#rel: only that you continue to draw breath

[scribbly-squid]

Sexting | Lucifer Imagine

Lucifer x F!Reader

Imagine: Lucifer discovers the thrill of sexting, with a little guidance from his fellow Sin, Asmodeous.

🌻 Warning for adult themes (non-explicit)

Belphegor let out a groggy groan, shifting in her chair. "Shouldn’t you get that?" she muttered, her irritation clear. Lucifer’s phone had buzzed incessantly for the third time, shattering the relative quiet of the Sin’s council meeting. Her nap—interrupted—was now a distant dream.

Lucifer, visibly flustered, let out a forced chuckle, a slight sheen of guilt on his face as he adjusted his white jacket. "Right… uh, it’s probably just Charlie needing help with her hotel again." He fumbled to retrieve his phone from the inner pocket of his coat. He’d only recently learned how to silence the device—thanks to Charlie’s patient instructions—but his awkwardness betrayed how unnatural it still felt to him.

His fingers froze as his gaze landed on the screen. It wasn’t Charlie. It was you.A small crease formed between his brows, surely he reminded you about the meeting. He distinctly remembered your playful teasing this morning, coaxing him into attending—something about needing to embrace his “kingly duties.”

He shot a quick glance around the room, meeting the curious gazes of Mammon and Leviathan, before abruptly standing. "Let’s take five," he declared, his tone leaving no room for debate.

Before anyone could respond, Lucifer stepped out of the council chamber and into the hallway, his polished boots echoing faintly against the marble. He walked a good distance, ensuring privacy, before pulling out his phone to read the messages.

“It’s lonely here without you.”

He exhaled slowly, his eyes softening. Of course you were lonely. The hotel was empty, with everyone else away for the day. His heart softened as he imagined you waiting for him. His thumb hovered over the screen as the next message popped up.

“Do you miss me?”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he shook his head fondly. Did he miss you? More than you could imagine. Attending this dull meeting had been your idea, but now, the mere thought of you made him wonder if he should’ve stayed home instead.

The next message made his heart skip a beat.

“I’m drawing up a nice warm bubble bath. Really wish I was in your arms right now.”

Lucifer’s breath hitched, and he instinctively leaned against the cool stone wall for balance. The mental image your words conjured sent a rush of warmth through him, making him adjust the collar of his shirt. His fingers tightened around his phone, his heart racing as the final text appeared.

“What are you wearing?”

For a moment, he froze, his dark brows furrowing. He glanced down at himself, taking in the tailored white suit he always wears. His fingers brushed the bowtie, suddenly self-conscious. Before he could type a response, a smooth, familiar voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

"Luce, babe," Asmodeus purred, his confident stride echoing as he approached. "We’re continuing the meeting after lunch. Hopefully, an hour is enough time for you to handle… whatever’s got you distracted."

Lucifer startled, glancing up from his phone. "She… wants to know what I’m wearing," he blurted, his confusion spilling out before he could stop himself.

Asmodeus froze, blinking in surprise before his lips curled into a grin. "Your daughter is asking what you’re wearing?" he teased, fighting back a chuckle.

"No!" Lucifer snapped, his voice a bit too loud. He quickly cleared his throat, forcing himself to remain calm. "It’s Y/N. She’s been… texting me. Strange messages."

The Sin of Lust arched a perfectly groomed brow, as he leaned in to glance at the phone. The smirk on Asmodeus’s face deepened as he clapped a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. “Well, why don’t you send her a picture?” he teased. “I’m sure she’s dying to see what her dashing king is wearing today. Maybe she needs a little—” he paused for effect, “inspiration.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore the growing heat on his cheeks. Asmodeus was no help—if anything, his mischievous energy only made things worse. But before Lucifer could protest, another message popped up, and Asmodeus leaned over again, grinning like a cat.

“So you don’t forget who’s waiting for you back home.”

Attached was a selfie of you—smiling sweetly, yet unmistakably sultry. The curve of your lips and the gleam in your eyes made his heart stutter.

Lucifer inhaled sharply, quickly straightening his jacket and adjusting his bow tie. A mirror materialized beside him with a snap of his fingers, and he meticulously smoothed back his golden hair.

"How’s this?" Lucifer asked, sparing a glance at the Sin of Lust.

Asmodeous smirked. "Not bad, but you could’ve done better. Maybe lose a button or two. Add some spice."

Lucifer rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore the suggestion as he snapped a quick photo of himself and sent it to you, accompanied by a small message:

“Thinking of you too. See you soon.”

The phone buzzed almost instantly in response, and Lucifer turned his back on Asmodeus, shielding the screen from view. His breath hitched as he opened the image you sent—a picture of yourself sprawled on the bed, wearing one of his silk shirts that barely clung to your figure. The hem rode dangerously high, teasingly hinting at what lay beneath. Your fingers toyed with the edge of the shirt, as though daring him to imagine more.

Lucifer swallowed hard, his pulse racing as he read the caption beneath the photo.

“Come home soon. I don’t want to wait.”

“You said the meeting resumes in an hour, right?” Lucifer’s voice was low, almost a whisper.

Asmodeus hummed in affirmation, his grin unwavering.

“Make it two,” Lucifer said, his tone firm.

Before Asmodeus could respond, Lucifer vanished in a swirl of red and gold, the air crackling with energy in his wake.

Left alone, Asmodeus let out a low whistle, crossing his arms as he smirked at the empty space. “She’s really got you wrapped around her finger, doesn’t she, Luce?” he muttered with a chuckle, shaking his head.

[purplemagehawke]

xander exhibiting sugar daddy behaviour

[misctf]

i don't get it, why are the jocks nice to me? No one else notices me, the socially outcasted and alone BC I don't fit in anywhere , I'm. Not smart, athletic or real hot, all I do I quietly draw

But the jocks, along with the cheerleaders come up to me and chat, they seem like really good ppl, a lot of the times they all show up in their football kits and cheer uniforms,

Idk how I got into this situation, how am I ? The so not special guy, hanging out with the most popular ppl in the school.

There all so hot, athletic and nice to me, if only I could play football to any extent, so I could play with them 😅

“Dude, sick drawings. You an artist or somethin’?”

When Chet approached you in your college’s library, you were initially surprised. As someone not used to the attention, you were taken aback by the muscular hunk in front of you. His tank-top showing off his impressive arms. The shit-eating smirk plastered on his handsome face, conveying his confidence. You blush and meekly replied that you liked to draw. His dumb chuckle fills the room.

“Fuck bro, you’re talented.”

That was a few days ago. And ever since then, you couldn’t help but notice all the attention you were getting. A few of the other jocks on the football team approached you, all clamoring about your artwork. Even a few of the cheerleaders came up to you, gushing over your art and how cute you were. It didn’t make much sense to you, but you weren’t complaining. If anything, it made you want to get closer to them. Besides, it felt nice. And for the first time in a while, you felt special.

When Chet sent you a text asking if you wanted to hang out, you felt nervous. Even if they were nice to you, the idea of hanging out seemed like a huge next step. You initially declined, but he practically begged you to come by. Although somewhat anxious, you agreed. And before you knew it, you were standing outside his dorm room. When he opened the door, you were initially taken aback by the musky smell. And it became all too obvious that he hadn’t showered, or done laundry in weeks. But you were a bit more focused on his exposed torso. His meaty pecs and abs on full display. The outline of his cock shamelessly displayed in his grey sweatpants. That same smirk plastered on his face.

“Fuck yeah dude! So glad you could make it.”

You look around his relatively empty room. Besides the beer cans, dirty clothing, and gaming set-up, it was pretty plain. There were a few Chemistry textbooks messily scattered on his desk. Odd, you think, he didn’t really seem the type. But also on his desk were a few drawings. Or at least attempts. They weren’t nearly as good as yours, but it looked like he was trying.

“Yeah man, you inspired me.” He chuckles, “But I ain’t no artist.”

That much was evident. You reassure him that practice makes perfect and laugh awkwardly, but he just stares at you. His eyes glisten with a hint of mischief. And before you know it, he crushes his lips to yours. Your eyes widen as he passionately kisses you, and you can taste the beer and protein shakes on his breath. He breaks the kiss and smiles.

“Come on, let’s see what you’re packin’.” He says, helping you remove your shirt.

His hands roam your body. Compared to him, you lack muscle. And years of avoiding the gym and eating whatever you want has certainly given you some pudge. But he doesn’t seem to mind. He continues to feel your body, and you moan at his sensual touch. So caught up in the moment, you fail to realize the impact his touch is having on your unimpressive body. How your fat begins to dissolve away, leaving you thin and lean. But not for too long. You grunt as your muscles come alive. Contracting and relaxing rapidly. Building on themselves. You wince as your biceps pop into glorious existence. Your triceps follow quickly and you lean into him as he caresses your new arms.

“What’s happening...”

“Don’t worry.” He reassures.

He kisses you again, and this time you feel a heaviness in your chest. Your pecs expand rapidly, forming two bouncy muscle tits. He squeezes your hardened nipples, sending a wave of pleasure through your growing form, and you nearly pass out as he gives your pecs a firm squeeze. Abs pop into existence soon after. And you groan as your already hard cock expands further, adding at least an additional 5 inches.

“Almost there.” He continues.

And this time, when his lips collide with your new cock-suckers, you feel something is wrong. It’s as if he’s sucking something out of you. Draining you. But as your mind continues to dim, you don’t really seem to care. You lean into his kiss willingly. And when you do, your eyes glaze over and become half-lidded. Any intelligence you may have had is gone. But it’s so much more than that. Your skills as an artist are quickly stolen from you. Any potential you had, stolen by the handsome jock in front of you. And when he finally breaks the kiss, he can’t help but grin at the dumb, vacant look in your eyes.

“Fuck bro, that was great.” He says, wiping some drool from your lip, “Thanks for that. Who needs art lessons when you can just take it, right bro?”

You nod and chuckle, more drool falling from the side of your mouth. You look down and bounce your pecs, totally enamored by your hulking body.

“Huh, usually we’d let ya join the team.” Chet says. He snaps his fingers in front of you, without getting any reaction, “But, I doubt you have the brains to follow even the most basic instructions.” He smirks, “But I’m sure I can find another way for you to play.” He slaps your muscular ass, “What do ya say, waterboy?”

So maybe you don’t get to play football with the team how you wanted. But the team certainly enjoys playing with you. After every game, they’d find you in the locker room with your ass up. Ready to help them wind down after a tough game. Rest assured, they certainly still think you’re special. And they still give you plenty of attention. So have fun, bro.

[torawro]

I’D DIE FOR YOU (AND I HAVE). ( s.a. )

sousuke aizen & black!fem!reader.

cw ━━ ! minors, blank and ageless blogs DO NOT INTERACT. reader is portrayed as a black woman but you do not have to imagine her that way. using this map of the seireitei as a reference (i searched high and low for a consistent accurate one but it was hard). the first half is set pre-ryoka invasion / pre-soul society arc. the second half is aizen-centric (from his pov told from the 3rd person) and set post-tybw arc, years after he was sealed away in mugen, also including mention of events from vol. 1 of can't fear your own world (a light novel that's post-tybw & can be considered canonical); so all this being said: SPOILERS i guess???? of course you're welcome to read if you don't care about spoilers! somewhat based on 'die for you' by the weeknd & even more loosely based on 'dark red' by steve lacy. contains themes of heavy-ish angst, existential crises (?) & inner emotional turmoil within reader + aizen (separately). descriptions of character death, blood and violence. descriptions of manipulation/mind games. aizen is an unkind man. proofread (i did my best).

word count ━━ 11k

notes ━━ ! the way this fic was supposed to finished a month ago...but life once more gets in my way. and the way that it's this long....i anticipated the max being 10k but i greatly underestimated how long it would take to flesh out my idea. anywho i'm somewhat reentering my bleach era again. i’m not sure what it is but character analyses in the form of fanfiction is my jam rn like i really enjoyed writing this (i got tired of the length by like... 7k words lmao) but i like how this turned out. i've watched & read quite a bit of content that provide explanations as to why aizen is the way he is so i wanted to try my own portrayal of that in the context of canonical events. how i characterized him here is partially inspired by a fic i read about him last year so shout out to them for their support :D i hope i've depicted and humanized aizen well ♡. reblogs + commentary are heavily appreciated!!!!!

THE PAD OF YOUR THUMB SLOWLY glided against your bottom lip, the lingering aftertaste of jasmine tea still on its surface and on your breath. The absentminded motion of your thumb caressing your mouth, as if in deep contemplation, continued as you stared at the clock hanging on the wall above you.

It was past eleven, and the midnight hour only continued to draw near as time sustained its temporal march. And there you sat at your desk, floating in the limbo of your mind that was filled with hesitancy and admittedly, budding anticipation.

Your gaze lowered to the now empty porcelain cup, nothing remaining of its contents except the shriveled remnants of herbs and a few wayward drops of the brew.

