always cared, though. Even when I was an angsty 16 year old with an attitude problem, and I didn't want you to care, you did anyway."

You take a big breath, trying to steady your voice. "You've been more of a parent to me than anyone. I value your opinion, I really appreciate that you care enough to be mad at me when I do something stupid. I'm sorry I said otherwise, because that wasn't true. I was just frustrated, but you deserve better than that. I'm really sorry about what I said, and I'm sorry that I don't express how much I appreciate everything you've done for me."

You take a peak at Alexia once you've finished talking, and find her looking out the window, jaw set tightly. At first, you think she's upset about something that you said. You see her lip wobble slightly, though, before she bites down on it, and realize what's actually going on. Your captain schools her features, before turning to you.

"Thank you for apologizing. I... I was hurt by what you said. I can't help but worry about you, and I know I probably go overboard with it sometimes, but I look at you and see the scared 16 year old you were when you got here, and all I want to do is protect you."

Alexia shuffled closer to you on the couch. "And I know you appreciate me, pequeña. You might not say it, but you show it. You don't need to thank me for caring about you, though. You shouldn't ever feel like you have to thank anyone for that. You deserve love, pequeña, I hope you know that."

You fall somewhat unsteadily into her arms, which wrap around you in a comforting embrace. You blink your tears away, wondering how your apology to Alexia turned into her comforting you, but that was the magic of Alexia Putellas.

"Y/n?” She says, chin resting on top of your head.

"Yeah?"

"Did you really do all those things you said you did?" She sounds slightly ill at the idea, and you wince, wishing you hadn't overshared all of those details.

"Yeah," you answer meekly.

"Dios mio," she mumbles.

"I'll sell the motorcycle," you say placatingly. Alexia lets out a short laugh at that, pulling back from you to look you in the eye.

"I know you will. You aren't ever riding that thing again."

"Well..." You said, unable to stop yourself from glancing towards where you had parked said motorcycle.

"You did not... drive it here... to apologize to me..." Alexia choked out, baffled.

"I did," she groans in exasperation. "But only because I'm taking it back to the dealership right after this. I called, they're gonna buy it back off me." You smile sheepishly at her.

She glares at you. "You better be telling the truth."

"I am, Ale, I promise." You rise, heading back towards the door.

"Good. Off you go, then. Get rid of that deathtrap. And wear your helmet. And drive under the speed limit. And stick to side streets, not busy ones. And-"

"-Alexia, I've been riding it for a year, I'll be fine." You say, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. The blonde looks genuinely anxious at the idea of you driving off on it. "I promise, the dealership isn't far from here, and I'll text you once I'm back home."

She nods, looking at the motorcycle parked outside with an expression full of disdain. "Drive safe," she says finally, and you promise that you will.

-----

You did drive safe. It wasn't your fault that someone ran a red light, or that it just happened to occur right as you were in the middle of the intersection. It wasn't your fault that the car practically t-boned you, the last minute braking doing very little to ease the impact. It wasn't your fault that you were thrown off the bike, sliding and rolling painfully along the pavement until you came to a stop several feet away.

It wasn't your fault.

Still, as you looked up at the sky, feeling yourself begin to lose consciousness, you knew that the fact that it wasn't your fault would not get you out of trouble with Alexia. She couldn't kill you if you were already dead, though, you thought. That was horrifying, and you jerked your eyes back open, trying to stay awake. It was no use, though, and your eyes closed against your will, head rolling weakly to the side on the concrete as spots flooded your vision, until everything around you was dark and quiet.

-----

HA.

part 2 tomorrow :)

#woso #woso imagine #woso x reader #barcelona femeni x reader

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ameliathornromance · 3 months ago

Text

“This is Hell.” You groaned to yourself. Curled up under the bedsheets of your shared tent, you lay, with your arms clasped firmly around your lower stomach in the fetus position.

It was the only way your period cramps would stop… sometimes. And today, was not a ‘sometimes’ day.

You thought, God forbid, for a moment before you came on, that you were spared one month of this. But of course, the usual fears came into play – could you be pregnant?

And after determining that there was no way you could be, you thought that this might just be a month where you missed your period.

It was joyous for you. You felt like you could frolic in a field, hair flying in a warm breeze as you hop, skipped and jumped. Right up until you woke up this morning with the worst cramps of the whole of your menstrual life.

You had been in bed the whole day because of them. Your Orc boyfriend had done his best to comfort you when you woke up, but unfortunately, none of his reassurances or soothing back rubs could quell the pain of your uterus taking revenge for your fantasies of one month without a period.

When it was clear that his efforts were doing nothing to sooth the pain, he sighed. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can get for you?” your boyfriend asked, feeling completely powerless to the machinations of your body.

You groaned, sarcastically, “you could get your hands on some chocolate for me.”

Chocolate was a rare thing for people of your social standing to afford. It was only given to the richest of people and you had only tasted it once while you were working in a Nobles house for a brief moment.

Right now, the idea of that velvety sweetness gracing your lips was all you could think about right now.

Your Orc, who could sense that you were not in the best of moods, grunted and stood. “I’ll see what I can do.”

You felt guilty asking for it in such a tone. It’s not like your boyfriend had done anything to deserve your sardonic attitude. He was only trying to help.

After that, you hadn’t seen or heard from him for the rest of the day. Your hormonal brain had convinced you that he had abandoned you for how you treated him and sent you into a fit of tears.

Which is why when he came back, you were surprised to see him grinning from ear to ear.

But at the sight of your tears, his expression fell. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” Your Orc rushed over and placed what he was holding on your bedside table.

You sniffled and dried up your tears using your sleeve as you apologised, “I-I’m sorry for being horrible earlier,” you sniffed, “I didn’t mean it, I’m in a lot of pain so please don’t leave me alone!”

Your Orc let out a sigh of relief to your surprise and smiled at you, “honey it’s okay. I know this time is really tough for you, I get it.” He picks up what he left on the bedside table and held out a steaming towel to you. “Here for your cramps.”

Taking the towel, you wrapped it around your stomach and the clenching pain of your abdomen ceased instantly.

More tears began to run down your cheeks as your Orc cupped your face in his hands, “oh I’m so sorry sweetheart, if I’d known it hurt that bad, I’d have been quicker about coming back.”

You shook your head, just grateful for him to be there.

“And, I know you said it with a hint of sarcasm, but I found some anyway.” He held out a small box to you.

You stared at it, taking it from him.

The box was gold and held together with a silky black ribbon tied into a bow, with a tag that had some random mans name scrawled on it in cursive.

Tugging on the ribbon, the bow collapsed and allowed you to open the top of the box. Inside, wrapped in small, individual shiny pieces of paper, was chocolate.

If you were crying before, you were now sobbing. “I… I don’t deserve you.” You said, tearfully. “You’re too good for me.”

Shaking his head, your Orc dried your tears with his thumbs, “that’s nonsense. We all have tough days, okay?” Placing a kiss on your forehead, he made you look at him. “And I’m not going to go anywhere. I promise.”

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circeyoru · 6 months ago

Text

Foreign Reality

[Sung Jinwoo x Memory intact!Reader - Academy Arc]

As weird as it sounds, you recall a world that was the same as this one but different. There were things known as ‘Gates’ and inside them are ‘Dungeons’ filled with all types of beasts and monsters that bring mankind harm. To counter that, there are awakened individuals known as ‘Hunters’ that would go into these Dungeons to defeat the boss and prevent an outbreak. That was the gist of it.

Now there was nothing. When you told your parents about it, they told you that you were dreaming too hard and that you needed to wake up.

So how could you not feel the chill when the newly transferred student entered the classroom? Somehow you were able to recognize him. In your dream, he was the strongest Hunter, from the bottom to the top, he was famed for his strength and will to protect. Yet most remember him as the one-man army because of his ability to command shadow beasts and monsters.

While the class teacher gave the former strongest Hunter the time to introduce himself, you already recalled his name like an echo to his introduction. “Sung Jinwoo.”

Over the next few days, Jinwoo was the topic of discussion for many people, both students and teachers. The girls were fonding over his coolness and smart nature, as he was top of his class like you were though you relied on your former knowledge and mentality. The boys were envious of the attention he was getting and his seemingly handsome appearance. The teachers praised him for his academic results and athletic talent. There seemed to be no flaws or faults with him.

Well, almost. It seemed like he was a bit on the dense and serious side.

You recall the first day when a group of boys taunted him for wearing a single black glove over his hand, only to end up backing down when Jinwoo showed them a nasty scar. At the time, you were just passing by to leave the classroom, but you swore that scar couldn’t be made by normal means. Then again, you never knew what Jinwoo went through in his upbringing, so you kept it to yourself.

Then there were the constant confessions. You lost count of the library or rooftop confessions that you happened to stumble upon during your breaks. The library and rooftop were your go-to places to relax, yet somehow, Jinwoo’s love confessions were always there and sometimes in the hallways. You’d always see girls crying their hearts out and running away, when you looked over, Jinwoo smiled and waved at you.

Though you nodded your head with a neutral expression before you left. You really wanted to give him a piece of your mind, by then you were sure he rejected and made a bunch of girls cry. If he weren’t the former strongest Hunter and praised and admired by you, you would have given Jinwoo the cold shoulders. You wondered if he had always been like this even before the timeline repeated itself.

But there were times when you wondered if he knew that time repeated like you did. You hoped that there was someone you could connect with. There was so many times that you felt so foreign in your place. Like everything was a lie. Maybe it was because you were used to the you and world in that former timeline, maybe it was because everything felt so real there and to be denied that reality was breaking to you.

So that might have led you to what you did then.

It was any other day after school was done and it was time for the extracurriculars. Jinwoo was in track and field while you were in a literature club. Yours ended earlier than his, and when you left, you’d catch him on his breaks. Like always, he’d be under that tree, sitting at the base of it and holding onto his water bottle while he napped a bit.

Your legs brought you over to him and you squat down to stare at his features. Your eyes blinked as you waited for any form of reaction from him. If he were like you, he’d still have his Hunter senses, but there was none. Your face crunched together a bit as you tested another method. You slowly and gently took his bottle from his hand, still he didn’t seem to be conscious. So you sat down by him and set his bottle between you two.

“Hey, do you remember something like a portal to dungeons? Like in those games or movies? Haha, it’s silly huh? But I remember a world like that. There were brave Hunters who protected normal people with their powers and strength every day, they risked their lives to protect humanity. No matter their rank.” You stared at the sky as you talked your mind out. For some reason, you felt comfortable saying all this to him, even when he was sleeping.

Of course, you never saw the twitch in his fingers and the various eyes that stared at your form from the shadows. You continued your ranting.

“There was once the weakest Hunter who tried his best just to get by, then he was suddenly the strongest. Despite everything he went through, he never hated others or the world, nor did he take revenge. He was so selfishly selfless.” You clenched your hands as you looked down, “I’m sure, in the end, he did something, but it wasn’t just for himself. I can’t tell, but he was so stupid to just suffer the weight of it all alone.”

You failed to notice how his jaws clenched tightly.

“Haha. Well, I’m just being silly.” You got up and patted your clothes to remove any dirt or grass stuck to your fabric. You looked down to see if his form had changed, only to notice nothing out of the ordinary. You chuckled, picking out a leaf from his hair and blowing it away so that it could follow the breeze. You turned your attention back to him and bowed your head saying, “Thank you, Hunter Sung Jinwoo, for all you’ve done.” You straightened up and smiled before turning away from him. “I wish you the happiest lifetime for your efforts and suffering.”

Not even a few steps in, your eyes widened as your smile fell straight from shock. A pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist as your head tilted to see who it was. Jinwoo.

“Always. You always have a way with words. You know that?” Jinwoo’s voice cracked.

You flinched, figuring he heard you, “Uh, um, I was just referencing to a novel the literature club had its members read! Nothing too serious! I, really…”

The way Jinwoo’s eyes glowed purple made your words fall short. “Don’t lie. You remember. You remember it all. Please.”

Your heart ached for some reason you can’t explain. In your memories, you were nothing special to the S-Rank Hunter Sung Jinwoo. You were one of the bystanders who cheered him on. You were only something to him when he visited his mother at the hospital, you as the doctor in charge of his mother’s treatment and stay. After his mother was discharged, there was no reason for him to return or visit the hospital because he had no need for it.

Once, you witnessed his soldiers when his sister was brought to you to check due to some dungeon break in her school. You were so busy calming her down that you ignored the soldiers’ stare. When the Hunter appeared in the room, you professionally relayed his sister’s condition to him and he, in such a troubled state, didn’t spare you greetings of the like.

After then, you’ve been keeping an eye out on the news for his good work for humanity. Just silently cheering him on from the sidelines because you knew you wouldn’t be able to help him. When you saw him with other S-Ranked Hunters, you felt content and proud, sometimes you can’t believe that was the same small frail E-Rank Hunter that would try to pay his mother’s medical bills with wounds and injuries all over his body.

You reached your hand to the top of his head as best you could. Perhaps it was a good thing. In this world, he doesn’t need to throw himself into the dangerous dungeons with monsters that want to tear him apart. “Yes, I lied. I remember it all. But aren’t you going to go look for your other friends?”

His grip on you tightened. “I... I’ve wanted to stay by your side for a long time, but it was either you were too busy with your work or I was. There never was a time. When I reversed time, I thought I could correct things. But this time, there were other obstacles.”

“You could have just come talk to me.” You chuckled at his words. “Instead, I got a look good at how you’ve always made girls cry. Can’t you let them down gently?”

“But I was being honest.”

“Brutally honest…” You sighed.

Jinwoo loosened up a bit, turning you so that he’d meet your eyes and you’d meet his, “What does this make us?”

You poked your finger at the middle of his chest, pushing him away from you, “Nothing serious. We’re starting from rock bottom. As friends.”

Jinwoo smiled, nodding at your words. “Well, we both have the time.”

“Right.” You huffed, content with this result until you recalled something. “Wait, you reversed time!?”

That day, under the tree and with the breeze of the wind, your surprised rambles gave the Shadow Monarch his solace back. For so long, he has dreamed of meeting you again and staying by your side. You were so diligent and caring that he never stood a chance, even when he became an S-Rank Hunter.