Your senior comrade, captain Sōsuke Aizen, was correct in his prediction that you'd take a liking to its floral and delicate taste when he gifted you a jar full of the jasmine tea leaves as well as other ingredients.

The captain of Squad 5 seemed to be correct about a lot of things.

His intelligence and foresight, along with his kind and politely witty disposition, were qualities that you found somewhat charming, and gradually drew you closer to him.

Being the current third seat of the 9th company, your barracks and those of squad 5's were relatively close to each other's, so often you'd catch glimpses of and run into Captain Aizen on a pretty normal basis. Over the years, the conversations that bounced between the two of you expanded past the realm of formalities between a higher and lower ranking officer, and instead ranged in territories from literature, to art, to food & drink, and even to the politics of the government for which they were soldiers for.

Sometimes, you found it hard to believe that you managed to befriend a man like him. A man who seems to have mastered the balance between being a gentle soul, helpful to others, but also possessed enough refined power and skills to be named a captain within the Gotei 13.

Especially a man who wasn’t even of your own squad.

Despite the increasingly friendly relations and generally pleasant conversation, there were few moments where Aizen's words didn't feel quite. . . . real━ he didn't feel real. He spoke eloquently, often relying on figurative language to further illustrate his point and to breathe meaning into seemingly plain and meaningless words. But at times those words, his tone felt stained; stained with some substance or color you couldn't quite place. An enigmatic façade was painted over his speech, and it took too much mental capacity to try and find your own meaning in it.

So you'd often brush it off. Your over-reliance on your own reasoning that 'you weren’t able to come to a conclusion because there is no problem a conclusion could be generated from' successfully quieted your mind’s voice. You'd also frequently blame exhaustion, or your newfound hobby of watching human psychological crime shows during your off days for these subconscious ideas you had.

But you feared that the request Aizen made of you yesterday, the source of your current predicament, couldn't be blamed on any of those things. You looked at the clock again before returning to stare at your empty tea cup. For what reason could Sōsuke Aizen wish to meet you outside of the 1st division barracks? Specifically at this hour? You immediately thought of his question as uncharacteristic of him but prevented yourself from jumping to any further conclusions.

Aizen was a reasonable man, and you were sure there was a reasonable explanation.

With a final sigh of acquiescence, you stood up from your sitting position to retie your yukata before slipping a thicker, dark colored haori on top. You were unsure how cold it was this late at night or how long you'd be out, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

You paused for a moment, glancing longingly at your vanity mirror a few times, clearly torn between a decision, before giving in with a soft groan. Grabbing your favorite perfume, you quickly spritzed the spray onto both your inner wrists, either sides of your neck, and stray areas on your clothes. You’d proceed to make sure your hair was in order and your lips were as moisturized and glossy as a pair of tear-filled eyes before making your way to the door and slipping on your sandals.

Meeting with a captain— with Aizen of all people— in the dead of night resembled too closely to forbidden lovers rendezvousing under a fruit tree to fulfill their desires of embracing one another, with no one but the moon as their witness. The comparison alone caused the apples of your cheeks to burst aflame with embarrassment, and you lightly chastised yourself for even indulging in such an inappropriate train of thought. Such a scenario seemed far too deluded to even be considered ‘wishful thinking’.

But those delusions still seemed to make more sense than whatever other conclusion you have yet to reach.

Making your way out of your personal quarters, you activated your shunpo technique, stealthily hopping from one rooftop to the other in an effort to make it to Squad 1 barracks quicker.

After several minutes, your mind mostly engulfed with the 'what if's', the soles of your sandals finally touched ground, and you stood a few feet away from the massive walls and bridges that connected to and from the barracks. Even at night you were able to make out the bold-printed kanji for the number 1 that was painted on the building.

When you arrived, even from a nearby rooftop, you didn't see anyone around. Feelings of confusion and worry began to creep up and flicker to life in your mind.

But, as if your thoughts were as audible, you felt a light breeze of wind behind you, a familiar sound that indicated someone had made their presence known.

Startled, you reflexively reached for your zanpakuto, when you remembered that you hadn't even brought it with you. It still laid against the wall near your bed, just where you placed it earlier when you were relieved of your duties for the day.

You didn't think you needed it necessarily if you were just going to meet with Aizen, hence why taking it with you slipped your mind.

The flickers of concern were swiftly extinguished as your brain caught up with your body upon realizing who just appeared. A relieved sigh left your lips, a breath of air that seemed to release all the tension that had a grip on your heart and wound tight within your muscles. "Ah! Good evening Captain Aizen. You caught me off guard for a moment there."

"My apologies, that was not at all my intention." The Fifth Division Captain sported a dark colored scarf, his long captain's coat and the standard shihakushō all Gotei officers were supposed to wear. In the sash around his waist resided his own sheathed zanpakuto. His tawny hair maintained its usual part but looked slightly tousled, yet still remaining so in a meticulous fashion that made it look intentional.

The state of his hair alone, and his current facial expression made Aizen look more . . . approachable if that’s how you were to describe it. There was a glint in his eyes that you had seldom seen before.

"Thank you, for making your way down here to accommodate my rather. . . . atypical request. I again extend my apologies if I have inconvenienced you in any way."

You shook your head in reply, "It's alright, I wasn't doing anything too important anyway. Just having a cup of tea and delighting myself in a book before bed."

You glanced downwards at the foot or so of space that was wedged in between the two of you. You forced away the murmurs of your lingering thoughts that took note of how the moonlight and shadows danced across the surface of Aizen's face just right, and emphasized his decidedly handsome features.

"But having a complete and good night's rest is important to be fully functional in all areas of one's performance. Wouldn't you agree?"

You couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Yes, I do agree with that sentiment."

Aizen all but hummed in acknowledgement, letting a moment of silence fill the air before speaking again.

"Shall we be on our way?"

You nodded in agreement, following him as the both of you walked about the First Division grounds. From what you could tell based on your position, your aimless nightly stroll drew you closer to where Sokyoku Hill was located. The area became increasingly more grassy and contained less buildings.

Although Squad 1 grounds weren't terribly far from either of your barracks, you still weren't sure as to why Captain Aizen wished to meet out here. Initially you thought that perhaps he was just fond of this particular scenery, but really it could have been anything.

But still, you believed Aizen always had a purpose for everything he did.

After several moments, his warm voice replaced the evening silence, vocalizing your current thoughts. “I assume you are contemplating why it is I have asked you here, and I’m afraid the reason is quite benign. Truthfully, I just wished for your company. I often go on night walks to clear my head after a long day and thought I might invite you to join me this time, and have a conversation with each other."

Your brows shifted upwards, for that was not quite the answer you were expecting. It seemed too . . . simple. “Really? You just . . . wanted to talk with me? Plainly?”

The Squad 5 captain let out a short, soft laugh at the disbelief that was painted on your face. There was an expression of fondness present in his eyes and in the light smile he offered you. “Yes, exactly. I quite enjoy our discussions actually, they’re intellectually stimulating and relatively pleasant. You crossed my mind, and before yesterday, it has been quite some time since we’ve had the opportunity to unwind and talk.”

You hummed an mhmm in agreement, tearing your eyes away from Aizen’s side profile in favor of the hem of his captain’s haori, watching how it danced in the soft breeze. It seemed to be less distracting than the way Aizen peered down at you from time to time.

"I see. I am. . . . truly flattered by your words, Captain Aizen; you're too kind. Forgive me for asking but," you took longer strides so that you could fall into step next to him━ as if to speak to him more directly, "Why at this time? To talk with me, I mean. It couldn't wait until more . . . . . conventional hours?"

He chuckled again, and answered as smoothly as if he were awaiting you to ask him that. "Unfortunately, today's tasks ran a little long today, so I had to stay at my office later than usual." The spectacled man paused for a moment, before setting his soft gaze on you, "And besides, that completely defeats the purpose of inviting you on a night stroll, doesn't it?"

You ignored the heat flaring up in your cheeks again. Your mind refused to move past the fact that you had crossed Sōsuke Aizen's mind enough times━ or the times that he thought about you were significant enough━ and highly enough to invite you into his realm and indulge in these moments with him, when he very much could have done that alone.

A tender smile appeared on your lips, more towards yourself than the man next to you. "I. . . suppose it does."

The ashen-white moon only rose higher in the sky, providing an ambiance of tranquility as the both of you talked about whatever crossed the surface of your minds. Other times, the stillness of the night did the talking, and you'd listen to the leaves, and the wind, and the crickets sing together in harmony. Gradually as you walked and the beaten path grew more narrow, your figures drew closer together, until you could feel the long sleeves of his haori brush against your own.

You hadn't noticed that the two of you eventually stopped walking and paused under a tree until Aizen struck up conversation once more. When he called out your name in that gentle, velvety voice, you swore your heart was going to lurch out of your chest. The sound of your name rolled of his tongue so smoothly, the desire to hear it again grew within you.

"Uh━ yes, Captain Aizen?"

"Are you satisfied with way things are at the moment?"

You stood next to him, perplexed at his inquiry due to its vague nature. "Um, what. . . . things? I'm afraid I don't understand what you're asking."

The wind brushed Aizen's dark ochre tresses across his face as he took a step towards you, like the breeze itself was pushing him towards you. "Hm, perhaps I should be more clear then. Are you content with being a soul reaper? Are you satisfied with being a soldier for the Soul Society?"

With your brows slightly furrowed in thought, you remained silent for several seconds and overanalyzed his every word, trying to predict where he might be steering the conversation now. The longer you thought it over, the stronger that nagging feeling from within your soul became. The one that often told you what he was asking wasn't exactly . . . it didn't quite feel . . . . .

"This feels like a prelude to another insightful discussion on Shinigami━ and by extension━ Seiretei politics." Your words cut off your own thoughts, as if your mind was trying to sweep something under the proverbial rug.

Aizen huffed in amusement, before lightly shrugging, leaving your statement definitively unanswered.

You sighed as you seriously considered his question this time. "I mean sure, I guess. I'm somewhat satisfied with my job and all of . . . this," gesturing your hands in the air around you to emphasize your point. The 5th Division Captain made another humming noise, indicating that you still had his full attention. He inched a little closer into your personal space.

The mere action caused your next words to die in your throat and a quiet chuckle resounded from his, before your thoughts revived themselves again.

"Of course things could always be better but. . . . y'know. This is just how it is." You weren't quite sure if you should voice negative opinions about the Soul Society so plainly to a senior officer, even if he was the one who asked you in the first place, so you treaded lightly.

The same plainly relaxed smile from earlier remained painted across his lips, held in his chestnut irises was an emotion akin to affection. He seemed somewhat pleased that you were expressing your thoughts with him.

“And you? Are you satisfied, Captain Aizen?” You were unable to keep the teasing endearment out of your tone as you returned his gaze, casting aside the notions of Gotei officer seating and ranks for the moment. The air seemed like it shifted━ towards what, you weren't sure of━ but it kind of made you feel like you were adrift, floating in isolation from everything else around you.

It was still hard to process that you were alone with Captain Aizen right now. . . . at night.

A low hum reverberated within his chest, contemplative in nature as he replied, “Perhaps.”

The wind whistled lowly again, erecting goosebumps on whatever part of your skin happened to catch the midnight breeze. You fought the instinctual urge to twitch towards the nearest source of heat, which happened to be Aizen. Now that would be even more wholly inappropriate than the 'lovers meeting at midnight' scenario.

The silence between the both of you was brief, but comfortable nonetheless. Once more his mellifluous voice cut through the quiet, leveled and calm, like still ocean waters.

“Come. I want to show you something,” Aizen reached his arm out towards you, your spine as straight as if someone stuck a metal rod dipped in ice water down your robes.

The captain's movements seemed steady and slow━ it had felt like time itself had hesitated for several moments. You thought he was going to . . . . well you weren't sure what he was going to do, and that's what you made you nervous.

Was he going to touch you? Cradle your cheek? Remove a stray leaf that happened to land on your head? You were left somewhat dangling in anticipation, not daring to flinch backwards because you felt it would be disrespectful or offensive. You hadn't even blinked, subconsciously fearing that this was only a very vivid daydream.

But alas, when his arm drew near it extended past your head, slightly above you, and held a small branch in his palm it like a delicate flower. You released a breath you didn't know you were holding, but that breath drew short again when your gaze was eye level with his lower neck and chin.

He seemed . . . . closer.

“I think that regarding the condition of the Soul Society," Aizen began in a quiet voice, referencing his own reply to his earlier question, "and therefore my thoughts about it, is akin to this set of leaves on this branch."

Snapping out of whatever stupor you seemed to have slipped in, you exhaled softly before stepping back a bit to look at what he was talking about. In his palm he cradled a wayward branch that grew from one of the other sturdier branches of the tree. The green foliage of its arms had started to weaken and dull in color. The cold air due to the seasonal transition to autumn caused the leaves become brittle, nearing closer to the edge of death.

The sound of just how brittle they were resounded in the air when Aizen thumbed the leaves in between his fingertips, observing their texture with pity laced in his small movements.