Jinwoo laughed while you continued to speak at the speed of light over what he said. His eyes curled to crescent moons as he watched you stress over what insane thing he had done for the world again. All the while, within his Realm of Eternal Slumber, his Shadows cheered for their reunion, certain few plotting ways to move the relationship faster and deeper.

With your distracted mind, Jinwoo plopped his form on top of yours while you tried to balance yourself. “It’s so good to have you back.”

“I’ve been here the entire time…” You pouted while you grounded yourself from the sandbag over your head. Still, you can’t help but chuckle, messing up Jinwoo’s hair. “I’ll be in your care this time.”

Note: Another Solo Leveling work! Hope you guys enjoy this one too!

*edited note: I'm opening the request for Solo Leveling request only. Check my masterlist for the rules. Thanks~!

Circe Y.

My Works: MASTERLIST

#Circe's Nighty Writings #Solo Leveling #Only I Can Level Up #solo leveling x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #sung jinwoo #sung jinwoo x you #jinwoo #Foreign Reality

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consoledacup · 9 months ago

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In order to fully understand Colin's reaction to the Lady Whistledown reveal and how he processes everything moving forward, you have to think about the entire season, the entire series really, through his point of view. I have no problems with the part 1/2 split. It made the anticipation that much more intense, and it worked out perfectly with their love story. But you can't separate one part from the other when you're thinking about his character.

In Colin's mind, the end of episode 4 is his happily ever after. That's it. He did it. He took action. He was the Cupid to her Psyche and played god and rescued her from a loveless match. He made shit happen and told her how he felt and they shared that moment in the carriage, and he gleefully proposed. He saved the girl and got the girl, and what a remarkable, enchanting, beautiful girl she is.

And aside from Eloise and Cressida, everyone's obsessed with their relationship. They're the true love match with a great story, and how lucky he is to fall in love with his best friend. And she's showing hints of unease, but maybe that's just wedding jitters. Or maybe she's mourning her relationship with Eloise which is why he keeps trying to get them to make up. Or maybe she doesn't feel as secure with him as she would've with Debling, even though she'd never tell him that. He is the third son after all. And he still has no idea how in love with him she is.

So when she tells him how she's always loved him, he's warmed but also wracked with guilt. Because if he had only taken his stupid head out of his ass, he would've figured out why her letters meant so much to him or why he was eager to participate in an investment with her family or why her lack of response the past summer devastated him. He thought he was the instigator of their love. He's the one who laid himself bare and was like, is it possible you feel a fraction of what I feel for you? And to find out that she did always love him made him feel so undeserving. Because why would this exquisite siren still want anything to do with him after all that he put her through?

There is an incredible scene that I think deserves a lot more gravitas. The minute Penelope mourns Lady Whistledown and burns her issues, it cuts to Colin getting over his writer's block as he writes with great enthusiasm. It's like, he's unknowingly siphoning her power. He is Cupid and a writer and her protector and her provider and so madly in love. And he will finish his manuscript, and he will make things right with Penelope and Eloise. And he and Penelope will have the perfect life together.

And then everything he thought he knew about Penelope, about friendship, about love, is completely shattered. She rips his power from him, and he is absolutely gutted. She has been the mastermind this entire time, and he was none the wiser. And what part of their love story was even real? At which point was he manipulated into doing what she wanted him to do? And while he was helping her with her confidence, and telling her how changed of an individual he was, she not only saw through him but broadcasted his insecurities to the entire ton?

He's still so desperately in love that he remains steadfast in marrying her. But he cannot get over his fury and hurt and betrayal at that point. Which makes so much sense. It's painful to see him lash out and withdraw from her, but he's absolutely reeling.

And on top of all that, he is humiliated. He thinks about everything she said about his own writing. She told him how he made it seem effortless, which is such a great compliment. And he's like, I don't want you to edit my manuscript because I want to prove to you that I'm worthy of you. And he might be thinking, I can even give her some pointers for her own writing! What fun we'll have with more lessons. To find out that she's the talented, sharpest, most prolific writer in the ton fully emasculates him. He feels like she was patronizing him all along.

He brings that part up, and she's like, no, I meant everything I said about your writing. But he doesn't believe her and immediately switches the conversation to her dangerous predicament, so he can at least, at the very least, offer himself up as her protector. It worked before when he danced with Penelope after Cressida ruined her dress, when he rescued Marina from Rutledge, when he helped save Daphne's reputation, when he saved Penelope's family from Cousin Jack, when he helped save Will's business, when he kissed Penelope, when he saved her from the balloon, when he defended her to her mother... If he can't be the provider, he can be the protector. And she doesn't even want that from him. She's the knight in shining armor. She's Don Quixote. Not him. Never him.

So he is grappling with his role in their union. He figures it out, but it takes him a little bit to get there. And in the process, he not only remains in love with Penelope the entire time, but he also falls head over heels for Lady Whistledown.

#bridgerton #colin bridgerton #polin #polin meta #bridgerton meta #diamond of the first water #an affair of honor #off to the races #harmony #the viscount who loved me #out of the shadows #how bright the moon #forces of nature #old friends #tick tock #romancing mister bridgerton #joining of hands #into the light

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maikissed · 4 months ago

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the day I saw your eyes, I stayed

jude bellingham x reader

warnings: none, just a tad of sexual tension, yeah

note: there is going to be part 2! I planned to write the whole story in one shot but I gotta go to sleep now and was too excited about this rubbish (jk, I love it tbh). And he scored today, whoop sorry for any mistakes!!!!

Rose got herself a new boyfriend. The name brought up in presence of your girlfriends caused much of a fuss. It was a grand revelation and as much as it surprised you as well, you did not share the enthusiasm as every other girl in the room. Not because you felt envious, jealousy was never your thing, you rather grew worrisome. The excitation over the fact that Rose secured herself a football player of such range – famous, a hot topic, high quality player, one of the most valuable characters in the England national team, highly payed, and to add to that: uncommonly gorgeous - absolutely knocked your friends of their feet, but to you… To you it was a sign of massive trouble. People like him belonged to a world where individuals had their impeccable ways to draw from their fame, money and phenomenon as much as they could, despite the morality or ethics. Rose always mingled among various groups of people, there were musicians, actors, even politicians. She was a lovely girl, very pretty, her modelling career developed quickly, spectacularly. But she still haven’t made her name the way she aimed to. You suspected the boys she chose were always an occasion, a special addition to make her reach for more, to be seen, to feel special and unique. She was determined, regardless of the consequences, regardless of the fact how many times she has suffered and burned herself even almost to the point of absolute destruction. It felt awful to even reminisce it. But that’s how it’s been so far, it was the path she has chosen. Although this time this whole situation felt much different, there was a spark in her eyes that could tell you many things. But you would define it this way: she intended to hold onto him, she wanted to keep him. He seemed like the greatest prize. But who would have thought that the massive trouble you feared from the very start would be your burden to deal with?

Jude Bellingham.

Girls were over the moon when the time has come and Rose invited you all to join them in a private lounge in one of the most exclusive clubs in London. You scoffed when you heard the name of the place, you remembered the time when you and Lucia tried to sneak in there, but the bodyguard was too smart to fall for your theatrics. Only precisely selected people could party there. It was one of those grand and fancy places. So you found yourself invited, at last. Yet you weren’t very thrilled about the way you were about to spend your Saturday night. It turned out you would be the only single person there.

And him? The man, the hot topic himself? He was taller than you envisioned, maybe the hair added to that? His smile truly was bright, he was well built, broad shoulders, but not too muscular, well, he was an athlete. The Brummie dialect annoyed you at the start, but the itch seemed to cease as you payed attention to the tone of his voice, there was nothing particular about it, it was just right, good, not screechy, not too deep just… pleasant. He was an amiable guy, you thought to yourself, polite and friendly at the first contact. You realised you were a careful observer until he turned to you to greet. Now you were very much noticed, now you had to act as a part of the events, not a shadow and analyser. And situation very much changed. Time seemed to slow down so suddenly, you found yourself in the strangest state of unconsciousness, like a scene in a movie where the background blurs and any noise is muted, when the spectator is deprived of any other senses despite the sight to notice those specific details that are supposed to made him feel the sublimity of a given moment. And the source of it was in his eyes, you realised, and the way he smiled softly as he extended his hand to you. It was strange and disturbing, his eyes seemed to be the darkest ones you’ve ever seen, but you most definitely had seen eyes like his before, no doubt about it. You took a breath, blinked, fought to not fall into this depth that almost sucked you in. He was smiling, now something slightly impudent about it, and you realised he truly was stunningly gorgeous. Strangely, insanely attractive. Just a simple look into his eyes made you stumble into a realisation that there was something different about this man. And it frightened you.

You did say your name back, did you?

As the night went by you decided to stay in your attentive observer state. You felt safer there, although decency inquired you to engage in few conversations with your friends. Tonight you felt tense, carefully sipping the wine, you tried with all your might to relax and stop examining so intensely the boy seated opposite you. Few new conclusions you came into in the last hour was the fact that he was a great interlocutor, he listened as well, and his smile was one of the most pleasurable things you’ve experienced in your lifetime. You just couldn’t take your eyes off. And another conclusion was that him and Rose was nothing of exclusive. No lingering stares, no secret touches. After all, they met quite recently. She wondered if she bagged him already. And if so, would they all be there if she did? He did not seem like the kind to make such effort to get himself a girl he was not seriously interested in. Rose was not the type to act restrained and unavailable. She crawled into many beds the first night she met someone. You kept yourself far from casual hook-ups and one night stands, just a simple thought of it made you uncomfortable. But for her it was a common thing, if you could use such words. So, was he really interested?

After a while all of your friends decided to use the night to the fullest as the alcohol finally kicked in, rushing to the dancefloor and you truly couldn’t find the spur to join them. You were seriously thinking about taking a French leave. And you almost succeeded.

“You’re not enjoying yourself much, are you?” a well known voice reached you from behind and you turned your head in its direction.

Something in your gut jumped as you spotted Jude. He took a seat beside you. You smiled as his scent reached you, fresh, citrus with addition of something stronger and… alluring.

“I’ve had a long day. Tired, I guess” a safe and simple answer.

His full attention was on you, no one here to accompany you. It begun to feel overwhelming because you did not expected his gaze to be so intense.

“I know the feeling. Find myself in a constant state of weariness lately, cannot get rid of it” he played with his glass, the liquid looked like orange juice.

“Well, you live quite the fast and exciting life” you noted, observing as the corner of his mouth rose a little at your comment.

“Where are you from?” he asked, not continuing the subject you just raised.

“Here, London, born and raised” you smiled again before lowering your gaze, finding the glass of wine interesting “Became as gloomy and morose as this city”

“I wouldn’t describe you with such words” his voice was soft when he said it, something itched in you to ask what words would he use to describe you, but raising the glass of wine up to your lips saved you from that. You hoped you didn’t blush.

“My grandmother always says that I’m an old soul. Emphasizes it like it’s a virtue” you continued.

“That’s a very interesting thing to say about someone. Mine says that I’m a lovely companion although I use way too foul language and it’s scandalous” he frowned funnily and you laughed at the information, he quickly accompanied you.

“Well, I haven’t yet got the occasion to hear some of that tonight”

“I’m trying to be a gentleman” he murmured “It would be improper to throw fucks around in presence of a pretty girl” a lively glint in his eyes as he looked at you.

Now you definitely blushed.

The conversation flowed from there, and you realised you grew more comfortable with each passing minute. He truly was a great listener, and a good companion. He made you laugh many times and suddenly you stopped regretting leaving your apartment for this night out. He was not daft or arrogant as you might have presumed before you met him, being smothered by all this money he had and a name he’s gotten himself at such young age. The complexity of his persona could be spotted in his eyes as you payed closer attention, but it was his words and the way he picked on any subject you brought, that expressed his maturity and wide perception. You haven’t met a guy like him in a long time.

“What are you guys doing here? Come on down, join us!” it was Charlotte’s comment as she came to the longue after a while.

You haven’t even realised how much time has passed and how much alcohol you have already poured into yourself. You only picked on that as you stood up, dizziness hit you like lighting but you composed yourself, agreeing on Charlotte’s and then Jude’s proposition. As soon as you joined the dancefloor, Rose spotted you both, throwing her hands around Jude, guiding him deeper, keeping him closer. He kept his eyes on you as she did it and a strange feeling stroked you as you kept his gaze. Charlotte grabbed you by your hands, singing the words out loud, the song was energetic and lively, you laughed at your friend. Others from your pack nowhere to be seen. So you loosened up and tried to keep up with your drunk companion. The dancefloor became quite chaotic, people jumping around, your eyes landing on Jude from time to time and to your surprise he was looking your way as well. There was a lean and tall guy that jumped in front of Jude, almost stumbling over him and you laugh at that, seeing that Jude laughed as well, his attention still on you. You wanted to share this fun with him directly, but it was forbidden since the realest fact of this night was that he was not yours to have.

“I need to pee!” Rose shouted near you and you turned, watching as she grabbed Charlotte with her, leaving the dancefloor.

You stopped and decided to follow your friends but felt someone’s presence behind your back before you made any move.

“Now I can tell you’re enjoying your night!” Jude called next to your ear, this way you could hear him well despite the thumping music.

When you turned around you noticed how close he stood, you had to raise your head to look at his face, his big and dark eyes gazing down at you, full lips twisted into an amused smile. You returned the smile.

“You are a terrible dancer” you shouted back to him, your voice filled with laughter.

“That’s a fact” he nodded “But you’re quite good, show me more” he reached for your hips to draw you deeper into the dancefloor and you laughed out, throwing your head back as he lead you with him.

You have not payed much attention to the closeness of your bodies as long as the songs were quick and your movements kept rapidly changing with the rhythm. Still, you haven’t realised the sound slowing, a more sensuous song sounded from the loudspeaker, you knew this one. If the reason could break through the basses that reached your ears, you would finish your dance right this moment. But the fact was that it did not. So you continued, with your hands placed at his shoulders you begun to move your hips. Your eyes closed as you turned around, your back to him, he was not touching you, not directly. He took your hands in his and you started to raise it up in the air, you smiled when you felt his breath on your ear. Your joined hands stayed up longer, his on the other hand slowly trailed lower and lower, down your forearms, then your shoulders, then down your body. His touch sure yet lenient and soft at the same time electrified you. Carefully and attentively, making sure to not touch your breasts on the way, he rested them on your hips, feeling the rhythm you kept on. You were not sure if it was him that pressed on you or was it purely your movement, but your back met with his front fully, and a sharp intake of breath stuck in your throat at the realisation. His hands still rested on your hips, making your body move with no pause. You were close, too close, you could already feel too much. But you found it difficult to part with him, to stop it and call it improper. Your eyes wide open but blind. You only focused on the sense of touch, feeling him moving with you. Your hands fell down to reach his head and then levelled on his nape and you kept them there. Feeling something growing inside of you, along with a rough shot of adrenaline that made your heart beat strongly against ribs. Once more his breath landed on your ear, close, closer. A strange sensation squeezed your throat and you realised you swallowed back a moan. It was like a rough strike, you turned around to face him, with intention to take a step back, but he held you closer, pressing his palm against your back. You sighed and met his eyes. Dark, darker. You wanted to run.

“Thank you for the dance” you said innocently and he watched the movement of your lips as you spoke.

A daring smirk appeared on his mouth and you shuddered. Were you trapped now?

You had to run. So you did.

#football imagine #football fics #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham #bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham fic

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millyondollarbaby · 3 months ago

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Yandere Veteran Pt 2

Yan!Veteran who immediately takes a liking to us because, honestly, who wouldn't? But it's not just the youthful beauty—it's the sheer effort we put into making the world a better place. He’s been through hell and back, seen things that could break a lesser person, but he's come home with a newfound sense of purpose. And here we are, the bright-eyed individual with a heart full of ambition and a mind sharp as ever, ready to change the world. He’s in awe of that.

Yan!Veteran who becomes obsessed—not in a creepy, lurking way (okay, maybe a little in a creepy, lurking way), but in a way where he wants to protect us, to be around us, to support us in everything we do. He’s done a lot of things, seen a lot of faces, but none have made him feel this... alive. There's something magnetic about us—something that calls to the deeper parts of him that he thought he'd buried under years of service and sacrifice.

Yan!Veteran who quietly watches from the sidelines at first, offering help here and there, but his admiration grows into something more. It’s not just about the work anymore—it’s about us. How we carry ourselves, how we speak, how we fight for what we believe in. He doesn't just want to be a part of the charity, he wants to be a part of our world. The world where we make a difference.

Yan!Veteran who starts doing little things—like showing up early to help with the kids, staying late to clean up after events, or offering his knowledge about sustainable practices. He’s the best volunteer. But deep down, he knows that he’s got feelings for us that he can’t just ignore. He is like a big dog that brings you a stick while gently wagging his tail.

Yan!Veteran who sits alone in his house thinking of you, praying that he will have a chance with you, he's never prayed this way before- he doubted there was a god with everything he's gone through, but then he met us and now... maybe there is one and maybe it's you.

Yan!Veteran who’s ready to give up his whole life, his own comforts, for the chance to be our everything. He may be older, a little rough around the edges, but for us? He’ll do anything. He’s not just in it for the job anymore. He’s in it for us.

Will you give this poor old sinner a chance?

#im just a girl #girly blog #hell is a teenage girl #yan blog #yandere x reader #yandere male #yandere #male yandere #soft yandere #sub yandere #yanblr #x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere boyfriend #yandere stalker

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thankskenpenders · 1 year ago

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Amy's fortune cards

The Sonic fandom has long been the kind of fandom that takes minor details very seriously, for better or worse. On the one hand, this means fans will really dig for the diamonds in the rough, latching onto fun character interactions, animations, bits of background worldbuilding, and more in pieces of Sonic media that many would write off as "the bad ones." But it also feels like every week another needlessly hostile debate over Sonic minutia erupts on Twitter, whether it's over individual lines of dialogue, fanart that makes Tails' shoes blue, or the ideal length and volume for Sonic's quills.

So it was probably inevitable that a fandom-wide debate would erupt upon seeing Amy's new gameplay style in the DLC for Sonic Frontiers, which takes the once-obscure fact that she enjoys reading tarot and shines a spotlight on it like never before.

I mean:

The thing is, while I basically always try to tune out Sonic fandom bickering... for once, I kind of sympathize with the detractors? Don't get me wrong, I like Amy's tarot stuff, and people on all sides of the discussion are being overly nasty about their opinions, as usual. (Sonic Twitter remains my personal hell.) But when I set aside the hyperbole and zoom out, I do think I understand why some fans are put off by the sudden shift in focus for the character, even if I think it's cool.

It's complicated. Let me attempt to present the cases for and against Amy's fortune cards

For years, I was always one of those fans who thought it could be fun if they played with Amy's tarot reading, or even leaned into some kind of magic with her. Part of that is my own biases showing, but there's just something that makes sense there, especially when you look at Sonic, Tails, and Amy as a trio. (I would argue that's the real "Team Sonic" these days, especially in the comics where Knuckles is more likely to be stuck on Angel Island or otherwise doing his own thing.)

You could argue that Tails is all about logic, relying on science and technology and deductive reasoning to solve problems. But Amy is all about emotion. She wears her heart on her sleeve, is extremely empathetic, and is very prone to magical thinking - both figuratively and sometimes literally. Her origin story has always been that her tarot cards told her it was her destiny to meet Sonic on Little Planet. She's claimed to be able to "sense" peoples' presences - particularly Sonic's. She's the type to believe that The Power of Love is a literal magical force. So, on some level, it makes sense to mirror Tails's science by having Sonic's other best friend believe in magic. And then Sonic is somewhere in the middle, primarily following his own gut instincts but taking advice from both of them as needed. This isn't totally accurate to how their dynamics actually function in canon stories, but I think it's a mode that could work for them.

Going off of that, it's fun to lean all the way into Amy being a magical girl, or even a witch, using her fortune telling as a foundation. Take, for example, this version of Amy from Diana Skelly's old Sonic cast redesigns from before she freelanced for Archie and IDW. This is one of MANY such redesigns for Amy.

Fast forward to the 2020s, and Amy's tarot cards are, in fact, finally getting brought up again in canon. Which is fun! I like seeing that. I like all of the individual stories involving Amy's fortune cards. This is a fun character trait for Amy, a fun nod to old lore, AND a fun storytelling device, all in one. It's really cool that the Sonic universe has its own thematically appropriate arcana, and that the cards are getting made as physical merch. And sure enough, the official card backs and borders were designed by none other than Diana Skelly, in yet another cool example of an ascendant fan leaving their mark on the series.

BUT... when you step back and look at the big picture, I get why some fans find this shift in focus jarring. At the moment, it's starting to feel like every new story about Amy involves her fortune cards to some degree.

The most recent mainline comic arc to feature Amy as the lead character, 2021's Trial by Fire arc, prominently features a sequence where she reads fortunes while camping with the girls. The Origins version of Sonic CD now bookends the game with scenes of Amy and her tarot cards. Sonic randomly mentioned it in a scene in Frontiers. And now, just this week, we got the (very cute, gorgeously illustrated) Amy's 30th Anniversary comic with a story revolving around Amy's tarot cards, followed the very next day by the Frontiers DLC in which she gets a brand new tarot-based moveset. Even her base melee attack now has her throwing tarot cards instead of swinging her hammer. Again, I like all of these individual things, but after years of it almost never coming up at all, it's VERY noticeable that Amy's tarot cards are suddenly everywhere.

To be fair, I'm looking at this from the perspective of a superfan who's actively following ALL Sonic media. Casual fans - especially kids - aren't necessarily going to be reading the comics every month, buying the thousandth rerelease of the Genesis games, or playing the ultra-hard new alternate ending DLC for a game that came out last year. Each of these stories is going to be someone's introduction to the idea that Amy can read tarot, and that's probably part of the idea behind this unified push.

But to play devil's advocate, for my fellow superfans, I understand why it feels like a very minor footnote of Amy's character is suddenly becoming the entire focus of her personality. While Amy has always been said to enjoy fortune telling, that wasn't really a character trait in and of itself, but rather an example of her being a typical girl who hopes she'll be able to find true love one day. It's less that Amy can literally predict the future and more like her using a cootie catcher or going "he loves me, he loves me not" while picking the petals off of a flower. So I get not vibing with this stuff, or feeling like it's being pushed very hard out of nowhere.

What I don't agree with are comparisons like "it's like if they made Knuckles' moveset revolve around him liking grapes." Like, I get it. Ian Flynn loves shoehorning in his little winking references for us nerds, and mentions of Amy's tarot cards were previously on the same level as other random bullet points from old Japanese manuals. But a multifaceted hobby like fortune telling that opens up so many narrative and aesthetic possibilities is obviously very different from having a favorite food. It's ALWAYS been a part of her story, not just a random fact, and there's no reason why the fortune telling can't be elevated to something more.

And, hell, even if it wasn't an established character trait, there's nothing inherently wrong with injecting new ideas into a character. One of the best Amy stories in recent years, the Free Comic Book Day special "Amy's New Hobby" written by Gale Galligan, came up with the idea that Amy's secretly been drawing little comics about her and her friends. Is this based on Lore? No. But it's cute, and helps tell the story of a younger Amy who's still coming out of her shell as both a hero and a friend.

Certain fans are also looking at Amy's Frontiers moveset and using it as evidence that once again the Vile American Contributors like Ian are CORRUPTING Sonic Team's perfect vision of Sonic with their misinterpretations. And like. Come on. Ian does not control the gameplay. He's a freelance writer. The tarot stuff is clearly something that Sonic Team likes if they made it the basis of Amy's new moveset - and, you know, if they keep approving comics and animations about Amy's fortune telling. None of this gets made without their blessing, and lord knows how much they can micromanage shit and shoot down ideas over the most minor of details.

Like, yeah, Amy's fortune telling was probably conceived less as a sign that she Knows Magic and more as a pretty mundane hobby for a lovesick young Japanese girl to have. But you're gonna sit there and tell me that using Amy's tarot cards for more than that could only be the result of a cultural misunderstanding? That nobody in Japan uses tarot card theming and aesthetics (or the general idea of magical cards) for the cool factor? Stardust Crusaders? Persona? The Astrologian class in FFXIV? Cardcaptor Sakura?? Hello??? Do you think Capcom put Gambit in Marvel vs. Capcom ironically because they thought using magic to throw cards at people was stupid? There's tons of precedent for this! It's nothing like Knuckles throwing grapes at people, be for real.

Giving Amy a very magical girl-esque moveset also just makes a lot of sense. For decades her hammer attacks have literally made sparkly heart shapes appear around her. Leaning into both that and her tarot cards in her new moveset makes a lot of sense to me.

But, admittedly... I do think it's very odd that her hammer is treated as a secondary element here, rather than having her primarily use her hammer and adding the cards for extra flair. If hitting the attack button made her swing her hammer instead of throwing cards, I'm not sure we'd even be having this discussion right now.

But the tarot-cycle and Amy riding her hammer like a witch's broom are fucking SICK and I will not concede on this point

The thing is, this whole fortune card discourse is but a small piece of a bigger problem. Amy's been a character who needed some work for ages, but there's basically nothing you can do with her without pissing SOMEONE off.

Years of stories where Amy's crush was her primary motivator and Sonic went "Ew, cooties!" have lead many casual fans to believe that being Sonic's obsessive fangirl is Amy's entire personality. At best people might call her Sonic's Minnie Mouse. This isn't just a matter of Amy having haters within the fandom - venture outside of that bubble and you'll realize that this is how MOST video game playing people seem to see her to this day. I don't feel like this is a fair assessment of the character, but this idea didn't come from nowhere. No matter how much good deeply entrenched Sonic fans may see in their old dynamic where Amy perpetually chases Sonic, this is a very real problem that Sonic Team has to contend with for their leading girl. Of course all those games where the way-past-cool protagonist thought Amy was annoyingly clingy and tried to get away from her made people think less of her.

If new stories were to go back to emphasizing Amy's crush on Sonic a little more, they'd probably be taken as confirmation that Amy's just the girl with a crush on Sonic and that this is her entire personality. Conversely, when the crush is played down, you piss off the hardcore SonAmy fans who don't seem to understand that they're Charlie Brown and Sega is Lucy holding the football. You can't win.

And so here we are. In the absence of what was once her defining trait, now reduced to an occasional blush or wink in Sonic's direction, new stories are trying to mine Amy's past for additional material to work with. Having been a thing fans wanted to see for years, right now we're getting a lot of tarot, but we're also getting reminders of her compassionate nature and her desire to go out of her way to help the little guy. This is an ongoing process. I continue to hope that her bubbly, exuberant demeanor can shine more in future stories. Now, I also hope that the tarot stuff gets balanced out a little better with other traits of hers. But I don't want it to go away. I think it's fun.

This course correcting is far from exclusive to Amy. Knuckles is getting stories that remind us that he's a competent fighter, an experienced treasure hunter, and even a self-taught archaeologist after years of him being perceived as either the dumb one or just the guy who stands in front of the Master Emerald all day. And Tails has been getting some stories reminding folks that he's a capable hero in his own right and not just Sonic's timid kid sidekick.

But no supporting character will ever compete with the sheer number of new ideas Sega has tried with Sonic himself. Like Amy, his Frontiers moveset has also given him half a dozen new superpowers that he never had before, from the Cyloop to air-slicing projectile attacks to his own take on Shadow Clone Jutsu and beyond. He's also been a hoverboarder, a swordsman, a time traveler, an Olympic athlete, a racecar driver, cursed with a Flame of Judgment, imbued with alien power, a fucking Werehog with stretchy powers, and on and on and on.

If Sonic can do all that, Amy can try out using a tarot-cycle.

Anyway TL;DR the REAL problem with Amy's current characterization... is where the FUCK is Amy's bestie, Honey the Cat???????