"These leaves will fall off as it gets colder. And soon, the rest of this tree will be bare as well. When the time comes, when the right circumstances fall into place, the old die to make way and usher in the new; it's simply the way things are. I think of the Soul Society government is structured in a similar manner."

You hung onto his every word, like he were imparting crucial wisdom to you. Even though you were a bit confused on the last part, and on the connection between dying leaves and Soul Society, you still listened intently, waiting for him bridge the gap between the two.

"The Soul Society as it is now can be thought of as a season. And this particular season, this climate has remained so for several centuries. How can nature continue━ how can we continue to progress when the old have yet to be washed away by the currents of time? It defies that of nature, yes?" He directed this question at you specifically, in search of your agreement.

You nodded your head, tearing your gaze away from the branch and directed it at the grass beneath your feet. Your brows furrowed a little as you mused over Aizen's words. He gave a rather ambiguous answer before but now, his words sounded like vague displeasure and muted criticism. Everyone was entitled to their opinion, and on some fronts, you'd sometimes agreed with the 5th Division Captain. The Soul Society was far from perfect, too much emphasis on nobility and status, the government resembled too closely to an oligarchy . . . But you didn't━ wouldn't voice these thoughts, though.

Instead you hummed quietly under your breath. There was that tugging sensation again. This time it told you that there was something deeper to this conversation than meets the eye. But what could there be? Was there anything at all or were you just overthinking it?

The voice-like sensation in your soul was calling out to you, but you couldn't hear it that well or quite make out what it was saying. It's as if someone was calling out to you in a crowded room that had music playing on the speakers: you felt like if you listened hard enough you could make it out but ultimately, the result would fruitless.

"And when that happens," Aizen continued, "sometimes nature has to be gently nudged back on track to keep things moving smoothly. That may require . . . shaking the tree. Pulling a few harmful weeds from one's garden, so to speak."

"Weeds?" You echoed. You felt like you understood this analogy and therefore what he was trying to say, but at the same time you didn't. Or was it . . . . you didn't want to understand what he was implying?

Because if you were interpreting his words correctly, if he were inconspicuously comparing the higher-ups and the government itself to dying leaves and harmful plants that needed to be removed, then . . . .

"You, dear child, are a mere weed in this scenario."

Wait, what did he just━

Your thoughts were cut short when a gush of air that smelt strongly of Aizen━ warm oak, vanilla, and a kind of musk that you weren't sure how to describe but was still pleasant all the same━ brushed against your face and took you by surprise.

But there was another aroma that arose, steadily becoming more apparent alongside the increasingly painful throbbing feeling you felt in your abdomen.

It smelt metallic. And it was something that you've smelt all too many times before.

It was blood.

Your gaze that was initially narrowed in confusion lowered as it followed the source of this pain. Your eyes slowly widened in as you struggled to comprehend the blade that was currently ran through your torso.

Aizen's blade.

"Actually, instead of weeds, a more accurate and befitting analogy perhaps would be blades of grass. You unfortunately have to step on them in order to reach the weeds you want to remove."

You couldn't really focus on what the captain was saying, because your brain was still struggling to process what the hell just happened. Your hands slowly rose from their sides and shakily grazed the zanpakuto, wanting to believe that if you touched it, it would pass right through your fingers like mist. But no, the sensation of cold steel was as real as the robes you wore on your back. You only just now are processing the muffled squelching sound of his sword impaling your flesh.

You wanted to scream, to cry in pain, to vomit, to push him off━ something. But all you could do was stand there, stunned, words completely failing you. "Wh. . . . what? Why did . . . . you . . . . "

A cough replaced your attempt at a comprehensive sentence, and you tasted iron in your mouth.

Fuck....was this really happening?

"Please don't push yourself trying to talk," His voice was like an index finger to one's lips, similar to a parent's gentle caress to quiet and sooth their child, "You'll only hasten your death. And I'm sure you wish to know the reason for my killing you, yes? You'd have to be alive for that."

'Killing me?' 'My death?' The certainty that rang in his words chilled the blood in your veins, and they confirmed the one conclusion you hoped wouldn’t come true: that you were going to die.

The frigid embrace of fear and dread engulfed you from behind and you shivered, causing the blade snugly lodged in your organs to shift. The pain of that foreign object moving even a little bit shot through your entire body, causing a groan to emerge from your throat.

Desperate to conserve your energy and the oxygen that was becoming a little harder to take in, your breathing became uneven and a little wheezed. Even then, you couldn’t bring yourself to meet the gaze of Captain Aizen to confirm if this was really happening or just an extremely realistic and vivid nightmare. The sight you might be greeted with could be more frightening than the actual impaling of his sword.

As if his betrayal couldn’t actually or figuratively cut you any deeper, just then there was a noise that grew louder and louder within a matter of seconds until it was almost deafening. You’ve distinguished it to be the sound of glass crackling.

Your surroundings formed cracks everywhere on its surface, like it was just an oversized window. Even on the grass you stood on, or what you thought was grass, began to crumble away.

A dumbfounded but panicked look was plastered on your face when your world literally shattered around you, the only remnants of it being you and the Captain.

What was underneath the mirage━ or you should say, the fact that it was a mirage at all━ only disturbed you and increased your perplexity.

Slightly hunched over and breathing heavily, it took a minute to process where you were, but you noticed that now the two of you stood in a formal room that looked like it was used for important meetings. The lights in the room slowly started to brighten, most likely due to motion sensors. Even with Aizen's scent lingering in your nose, you could still pick out a rather stale aroma that hung in the air like dead fruit that hadn't fallen off the tree.

"Is . . . this Cen . . . tral━ "

"You are correct. Where we currently stand is the assembly hall for Central 46, the judicial power of the Soul Society. All judiciary as well as legislative trials and proceedings are held here."

All around the room were seats with partitions, the kanji for 1 through 46 printed on them. In the seat for the 19th member, your gaze caught onto something on the translucent barrier. It was a little farther up so you had to squint your already blurring vision to see it properly.

You saw, and your heart promptly sank as a result, eyes widening once more.

There were splatters of a dark colored substance on the partition━ undeniably blood. And the lithe, bony fingers of an older man laid lifeless, peeking out from the side of the screen like the appendages themselves were trying to escape from the body they were attached to.

That man . . . was dead. That stale aroma you smelt was the stench of death.

It was only after that unsettling epiphany did your eyes dart frantically around the room and realize that every member of Central 46 was dead.

The disturbed expression on your face only intensified as your stare was pulled back down to where Aizen's blade still resided in your body.

" Cap.....Aizen," you uttered, swift to correct yourself. All the moisture in your throat dried up like water underneath the unrelenting rays of the sun. You kept gulping your saliva in an attempt to assuage the sensation, but relief only last for a fleeting few seconds. "Did you ━ you killed them . . . didn't you?" Your question was laced with shaky hesitance and swelled with apprehension, fearing that you already knew his reply even before he answered.

There was a moment of silence and a hum before he replied. "Smart girl."

The muted mirthful tone in his voice sounded like sarcasm, and it was enough to finally draw your attention away from everything else and directly look at him. Almost instantly, you regretted it.

His umber tinted gaze was colder than you remembered. You couldn't find anything in his eyes that hinted that all of this was just a big misunderstanding, or a dream, or that Aizen had a secret sense dark and complex humor.

This was your first, and apparently your last time, that you have ever felt a fear such as this. Your mind was struggling to comprehend this was the same Aizen that spoke with you so gently, full of encouragement and wisdom. The same man that recommended you books to read and gifted you tea to drink and gazed upon you like . . .

Well, none of that mattered now. In this moment, Sōsuke Aizen wasn't the same man anymore. This Sōsuke Aizen was someone else, and it frightened you.

"When?" you croaked, your voice no longer sounding like your own. Nothing felt real anymore. "W-When did you . . . . . how? Why?"

Another noncommittal hum resounded from the spectacled man as he closed his eyes, feigning the action of thinking of an answer. When he reopened them, his narrow gaze returned to you.

"Everyone in the Thirteen Court Guard Squads was previously aware that the ability of my zanpakuto, Kyoka Suigetsu, allowed me to confuse the enemy using bodies of water, mist and even moisture in the air in order to attack. However, that is not my zanpakuto's actual power; there is more to it than just simple confusion. Kyoka Suigetsu's true power is Complete Hypnosis. Essentially, when someone looks at my blade, I am then able to take control of that person’s five senses, causing them to believe that something is real ━ or that something isn't real. In a way, once glancing at my unsheathed zanpakuto, that person forfeits their sense of existence to me. Kyoka Suigetsu is quite flawless in its deceptive abilities."

A heavy silence, aside from your uneven breaths, endured in the space between both of you. You didn't need him to spell out what he was trying to say.

It was all . . . . an illusion. A convoluted, premeditated illusion. And you walked right into it without even knowing or considering, that it was all fake.

The Fifth Division Captain inwardly smiled at the despair clearly written on your face as he watched you mentally put the pieces together. He took your lack of reply as a sign to continue. "The members of Central 46 have unfortunately been dead for quite some time now. And as for your question of why......"

The taller man stepped towards you which inadvertently (or purposely, you began to fear), drove his sword deeper into your abdomen without warning and slight force. You bit down on your bottom lip hard to stifle your exclamation of pain. In an attempt to somehow resist him, with the little strength you had left, your hands automatically took purchase in his oversized sleeves, but it did nothing. You found it ironic that you could feel how warm Aizen was underneath his robes, but his soul was anything but.

" . . . . I believe I already mentioned it earlier, yes? All flowers die eventually and the weeds......must be removed."

At that moment you remembered that tugging sensation that told you something felt off in some instances whenever you talked with Aizen. This must have been what it was. Damn it all. You still didn't understand exactly what bad things Central 46 and the Soul Society have done to cause his actions, but based on what you've been told and your current position, it must have been heinous. Again, you actively swallowed the urge to vomit.

"You . . . you lied. I can't believe━ how could it have all b-been a lie?" Another nasty cough rattled your body, followed by a shiver and a groan.

The brown-haired man slightly tilted his head, like he was truly confused. "Lied? Hmm, well. I suppose you could put it that way based on your limited knowledge of the circumstances, but I wouldn't put it that way. Besides, this isn't really about truth or lies. It is, and always has been, only about the reality of what is. And what is, is that you were unable to anticipate my deception. No one could, because it was outside the domain of your thoughts. What is, is that the current way the Soul Society operates is tainted, and I shall be the one to remedy it."

You drew another shuddering breath and looked down at the ground with a grim expression as your blood continued to pool at your feet. Briefly, you even considered unsheathing yourself from his blade and take the chance to make a run for it, but the chances of you making it to the outside world, let alone coming across someone before you bled out and died were slim. Besides, it was clear that you couldn't even trust your own senses anymore after Aizen demonstrated that he had complete control of your reality.

Which reminded you of something else.

" . . . when?" you asked the same question again, but much quieter than before, despair palpable in your voice. 'When and how did you subject me to your zanpakuto's Complete Hypnosis?', is what you were really asking. And being as intelligent as he was, the spectacled man understood.

Abruptly, with a large palm on the small of your back, Aizen used his gentle hold grip to pull you towards him in order to close the remaining distance, causing him to drive the remaining length of his zanpakuto all the way through until the tsuba of his blade rested against your stomach. You looked like a skewered piece of meat.

You didn't have the willpower to hold back the piercing shriek of agony and physical anguish as tears sprung forth from your eyes. You could no longer tell if your blurry vision was due to your tears obstructing your sight or if it was from being a step away from death's door.

"Do you remember . . . the first time we met?"

The hand that rested on your lower back slowly glided upwards until his fingers found your jaw. With a tenderness that reminded you of a time before his betrayal, he lifted your chin and guided your gaze to look at him directly. His thumb moved to graze your bottom lip just as you've done mere hours ago━ as if he knew that, as if he watched you do it. His thumb was dangerously close to slipping inside your mouth and that both excited and scared you. Your breasts against his, your breaths synchronized with his, your body and his were fully pressed against each other and it made focusing on his question more difficult.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The first time . . . we met? Sure, with a little bit of effort you could easily recall the first time you formally met Aizen. It was sometime in the spring, and you remembered him running through combat formations with his lieutenant and the rest of his squad. But why d━

A silent gasp left you. Another epiphany, another figurative blade piercing your heart.

Battle formations, and he . . . offered you to join them . . . his zanpakuto . . . . .

Confusion crumbled away, and was replaced with vacant horror and sadness. It seems you've already been defeated, for many, many years now.

Aizen seemed to murmur something under his breath, a pleased sound you couldn't quite decipher. His mouth brushed over yours, rendering you literally speechless, before he closed the distance and brought your lips together. You could barely process what was happening.

It was ironically tragic how soft and skillfully gentle his lips were against yours. The kiss felt longing, like a departure between two sweethearts and their last meeting together. It also felt heavy and final, making you want to cry.