#tkp post

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therandompagesblog · 4 months ago

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SKZ Mate: Chapter 9

Warnings: None

Nesting is a very important part of a werewolf's journey. It allows the werewolf to feel safe and secure wherever they are. It is more important for the werewolf when they join a pack. It provides them with a safe space. A space where you can be you. Every werewolf goes through nesting phases regardless of their status, but some are more different than others. Alphas are taught to nest from a very young age as they are the ones who are the main providers for the pack. When an alpha becomes old enough to have an omega they are taught to become protective of their nests as their nests would become a mating place and later on a place to have pups. Beta's were taught in a similar way to alphas that they too would have their nest as a mating place. The main difference is betas can share nests with omegas or go into each others nest. Betas and omegas often stick together as they are the lowest rank. The two of them often depend on each other hence their acceptance of sharing nests. Like an alpha, a beta can too feel protective of their nest if an unwanted visitor disrupts their nest.

Now for omegas, it is even more important for them to nest, considering how important they are. An omega's nest can depend on whether it is their own or a mated nest in their pack. An individual nest is often where the omega will live, relax or hide when in danger (if they do not have a pack). When an omega is presented to a pack they are supposed to design their own nest as part of the offering and allow their pack members to donate gifts to their nest. Once the omega is mated they can nest anywhere in their pack mates house as a sign of claiming the omega claiming their mates. If an omega is not presented with a nest they can often grow up to be quite attached and hostile due to lack of stability. This can also be seen when an omega nest has been disrupted. When a nest is disrupted without their consent omegas can get rather emotional and agitated, making them more harder to tame. A nest is probably more important for an omega to have than an alpha, which is why Y/N was never fully content or settled.

This was something that broke Chan's heart when he heard no one had ever taught his soulmate how to make a nest. Not even her mother provided her with the comfort and materials of nest building. It was the best part of anyone's childhood. You would grow up and show off your nests and have competitions on who had the better nest. Chan even remembered a time he competed with his brother and got his mother to vote. What turned Chan's stomach was the fact that Hongjoong carried that lie with him and prevented her from ever nesting in his home. Chan didn't understand it but what Chan did understand was his omega was never shown love and tenderness. This was why Chan made a point to get everyone involved in giving her a perfect nesting experience and by getting everyone involved he meant asking Hyunjin for his least favourite set of clothes. It took a few weeks but Chan wanted her to have a nest where she could feel safe and alone when she needed to.

On the first week, Chan helped Y/N settle in and taught her how to use her senses without blindfolding her. Chan taught her how to look for furniture that felt out of place, his reasoning behind this was to help her learn to decorate her own nest without too many scents. He also wanted her to feel completely comfortable in her own space before she went any further. The reason it took so long in the first place was that she changed it four times, one of which was Minho's fault because she caught him pulling a slight face and it made her insecure. The other time was Felix's fault because he asked if another coloured blanket would have been better on the chair, which led to Jisung pulling Felix's nest a part. In the second week, Y/N wanted some of their things in her room. Jisung was the first to proudly donate his pillow and bracelet. Chan the same day offered his shirts and scent on some of her clothes so she didn't have to worry. Changbin the following day offered his plushies and his sweaty gym towel but promised he would find something better. Felix and Seungmin came the day after with snacks and offered to roll around in her nest because Seugnmin barely had anything in his room to donate and Felix spent the whole night in a panicked state what to get. Felix later that evening went shopping to get her some fairy lights and unscented candles which made the omega feel better. A very nervous Jeongin came the day after with a bundle of hoodies and sweatshirts to donate which had been rutted on by him because he didn't know how to offer things to an omega. None of them had thought to tell him he didn't need to rut on them. Much to everyone's surprise Y/N donated one of her new jumpers to Jeongin nest which made the new alpha so excitable and proud, that he slept in it the same night. Minho came the day after with his hoodies and socks that he had washed and then re-scented because he wasn't disgusting like Changbin who gives people unwashed clothes. Minho had politely dropped them off outside when Hyunjin had offered his t-shirt and by offering he almost threw it at her, which annoyed Minho. It was an insult to her and to Chan and Minho wasn't going to tolerate it.

Minho had quickly apologised to Y/N with a bow before heading to the infuriating alpha's room and kicked his door down, breaking it straight off the hinges. The elder had shouted profusely at the younger alpha about his rudeness to the point the beta had thrown a load of blankets into the alpha's arms as he tried to force him to rut on them. By forcing him, Minho had pushed him to the ground and threatened to tell Chan that he made the omega cry if he didn't rut on them and politely present them to Y/N. To Y/N's surprise, Hyunjin did return with a grumble and handed her the blankets gently to her stating he didn't have any blankets so he had to find them. What Y/N didn't know was that Minho had bullied the alpha into donating something to her. That was something that kept Y/N awake at night as she held Hyunjin's blankets in her hand, feeling the soft texture of the material. She was almost too afraid to sniff it. He frightened her but at the same time, she was fascinated by him. She wondered if it was because he reminded her of Ateez, but he wasn't even close to their power or was he. Y/N tried to shake the thoughts from her mind as she sniffed Hyunjin's wet musky vanilla and ylang-ylang which sent her body into a massive frenzy. His scent was ethereal. It drove her insane as her mind darkened and went to another worldly place. What Y/N didn't realise was that Hyunjin was sat in his room listening to all of her thoughts and feelings.

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fernthewhimsical · 11 months ago

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Hopepunk Primer pt. 2

Philosophy of Hopepunk

I cannot express this better than other people have done before me. So I'll start with an interview Kayti Burt had with several hopepunk authors in 2019.

"What is hopepunk? It depends on who you ask…

Rowland, quoting their essay “One Atom of Justice, One Molecule of Mercy, and the Empire of Unsheathed Knives,” says: “Hopepunk is a subgenre and a philosophy that ‘says kindness and softness don’t equal weakness, and that, in this world of brutal cynicism and nihilism, being kind is a political act. An act of rebellion.’”

To understand hopepunk as a concept it helps to understand what it stands in contrast to. Grimdark is a fantasy subgenre characterized by bleak settings in which humanity is fundamentally cutthroat, and where no individual or community can stop the world’s inevitable decline. Hopepunk, in contrast, believes that the very act of trying has meaning, that fighting for positive change in and of itself has worth—especially if we do it together." [4]

When Alexandra Rowland was asked on Tumblr to expand on the initial statement she made they elaborated:

"Hopepunk says that genuinely and sincerely caring about something, anything, requires bravery and strength. Hopepunk isn’t ever about submission or acceptance: It’s about standing up and fighting for what you believe in. It’s about standing up for other people. It’s about DEMANDING a better, kinder world, and truly believing that we can get there if we care about each other as hard as we possibly can, with every drop of power in our little hearts." [5]

I also love the definition of the Tumblr blog @hopepunk-humanity:

"What is Hopepunk?

Wild laughter from ragged throats

Flowers growing choked from crumbling asphalt

A warm bed after a long, hard journey

Your partner’s hand cupped in your own

Bright graffiti on cracked tunnel walls

The chains falling loose to the stone floor

A glint of silver beneath a century of tarnish

A long rain after a blistering wildfire

Just one more step, and then another

A single candle flame joining the stars against the night

A loved ones voice calling your name after hours lost in an unfamiliar place

A hand taking yours, just when you’d given up on reaching out

Smiling, laughing again, when you thought you’d forgotten how

Knowing, despite everything, that humans are inherently good

It’s not simply blind optimism, or naivety. It’s choice. It’s taking the human race by the hand and saying, “I will love you, because I am you”. It’s facing a world dripping with cynicism and fashionable hopelessness and saying, “no, I will not give in”. It’s putting kindness out into the world, knowing you might not get it back, knowing you may be scorned for it, knowing it might not change anything, but with a certainty that kindness is what the world needs the most.

It is choosing hope" [6]

Hopepunk is choosing hope in a world where they want us to have none. It's choosing humanity when they want us to forget we are human. It's choosing community when they would benefit of us staying individuals. It's choosing action and hope when they want us struck down and paralyzed.

Alexandra Rowland emphasizes to not forget the second part of the word: Punk. In another interview with Kayti Burt for Den of Geek they say:

"it’s important to remember that punk is the operative half of the word – punk in the sense of anti-authoritarianism and punching back against oppression." and "The instinct is to make it only about softness and kindness, because those are what we’re most hungry for. We all want to be treated gently. But sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is to stand up to a bully on their behalf, and that takes guts and rage." [7]

What is Hopepunk to me?

That spark that is both love and spite that keeps me going. It's seeing the good in humanity, while also acknowledging the harm. It's refusing to lay down and die, refusing the accept the status quo, refusing to believe that this is it.

It's believing in a better world. In kindness. In the inherent sense of community in humanity. It's believing in the power of stories.

It's seeing kindness and hope as an act of Sacred Rebellion. And spreading that kindness and hope is a Vow that I have taken.

It's taken the anger I have against corporations, injustice, bigotry, capitalism, oppression, and letting it fuel the fire within me in a constructive way. It's working to dismantle systems that are oppressive to work towards a more inclusive world. It's pruning the garden of dead weight so new things can grow.

Late stage capitalism wants us all to be docile, to work, not to live. So I will shout my small joys from the rooftops. I will create for the sake of creating. I will practice radical acceptance so that I stand strong above the masses of ads that wants me to hate myself. I will choose to see the good so that I can believe change is possible.

Hopepunk a fire that says "Rage. Rage against those who deserve it. Stand up for those who do not and show them a better world is possible."

[4] Den of Geek - Are you afraid of the darkness: a hopepunk explainer

[5] Alexandra Rowland tumblr post

[6] Hopepunk-humanity - what is hopepunk

[7] Den of Geek - a hopepunk guide: interview with Alexandra Rowland

Part 1: Intro and history

Part 2: Philosophy of Hopepunk

Part 3: How to practice hopepunk and further reading

Part 4: Extra! Hopepunk and magic

#witchblr #hope #hopepunk #personal #mine #divider by saradika #fern's practice

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juliennevalery · 8 months ago

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✧˖°. Down Bad ✧˖°.

a/n: Being inspired by my own post about primary school teacher!remus lupin I decided to write something small (possible series of drabbles in the future maybe, who knows?) just to warm up a bit. I changed a few things on the way, so just enjoy! Im not very proud about this one, but im gonna post it anyway ;p Reposts and comments are always welcome!

Also, English is not my first language, and it's kinda obvious hehe

summary: One day, it hits him like a ton of bricks - he had a massive crush on a new teacher, and it's you.

tw: none, just fluff, Remus is a lovesick puppy

pairing: teacher!remus lupin x teacher f!reader

wc: 502

Ever since you’ve started working as a new teacher, Remus couldn’t stop thinking about you.

It was hard not to, actually. Your class was across his own, and your door were always opened, so he could hear your group having their best time with you.

You were truly amazing. He could see it in the way that you were taking care of those kids, almost as if all of them were your own. And it amazed him. That affectionate gleam in your eyes, when you crouch down to a little girl, who ran towards you while being in the playground, tears streaming down her cheeks for an unknown reason.

He could see from the window of his own class how you comforted her, how gentle you were with her. And it just moved something in him.

Remus's fingers dug into the stress ball he held in his hand, the soft material crunched under his grip as he squeezed it tighter. His other hand supported his chin, a pensive expression on his face as he gazed out the window.

He was so fucked up right now.

And when he was just about to go back to grading tests, his heart skipped a beat when you stood up and looked in his direction. Out of all the windows facing the playground, your eyes somehow found his immediately. It was as if you had a sixth sense of knowing exactly where he was.

Remus felt a wave of panic rise within him, his heart pounding in his chest. He was screwed, because now that you were looking at him, there was nowhere to hide. The connection between your eyes felt almost magnetic, pulling him closer against his better judgment.

And the moment, when you softly waved at him and gave him a sweet smile, your cheeks all flushed from the cold autumn wind, he felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

He managed to collect himself enough to wave back, his heart still pounding in his chest. When his hand moved back and forth, signaling a greeting, he couldn't help but notice how awkward it must look, and that just made him blush even more.

But he didn't care, because the fact that you took the time to wave at him, to acknowledge his presence, was enough to send his mind spiraling.

And as the autumn wind picked up and swept through the playground, Remus couldn't help but notice how your hair escaped the confines of your scarf. The tendrils of your hair danced freely in the air, each individual strand twirling and fluttering with a life of its own.

It was a small, simple moment, but it captivated his attention in a profound way. He couldn't tear his eyes away from you. That moment, was the point when he knew he was truly lost.

And it made him realize how deeply smitten he was with you, and that he had to do something about it, before it’ll be too late.

#remus lupin #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin one shot #remus lupin drabble #marauders #remus lupin fic #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin x you #stvrlightfics

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angryaromantics · 5 months ago

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@mossy-aro made an excellent post, that can be found HERE, on the subversive nature of aromantic positivity, and how negativity can damage the community and “we should focus on building, improving, and nurturing ourselves and each other (construction) as opposed to destruction.”

I wholeheartedly agree, but I wanted to talk about ‘negative’ feelings a bit more. The type of negativity Mossy was largely discussing seemed to be the ones that stemmed from self-hatred. “I hate being aro.” “This is so hard, I wish I was normal,” etc., etc. This negativity, no matter what personal place it comes from, can and does damage the aromantic community.

Negativity spreads, we’ve seen it in online spaces before, and we’re seeing it now. Being aromantic can be hard, so it’s frankly easy and understandable, that the bombardment of negativity would harm individual aromantic people and the community as a whole. Being an online community, we’re pretty insular, which can make the negativity feel particularly inescapable.

I would argue, however, that the negative feelings themselves aren’t an issue that needs to be corrected. There’s a reason you feel that way, and it’s likely rooted in some real-life issues either on a personal level or on a societal way. It’s not your fault, and you shouldn’t feel bad about it.

The issue arises when you share those feelings without examining the root cause of the feeling. You hate being aro. Okay, but why? Is it a sense of isolation from your peers? Is it the cost of living for a single person in your area? What is it about being aro that you find difficult enough that you hate it?

A post that reads “I hate being aro” is always going to have a negative impact, whereas a post like, “I find being an aromantic person isolating,” opens up the start of a conversation. You’ve made progress, but even going from Point A to Point B, I think Point C would be an even more useful place to be.