And you did. Silent tears streamed from your eyes and rolled onto the fingers that still held your face so affectionately. The captain reacted by guiding your chin up a little further, dipping his head a little lower, so he could deepen the kiss. You weakly scorned yourself for thinking about how the two of you must really look like lovers now, sans the sword sticking out from your back.

Oh, how cruel this was; how cruel he was. It was cruel for him to kiss you like this, hand still splayed on your back like he needed to touch you stay sane. And how cruel it was that still managed to enjoy it, even as you stood there dying. Your lips moved together in tandem, slow and almost passionate, all while tears stained the apples of your cheeks, drying up the plush youth that once resided in them.

Aizen's tongue had slithered its way into your mouth, and you suddenly felt like crying harder. There was a tart, sweet flavor lingering on his tastebuds, and you absently wondered what is was. Perhaps hibiscus from tea, you surmised. And he too tasted the sweet jasmine and citrus that clung your tongue and lips. At this, he chuckled quietly into your mouth, humming before retracting from you by a few inches so he could speak.

"I knew you would like the tea. It's sweet and flavorful, isn't it?" You hated how low his voice was, how its timbre pleasurably vibrated and rumbled against your lips, and you hated that lidded stare he gave you. You again thought it unfair that you couldn't even revel in the rare sight of Aizen's lips slightly wet because your lips were intertwined with his.

"I have to thank you for humoring me and my recommendations. I really appreciated it. And I also," you winced loudly and cried out in affliction as Aizen finally began to withdraw the sword from your body, "must to bid you farewell now. It seems you don't have any more time left, and this has dragged on for longer than it needed. I'm not surprised you've held out for this long, as I already knew you possessed commendable strength. But alas it wasn't enough. I am sorry that you have to die; it's rather regrettable that you happened to be that blade of grass that ended up underneath my foot."

Another wail was yanked from your chest as he steadily removed his sword from your abdomen. The pain was becoming excruciating, you would have collapsed by now if the taller man weren't holding you.

You saw two things before the light in your eyes had all but faded away. The first were the colors of faux pity and apathy that swirled in Sōsuke Aizen's irises, spiraling like a storm that was certain to wreak havoc in its wake. His gaze was devoid of any regret or remorse; the final metaphorical nail on the coffin. The second was a small smile.

But this wasn't one of his smiles you were familiar with. No wait . . . . the one you knew was simply a veneer of what is.

This smile was slanted, the corners of his lips tilted upwards and was sharp. Sharp enough to cut open your already gaping wound further and completely tear you apart, spelling out your demise. It looked insidious as if it were hiding razor-edged fangs. This was what is; Aizen's real smile.

"I. . . I see. Aize. . . ." were the last words you were able to manage. You didn't have the strength to be upset or hurt any longer, so you gave in to the exhaustion.

Your body permanently relaxed, long lashes veiling your now empty eyes as your arms lifelessly dropped to your sides. The captain found a disturbing amount of pleasure in his name being the final word you attempted to speak before succumbing to the sleep of death.

And even after the fact, the facade of doomed, star-crossed lovers persisted as your body slumped backwards. Aizen's strong forearm wrapped tightly around your waist being the only reason you didn't fall to the ground in a puddle of your own blood.

That day was the last anyone saw of you, your zanpakuto still laid idly in your room, its spirit destined to forever wander in the afterlife between worlds alone, eventually fading from existence without ever feeling the presence of its master again.

They had declared you missing by the end of the next day. Lieutenant Hisagi was probably the most perturbed about your sudden disappearance. Days, weeks passed, and they never located you. The Gotei 13 was left unsettled by the lack of progress, but ultimately had to rule your case inconclusive. Some believed that you were simply killed by a stray hollow, or even ran away from your duties because of the stress.

The news of what happened spread like wildfire across all the squads, that a high-ranked officer just up and vanished without a trace. The spirits and morale of the thirteen companies dampened, sorrow and worry swelling like a festering boil.

And that boil burst when Ryoka infiltrated the Soul Society, and when it was revealed that all of it was carefully orchestrated by Sōsuke Aizen.

Like a blade of grass that somehow snuck into one's sandals or in between their toes, during his time in Hueco Mundo, images of you flashed in his head at unexpected times when his mind was quiet. He'd remove the grass, tossed you aside, and moved on with his day. There was no room for you in the grand scheme of things. Such reminisces were beneath someone like him.

And yet.

He'd always find another piece of grass from the greenery he stepped on whenever he advanced a step in his plans. There you were again.

It was common knowledge that if you kept repeating the same action over and over, it will eventually wear you down.

━━━━━━ 鏡  ━━━━━━━

It was dark, and there was nothing.

There had been nothing for quite a long time now. Utter darkness and the abyssal shade of black engulfed every inch of Aizen's body and surroundings.

He saw nothing, the seals over his eyes too opaque to let anything through. And even if they weren't obscuring his vision, he would barely be able to see three feet in front of him; there was seldom a few lanterns in his cell to begin with. He felt nothing but the bindings that kept him imprisoned in one of the deepest pits of the Seireitei. At times it felt like even his internal organs had stilled in their functions. He heard nothing but the unrelenting quiet of his cell within Mugen's maw. The only thing that served as proof that he hasn't spontaneously grown deaf yet was the occasional muffled noise that originated from outside of the entrance. And even then, he could hardly hear much of anything.

Such is an ironic fate for someone who, with a stray thought and a glint of his blade, could control someone's senses and take away their free will to experience those senses in their reality. And now, he was stripped away of all of his in nearly every capacity.

Sōsuke Aizen was rendered stationary and stagnant, qualities he detested and were the antithesis of his ambitions and plans, perhaps even his existence.

Aizen had always believed in being in control of your own destiny and making your own choices; if you had the opportunity and the power to change something━ especially if it was something that was wrong, unfair or immoral━ then one should be able to move towards that goal by making change, even if by force. The former captain had always been intentional about his actions and his desires right from the start.

And yet, here he ended up.

Spending years strapped to a chair in this dark, cloistered hole, Aizen had nothing but time to reflect the reason for his arrest: that orange haired Ryoka boy, Ichigo Kurosaki. He had nothing but time to admit to himself and settle on the conclusion that his last battle with the substitute Shinigami . . . did something to him.

Fighting the Ryoka boy ignited something inside him that he previously believed would forever lay dormant.

The thrill of a challenge.

Adrenaline was injected into his veins with each clash of their swords, spreading far and wide across every inch of his body. It no longer reacted in the measured, calculative manner he had programmed it to, but with unadulterated, pure instinct and raw power━ all in an effort to not only withstand such potent spirit energy from his opponent, but to come out on top and win.

It made him feel alive.

Aizen's desire to be the victor in battle and in his philosophy━ to prove himself right━ both fueled him and consumed him so thoroughly it led to his own downfall. That was a rather difficult fact to acknowledge; so much so his head started to pulsate intensely whenever it crossed his mind one time too often.

All of it unfolded right in front of his eyes and yet . . . he didn't really see it happen.

As time passed during his perpetual incarceration, with hooded eyes, the former captain spent an unfathomable amount of time tossing and turning every single event that led him to this underground prison, even pondering his temporary release by the Head Captain Kyōraku to fight in the war. Scenarios both minor and significant displayed itself in front of his mind's eye as if he were watching a film.

Every so often, a blurred visage of your image would make a brief appearance, like the flickering sparks of a match before they were able to come to light, fading away into the void and were overshadowed by his other thoughts. It was as if his own consciousness and intentionally muted any manifestations of your existence in his memories. As if he wasn't able to or allowed to see them━ to remember you for too long.

Mentally reliving moments from the last several months, years, decades, centuries━ trying to analyze each moment and decipher where it could have went wrong━ turned out to be quite an exhausting task. His mind and body would grow heavier with inertia, and eventually he would succumb to the alluring pull of slumber. After some time he would rouse from his sleep, and continued from where he left off.

These were his daily activities day in and day out (even though he had trouble distinguishing day and night in his chambers) for years. He saw a positive side to it though. He'd instead think of it has him getting stronger because he had spent so long . . . thinking. Ruminating. Contemplating every possibility in the past, present, and future. His mind would become as sharp as his zanpakuto.

Aizen had always been intentional about what he did, what he said, and how he conducted himself. He was sure in his abilities to orchestrate an image━ a belief for others to have faith in, and act on it in order to further his goals. He was always sure in that image, knowing who he was and what he stood for.

Or at least, that's what he thought.

Aizen wasn't consciously aware that his certainty in this crafted image had already begun to waver. He could not and was unable to anticipate how severe these small fractures had become until after a certain lieutenant paid him a visit outside his cell of confinement, right before he was scheduled to be thrown back into that dark hole of the Mugen.

Lieutenant Shuhei Hisagi was quite emotive when he burst through the doors. His expressions were contorted in volatile mixture of frustration, anger and sadness. His emotions were every which way, directed at everything that has happened so far, including himself. He was especially emotive at Aizen specifically for what he did to former captain Kaname Tosen and 'corrupting him with his twisted ideals.'

Aizen found amusement in that.

Before he was rolled away by the punishment force and therefore out of earshot, a particular set of Hisagi's words caused the small, content smile on his lips to uncurl ever so slightly. "Everything . . . and everyone that has ever gotten themselves involved with you has been trampled on by you and your ideals one way or another, and they all end up dead. If you think what you did to Captain Tosen was justified━ to call it mercy . . . . . then there is truly no justice in this world. You will . . . forever be the enemy in my eyes."

There was a trembling anger in his voice. Pain that wanted to cry out and be set free but, the thin lid of reason prevented it from doing so. And after a moment of silence, the corners of Aizen's lips curved upwards once more. A little bemused, a little more wolfish this time. He maliciously imagined Hisagi's reaction if he ever discovered the true reason for your disappearance.

But instead, all he said was. "What an interesting thing to say, Shuhei Hisagi. Your conviction is admirable." Any evidence of emotion that might have been reflected in his sepia irises was swallowed up and obscured by the darkness of the Mugen's jaw.

The cracks in Aizen's sense of self, in his beliefs, in the image he invented started to cave under the weight of Hisagi's words before he himself realized it was happening. They were like stains in the fabric of his mind that refused to come out.

What puzzled him more, was that with each attempt to figure out just why Hisagi's words echoed in his mind, they all lead back to you, the third seat of the 9th squad. Annoyingly so.

The tattooed lieutenant hadn’t said anything particularly profound ━ at least, Aizen didn't think so. Your name didn’t even fall from his lips. So why were memories of you and your likeness the only clear thoughts he could make of Hisagi's speech? Was it because he was aware of how close the two of you were? He doubted the reason were that trivial and insignificant.

His thoughts grew more discordant by the day, his soul a little more weighted than usual. Perhaps these new seals that Urahara had fashioned actually had an effect on him, Aizen thought. It made sense. His intellect, other than his own, were the only ones capable of creating such effective restraints.

After a while, he had a revelation. This was a different kind of weight.

This heaviness, the closest word he knew to describe it as . . . . was loneliness.

Time taunted him as it seemed to drag on━ Aizen grew even less sure of how much━ when he came to this realization. Hisagi's words were a clear mirror to the loneliness that echoed within him after what happened to you and to Tosen. It was so . . . potent, that it seemed to strike some chord in Aizen he had never heard before.

Such a chord, this sound of loneliness, it was strange and uncomfortable; he wasn't very fond of this sensation. He'd try to scrub it away, but it was all for naught.

His eyes had slid shut at some point, his ruminations leading to dead ends and wearing him down. And, almost as expected, there you were again, in all your translucent glory. The hem, the sleeves, and even the smell of your yukata slowly dragged across his dreams, haunting his thoughts like a lonely wraith.

And Aizen hardly dreamt of anything.

When he regained consciousness he was plagued with yet another epiphany. An additional reason behind this newfound depth.

Aizen's own loneliness. Guilt. Much to his own quiet horror.

How foreign and unusual a thing like guilt is. It was like looking into a mirror and not recognizing something you had never noticed before, but wondered if it had always been there.

But the thing Aizen did recognize, how lonely he actually felt, was something he had hoped would never resurface again. It was a notion he hadn't had the time or regard to consider━ 'loneliness'. Its only purpose, if any, was solely to serve as a motivator. At times though, it was more like a hindrance.

Something akin to nausea slowly started to bubble up in the pit of his stomach, but he suppressed the sensation before it became any more intense.

What of his previous actions did he need to feel guilty for? He hadn't felt it then, so why would he feel it now? Again he ruminated such a question endlessly into oblivion.

The former captain had no doubts that his plan to remove the Soul King, and therefore the Soul Society's sins, were necessary.

Nor did any hesitancy about removing the opposition or dead weight━ whether shinigami or arrancar━ existed.

He certainly had no reservations against killing Kaname Tosen, for he knew the man well enough to know that Tosen would have been so thoroughly appalled with what he had become, it would have drove him mad.

So what was it, then? Why were such useless emotions as guilt and loneliness being amplified n━

"Y....know, S....."

Even covered by the seals, Aizen's eyes widened and his brows were slightly furrowed in distress. Had his mind finally tipped the scales of sanity and madness, to the point where he was hearing things?

It was quiet for several moments longer, before his senses caught onto the sound of water dripping onto a hard surface.

One drop at a time.

Its cadence a little too rhythmic to be natural. And for a second time, he heard that soft, ominous sounding whisper. Its voice a little clearer this time.

"You...know.....Sōsuke."

In the second it took for his eyes to flutter shut behind its seals to blink, when he reopened them, he was no longer sealed to the walls and floors of the Mugen, nor was he surrounded by every shade of darkness imaginable. His limbs and senses were finally freed to breathe for the first time in what felt like ages.

That relief was short-lived when his senses absorbed the unending landscape of water underneath his feet, water lilies lifelessly floating on its surface, and the dim sky illuminated by a full pale moon.

Aizen was in his inner world, and now he was aware of how he got here, or rather who brought him here.

"You . . . already know the answer to that question, Sōsuke." The voice was even more clear, its sentences more comprehensible. And it sounded it eerily like you.

Why the voice was impersonating your likeness had caught him off guard for half a second, but he realized it was only the work of his zanpakuto, Kyoka Suigetsu.

An illusion it may be, there was an untouchable quality about your voice and how you spoke that even Kyoka Suigetsu couldn't replicate.

A few feet away from him, the water was disturbed by a being emerging from the depths. Ripples formed around a manifested version of his zanpakuto, who took the form of you, smiling ever so gently. The smile felt airy, and it didn't seem like the same one that haunted his dreams and every waking thought as of late. It felt....knowing.

Still, the former captain couldn't be bothered to maintain eye contact with his sword spirit, so he turned around and opted to keep his unreadable stare trained on the vast expanse of water and white lilies.

"It's been quite a while since I have stepped foot into this realm. There must be something you want . . . Kyoka."

The zanpakuto chuckled, it sounded like the way you would softly laugh at one of his clever quips. But this wasn't you.

He didn’t want to admit that something about that fact didn’t sit right with him.

"Judging from your tone, would I be correct in assuming you don't want to be here?"

Silence rang out within the soul scape, before Aizen interrupted it, his gentle voice colored a shade darker, and a little rigid. "And I fail to see the reason why you must take that form when you revealed yourself to me. Is your aim to get a reaction out of me? Or something along those lines?"

Your eyes━ the eyes of Kyoka Suigetsu━ narrowed at its master's back, as if they were trying to create concavities in his skull. But the expression was washed away the moment it appeared, the serene smile from before was back in place.

"You know . . . it's considered quite rude to not look at someone when you're addressing them. That, and when you deliberately ignore things they say. Your manners have been deteriorating, Sōsuke. Tsk, tsk."

Kyoka-dressed-as-you suddenly appeared before him, as if they had teleported. Even when they were in his peripheral vision, Aizen still maintained his stare off into the distant nothingness.

"Unless, you can't find it in yourself to look at me. . . that's correct, isn't it? It's because I look exactly like her, right?" The zanpakuto continued to provoke him, taking a step closer into his personal space.

With an exasperated sigh, his eyelids fell shut for a second, using that time to gather the strength he didn't know he needed, and directed his gaze to meet his spirit's. Aizen's face gave nothing away, but his heart lurched about his chest when his bronze eyes met with yours, or what was made to look like yours. The undesired affect it had on him was all the same.

"If you wish to chastise me about manners, I suggest you take your own advice. You didn't answer my first question, either: what is it you want? Why am I here?" Again the former captain chose to not address the other parts of Kyoka's statement. For the sake of his sanity and his thinning patience━ or was it to preserve his resolve?

Its smile widened a bit, moving another step closer to their master. God, Kyoka even smelled like you, mimicking your signature honeyed scent that Aizen didn't realize he found so intoxicating until this very moment.

"I called you here to save you from yourself."

Aizen remained silent, only narrowing his eyes in speculation. "Meaning?"

"Didn't I already say it earlier? I think you already know what I'm talking about, Sōsuke. You've always known."

Fate's pairing of Kyoka Suigetsu with Aizen was a match crafted from the spindles of heaven, but also a maddening curse pulled from the depths of hell, for they complimented each other a little too well. The zanpakuto was too perfect a reflection of Aizen and his soul, looking at it started to hurt his eyes.

His sword spirit insisted that he already knew the reason for his coming here, and perhaps he did have an inkling the moment the light of epiphany was shone on his profound loneliness and guilt. But that couldn't have been what it was referring to . . . . could it?

"You cannot feign ignorance here, my dear Sōsuke, however I do find it rather humorous you bother trying. If you'd like, I don't mind humoring you by spelling it out for you. I'd be glad to unearth the truth that you have buried in the most neglected corner of your heart."

"When you were . . . . subjecting yourself to such mental torment, it had an affect on this world as well. The ripples, the waves in this scape become quite . . . tumultuous." The nuances in your voice were perfected by his zanpakuto, but the way it talked sounded like a fog that was gradually closing in from over the horizon. The uneasy feeling that resided in his chest traveled down to his stomach, but Aizen's face remained steely, even when Kyoka Suigetsu took that final step to close the gap in between them. "And the reason for that, the reason why Hisagi's words rattled you so is because you regret killing that woman."

The creased line in Aizen's brow grew more prominent as he stared down his sentient sword spirit. With its breast pressed against his, they placed a hand on his clothed chest in a tantalizing manner, but he felt nothing. There was no warmth from its palm, much unlike when your hand touched him. There wasn't even a cool sensation either. Even minutes before your death, your touch brought a soothing heat that permeated through his shihakusho and penetrated his skin.

Kyoka's face grew nearer, their smile━ although still tender looking━ grew cold at its edges, nearly resembling that of a predator eager to see despair reflected in the eyes of its prey. It didn't fit the graceful allure of your face at all, and seeing this expression deeply unsettled the former captain more than he would like to admit.

"You regret . . . killing me."

A chill tore through Aizen's body, the weight of Kyoka's words adding onto the heaviness that still hasn't been alleviated from his heart; he was hardly able to suppress the involuntary shiver.

Without warning, Kyoka's mouth suddenly became dangerously close to their master's, its lips brushing against his in a provocative manner. Aizen's expression darkened when he realized that it was reenacting his last encounter with you when you were alive. His mouth started to grow uncomfortably dry, despite his soul scape being full of moisture, and there was a taste on the back of his tongue that's been lingering there since he arrived.

The lilt in Kyoka's tone continued to taunt him. "That is the reason for your guilt: regret. You have been in denial. And in the spirit of unearthing truths, I suppose I can admit that perhaps . . . . I've been . . . . encouraging said delusions, adding drops of fuel into the flames of your emotions and ambitions. But after all that's happened, when it comes down to it there's no point in continuing this hallucination any longer. I've grown tired of this game, so it's time to for you wake up now, Sōsuke. I've brought you here to release you from your own illusion, to completely shatter it."

Aizen's back was as stiff as a board, not moving a millimeter when Kyoka's lips grazed his again. They were breathing softly onto his mouth, but he hardly felt any puffs of air.

The former captain was having a rather difficult time processing the fact that his zanpakuto had its own agenda and had been manipulating his emotions without him noticing. Specifically the emotions he felt towards you.

He never truly believed that such a thing was possible, one's own blade having such a deep-rooted influence━ no, control over their master. Or would it be more accurate to say that he never expected himself to be controlled to such a degree? He that prided himself on being freed from the marionette strings of fate that were tied to his limbs and mind, he that relished being able to do what he wanted, think what he wanted, feel what he wanted━ or what he didn't want━ it was hard to believe that none of that mattered in the end.

Kyoka Suigetsu's deceptive abilities were indeed undeniably perfect. No one, not even Aizen himself could have anticipated that Kyoka's most absolute and complete hypnosis would be enacted on himself.

"Do you know now, Sōsuke? Do you understand?" Kyoka's voice was as soft as a whisper, but it couldn't hide the edges of its tone that were still sharpened from finding amusement of seeing the truth flash across its master's face. "You had destroyed the solution to your existential question of loneliness, before you could fully understand the question itself."

Yes . . . . . Aizen understood now.

He didn't bother acknowledging what Kyoka had said. His grim facial expression━ still, tinged with dolor, and paired with an indescribable, distant look his eyes━ said all that it needed to. His silence was as much as an admission as any.

Kyoka-dressed-as-you leaned forward again to fully close the gap between their lips and Aizen's. Tenderly, like the intentions of a lover, it spoke against his nearly closed mouth. "Have you figured it out yet?"

Nothing but quiet could be heard between them, as Kyoka's mouth moved about their master's face and placed something like kisses upon its surface, but not quite.

Aizen's cocoa-shaded eyes slide down to stare at his sword spirit pressed up against him. His gaze was hard, and yet something swam underneath its surface that his zanpakuto had never seen before. Melancholy, it guessed? They weren't quite sure.

Kyoka pressed on when Aizen remained quiet. "The taste in the back of your mouth. Have you figured out what it was? You know it quite well....."

Aizen's tongue grazed the roof of his mouth, sensing the rather unpleasant taste that has coated the inside of it. And within a moment, because he was faced with the current circumstances, Aizen had finally placed a name associated this particular taste. How unfortunate this was.

Upon his realization, Aizen's head lowered, and his brown tresses hung freely over his lashes. Perhaps it was so Kyoka couldn't properly see whatever remorseful expression painted their master's face, but it mattered not. Even from here, the sword spirit could already sense exactly what it was he was feeling.

And they loved it.

"It's a sweet and flavorful taste, isn't it? Quite lovely." Kyoka Suigetsu mimicked the exact words he uttered against your lips all those years ago when he tasted jasmine tea on your tongue, and sealed your death with a kiss. "It's too bad you don't seem to enjoy it anymore."

Aizen's chest continued to rise and fall calmly, and the hands of his sword spirit that rested there glided upwards to cup his strong jaw, caressing his skin with its thumb. Its phantasmic touch did nothing to stir their master.

"Sōsuke, do you know what the jasmine flower from that tea symbolizes?"

Aizen's lips were slightly parted, but again he didn't say anything. Instead, its corners twitched and lifted upwards by an inch, and he huffed softly.

Kyoka Suigetsu grinned in reply. "Good."

The next time Aizen blinked, he was plunged in darkness yet again. The restrictive feeling that swallowed his being whole had returned, and was an indicator that his zanpakuto had released him from his inner world. He was consciously back in the Mugen, back in this abyss they called a prison cell.

Kyoka was indeed as much as a formidable force in its own right, as much as, if not greater than Aizen himself.

The conversation he had with his sword spirit would be cemented in his head for all eternity. When he grew senile and began to physically wither away, the one thing that would remain vital like a young heart, was this epiphany that he had. This realization that he actually . . . .

As the chains of despair bound him tighter to the bottom of the metaphorical pit, regret and his loneliness corroding his flesh and spirit like metal exposed to moisture, a stray memory of his time in Hueco Mundo flashed in his mind. He recalled having tea prepared for meetings with his Espadas and he could not pinpoint when, but at some point, Aizen developed an aversion for jasmine flavored tea. For one reason or another, he no longer found its taste appealing; whenever he drank it, it always tasted bitter.

Now that reason had become painstakingly clear.

The binding on his mouth muffled a rueful chuckle at the though, and it trapped the flavor of jasmine on his lips.

(#) @soaringmirror @stygianoir @ryukenzz @blkjupiters @chrissie2003 @nymphoheretic @dejwrld @triangularz @souyaszn @kuujo @honeybleed @valentineluvu . let me know if you’d like to be apart of my tag list ♡♡.