You find being an aromantic person isolating, but why? What specific thing do you find isolating? Is it the lack of real-life connections you have with aromantic people? With Point C, the conversation becomes the start of an interrogation with an intra-community issue.

We have now gone from “I hate being aro,” to, “I find the lack of aromantic community outside of online spaces isolating.” Besides the harm reduction that interrogating these negative thoughts clearly performs, the biggest difference between Point A and Point C is that Point C is actionable. You can take real, actionable steps in forming in-person communities, both on a personal level, and as a community.

“I hate being aro,” gives you no actionable steps, even in the figurative sense. It only serves to spread your negative feelings. Negative feelings, sadness, fear, rage, all have their place both internally and within your community. But, you need to think critically about what you’re putting into the community, and interrogate where that feeling is coming from in the first place.

All aromantic feelings have the potential to be fulfilling on a personal level and even, as Mossy said, be harnessed “as a form of protest and political power.” We can use these negative feelings to improve ourselves, and our communities. They can be just as fruitful building blocks as aromantic joy.

You’ve just got to interrogate your own feelings or you risk doing detrimental harm to the aro community, and none of us want that. This is where we live.

#aromantic #aro #arospec #koko thinkin thots #I thought about just adding this to Mossy's post but IDK! I feel like I agree with it entirely and just used it as my own jumping point #to discuss negativity and its place in the community rather than actually refuting anything she says.#My post IS in conversation with hers though so....idk. I linked it. Read it! It's a good post #anyway. Let's see if I panic and delete this one. I've been thinking about this in relation to the OG post all month soooo #sometimes thinking too much....is worse

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toshisdecadence · 2 months ago

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The Devil Wears Zegna

PAIRING: devil!suguru geto x archangel!fem reader

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, noncon, dubcon, gore (descriptions of blood, body horror), coercion (suguru slips corrupted ambrosia aka roofie in reader’s drink), religious themes, corruption, rough sex, humiliation, degradation, praise, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), dacryphilia, unprotected sex (do angels and demons even conceive idk i didn’t worldbuild that far), thighfucking

WORD COUNT: 11.4k

SUMMARY: Your former colleague, Suguru Geto, now Devil and overseer of Hell, is extremely unprofessional.

“Archangel Michael has entrusted one of his duties to you.”

Unperturbed by the sudden and abrupt delegation of such duties—it wasn’t unusual for your fellow seraph to push some of his duties from his plate to yours on a last minute’s notice—you turn to afford Megumi, the cherub angel, a curious glance.

“What task has he left me?” you inquire in a calm voice. Thoughts flit through your mind; several considerations of the possible duties Archangel Michael could have delegated to you. A part of you hopes for something simple that can be carried out within the cushy confines of the Heavenly Realm.

“The annual visit to the Demonic Realm,” Megumi, a tall, beautiful cherub with milky skin and calm emerald eyes reminiscent of the shade of the shrubbery in the Garden of Eden, supplies. The large blue-pupiled eyes on his four feathered wings that peek from behind the flawless glossy white fabric of his tunic seem to bore right into your figure in a judgmental assessment of sorts.

Nonetheless, dread fills your immortal being when the words leave Megumi’s lips. The visit to the Demonic Realm, again?

“. . . Very well,” you sigh with resignation, having been in this position twice before in the past century and a half. In the grand scheme of things, you could perhaps interpret this as Archangel Michael possibly slacking off on assessing the status of the Demonic Realm during the annual visit, or perhaps he’d simply grown tired of having to constantly meet the audacious Suguru, the infamous fallen cherub angel turned Devil and Ruler of Hell.

If Megumi senses your hesitation and lack of desire to do such duties, he makes no comment on it. His expression remains skillfully blank. His cordial attitude remains. “Do you require any assistance?”

“No,” you reply. “I’ve prepared for this occasion.”

Though, you shouldn’t have to.

You regard the young cherub with a raised brow. “What occupies Archangel Michael to have made him relinquish such an important duty to me?”

“A matter concerning one of the higher dominion angels was brought to Archangel Michael’s attention,” Megumi informs you with a stoic expression. You note the roots of his thick, long lashes as they extend out into long strands of silky dark individual lashes that brush against the ivory surface of his cheeks whenever he blinks. He stares down at the parchment he holds in his hands while reporting its details to you, none the wiser to the more than curious look you were affording him.

“He was ordered by the Almighty God to personally oversee the jurisdiction and judgment of the dominion angel.” The cherub pauses, then frowns, lines temporarily lining the beautiful surface of his skin as he seems to read through a line in his report that he deems unsavory, before he continues. “. . . A case of sinning through the flesh, it appears.”

“The flesh, huh?” you repeat, almost absentmindedly. A series of possible angels who could have fallen to temptation crosses through your mind, before you finally voice out your curiosity. “And who might this dominion angel be?”

The cherub flips to another page of paper. “Elijah.”

At the mention of the familiar dominion angel’s name, your expression falls into one of stoicity. “Elijah,” you parrot his name, remembering a beautiful dark-haired dominion angel who handled his duties as an overseer of the lower angels fairly well, despite having quite a ravenous appetite and desire for carnal flesh.

You had the displeasure of first meeting the aforementioned higher Dominion angel over four centuries ago at a Divine Ministry meeting that required the presence of the seraphim, with you being the one seraph that happened to be available at the time. You had an unfavorable experience with Elijah, as you personally bore witness to his attempts of wooing you over. Of course, as a seraph and one who is considered to be only behind the Archangel Michael himself, you coldly admonished his attempt to ingratiate himself with you, to which you recalled him to have responded with a coy smile and a pretty flutter of his beautiful wisteria eyes.

“It surprises me that it took him this long to finally give in to the sin of carnal flesh,” you comment, rather unperturbed. You found it more surprising that he had not fallen to sin sooner, and the fact that he had fallen to the sin of carnal flesh of all the sins, you found it most fitting.

There’s a furrow on Megumi’s rich, dark brows as he seems to read through more lines on the report before him. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” he mutters to himself in a hushed and scandalized tone. “The atrocity that this dominion angel has committed—!”

Curiosity overtakes you, and mindlessly, with a wave of your fingers, you let your Celestial power gently grab the parchment from Megumi’s hands. The cherub gladly lets you take the parchment from his hands. Megumi himself even seems to recoil away from the paper, a sour expression on his handsome face as he chants prayers under his breath to banish the images that were conjured up by the words written on the parchment.

You read the lines on the paper.

Elijah the dominion angel has fallen to temptation by copulation with four succubi.

“Four succubi?” you repeat in disbelief at first. However, as you remember the unpleasant and slimy countenance of the dominion angel, a chuckle leaves your lips. “How fitting. Now I understand Michael.”

You hand back the parchment to Megumi, who reluctantly takes the revolting piece of paper back. “He must be furious because another second order angel has gotten involved with demons and fallen to temptation under their machinations,” you murmur. “Replacing Elijah and finding someone to temporarily oversee his obligations and responsibilities as a dominion angel would be inconvenient. Michael himself would have to briefly take Elijah’s work under his wing until a proper replacement is found.”

“Archangel Michael was indeed troubled when he happened upon the news,” Megumi agrees as he used his Celestial power to have the parchment disappear, before he produced a small bottle of holy water from thin air. You watch him curiously as he pours a few generous drops of the sacred liquid onto his right palm, before he makes the bottle vanish with a gentle flick of his left hand.

“What of Archangel Satoru?” you hum, remembering your cherub colleague with hair resembling the softness of the clouds of Heaven and eyes reminiscent of the glittering blue seas of the Human Realm at dawn. “Could he have been available to take up overseeing the Demonic Realm?”

Megumi shakes his head as he starts to spread the liquid onto his hands, making sure to douse the areas in which he had held the parchment paper that cited such unholy words with the most concentration of holy water.

“Regrettably, he was not,” the cherub replies. “Archangel Satoru had just left a month ago to take care of things in the North with the virtue angels, but even if Archangel Satoru had been present, I doubt that he would have attended given his history with the Devil.”

You exhale, mulling over Megumi’s reply. Of course, Satoru likely would have found some other excuse or business to occupy him to avoid going to the Demonic Realm. You almost cursed Archangel Michael’s overzealous approach in his work as God’s most trusted chief of all angels. He had so much faith in his fellow Archangels that he always believed Archangel Satoru’s attempts to dodge work, happily taking the duties under his wing.

You exhale, mentally preparing yourself for the addition to your workload.

“Archangel Michael will return to the Heavenly Realm by next week,” Megumi reports to you. “He has instructed me to inform you to finish your duties at the annual visit to the Demonic Realm before he returns.”

“Very well. Let him know that he owes me another drink for this favor.”

The cherub offers a polite nod of his head, bowing.

Then, with a sigh, your six majestic white wings spread out from behind you, unfurling like the petals of a lotus in bloom. With a nod of acknowledgement of the young cherub before you, you finally take flight, ascending into the countless clouds of the Heavenly Realm.

You wholeheartedly loathe the Demonic Realm’s environment, and you were not the only angelic being that shared this sentiment.

As a sharp contrast to the cool and dry environment of the Heavenly Realm, the Demonic Realm’s hot, humid, and arid environment was everything that angelic beings detested. The discomfort of staying in such a warm place had a tendency to sour the moods of the visiting angels who had business in Hell. Unfortunately for you, your stay was to be three days.

As luck would have it, the annual visit to the Demonic Realm has always taken place in Hell after Suguru’s rebellion against God. This was how it has always been, given that demons could not take a single step inside Heaven’s pearly gates unless they wished to be mercilessly smited by the cherubim angels that stood guard of the gates. The Human Realm was also off-limits to both parties, as the consequences that came with humans spotting angelic and demonic beings were too big to risk. That left the Demonic Realm, a place where angelic beings could freely waltz into without being harmed by any demonic being, so long as they did not give into any form of temptation.

Hell’s infamous Obsidian Palace was always the annual meeting’s place of choice—it has been since the establishment of the Demonic Realm after Hell’s ruler, a former cherub angel, questioned the Almighty God.

You are no stranger to the midnight palace, having visited here for more than hundreds of times in the millenniums that you spent as a seraph, but even those hundreds of times that you had visited pales in contrast to the amount of times that Michael had taken that position as the Chief Seraph overseeing the annual meetings for countless millenniums. Despite his strict nature, Michael is a dear when it came to doing the work that no other seraph was interested in. His devotion is insistent and pure, earning him his undisputed position as the highest-ranking seraph among the Seven Archangels.

You go through the motions as the presiding seraph for this year’s annual meeting. Your six-feathered wings flutter gracefully as you land before the entrance of the Obsidian Palace. The white halo that surrounds your frame casts a discernible light that sends demons recoiling away.

The halo was a sign of your power; God’s trust in you. And despite not being Michael, you were the Seraph that came after him in terms of power and seniority. The purity and fierceness of the light that emanated from your celestial body caused much of the demons who were dressed in plain black suits to hiss back in fear.

Your figure that was fully clad in a blinding white silk button up shirt with white flowy pants and golden heels beneath, reminiscent of office wear donned by humans, only further amplified your brightness. Your gaze was steely, cold and detached as you regarded the pale expressions of the demons who were waiting for your arrival.

A frown settles on your face. The humidity of Hell’s climate was starting to grate down on you. Your wings retract behind you in a snap of irritation. You felt your wings’ feathers poofing up even further, and you merely utter, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph under your breath in resignation, before you finally properly regard the demons sent out to escort you inside.

“Lead the way,” you exhale.

Suguru greets you with a devilishly charming grin on his angelic face. “How benevolent it is of you to grace us with your holy presence.”

You enter the room, and the several other demons present in the room stand in attention as you make your way to the head of the long table opposite the Ruler of Hell. You recognize a few Princes of Hell and seirim demons. They bow their heads reverently. You don’t acknowledge them, your gaze steely.

“I wish I could say the same,” you respond dryly, your six wings contracting behind you to fold neatly before you take your seat at the head of the table. As you sit yourself down, you look up to meet the Ruler of Hell’s glimmering dark amethyst eyes opposite the table.

He spreads his arms invitingly, the taut muscles stretching the dark fabric of the blazer that he wears to hug the firm slopes of his arms. His long silky dark hair fell over the fine fabric of his clothing, shining faintly under the light of the meeting hall, framing his unreal beauty. You gaze at him pensively, recalling the prophet Ezekiel’s description of Suguru. A dazzling angel guarding the gates of the Garden of Eden. The anointed cherub. The seal of perfection.

“You seem rather displeased to be here,” he comments in that silky smooth pleasant voice, a handsome grin spread across his lips. His eyes regard you in that fond narrow crinkle that it does whenever he meets someone he finds interesting. Narrowed into slits like a treacherous serpent. “Might it have something to do with the fall of a certain dominion angel?”

You quirk a brow at his words, your expression stony. “You seem highly interested in Heaven’s affairs, Devil,” you reply in a flat tone, unperturbed. You gesture for a demon to bring you some refreshment. “Seems hardly fitting for the Ruler of Hell, does it not? You must stretch yourself quite thin to be able to find concern for a realm other than your own.”

His sandy skin glistens deliciously under the warm chandeliers that hang on the vaulted ceilings. His smile deepens, his purple eyes narrowing. Whether it was out of fondness or malice you didn’t bother to decipher. Suguru was as cryptic as ever, even back when he was a cherub.

“Heaven’s affairs is something that I do not care for,” he informs you plainly, watching as a demon brings over a goblet of water for you. “And please, call me Suguru.” He leans in closer, resting his elbows on the other end of the long meeting table and joining his fingers together with a cordial smile. “Will you not refer to me by my name now as well?” His amethyst eyes open, like the deep pools of a dark abyss unfurling like the petals of a black-purple rose, regarding you. “I thought we were good friends.”

“Acquaintances would be a more appropriate term,” you icily correct him. “And even then, labeling our relationship as that of acquaintances is still entirely too familiar. I believe coworkers would be most accurate.”

You eye him with a stoic expression, taking in the four wings that sprout from behind his broad shoulders, the remnants of the form that he once assumed with his former position as a high cherub angel. The original four pristine white wings symbolic to cherubs have now changed. The top two wings have long since morphed into two black bat-like wings—indicating his transformation into a demon, while the bottom two are his symbolic midnight black wings—the ones that had first appeared when he fell from Heaven and God’s grace as the first fallen angel.