[luvrgreyy]

FRUITS OF THE FLESH.

widow!reader x priest!leon

word count: 3.4k summary: a man reaps what he sows. masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

18+ MDNI. catholicism, religious connotations, no specific time frame but i’d like to say victorian era-ish, alot of allusions to the lord or god, reader’s dead husband idk, inner conflict, denial, guilt, leon asking for forgiveness like a hundred times, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex.

a/n: started this like two months ago, just had the motivation to finally finish. i don’t really know how i feel about my writing on this one… i feel like i’ve lost all my skills after not writing for a few weeks

grief is truly a horrible thing. an all-consuming force that threatens to eat you from the inside out.

it’s a shadow that lingers, a specter that moves silently but persistently, weaving itself into the fabric of every moment. it does not announce its presence with fanfare, nor does it depart when you will it to. instead, it creeps, slow and steady, like the cold wind before a storm, pressing against your chest until breathing feels like a sin.

grief is not a feeling; it is a presence. it is a weight, heavy and suffocating, as if drowning in a dark, endless sea. the surface is so far above, unreachable, and the water presses in from all sides, choking the breath from your lungs. there’s simply no escaping it. eve when you close your eyes, hoping for a moment of peace, it finds you there too.

grief is a thief that takes more than just what you’ve lost—it takes time, peace, and clarity. it takes pieces of you.

and ever since your husband’s death, you’ve been trying to pick those pieces back up. but they slip through your fingers like sand, scattering in the wind, impossible to gather in their entirety. every attempt to rebuild feels futile, as though you’re trying to piece together a puzzle with missing parts, the picture never quite forming the way it once did.

the room is relatively empty, save for a few devout attenders who are spread out in their pews. the priest stands on the altar, the candlelight casting a soft glow on his features as he continues the mass. it’s a somewhat traditional ceremony, filled with prayers and rituals that you’d grown accustomed to.

the priest stands before the small congregation, the words of the mass flowing effortlessly from his lips.

you sit near the back, hands folded tightly in your lap. the rhythmic cadence of the priest’s voice, the latin prayers echoing in the cavernous space, should bring you some semblance of peace, but it doesn’t. it feels distant, as though you’re watching the service through a veil, separated from the others.

the priest's voice drones on, a familiar melody that fails to soothe the ragged edges of your heart. you feel like an outsider, a stranger among the devoted faithful. even the rituals that once brought comfort now seem hollow, the prayers falling flat against the weight of your sorrow.

as the mass draws to a close, the priest's eyes meet yours, his gaze piercing and knowing. for a moment, you feel like an animal trapped in his sights, vulnerable and exposed.

the priest's gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary as he processes the end of the mass. the small congregation begins to file out of the pew, murmuring gentle blessings and well-wishes to one another. he watches them go, his eyes lingering on each face, before turning to face you once more.

the nave slowly empties, leaving only a handful of devotees behind, including yourself. he remains at the altar, hands folded in quiet contemplation. the soft rustle of the evening breeze carries the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a melancholy reminder of the passing seasons.

"you stayed behind," leon observes, his voice a gentle whisper.

"is there something on your mind, my child?" he approaches you slowly, his large frame casting a long shadow across the stone floor.

“no, father, everything’s fine," you lie through your teeth, your voice barely a whisper.

"is all well?" there's a pause, and in it, you sense an invitation to share your burdens, to unburden yourself to this man of the cloth. but the words stick in your throat, tangled around the aching void your husband left.

what could you possibly say? what good would it do? the priest's eyes search yours, his face etched with compassion. then, he nods, as if he understands the futility of words.

he accepts your silence, his gaze softening with understanding. in this sacred space, he knows better than to pry, to force confessions or unburdenings. instead, he allows you the solitude you crave, the quiet contemplation you so desperately need.

the silence between you stretches on, a fragile truce that exists solely in this sacred space. it's a comfort, of sorts, to have this shared quiet, a reminder that even in the depths of your grief, there are still moments of solace to be found.

"i'll leave you be for now," leon says eventually, his voice a gentle murmur that breaks the spell.

"thank you, father." he nods, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips as he takes his leave, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound in the hallowed space.

eventually, you rise, stretching your stiff limbs. the cool stone beneath your feet is a jarring contrast to the warmth of the pew. making your way to the front of the church, you light a candle, your fingers brushing against the smooth glass as you set it upon the altar. the flame flickers to life, casting a warm, golden glow over the surrounding statues.

you linger a moment longer, savoring the peaceful atmosphere, before making your way out.

the church is bathed in an eerie, moonlit glow when you return late that night. the candle you lit earlier still burns, its flame a slowly dying down.

you move with a quiet reverence, your footsteps muffled by the soft carpeting as you make your way to the front row of pews. you've come seeking answers, but none present themselves as you approach the altar. the statue of the crucified christ looms above, his suffering face a poignant reminder of the pain that accompanies loss.

the shadows cast by the statues seem to deepen and twist, taking on a life of their own in the dim light. a shiver runs down your spine, the fine hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. something feels off, a discordant note that you can't quite place.

you pray, hoping it’ll all go away, but unease persists.

it's subtle at first, a whispered thought on the edge of your consciousness. but the longer you have your back turned, the more you feel as if someone is behind you. but you don’t dare look.

not until it speaks.

“what are you doing here, my child?," you hear him say softly, his voice carrying a note of gentle warning. "you shouldn't be here this late."

his words send a chill down your spine, the softness of his tone at odds with the tension emanating from him. you slowly turn around, your heart pounding in your chest. leon stands just behind your seat, his silhouette large and imposing against the blackness outside. his eyes glint in the candlelight, a predatory keenness that makes your blood run cold.

"father," you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. "i... i just felt the need to pray," he takes a step closer, his footsteps deliberate and heavy.

"at this hour? prayers can wait till morning. you shouldn't be here, not alone, not now.”

“but, why?” you ask, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “does the church not allow visitors at any time?”

guilt pricks at his heart, a sharp pang of conscience that he's not entirely sure he wants to acknowledge. “no, of course not. the church doors are always open. but this is late, and you're alone... it's just not safe,” his tone is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of something else - a hunger he's trying his damnedest to suppress.

“is that really the reason, father?”

guilt gnaws at him, a growing sense of unease that he can't quite shake. "of course, that's the only reason," he lies, his voice wavering slightly. but the truth lingers in the air, a palpable tension that he can't seem to dissipate.

he takes a step closer, drawn to you like a moth to flame despite his better judgment. "perhaps... perhaps i misjudged. the church's doors are always open, for the faithful and the lost alike," his eyes roam over your face, drinking in the curves of your features, the softness of your skin in the candlelight. “especially to you.”

a low groan escapes him, half-desire, half-anguish. "forgive me, child. i should not be saying these things,”

“no, wait—“ you softly reach for his arm.

he freezes at the touch, his breath catching in his throat as your fingers make contact with his arm. the sensation sends a jolt of electricity through him, his resolve crumbling like sand beneath the tide.

"don't," he whispers, his voice rough with strain. "please, don't." but even as the words leave his lips, he can't bring himself to pull away, to sever the connection between you.

“but i haven’t done anything, father,”

"you've done plenty, my child," he murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of longing and self-loathing. "just by being here, by existing... you've awakened desires i thought long buried." leon's breathing grows ragged, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

he steps closer still, the heat of his body radiating towards you like a physical manifestation of his turmoil. "i am a man, not a saint," his confession hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of his forbidden attraction.

“and…” he shakes his head, a bitter struggle that leaves him weak-kneed and aching. "i should send you home," he murmurs, his hand coming up to cover yours, to hold it in place. "before we both regret this.”

“no, please don’t push me away, father,” you plead.

his eyes flicker closed, as if in supplication to some higher power, as the admission spills from his lips: "i'm sorry, child. so very sorry for what i am about to do.”

his body crowds yours, crushing the air from your lungs with the sheer force of his need. his mouth descends, claiming yours in a bruising kiss that sets your very soul ablaze. the world narrows to the taste of him — smoke, spice, and something uniquely his own.

it's overwhelming, consuming, and yet, somehow, it's the most natural thing in the world.

and when you end up pushed up against his office desk, the wood cold and unforgiving against your back, you know things have gone irrevocably awry. his hands, so recently devoted to guiding prayer, now roam the curves of your body with a reverence bordering on the religious.

your lips part on a gasp, allowing him greater access, and he seizes the invitation with a fervor that leaves you breathless. large hands roam your body, mapping the contours of your frame with a desperation that belies his years of discipline. he breaks the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, the rapid beating of your pulse point a siren's call he's powerless to resist.

he's shaking, the tremors starting deep within, spreading outward through his muscles like ripples on a pond's surface.

"forgive me, lord," he whispers to himself, as if seeking divine absolution from the sin that he’s about to commit. but even as the plea leaves his lips, he doesn't let go. instead, he raises your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your knuckles.

then he's on his knees in front of you, hands grasping at the hem of your dress. the fabric rustles as he pushes it upward, baring your thighs to his hungry gaze. his breath is heavy, face mere inches from your center.

"tell me to stop," he pleads, his voice a ragged whisper. "command me to sin no more, and i will obey.”

for a moment, he teeters on the brink, the line between devotion and lust blurring until it's nearly indistinguishable. "please," leon's eyes lock onto yours, searching for the strength to resist, to obey his vows. but what he finds there is surrender, a silent plea that sends his resolve crumbling like the weakest brick.

"father," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

he closes his eyes, a silent, anguished prayer issuing forth from his lips. his hands tremble as they part your legs wider, stealing a breath from your chest. slowly, reverently, he leans in, finally dragging you underwear down, exposing you to his gaze.

"you are so beautiful,"

his voice cracks on the words, a mixture of awe, reverence, and raw, animal desire. he can't tear his eyes away from your unveiled flesh, drinking in the sight like a man dying of thirst.

"pray with me," he murmurs, his breath hot against your slick folds. "ask for forgiveness, for the sins we are about to commit." even as he speaks, he's dragging his tongue along your inner thigh, the sensation making you gasp and shudder.

"our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,”

his hands roam your hips, gripping the soft flesh as if to steady himself against the waves of his own depravity.

“thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,"

each curve of your body yields to his touch as his fingertips traced a path of fire across your skin. desperation and control tangled within his gestures, gripping onto the softness beneath his hands as he strives to anchor himself against the tumultuous waves of desire and decadence that threaten to crash over him.

“glory be to the father, and to the son, and to the holy spirit…”

the words are a broken whisper, a plea for mercy that's drowned out by the urgent throb of his own need.

“amen.”

he brings his mouth to you at last, and with a groan of surrender, he begins to eat you out with a hunger that knows no bounds.

he laves at your clit with a fervor that leaves you panting and weak-kneed. you're a mess of whimpers and moans, your hands fisting in his hair as he works you over. leon's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into the flesh as he eats you out with a single-minded determination.

"yes, yes, just like that," you babble, your voice a desperate chant, even as your vision starts to blur at the edges.

one of his hands drifts lower, his fingers seeking out the entrance to your womb. he teases the delicate skin, tracing the outline of your slit before slipping a finger inside. a low groan rumbles in his chest at the slick heat that envelops him, urging him on.he works two fingers in and out of you in a steady rhythm, the lewd squelch of your juices only further fueling his own desire.

"please, father, i need—" the words die on your lips as a particularly intense thrust of his fingers sends you plummeting over the brink.

his eyes blaze with an unholy light as he takes in your ravished expression, his own need reaching a fever pitch. he surges to his feet, shedding his robe and shoving his pants down with a desperate haste. he reaches for you, pulling you forward effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing at all.

he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself in time with the frantic beat of his heart. "i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice raw with anguish and guilt. "so very sorry."

he hovers over you, his thick length prodding, seeking entrance to the very core of your being. you help guide him in, a hand slowly pushing back on the back if his neck as the thick head of his cock breaching your entrance with a slight burning sensation. he groans, his hips bucking forward as he sheathes himself fully within you.

for a moment, you're both still, letting the intensity of it all wash over you.

and he starts to move forward, inch by inch, the wooden desk creaks in protest beneath you. his eyes squeeze shut as he buries himself to the hilt, your slick walls clenching around him like a vice.

"oh, my lord, forgive me," he breathes, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he struggles to still the tremors that rack his frame. "i am a man undone.”

he starts to move, slowly at first, each thrust a testament to the effort it takes him to resist the primal urge to rut into you like an animal in heat. his hips rise and fall in a deliberate rhythm, each stroke drawing a gasp from your lips.

"you feel so good," he rasps, his breath hot against your skin. he pulls nearly all the way out before plunging back in, the slick glide of his thick length a pleasure unlike anything you've ever known.

sweat drips from his brow as he pounds into you with a fervor that borders on religious ecstasy. each thrust is a prayer, a confession, a plea for absolution. his eyes never leave yours, searching for some glimmer of forgiveness in their depths.

"i'm— i’m close," he warns, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

your head rolls back, a silent moan escaping your lips as the pleasure mounts. his hands fly to your face, cradling your cheeks as he forces your gaze to meet his.

"please, please, don't look away." he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a chaste kiss. "i need to see you," he murmurs, his hips stuttering in their relentless rhythm as he fights for control.

he can feel the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter within him until he's teetering on the precipice. his hands roam your body, kneading and squeezing as if trying to imprint every curve and valley onto his very being.

he's a hairsbreadth from the edge, the tension coiled so tightly within him that he's not sure he can contain it much longer. but for you, he'll try.

he'll endure the sweet agony of restraint. he leans in, his breath mingling with yours as he whispers a final plea.

"dear god, i'm so very sorry." the words are a prayer, a plea for forgiveness not just from the divine, but from you. he knows that what he's doing is wrong, that he's violating the sacred trust that he's been entrusted with as a man of the cloth. but in this moment, caught up in the maelstrom of his own desire, he can't bring himself to care.

he hooks an arm beneath your knees, pulling you higher up on the desk. the new angle allows him to drive even deeper, the head of his cock brushing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your body responds, arching up to meet him as a keening wail tears from your throat. he watches, entranced, as ecstasy washes over you in waves, your face a mask of rapturous bliss.

you finally feel his heat as it floods your innermost depths just moments later.

he collapses onto you, his weight crushing in its intimacy as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his heart pounds against your ribcage, a frantic with regret and release.

he stays there, draped over you, his breathing ragged and uneven as he tries to regain some semblance of control. his body is slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks. slowly, he pulls back, his hands still cradling your face as he looks deep into your eyes.

his breath comes in ragged gasps as he struggles to regain some semblance of control, to quiet the chaos that rages within him.