Lucifer. The former Lightbringer. The Morningstar. Your former colleague.

Suguru’s devilish grin remains the same. “I forget how dismissive angels can be,” he croons in a sing-song tone. “And I thought Archangel Michael and Archangel Satoru to be rather harsh. It appears to me that you’re the coldest yourself, Madam Seraph.”

Your expression remains blasé, and your tone lowers in ire. “I did not come here to this inferno of a humid environment to exchange pleasantries or to discuss the manner in which I address a grave sinner by,” you state in a clipped voice. “I came here to discuss what needs to be discussed. Do not deviate from that.”

“I digress,” Suguru hums, purple eyes swirling mirthfully as he stares at you.

The first day of the annual meeting lasts for the course of a few hours. This year’s proceedings went on much longer due to the increased amount of demon activity as well as the troubling amount of angels falling to temptation, subsequently causing a higher amount of fallen angels to roam freely within the demonic realm.

This did not spell well, as confused and often grieving fallen angels resulted in bouts of insanity as they attempted to fathom their current helpless situations, as well as the celestial power that was not stripped from them. The drastic change of an angel’s wings from its pure snow-white state, to a midnight black was not the only change that takes place when an angel falls from grace.

An angel, depending on their rank on the Order of Angels, can get their celestial powers fully stripped away from them if they were a third order angel; have some of their powers stripped away, while having the remaining power left change into demonic powers, if they were a second order angel; or completely retain all their celestial powers, but the celestial and holy power is then changed to demonic powers, like what would happen to a first order angel.

The most common example of the last one was Suguru. He was a former high-ranking cherub, an angel belonging to the first sphere, and when his fall took place, none of his powers were stripped away from him. Rather, his celestial powers morphed into demonic powers, complimenting the darkened and sinful nature that Suguru now adopted as he fell to temptation. A third of the angels followed him in his dissent from God, emerging as his underlings in Hell.

He had always been a queer being. A charming devil that inspired rebellion among the angels. God’s former favorite. The fairest angel. A contradictory individual. Even during his time as a cherub, his beautiful smile was always accompanied with a condescension, a curious lilt of his velvety voice, a glimmer of defiance in his deep eyes even as he bowed before God at His throne. Those same eyes currently transfix on you as you sit opposite him on the meeting table.

His comely face rests on his hand, regarding you with a curious yet almost sultry look. He gazes on, an expression that you couldn’t quite read on his face. His presence is domineering, his figure hulking, almost stretching the fine fabric of his suit. And yet he utters not a single word save for the times when he needed to speak or pitch in. Every now and then you would catch the movement of his wings, withdrawing to fold, or extending out as he would lounge back against his seat.

You will yourself to focus on the words of the demon standing before the presentation detailing the annual reports.

The next two days went on just like that.

He would greet you when you entered, dressed in one of his fine suits, his silky dark hair glinting under the candlelight, fixing you with those dark amethyst eyes. His signature smirk spreads across his glossy lips, staring you down intently.

Sometimes, you would find yourself distracted, looking up to the face of a concerned demon. Silence hung in the room, and everyone stared at you, seeming to wait for a reply or some form of comment. You would manage to say something, passing your silence off as mere moments of rumination. But a glance toward Suguru reveals his pleasant smile, his purple eyes narrowed in mirth.

You tried your best to ignore it. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. The knowledge that he was getting under your skin. Even Archangel Satoru didn’t unnerve you this much.

As the final bits of the final day of the annual meeting took place, you let out a big sigh of relief as you witnessed the lanky demon—an intern, you surmise—putting away the last papers concerning the presentation. As the demon closes the manila folder holding the papers, you rise from your seat, itching to just leave the Obsidian Palace and return to your accommodations in the Hell Citadel. You were scheduled to leave in the evening.

No one dares to stop or question you, a seraph, as you start to make your way towards the exit of the door.

None except Suguru, that is.

The tall Ruler of Hell blocks your path. A pair of muscular arms stands in your way, large hands tucked into the pockets of his custom pants, and an irritated expression laces itself on your face as you crane your neck up to look at the devilish man. He casts a shadow over you with his domineering height, his wings extended out, almost as if you cage you in under midnight.

“Do you perhaps have any further business with me, Devil?” You do not hide your malice.

Suguru, on the other hand, seems unbothered by your cold attitude. A glance towards your side reveals the other demons—the ones who work directly under Lucifer, you inferred—gulping and looking at you fearfully.

You briefly consider smiting the sinner before you with your Celestial powers. In terms of power, Suguru was by no means weak, being the Ruler of Hell, but you were far stronger than him, given your status as a seraph. You could inflict considerable damage to him and leave him incapacitated for days—weeks, if you tried.

But you would not do that.

Harming the Ruler of Hell would mean more paperwork than you already had, and you refuse to work longer hours simply because Suguru got under your skin. The damned Devil was not beneath reporting you to the HR Department of the Heavenly Realm for ‘disrupting the workplace environment.’

“I do have business with you,” he says, still grinning with that damned smile. His obsidian wings retract behind him. “I wanted to discuss possibly implementing a different way of sorting human souls.” His head cocks to the side, and he pushes back his silky strands of hair, fixing you with that stare. “Perhaps you could relay my ideas to the Heavenly Realm before you depart?”

Truthfully, you did not want to. But you also did not want to write another report to Archangel Michael explaining that you let the Devil get under your skin, causing communications between the Heavenly Realm and the Demonic Realm to sour, and ultimately complicating the long and arduous process of determining whether a human soul should go to Hell or Heaven. It was a situation you had the unfortunate chance of being familiar with due to Suguru reporting you to HR some centuries back. The conflict caused a mess in the sorting of human souls, which were especially abundant at the time due to the number of wars, as the Ruler of Hell refused to sort the human souls until he received an apology from you.

That occurrence has left you with a sour taste lingering in your mouth every time the Ruler of Hell was brought up in conversation, and while you begrudgingly apologized the first time, you refuse to repeat that incident once again.

With a resigned sigh, you look towards Suguru’s deep purple eyes, smiling at you in that devilishly charming way.

The Devil is a liar and a half.

The “business” he apparently had with you entailed visiting a bar in hell and drinking. It has been an hour since you both departed the Obsidian Palace for business, and not once has the damned Ruler of Hell mentioned a word about this so-called ‘new system’ of implementing a faster way to sort out human souls.

Suguru must feel your piercing glare directed at him. You regard him angrily through the crystalline rim of your untouched demon mimosa, decorated with pomegranates. Your six feathery wings bristle behind you, slightly extended out.

His eyes narrow at you in that irritatingly charming way that you refuse to admit has any sway on you. He is nursing a drink of his own, a bloody old fashioned with dragon fruit shavings, and looks at your untouched demon mimosa.

“You’re terribly boring,” he says with a sigh and a disappointed face, his black wings tucked behind him. “I knew Archangels were prudes but we’re at a club, sweetheart. The demon mimosa won’t hurt you.”

“And I knew demons are liars yet I came here,” you snap. You snatch the demon mimosa, bringing it to your lips and taking a swig, grumbling the next words. “I should’ve just written that damned report to Michael.”

He grins, a little too gleefully for your liking. His purple eyes linger on the drink briefly, before they inspect your face. A laugh escapes past his lips, a small laugh that oddly sounded as if it was accompanied by gentle ringing bells.

“You still hold a grudge about that?” He asks, clearly finding this more amusing than you do.

Irritated at his joy, you slam the demon mimosa down to glower down at him, your wings retracting with a flutter of your ivory feathers.

“Do you wish to die by my hands?” you threaten.

“Now, now,” he grins, “I don’t intend to die here so why don’t we—”

“Give me a legitimate reason as to why I shouldn’t just leave you here and return to my lodgings,” you state, failing to see what he finds so amusing about making you angry. “The annual visit is now finished. I’d prefer not to see you any longer than I have to.”

“That’s heartless, sweetheart,” he feigns hurt, his wings drooping behind him. “Do you dislike me that much?”

“I view you the way I view mosquitos in the Human Realm,” you deadpan him. “Annoying and persistent. With that said”—you rise from your seat—“I’ll be leaving. Do not ever waste my time like you just did. Do you understand, Devil?”

“I don’t know,” he drawls in a voice that causes your stomach to dip in a way you are not familiar with. You quickly bury the sensation. His wings extend lightly. His eyes track the expanse of your standing figure, a pair of amethysts gleaming with interest. “I quite like it when you're mad at me. Maybe you’ll have to teach me again, sweetheart.”

So, that’s what it’s about, you think to yourself humorlessly.

“Devil,” you begin, pinching the bridge of your nose, regarding him with a chilling gaze, “if what you needed was to satisfy yourself, I’m sure you have a handful of succubi to help you with that problem.” You regard him properly this time, though his figure blurs momentarily. “Who knows? Your new friend Elijah, the former Dominion angel, might be able to refer you to some of his favorite succubi.”

“Regarding that,” he shrugs, his dark wings rustling behind him, regarding you with a sultry half-lidded gaze, “I was looking to see if you’d be a dear and help me out?”

“What wishful thinking,” you drily respond, shutting down his suggestion immediately. “If I suggest the idea that you’ve been involved in coercing angels to sin to the Celestial Realm after this encounter, I wonder how you would be dealt with. Michael is not keen on dealing with all the extra work that follows the fall of an archangel, and should he catch wind of what has transpired today… However benevolent he is, he will certainly not let it slide.”

But even as you speak, his grin remains. Rather, it deepens.

You feel an odd sensation swirling in your stomach. Your gaze blurs, and you shake your head, trying to rouse yourself. It must be the exhaustion, you reason. All the more reason to leave this place immediately.

“Then, I’ll get going,” you state, rising from the bar stool, giving him one last glare before turning on your heel and walking away.

A sudden throb of pain has you stopping. Your steps stutter, and you blink away the blurriness in your gaze. You feel sluggish. This is odd. You were tired, sure, but surely not enough to feel like this.

When you are about to stumble on another step of yours, a firm and large hand holds your arm to steady you. A warm presence, looming and large, overwhelms you, casting a dark shadow over your frame under the dim and moody lights of the bar. You feel his frame brush against your wings, a hand of his wrapping around your waist.

A warm breath ghosts over your ears.

“Careful there,” Suguru’s smooth voice croons, sending shivers down your body.

Ire grows in you, and you try to yank your arm away from his hand, but to no avail. He was unflinching. Like an unshakable marble statue. An insurmountable presence. A glance behind your shoulder reveals his handsome face, albeit a bit blurry. You blink up at him, and all you can pick out is the hypnotic purple of his eyes, oscillating like flickering lights, and the satisfied curl of his lips.

That is the last thing you remember before everything turns black.

“. . . you’re up.”

Your eyes blink open, gaining consciousness as you rouse, sitting up with. Your head is pounding. You feel almost feverish. Your body feels numb. Your eyes glaze over, your blurry vision focusing on the sight before you. The lights are moody, warm, and there's a void before you, a large frame that blocks out a portion of your vision. When your eyes squint, the darkness becomes a dark silhouette.

A firm and chilly hand cups your chin, forcing you to gaze up.

Amethyst.

Your brows pinch together groggily, and your gaze clears up enough that you can make out the individual before you. Your blood runs cold when you make eye contact with the silhouette.

“Had a good rest?” Suguru croons, almost mockingly, gazing down at you with a handsome sneer.

You realize you are on a wide bed with dark silken sheets. Your body feels sluggish, and even if you will yourself to try to move, your body is weak. You can barely lift a finger without great exertion. To your surprise, you notice no restraints on your body, only that dull pounding in your head, and a feverish sensation throughout your limbs. Your clothing is still intact, though you notice that your shoes were nowhere to be found.

Suguru stands before you, left in his dark slacks and a loosened white silk dress shirt, revealing a generous amount of his taut and tan chest. His dark wings are loosely spread behind him. His dark silky hair frames his face, his features highlighted by the shadows from the faint candlelight of the chandelier in what you presume to be his personal room.

“What did you do to me?” you demand in a low snarl.

His charming eyes narrow, smiling. “Nothing yet,” he replies coolly.

He saunters across the room, and you watch him with malice as he grabs a crystalline glass bottle with a shimmery golden liquid in it, pouring it into a goblet. The trickling of the liquid fills the dead silence of the room. The gold liquid swirls in the goblet, glowing hypnotically. He approaches you afterward, the goblet tangled in his pretty fingers.

You eye the drink warily, scowling up at him to the best of your ability in your weakened state. “‘Nothing yet’?” you snarl, fury welling up within your being. “Do you even realize what you’re—”

There’s a drawl of irritation that rumbles out of his throat. Suguru regards you with that blank, dead stare in his amethyst eyes. He utters his next words with such a cold indifference that it sends chills down your limbs.

“You were much more tolerable when you couldn’t speak.”

You fall silent for a few moments from his words. Confusion, and then anger. Deep hatred. A piercing cold sensation that burns through your being.

“What did you do to me?” you demand. Your voice is louder now, booming throughout the space. As your anger boils, the ground begins to tremble. The chandelier in the room chimes and clinks from the prominent tremor that overtakes the Demonic Realm. The celestial halo around you burns bright, almost blinding as you muster the rest of your remaining strength to maim him. “God won’t let you get away with this, Devil.”

Suguru looks unbothered. He simply approaches you while his wings, looming over your figure, the goblet cradled in his hand. The gold glimmers brilliantly, as if he had plucked sunlight from the Heavens, and you notice faint specks of crimson and obsidian in the shimmery substance, flickering. Fading in and out.

“He won’t let me get away with this?” Suguru scoffs, a twisted sneer on his perfect face. “Oh, angel. I already have.”

He takes a swig of the gold liquid, gripping your chin tightly with his free hand. He leans down, his hand squeezing your cheeks together for your lips to part, and he inches forward, swallowing your lips in a sweltering kiss. You can taste the cool golden liquid on your tongue. A sweet nectar reminiscent of honey, ripe fruits, and floral notes that coats your tongue in pleasure. It tastes like paradise, like sipping from the beams of sunlight that trickle from the Heavens and onto the Human Realm, warm and comforting.