"forgive me," he whispers, the plea hanging heavy in the air between you.

he knows it's not enough. he's broken the trust, violated the sacred vows he's taken. there's no going back from this, no easy path to redemption. the knowledge that he's failed, that he's fallen so very far from the path of righteousness, fills him with a deep, abiding shame. but for now, in this moment, he can only cling to the thin thread of your forgiveness and hope that it's enough.

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[shalomniscient]

MACHINIST! || grace howard x reader [NSFT][MDNI]

GOT YOUR BODY ON THE BED I CAN SEE THE PRESENTATION / SAID SHE A MACHINIST / BODY UNDER PRESSURE / I BE FIENDING / COMPANY YEAH I KNOW THAT SHE BE NEEDING

cw. reader is an android and has a robot dick (thanks grace), some praise, dumbification, established relationship, robotfucking (?), some breeding talk/breeding kink, switch!grace and switch!reader, handjobs, creampie, vibrators (technically)

notes. had MACHINIST! by Sh!nki on repeat while writing this, please do check out their song it’s genuinely so good !!! also shoutout to @nbdaddykink for enabling this brainrot

“What were all the functions again?”

From between your legs, Grace looks up at you, sunset-red eyes glittering. The artificial cock resting against your thigh is attached to the rest of your body by a connective plate around your groin, the base measurements perfect to the milimeter. Somehow, Grace managed to get your skin tone correct as well, so much so the inter-plate spaces are barely visible. Distantly, you wonder if she used a color picker on you at some point without you knowing—you honestly wouldn’t be surprised.

It’s better that way, anyway. You’d nearly choked the first time she asked to take measurements of your crotch, and you don’t even breathe.

“Since it’s just my first prototype, Mark I, it’s only got a vibration function,” she explains. She trails a finger along the soft length—medical grade silicone, she had assured you—and nods to herself when you grunt in response, fingers curling into the bedsheet. “And the sensory input, obviously.”

“Right,” you huff. She continues to stroke you somewhat absently, more curious than particularly aroused. You, on the other hand, are quite the opposite—your entire body feels warm, too warm, and the small flaps on the vents along your back and shoulders flip up as your system draws in cool air to manage your steadily climbing temperatures. It’s almost embarrassing, the way Grace can get you overheating like some cheap laptop at the slightest of touches, but the she smiles when she looks at you like you’ve given her the answers to the universe and it’s rather difficult to feel anything other than affection in that moment.

“Feels good?” she asks, leaning up to get a closer look at your expressions. Your cock twitches in her hand, slowly hardening, and you give her a strained, wry smile.

“Quite,” you answer, sucking in a sharp breath as her hand pumps up and down. You’re only half listening to her explanation about the dick’s engineering—thin tubes reroute some of your synthetic blood into the cock when it’s stimulated (or whenever you please, really), making it hard, much like an organic dick. The real treat of her little— actually, no, relatively large invention is the fact that it can vibrate, and that you won’t get soft until you consciously make that decision.

“As for cum, I managed to synthesize something kind of close to the real thing,” Grace continues, her thumb swiping over the tip and smearing some of the pre-cum along your length, drawing a strangled groan from your throat. “But I’ll have to take it off to replace it once you’ve used it all up.”

You can only manage a grunt in response, hips twitching at her touch. You buck up into her fist, and Grace’s grin widens. “Are you getting close?” she asks, and you nod rapidly, utterly unable to form words. Pleasure clogs your processors, and your vision fuzzes blue at the edges. Grace’s hand moves faster, and she climbs fully into your lap, plush thighs on either side of your own. She leans in close, her breath mingling with yours before she kisses you so softly, experimentally, and it’s enough to send you over the edge with a hiss.

Artificial cum spills from your cock and onto her hand, a thick, creamy white that almost looks like glue. Grace pulls back and looks at her hand with pure marvel in her eyes, removing her hand from your still-stiff dick to note the way your cum coats her hand. She pinches two fingers together, then spreads them apart, and a thick, viscous string connects them together. The action is enough to make another shudder run through your wired nerves, and you grip her waist and flip her over onto the bed before she can protest or insist on writing down some preliminary observations.

She yelps lightly, but then her lashes flutter as you roll your hips against hers, the wet tip of your cock pressing against her clothed cunt. Your sensors pick up on her elevated heart rate and increased oxytocin levels, and you breathe out a pleased sigh, leaning down to kiss at her neck and down to her shoulders, your teeth scraping against the tattoo on her right.

“How about we move on to phase two of testing, hm?” you rasp. You roll your hips again, and Grace mewls, looping her arms around your neck and leaning back into the pillows.

“Th-that’d be good, yup,” she responds, and you smile against her. You kiss her shoulder again, and the saltiness from the light sheen of sweat on her skin blooms on your tongue. You draw back and make quick work of her pants, shimmying them down her thighs and discarding them on the floor. You can’t help the groan that rumbles in your chest when you note the state of her underwear—entirely soaked and clinging to the lips of her pretty pussy.

You draw a finger along the drenched cloth, and Grace squirms, the muscles in her stomach jumping at the sensation. “So wet, baby,” you murmur, voice low, “all for me?”

Sunset-red eyes meet your again, and Grace’s voice is deliciously breathless when she answers. “All for you, jus’ you.”

“Good girl,” you hum, and a full-body shudder runs through her at the praise. Grace has always been terribly weak for it; not that you mind. There’s little you quite enjoy more than telling your darling machinist how wonderful she is—if anything, you think she needs to hear more of it.

Your fingers find the waistband of her panties and you tug them off, tossing them into the same pile her pants have ended up in on the floor. Gently, you spread her legs a little wider, shifting slightly to position yourself correctly. Your tip catches against her clit and it draws a pleased noise from both of you, and you squeeze her thighs as a reflex, the flesh so plush under your touch.

“‘m gonna put it in now, baby,” you murmur, bracing yourself over her with one hand. Grace’s own clutch at your shoulders and she nods, her eyes blown wide as she looks into yours, and so you have the privilege of watching them roll back into her skull as you slowly sink into her, spreading her open on your cock. The first thing that hits you is how warm she is; the next is the tightness. You nearly whimper at the combined intensity of being wrapped by her perfect pussy, inner walls clenching as you sink another inch and then another into her slowly but surely.

Fuck, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to go back to using a strap after this.

Grace whines loudly once you finally bottom out, your hips meeting hers with a wet smack. Her inner thighs are smeared with her own wetness as it leaks out of her beautifully stuffed cunt, and you grit your teeth to hold yourself back from pile driving her into the mattress. “You okay?” you manage between lungfuls of air, inhaling more to cool your overheating components. Beneath you, Grace nods frantically, her face flushed and nearly as red as her irises.

“You can move,” she gasps as she wriggles her hips, chasing any sort of friction from your stationary cock. “D-don’t forget to try out the vibration function—“

You nip her rambling in the bud by both kissing her and pulling out until the tip, before slamming back inside. Grace moans into your mouth and you devour it greedily, like you needed it to keep operating. You give in to your desire from before and drive her into the mattress with such intensity that Friday could consider retiring early. Your mouth travels hungrily from her lips down to her neck, sucking and biting marks into the pale skin that you know will have Koleda aging another ten years while Ben won’t be able to look neither you nor Grace in the eye.

You nearly rip Grace’s bra off in your haste, fingers fumbling with the zipper. She sighs as her breasts are freed, then moans again when your lips seal around her nipple and sucks. You lave her chest with attention all while you pound into her cunt, the wet sounds of sex echoing all around the room. Her fingers dig into your back, blunt nails creating a delicious pressure that has you bucking just a little harder into her.

“Baby, I’m— I’m gonna—“ she mewls, and you fuck into her faster, utterly rearranging her guts. You’re sure if you look down, you’d see a little bulge forming over where your cock nestles inside her. But you don’t, not this time, because the sight of Grace’s debauched expression is already taking up so much of your processing bandwith. You push up on the bed, nearly folding her in half as your teeth ghost the shell of her ear.

“Gonna what, Grace? Use your words,” you breathe, and she whines, one leg nearly kicking out against you.

“Cum, gonna cum,” she babbles, arching up into your chest, spit-slicked breasts pressing against your chest. You manage a slight chuckle at that, but you aren’t better off either. That blue fuzz creeps along the edges of your vision again, and you know you’re close.

So what better time than to test out the final function?

Activation is impulse related, you remember Grace saying, which basically means all you have to do is think about it for it to activate. And activate it does—Grace screams as the vibrations come to life, buried as you are eight inches deep in her pussy. She bears down on you, hard, nearly pushing you out. You only grunt and put a little more force into your thrusts and Grace sobs fat tears of pure pleasure that you reverently kiss away. You see any higher order thinking skills fade from her eyes as she loses herself in the feeling of you and your cock in her cunt, and she looks so achingly beautiful like this that you can’t resist the urge to kiss her softly, a far cry from the way you’re fucking her almost ruthlessly.

“Good girl,” you pant against her lips. “Good girl, so good for me, my Grace. My genius girl, making me all sorts of toys for me to fuck her with, hm?”Only the whites of her eyes are visible as she slurs out pitiful ‘thank-yous’ at your praise. She gets impossibly tighter, and you know both of you are only seconds away from an orgasm that will have you undoubtedly short-circuiting.

You press a hand to her tummy, over the bulge your cock makes. “‘m gonna cum inside this cute cunt, baby,” you promise, trading your fast pace for slower, deeper strokes, practically assaulting her g-spot with pinpoint accuracy, made only more intense by the vibrations. Your thumb finds her clit and Grace howls, loud enough that anyone in the house would definitely hear. “Jus’ a shame this cum is fake—else I would’ve given you a baby like you want, hm?”

The combination of your words in her ears, thumb on her clit and cock in her cunt send Grace careening off the edge with a sound between a scream and a moan, her entire body locking up with the intensity of it. Squirt sprays out of her clenching pussy and all over your abdomen, and the sight forces you over as well, the blue fuzz swallowing your vision whole. You can barely feel the way your cock pumps the fake cum deep inside her, your hips moving entirely of their own accord as your system reboots from the force of your orgasm.

By the time you come to again, you’re braced over Grace, her legs locked around your hips. Your cock has stopped vibrating on its own, probably due to the fact you practically bluescreebed. Some semblance of thought has returned to Grace’s pretty eyes, and something flutters in your mechanical heart at the satisfied expression on her face. You brush a strand of dark hair out of her eyes, and she wordlessly asks for a kiss. You indulge in her request, lips meeting hers gently. You fit so perfectly against her sometimes you wonder if you were manufactured for her.

“I take it the first round of testing is a success?” you ask, and Grace laughs, her voice somewhat hoarse.

“Definitely.”

(For scientific reasons, you do another two rounds of ‘testing’—after all, repetition is good to ensure the accuracy of the result, right?)

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Could you write the beach scene where Conrad gets into a fight and instead of Belly getting hit it’s reader. Maybe she was kissing some other guy and that’s why Conrad was drinking?

Continue sending requests for Conrad/Jeremiah!! I added them to my taglists, so please get on it if you want to be notified when I post a new one. Also, season 2 is coming very soon <3 I can't wait for all the Taylor music they're gonna use again

I didn't plan on going over 1k, but my fingers slipped XD

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Music was mixing with the soft swishes of the ocean, marking the first night of summer at Cousins’ beach. After months in the city that never sleeps, it was nice to be back. The smell of the ocean, the feeling of the sand under your feet, the calm swish of the waves, the beautiful sunsets — there were no such things in New York.

Talking about things New York didn’t have, your mouth busy kissing the cute boy you met on the boardwalk yesterday. You didn't plan on kissing him — or anyone — at the bonfire, but he smelled really good and his smile was causing a kaleidoscope in your stomach, and before you realized what was happening, he was leaning to kiss you.

His name was Benjamin…or was it Brad? God, you couldn’t remember. What you knew was the sensation of his body pressed against yours, the intertwining of tongues, and the gentle touch of his hands as they slid to your waist and effortlessly pulled you closer.

This summer was going to be amazing.

Your bubble of summer-lovin' was popped when a sudden commotion about a beer reached your ears, drawing your attention away from Brody. He whined, trying to join your lips again, but you turned your head in direction of the heated voices, one of them familiar to you.

‘’Shit,’’ you muttered under your breath, seeing Conrad shoving another guy and getting shoved back. This was not going to end well… ‘’I’ll be right back.’’

Brody nodded as you stood from the sand and went over, foolishly believing that you could mediate the altercation.