You feel your strength dissipate, your celestial halo waning as you ingest the liquid. Your eyes widen, and you try to pull away, but your weakened body is no match under his unyielding grip. The liquid is smooth and velvety, gliding effortlessly down your throat. A comfortable warmth spreads from your mouth to your chest, filling your limbs.

Mingled in with the sweet golden liquid is the sensation of the Devil’s tongue, mingling with your own, swiping against your lips, feeding you the liquid. He continues until you’ve drunk every last drop he has to give you.

When he pulls away, your head feels light, and you register a string of drool connecting your lips to his own. His thumb swipes over the swollen flesh of your bottom lip, severing the trailing gold strings between your lips, regarding you with a look of satisfaction.

You gaze up at him in confusion and hostility. Suguru withdraws, sauntering over to a nearby table to place the empty goblet down. His head turns to your direction, appraising your state, walking back to you.

You feel a pleasant warmth buzzing throughout your limbs. It feels good. A part of you hates to admit it. You know better than to trust the Devil right before you. If you weren’t weakened, you would have finished him off already. You would kill him with your bare hands. Lop off his limbs one by one. Consequences be damned.

Suguru seems to relish in the heated gaze of yours on him. He sits down on the foot of the bed casually, regarding you with a bemused curl to his lips.

“You look like you want to kill me,” he croons languidly. A hand of his reaches out, cupping your face in his cold hands. You could see the sick delight in his beautiful features. You can see him shiver from arousal, his amethyst eyes narrowing into gleeful crescents. “Ah, this expression of yours is exciting.”

The warmth in your body is now turning into an uncomfortable one. Your body trembles, feeling the heat sinking deeper into your being, wrapping your very skin with a heavy, cloying sensation. The heat swelters, turning into a burning heat that borders on painful, spreading through your limbs, making your body feel even heavier. Sluggish. Weak.

“What did you make me drink?” you demand in a hoarse snarl, scowling up at him.

“Something to loosen your inhibitions,” he replies coolly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You have a degree of resistance to the effects of corrupted ambrosia as a seraph. It’ll only make you feel sluggish.” He smiles wolfishly, leaning in closer to whisper the next words in your ear. “I’m not fond of unconscious women.”

“You—”

Your words are interrupted as a firm hand of his sends you down to lay down on the bed in a display of strength. The bed dips under Suguru’s weight as he hovers above you, relishing in the sight of you, weak and incapacitated below him. His silky dark hair falls over you, his handsome face regarding you as he leans down, caging you under his broad form, his four dark wings spread out behind him. His ivory silk shirt droops, allowing you to get a generous view of his perfect form, tan firm and muscular pectorals, down to the dip of his abdominal muscles. His eyes seem to glow under the shadow of his hair. And he’s so close. All you can see and feel is him. His perfect face. The sly curl of his lips.

And his scent. It’s overpowering. A dark amber. Spiced incense. His face leans in closer, and he’s so warm, you feel as if you might melt from the uncomfortable burning within your body from the corrupted ambrosia. Sandalwood enters your nose. Then the faint waft of burning embers.

“Ah, you look beautiful like this,” he whispers in that low and smooth voice of his, velvety like honey. His cool fingers cup the sides of your face, his soft fingertips rubbing over the flesh of your lip. He leans down, kissing your jawline. His soft lips nip at your skin, trailing, soft like the petals of a black rose, leaving a trail of fire in its path as he descends to your neck.

Your hands muster everything you can to try to push at his broad chest. Weak smacks to his chest. To his arms. To his face. Even a tug at his silky hair. Yet his body remains immovable. His lips continue to pepper kisses along your neck.

“I’m going to kill you,” you grit out.

A firm hand of his wraps around one of your wrists. He smirks down at you, bringing your hand to his face. His amethyst eyes are smoky, peppering kisses on your palm and wrist. The curl on his lips deepens.

“Kill me?” he muses. “How will you manage that in this state, sweetheart?”

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“What crude words from a pretty mouth,” he chuckles, pinning both your wrists above your head with a single hand. His fingers dance over your button-up shirt, lingering on the buttons. Languidly, he plucks each button off with a faint rustle of fabric.

As your bare skin is revealed to him inch by inch, your face burns in shame and anger. It’s humiliating. You are a feared and powerful seraph. An Archangel in service of God. You pride yourself on your righteousness, your purity, and your steadfast avoidance of sin and temptation. Your unwavering loyalty and adherence to the Word. Yet the Devil was unwrapping you like a present, and there was nothing you could do about it.

His amethyst eyes are reminiscent of the slits of a serpent’s eyes, regarding you. You felt powerless beneath him, your body considerably weakened. You felt like a tiny white rabbit facing the bloody jaw of a hungry wolf.

“How beautiful,” he appraises, regarding your smooth flesh. His hand wraps firmly around a mound of your breast, and he relishes in how the fat spills past his hand, his fingers twisting and squeezing at a soft nipple. You burn in shame and rage from how it hardens under his fingertips. “To think nobody has had the chance to see you like this in eons. Isn’t it such a shame?”

“I’m going to kill you,” you grit out again, but the breathiness in your voice betrays you.

Suguru’s lips curl at that, but he doesn’t address the threat. He leans down, his tongue descending on your nipple. It flicks against the hardened bud, swirling. His mouth is swelteringly warm compared to the cool touch of his skin. His hand cups your other breast, kneading it beneath his palm, his thumb and index finger pinching the nipple. You grit your teeth, pressing your lips shut. You ignore how your traitorous thighs press together from the sensation. You refuse to give the Devil the satisfaction of knowing that you’re feeling something from this.

Your teeth bite down on your lip. You refuse to make a sound. You refuse to give in to the foreign tingling sensation that begins from where the Devil is lapping up at your breast and is spreading through the rest of your body. You don’t know why your body is throbbing. Why that place between your legs is pulsing.

Suguru takes his time.

He languidly moves to the other nipple by pressing kisses onto your skin, leaving a burning trail under his lips. Your weakened body betrays you. You knew you couldn’t push him off even if you mustered all your strength.

Suguru’s fingers work at your pants. He finally lets go of your wrists that he was pinning above your head to pull off your pants.

You use this opportunity to grip at his broad shoulders in an attempt to push him off. He doesn’t even budge. He remains undisturbed, as if your strength wasn’t even enough to make him falter, and he successfully slides your pants off your legs. He tosses it to the floor of his room.

He grips your thighs, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. You can feel the silk sheets drag against your wings. He parts your thighs, his face leaning in as he inspects your panties.

Your feet kick at his shoulders, but he simply pins your thighs, keeping your legs spread for him. His gaze is intense, simply focused on your panties. You want to burn in shame.

“White lace,” he observes in amusement. “Very cute.”

“When this wears off, I’m going to tear you limb by limb, Devil,” you inveigh, your words laced with poison. “I’m going to make you regret ever crossing my path.”

“You say that,” he hums pensively. His thumb leans in, rubbing at a graying spot on the center of your panties. “But you’re all wet, sweetheart.”

You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood. You had been ignoring the stickiness between your thighs. How as his tongue moved and suckled on your nipples and your skin, you felt yourself getting damper and damper. You reasoned that this wasn’t of your volition. Your body was betraying you. You were not enjoying this. You refuse to sin. You were not going to fall to temptation. Not with the fucking Devil. Hell would freeze over before that happened.

“Do you think I’m going to take you by force?” he muses, regarding you from between your parted thighs. “No, angel, that’s not what’s going to happen here.”

You glare at him, indignation filling your being. You didn’t believe a single word that was coming out of his mouth. You were certain that he planned on making you fall into temptation. He was not beneath forcing you into it. Your blood boiled at the thought.

His amethyst eyes glimmered in amusement, and his voice drops into a low and soft croon, almost innocent sounding, if not for the fact that he was the fucking Devil himself.

“I’m going to make you beg for it.”

“Your thighs feel heavenly,” he whispers into your ear from behind.

You were sitting on his lap, your thighs pressed together as he rubbed his fat cock between your thighs. His cock repeatedly rubs against your clothed clit, the flushed red tip rubbing against the dampness of your cunt. You suppress any sounds that threaten to escape your lips.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” he hums, kissing your neck.

“It doesn’t feel good,” you grit out roughly.

It was a lie, of course. It did feel good. Too good. The friction from the way his fat cock rubs against you renders you a bit breathless. You didn’t quite understand it yourself. You are one of the almighty Seven Archangels, the loyal servants of God himself. You are not tempted by mortal pleasures or material possessions. You are above them.

His fat tip repeatedly rubs against the hood of your clothed slit. Your panties were long disposed of at this point, laying in disarray with your other clothes on the floor. A wet pap accompanies each pump of Suguru’s hips. The sensation was toe curling. Enough to have your mind blanking here and there. A traitorous part of you briefly thought that this must be the reason why the sin of the flesh was one of the most prominent temptations to fall to.

“It doesn’t feel good?” Suguru muses, though you had an inkling he didn’t believe you. You had a hard time believing yourself as well. Your nipples were erect. Your breaths were hitched. And you were soaking his cock in slick as he rubs against you.

“It doesn’t,” you grit out, though the quiver in your breath failed you.

It wasn’t a convincing statement. But you were going to convince yourself.

You will not fall into temptation. You will not sin.

“I should work harder then, hm?” he whispers into your left ear. You could hear the smirk on his lips.

His hand slithers down to the dampness of your cunt, his fingertips brushing against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your thighs tensed, quivering from the sensation. His fingers are gentle and languid, pinching the engorged pearl of your clit, rolling it between his fingertips.

“You’ve never touched yourself,” he murmurs in that velvety voice of his. “Never let yourself taste the pleasures of the flesh.”

He lifts you easily, setting you down on your back on the bed, pressing your thighs together for him. He settles between your legs, pressing his girthy and lengthy cock against your glistening pussy lips. When he lets go of his cock, your traitorous eyes drink up the sight. It was huge, heavy enough to be unable to stand on its own. You don’t understand why your thighs tense. One hand of his settles under your knees, pressing you down to keep you still while also keeping your legs together, as his other hand guides his meaty tip to rub against the hood of your clit.

He fucks your thighs, rubbing against your cunt, never slipping in or pushing in. The sound is lewd, sending heat to your body at the wet paps. Suguru is nasty with it, grunting softly as he uses you. He smears your cunt and your thighs with a glossy sheen of your slick. His purple eyes narrow in mirth as he gazes down at your twisting expression, how you clamp down on your bottom lip to not let any sound out.

Then, as if he’d grown tired of it, he pulls away, tucking his hard cock back in his pants, settling down between your thighs, his face inching closer. Gently, his pillowy lips plant kisses on your inner thigh, lapping up at the slick. He stares at you seductively with those amethyst eyes, a curl on his lips as he presses a kiss to your cunt. Then his tongue flicks out, teasing your flesh.

Your hands fist the sheets, the sanctity of self-control slipping through your fingers like sand. His tongue moves languidly, tasting, teasing. Each deliberate flick against your swollen clit sends sparks of sensation through you, threatening to drown out the anger that smoldered within.

“You’re trembling,” Suguru murmurs, his voice a low hum against your flesh, the low drawl sending a pleasant vibration throughout your body. “It’s adorable, really. You’re trying so hard to resist what your body already knows it craves.”

“No,” you grit out, breathless.

His chuckle was dark, like the quiet roll of thunder before a storm. “No? Then why are you soaking me, darling?” His tongue drags slowly over you, savoring the way your thighs quiver with each flick. “Your mouth can lie, but this?” He presses two thick fingers to your cunt, not pushing in, just teasing the slick folds. “This tells me the truth.”

Shame courses through you, bitter and hot, even as your hips betray you by arching ever so slightly. You want to spit words of defiance, but they tangle in your throat, choking on the treacherous whimper that nearly crawled out of you as his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks.

Your wings, usually so steady and unfurled in their glory, flutter weakly at your sides. Every nerve in your body screams. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, warring with the cacophony of pleasure and anger that conflate and well within your body.

“You hate this, don’t you?” Suguru’s low voice is sin itself—soft, coaxing, a siren’s song. His lips hover just above your clit as his fingers slide lower, parting your folds, tracing it. “Hate that it feels good. Hate that I’m the one showing you.”

“I fucking hate you,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

You feel him smirk into your cunt. He presses a languid kiss, licking up a stripe. “No, angel,” you can hear the smug and cruel smirk on his lips. “You hate yourself.”

His fingers press into you then, stretching you at last, a teasing pressure that has your thighs clenching despite yourself. The sensation is foreign—maddening. Your nails dig into the sheets, curling into your palms, sinking into the flesh, leaving reddened crescents in their wake. The sharp bite of your own pain grounds you for a fragile second before it dissolves under the next wave of pleasure.

“Don’t!” you try to command, but your voice wavers, trembling with something you refuse to name.

“Don’t what?” he asks, mock innocence dripping from his lips. His smirk widens as he pushes a second finger inside you, slow and deliberate. “Don’t do this?” He curls it just so, pressing against a spot that makes your thighs jerk against him.

The breath punches out of you in a shuddering exhale, your body betraying the fragile defenses of your mind. Suguru works you slowly, watching each and every expression, listening to every sound that escapes your parted lips, with those piercing amethyst eyes, moving his fingers in and out in an unbearable rhythm.

“There she goes,” he murmurs affectionately, his voice a gentle caress. “See how your body opens up for me?” He slows the strokes of his fingers, letting you feel every drag of his fingers through your walls, letting you hear the slick that soaks his palm, tainting the sheets beneath you. “You can deny it all you want, angel, but you’re made for this.”

You want to scream at him, call him a liar, but the words are stuck in your throat. Instead, your hips roll into his hand, chasing the maddening friction his fingers created. You bite your lip hard, the metallic tang of blood grounding you for a moment before his fingers curled against, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through you.

“Stop!” you hiss out, though it almost resembles that of a weak whimper.

He laughs softly, darkly. “Stop moving? But it’s you who’s moving, darling.” His thumb finds your clit then, pressing down with a maddening precision that leaves you breathless, coupled in with his two fingers that continuously pump into you. “You’re the one begging without even realizing it.”

“I’m not begging!” you spit out, glaring down at him, but your voice cracks.

His smile deepens.

“No?” His fingers plunge deeper, the wet sound of your slick filling the room, shame mixing with the sweltering heat inside of you. “Then why are you dripping all over me? Why are your hips chasing my hand like this?”

His words are like a whip against your pride, but the shame only seemed to feed the inferno building inside your core. You clench around his fingers, your eyes rolling involuntarily, head tipping back slightly from the bright flash of pleasure that overwhelms you, your body betraying you further as your legs fall open wider.

“Ah,” Suguru coos darkly, his thumb circling your clit. “I think I understand now.” He leans down, his dark hair falling around you, the fragrant strands entangling you in his cloying scent. Suguru’s face hovers just above yours, beautiful in a way that feels unnatural, almost blasphemous. His amethyst eyes burn with an unholy light, framed by lashes so thick and dark they seem almost painted on. The sharp cut of his jaw softens only by the teasing curl of his lips, which glisten as he runs his tongue over them, savoring your expression—your anguish. He looks like a serpent poised to sink its fangs into its prey, his smirk a venomous promise of your undoing. He leans down further, overwhelming your senses, his breath hot against your ear.

“You want more, don’t you?”

“No,” you finally whimper, but for the slightest moment, you waver. You feel the craving growing inside of you, an unbearable hunger that his fingers alone couldn’t satisfy. Your body aches for something deeper, something that would finally extinguish the fire consuming you.

He smiles wolfishly. “Your body says otherwise,” he hums. His voice is low, dangerous, confident. His fingers withdraw suddenly, and he pulls away, his cloying scent receding from its attack on your senses, leaving you clenching around nothing, the absence hitting you like a wave.

A small, broken sound escapes your lips before you could stop it, your body motioning to sit up, eyes widening and gazing up at him in disbelief.

Your body runs cold at the smirk that graces his lips.

“There it is,” he says, almost lovingly. “The real you.” He leans in closer, amethyst eyes regarding you with mirth, drinking in your expression. “Desperate.” His other hand pulls you to sit up, holding you firmly, his lips curling. “Hungry.”

He presses his slickened fingers against your lips, forcing them to part, laying itself against your tongue, smearing your slick against them as he whispers, “Go on. Taste yourself. See what your holiness is worth now.”

You can’t turn your head away even if you try, tears burning in your eyes, but your body betrays you again, hips shifting restlessly against the sheets, seeking him out.

Your tongue flicks out, lapping at his fingers. Tears flow down your cheeks, shame and anger and something else you still refuse to name coursing through your body. You can taste yourself. Taste the evidence of your body’s betrayal.

“Good girl,” Suguru coos, amethyst eyes regarding you almost fondly. His fingers withdraw from your mouth, his thumb dragging against the flesh of your lips. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip, his lips as soft as the fleshy petals of a rose, devouring you.

When he pulls away, you feel your breath escape you, gazing up into his amethyst eyes that glimmer in satisfaction. His absence only grows the sweltering heat between your legs.

“Sweet,” he hums, his hand cupping the side of your face. “But not sweet enough. You’re still holding back, angel.”

“…I’ll never give you the satisfaction,” you breathe out, your chest rising and falling.

He chuckles darkly, his hands settling on your waist, easing you to lay down on the bed. His face hovers above yours, so close that his breath ghosts over your lips. “You will,” he says simply, his certainty cutting through you like a blade. A dull hum that anticipates your compliance.

He moves lower, languidly taking himself out of his pants. You hear the rustle of clothing as he knelt before you, his flushed thick cock—hard, erect, weeping—held by his hand. He shifts closer, resting his cock against your cunt, the heavy, throbbing weight of it resting there without pushing in. An itch wells within your body. Your breaths are heavy, eyeing his cock, wondering—heavens, you hate yourself for doing so—how exactly it would feel insi—

You force yourself to stop that thought, your body trembling. It was infuriating, humiliating, and maddening all at once.

Suguru smiles down at you sweetly, shifting to hover over you as he slaps the heavy tip of his fat cock against your cunt. The lewd paps, slickened by your arousal, only serve to heighten the burning sensation spreading throughout your limbs.

“Is this what you need, angel?” His voice is a velvet whisper as he leans down to press a kiss to your trembling lips. It’s soft, tender even, and it makes your stomach twist in revulsion and longing.

That sweltering heat between your legs only grows. Anticipation bubbles in your lower stomach. You’re trembling, helpless.

“Just say the word, sweetheart,” he coos. He tilts his perfect face, those amethyst eyes—aposematic in nature, upon your reflection—regarding you. They glint, his face framed by the inky cascade of his silky dark hair. “Say the word, and I’ll fix that emptiness you feel. The ache that my fingers won’t satisfy.”

You hate yourself. Every throb of your cunt, the sensation of his heavy cock resting, rubbing against the hood of your clit—so close, yet so far—seem to ignite a deeper hunger within you; a hollow, gnawing need to be filled. Your breaths come in shallow, broken gasps, your wings trembling at your sides as you fight the warring forces within you.

“I…” your voice falters, shame choking you as your hips involuntarily buck against the heavy weight of his cock, seeking friction, relief—to be filled.

“Yes, angel?” Suguru purrs, his lips trailing down the curve of your neck. “Tell me what you need. Say it.”

Your teeth clench as hot tears prick at your eyes, hot, and stinging. You gaze up, silently begging for forgiveness from Him. “I need nothing from you,” you growl out, though the words felt hollow and empty as they left your lips.

Your mind screams at you to resist, to fight, to remember what you stand for. You are a mighty Archangel, the trusted servant of God. You are above mortal pleasures or temptations. But your body… Your body is betraying you with every shiver, every arch of your lips, every breathless gasp that escapes your lips, every sinful thought that invades your mind.

You clench your teeth, feeling the hot tears staining your cheeks. The sight of Suguru’s handsome face hovering above you blurs through your tears. The last fragments of your ironclad result crumbling under the unbearable ache inside of you.

“I hate you,” you whisper, though the words lack conviction.

“And yet,” he murmurs, leaning down, licking up your tears, tasting his sweet victory, his lips curving into a triumphant smirk against your skin, “you need me.”

The shame is unbearable, but the hunger is worse. Your wings tremble, your fists clench, and your thighs fall open just a fraction wider, as if your body already made the choice for you.

The gesture doesn’t escape his amethyst eyes, and they narrow almost fondly.

“There’s my good girl,” he coos.

You don’t resist as he grabs his furious cock, aligning it to your slick cunt. You can’t peel your eyes away from the sight, the way his meaty tip presses against your folds. Your body offers little resistance, with Suguru praising you as he presses his fat tip in past the initial tight ring of muscle.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head from the pleasure, clamping down on him from the foreign sensation, gasping out as tears prick your eyes.

“You’re taking me so well, angel,” he whispers, sliding in, finding little resistance. Your thighs quiver as his thick cock fills you, overwhelming your senses. Your mind can’t think of anything else but the sheer relief that envelops you.

His hands shift down, resting under your knees, and he’s folding you, pressing your knees against your shoulder. The motion knocks the breath out of your lungs, earning a weak whimper as you feel his heavy balls slap against the curve of your ass. Your mind blanks as he bottoms out, filling you to the point of discomfort.

His purple eyes glint with a sick satisfaction as he gazes down at you, and you barely have a chance to utter a word before it feels as if he’s punching himself in. You sputter, your lips parting in broken mewls and moans as he sets an inhuman pace. It’s too fast. Too much.

“I should’ve fucked you a long time ago,” he grunts out, his hand resting at the juncture of your neck, pressing down on your windpipe. Your cunt clenches down on him, earning a groan from his lips.

You sob out weakly, shame and pleasure coursing through your limbs, manifesting in hot tears. They do nothing to deter Suguru or his pace. If anything, his hands tighten around your neck, and he leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. He swallows you. A voracious serpent claiming its prey, strangling you in its cold and scaly embrace, sinking its teeth into your flesh.

You feel lightheaded. You don’t feel like yourself. Your body is on fire. You can feel each and every drag of Suguru’s fat cock through your walls—can feel each vein, the way his meaty tip bullies your insides. It’s so painfully overwhelming that it throws you into the throes of burning white pleasure.

You cry out as you cum, your cunt fluttering around his cock, soiling it in creamy translucent strings, staining the fabric beneath you. His hand loosens around your neck, giving you temporary relief.

“There you go, angel,” he groans out, his hips stuttering from how tight your walls got from your orgasm.

You quiver beneath him, momentarily blanking out from the intense sensation.

Suguru grunts, smiling in sick glee as he pulls out with a lewd squelch. As if you weighed nothing, he quickly maneuvered you onto your face, hoisting your ass up, bending your body into a pretty arch. He admires the creamy mess smeared all over your cunt, trailing down your thighs in pearly drops.

The sight before him is angelic. The unfurling of your six ivory wings behind your back, a visage that was as beautiful as the creamy slick coating your cunt and the base of his cock.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

He wastes no time, aligning himself to your soppy cunt, entering. He claims you easily, fills every empty crevice—satiates that absence and emptiness that you feel.

Your toes curl from this position. It feels like he just might pierce your lungs. Like he intends to imprint himself upon your very being. Your nails dig into the sheets, trying to grip onto something—some semblance of control that you were slowly losing.

The room hangs heavy with the aftermath, the scent of sweat, sin, and debauchery clinging to the charged air like an unholy fog. Suguru’s broad chest rises and falls in a lazy rhythm as he leans back against the dark silk headboard, his lips curling into a pleasant smile that drips with cruel satisfaction.

You lay beside him, trembling, your body quivering from more than just exhaustion. The act is over, but its weight bears down on you like chains, each link forged from shame, regret, and disbelief. Your skin felt foreign—an unrecognizable vessel tainted by what you had done.

Above your head, your halo, once a radiant crown of the Almighty God’s trust, shimmers faintly. It had been brighter than any star that decorates the skies of the Human Realm, a perfect symbol of God’s favor. Now it wavers, its golden light dimming, the edges darkening as though something rotten gnaws at it from within.

You close your eyes, desperate to summon the connection you had known all your existence. The warmth of His presence. The light that answered every thought and prayer. The voice that reassures you and guides you to the right path. You whisper a trembling, “Father…”

But there was nothing.

Your chest sinks, as though a cold draft had come over your body.

“No,” you breathe, your voice breaking. Your trembling hands reach for the flickering halo, desperate to touch it, to hold onto the last vestige of your purity, your honor, your identity. Your fingertips brush its edges, and you cry out as an unfathomable pain sears through you, the once comforting light burning you like fire.

Your hands tremble further as you inspect your palms, your lips quivering as you gaze down at the reddened and burnt flesh of your fingertips. The silence was deafening, broken only by Suguru’s dark chuckle.

“Oh, little angel,” he murmurs in a sing-song tone, his voice syrupy with mockery. You meet his gaze, feeling your composure crumbling away. His amethyst eyes pin you with those sultry eyes, almost fond, as if he was regarding something he found beautiful. “Do you feel it? The unraveling?”

The room seems to shift. The air tightens like a vice, and all of the sudden, the chilly room feels too hot. Sweltering. Like a presence that constricts you into a tight vice. A sudden crack splits the tense silence, sharp and visceral, accompanied by the loud crackle of thunder. Pain explodes throughout your back, yanking a raw scream from your dry throat. You claw at the sheets, sobbing out, your bloody fingers leaving their trails on the fabric, your nails tearing through the fabric as agony tore through your body.

Your wings—six magnificent, holy appendages—erupts from your back in a grotesque display. You choke out blood, dripping down your chin, your eyes widening. The once-blinding ivory feathers were now black as onyx, their edges fraying, dripping with a viscous, tar-like ichor. Each feather seems to curl inward, shriveling and decaying right before your bloodshot eyes.

“No—please—” you sob out, your voice raw, writhing on the bed. Your arms reach behind you, fingers clutching at the jagged remains of your wings—your position as God’s favored—but the ichor burns where it touches your skin. Blood pours in thick rivulets from the gashes where the wings connected to your warmth, pooling beneath you in a sickening warmth.

Suguru sits up, watching you with a gleam of dark satisfaction. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, his tone almost reverent.

Your screams turn shrill, raw—animalistic, your body convulsing as your wings shed their corrupted feathers. The exposed bone splinters, cracking apart with wet, nauseating sounds until your once brilliant, magnificent wings lay mangled and useless.

Above your head, your halo dims further. The golden circle crackles like fragile glass, spreading fissures across its surface. Your shaky hands weakly reach for it again, your hands bathed in blood and ichor.

“No,” you whimper, your hot tears mingling with the crimson streaking your face. “I didn’t mean to—”

The halo shatters.

They fall around you in jagged shards, the light snuffed out as they slice into your skin. The room falls deathly silent as the last piece hits the bloodied sheets.

The emptiness that follows is resolute.

“Do you feel it?” Suguru asks softly, leaning in closer, uncaring of the pool of blood staining the sheets. His soft hands brush your crimson cheeks almost tenderly, his amethyst eyes glowing in an aposematic manner. “The silence? He’s gone, little angel. You’ve severed yourself from Him, too.”

Your body shakes with sobs, your voice cracking as you cry out, “No! He’s not—I can still—He’ll forgive me—”

Suguru’s handsome smile, charming as ever, widens. Cruel and taunting. “Forgive you for what?” he muses, his smooth tone dripping with derision. “There’s nothing to forgive, angel,” he whispers. “This is just who you are. Not holy. Not pure. Just flesh. Wanting. Craving. Taking.”

Your lips quiver, your crimson tears flowing freely now. “No,” you whisper out weakly. “That’s not true—I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupts smoothly, his smooth thumb dragging over your bloodied lips. “You’ve been pretending all this time, hiding behind His light. But this”—he gestures to your broken wings, your shattered halo, your trembling, tainted body—“is the truth.”

You shake your head, your denial cracking beneath the weight of his words. You wanted to fight him. To refuse. To claw your way back to the light, but deep inside, a part of you knew he was right.

Suguru’s lips curl, his amethyst eyes narrowing in serpentine slits.

“How does freedom taste, angel?”

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