‘’Hey, Conrad that’s enou—’’ you began, only to be abruptly halted by a forceful elbow striking your cheekbone, sending you on the ground.

The sudden assault had drawn Conrad's attention away from the beer-fueled dispute, his drunken gaze fixed upon you with concern. He tried to get to you, see if you were okay, but the other guy wasn't willing to let Conrad off the hook so easily, launching a punch before he could reach your side.

‘’What the fuck is wrong with you?’’ Conrad's anger flared as he retaliated, delivering a punch of his own.

Amidst the chaos, Jeremiah caught sight of the brawl and quickly ran over to you. ‘’Are you okay?’’ he asked, extending a hand and helping you getting back on your feet, his genuine concern evident in his voice.

You nodded, wincing as you covered your aching cheekbone. It’s gonna be bruised tomorrow. Brad, having witnessed the unfortunate turn of events, also approached to offer his support. He tried to cup your face to assess the injury, but you dodged his contact.

Seeing you were relatively okay, Jeremiah pointed towards Conrad and you nodded again, silently telling him to go. You doubted he’ll be able to break the fight, but hopefully someone will come and help.

‘’You should put some ice on that,’’ Brody advised, but all you could think about was Conrad.

Getting into fights was unlike him. But he hasn’t really been himself lately…

A sudden cry of ‘’Cops!’’ echoed through the beach, instantly causing a wave of panic and dispersal among the party-ers. People fled in different directions, seeking to avoid any potential trouble with law enforcement.

While running off, you managed to get away from Brody, no longer wanting to be by his side. It was nothing personal. Old ghosts just pulled you back in.

You emerged on the road, scanning all the cars on each side until you caught the unmistakable red of Conrad's Jeep parked on the road. The backdoor on the driver side was open as Jeremian helped Conrad get in the backseat of the jeep.

‘’Jere! Wait up!’’ you called out at him.

‘’Watch your head. Your legs,’’ Jeremiah said, making sure he wouldn’t be catching any of his drunk brother’s limbs when closing the door.

Conrad grumbled, half laying down on the backseat. ‘’I know how to get into a car,’’ he muttered.

‘’Can I come with?’’ you asked, trying to not glance at Conrad. ‘’I…I don’t have a ride home.’’

Jeremiah nodded, and both of you climbed into the jeep, fastening your seatbelts before driving away.

Only to slam the brakes two seconds later and come to an abrupt halt. ‘’Fuck. Steven.’’ Jeremiah turned to you before getting out. ‘’Watch Conrad, I’ll be right back.’’

Conrad and you were in the car silently. It felt eerily quiet, and even though it was only just past one, you were completely exhausted. In the backseat, Conrad was quiet, lost in his drunken haze. Neither of you spoke for a moment, until he started playing with a piece of your hair.

‘’How did you get into this mess?’’

‘’The guy wanted my beer,’’ he explained simply, softly.

‘’And you didn’t think you had enough?’’ Conrad was silent, so you glanced at him through the visor mirror. ‘’Why did you drink so much?’’

‘’You.’’

A frown formed between your eyebrows. ‘’Me?’’

He let go of your hair and leaned his head against the window. ‘’Why were you with that guy? Is…is he your new boyfriend?’’

No.

Brody was charming and sweet, but you didn’t see him as a potential boyfriend. You weren’t looking for a relationship at the moment. That would be stupid given you were starting college in September.

‘’That’s none of your business,’’ you said instead, brushing off his question.

After playing cat and mouse all summer the year prior — and some of autumn —, you and Conrad decided to call it quits in the spring. You never officially dated, just played around, but a part of you had been hopeful Conrad would change his mind and want to take it to the next level. Unfortunately, he was never yours to lose.

‘’I don’t like when you kiss someone else. You should be kissing me.’’

The atmosphere in the jeep became tense as Conrad's words hung in the air. Had he not been so intoxicated, he would never have said that. You could feel the weight of his emotions and the unresolved tension between the two of you.

Taking a deep breath, you tried to compose yourself, not wanting to lash your emotions at him. ‘’You dumped me, remember?’’ you reminded him, trying to ignore the sleeping pain hidden in a compartment of your heart.

‘’Seeing you with someone else... it drives me crazy,’’ he admitted, his voice filled with a mix of longing and vulnerability.

Twisting in your seat, you turned to face Conrad.

Conrad and his stupid temper. Had he not gotten into a dumb fight over a beer, the side of your face wouldn’t be in pulsing pain. You also would not be sitting in his jeep with him.

Without saying anything, he reached for your face, gently brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. ‘’I’m sorry.’’

Before you could say anything, the driver side’s door opened, snapping you and Conrad from your moment.

‘’I found him!’’ Jeremiah announced, getting in while Steven did the same, complaining about having to sit in the backseat and having not enough room for his legs. 

—

All and more taglist: @spiokybirdstarfish @kenqki @liidiaaag @hawkegfs  @gillybear17  @areaderinlove @acornacreacure @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @rosie-cameron @Caxddce @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade  @hi-bored-as-fcuk-rn  @lovelyy-moonlight @mellabella101 @vxnity713  @marzipaanz  @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart  @xyzstar  @graceberman3  @Heartsforneteyamsully

[nurse-floyd]

Grounded

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x reader

Anon Request: “hey there, i felt rly represented by your autistic!reader x daniel and was wondering if i’d be able to request something myself, if you’d be up for it? i get really overwhelmed easily, i get upset super easily too, it’s honestly embarrassing. i feel like daniel would be good at reassurance, and would cuddle to help out and keep me calm. do you think you’d be able to write anything like that?”

Warnings: mentions of autism/ panic attacks/ anxiety. This is my own interpretation and experience with autism/ being ND so it may vary from others. This story is fiction and meant to be enjoyed xoxo

You walked hand in hand through the paddock entrance with Daniel by your side. Media day was always hectic and overwhelming; the noise, the flashing lights, and the sheer volume of media and fans were overwhelming. You knew it would be busy, but the reality of it was just too much for you that day, your senses already wrecked from the lack of sleep due to all the traveling. The chaos sent anyone’s senses into overdrive. You tried to focus on Daniel’s presence, his hand gripping yours tightly, but with the sheer amount of noise and activity around you, it was difficult to concentrate.

You tried to stay calm, reminding yourself that you were there for Daniel, hoping that would be enough for you to push through the discomfort. But as the noise built and the crowd closed in, it became harder to focus. The world felt smaller, your heart rate quickened, and your breathing became shallow as the anxiety threatened to overwhelm you completely. You hated feeling like this, hated not feeling normal, and hated feeling like you were drawing attention to yourself.

Daniel had always been understanding; he was patient and kind and always knew when things were becoming too much for you, sometimes even before you did. As the media frenzy closed in, you felt the familiar signs of overload creeping in.

Daniel noticed immediately. His grip tightened around your hand as he gave it a reassuring squeeze. He leaned in closer to your body, his voice low in your ear. “You doing okay?” he asked, concern evident in his tone.

You shook your head, unable to voice your needs with the world feeling like it was closing in around you. The flashes from the cameras felt like they were burning your eyes, and you instinctively pulled your jacket over your eyes to block out some of the world. The anxiety was too strong, and the words got caught in your throat. But Daniel understood without you having to say anything. His arms moved around your shoulders as he guided you quickly towards a quieter corner of the paddock, waving and thanking the media as he led you away.

He found a relatively calm area near the team’s garage, away from the worst of the noise and chaos. He sat you down and knelt at your level, his expression full of nothing but concern. “Can I touch you?” he asked. You nodded, and you felt his hand gently cup your face. "Just breathe," he said gently, his hands resting on your shoulders, grounding you. "In and out, nice and slow. Just focus on me.”

You met his soft brown eyes, focusing on his voice as you followed his instructions and took in a deep, shaky breath, mirroring his. The world started to blur into the background as you concentrated on your breathing and the reassuring weight of his hands.

"It's alright, take your time," he continued, his eyes never leaving yours. There was no judgment in his gaze, only understanding and patience. "I'm here with you. Just focus on me. You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he said, his voice full of warmth and pride. “I’m so proud of you.”

His words of comfort brought a lump to your throat, a tear threatening to spill over. You hated feeling like this, hated the overwhelm and embarrassment that came after, but Daniel’s support and understanding helped you feel less alone. He didn’t see you as a burden or annoying; he accepted you for you.

Gradually, the tightness in your chest started to ease, and the sensory overload subsided a little. Daniel had always been so good at knowing exactly what you needed in those moments, never making you feel embarrassed or ashamed for being overwhelmed. He pulled you into a gentle hug, his arms wrapping around you securely. You relaxed into the embrace, feeling the anxiety melt away.

"Thank you," you whispered into his chest, your voice barely audible. It was hard to express just how much his support meant to you, but you hoped he could feel it in the way you held onto him.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with warmth. "You don't have to thank me," he replied with a gentle smile. "I'm always here for you, no matter what."

You stayed in his arms for a few moments longer, the feeling helping to ground and regulate you a little more.

"Ready to give this another go?" he asked.

You were unsure but nodded. With his support, you knew you were safe no matter what happened, and he would always be there to help you navigate it all.

[presleyslilbaby]

~Did You Take My Advice?~

(Vince Everett X Reader)

(Huge thanks to @atleastpleasetelephone for taking the time to proof read this for me!)

(TW: P in V sex, hair pulling, name calling, rough sex, Daddy used in a sexual way, breeding kink, spanking, slight angst?)

Vince is so caught up in making money, he fails to take Reader’s advice on loving her better.

Money. It was all about the money, to Vince. Nothing really mattered that much, not even his Girl. All that was relevant was the cold hard cash that he earned. Y/n watched on as he counted this week’s earnings, a frown tugging at her lips as he muttered to himself. “…I bought a new dress today.” She says, hoping to gain his attention. “Uh-huh…How much was it?” He asks, only interested in price. Of course. Shaking her head, she pulls her knees up to her chest on the bed, resting her cheek on her arm. “…I thought you would like it on me.” She tries again. “Mhm…” Vince merely hums. ’This is hopeless…’ Y/n thought to herself, feeling the rift between the two of them. It was such a shame. “If you want my advice, Vince,” She started, looking over at him again. “You should stop loving your money more than me.” “That’s nice…” Finally deciding that there was no point in trying to converse with him, she laid herself down, drawing the blanket over her form as she turned her back to face towards him, giving up.

A few minutes had passed by in relative silence, the only sound in the room being that of Vince’s cash shuffling in his hands. “There,” He sighed happily, setting down the last bill. “All done. A nice, couple hundred bucks’s all I need to make me happy. What were you sayin’, Darlin’?” Seeing that she was facing away from him, and so silently no less, his brows knitted together in confusion. “Darlin’? Y/n…?” He reached a hand out to graze his fingers along her arm, softly frowning as he realised the mistake he’s made. “Baby, I’m sorry I wasn’t really paying attention to ya’. Truly…I know you ain’t sleepin’.” But Y/n didn’t want to face him. She was hurt, disappointed. She always figured that having a relationship with someone like Vince would be complicated, but the bouts of loneliness she felt were too much at times for her to properly handle. Making an important decision, he cast his money aside, lowering himself to lay behind her, draping an arm over her waist. “C’mon, Honey…I’m tryin’ now…You’re really gonna ignore me…?” “Why shouldn’t I…? You ignore me…” She muttered beneath her breath, still deeply hurt by his behaviour. “I know…I said I was sorry, Y/n. Don’t you believe me?” He softly inquired, slowly rubbing her side up and down, squeezing her hip lightly. It’s silent on her end. She didn’t even know how to answer his question.

Vince hummed quietly, pressing closer against her back, moving her hair aside to begin urging his lips all over her neck in gentle, loving kisses. “I know I’m not the best,” He admitted. “But I really do love you. So very much, Baby.” As she lay there, he continued to pepper kisses over the sensitive skin of her neck, his large hand beginning to wander over her body. “I love you…Mmm…I fuckin’ love you…” He murmured sweetly against her neck, dragging his hand up her stomach, further still until he was cupping her breast, giving it a squeeze. “Love your personality…Your beauty…The way your body feels beneath mine…” Hearing his whispers grow passionate and husky, Y/n couldn’t help but to draw her lower lip between her teeth, unable to resist the way he spoke of her. “Do you want to be touched?”

That was it. She just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Yeah…Touch me, Vinnie…” She whispered in return, pressing back against his body, grinding her ass against his crotch. “Good Girl.” He nipped at her earlobe, his breath grazing her skin, fanning across her hair. His hand worked her nightgown upwards, pulling it over her head with a grunt of appreciation, pulling her atop his body, back against his chest. “Whose tits are these?” Vince questioned, cupping her perfect globes, thumbing at her hardening nipples. “Yours…” She replied, biting her lip yet again in want. “Mhm. And look at this,” He removed a hand to trail down her body, using a finger to lift the thin little string of her thong, letting it go to snap against her hip. “Don’t you know any better? Going out all day wearin’ this skimpy li’l thing. Someone could’ve seen it. That would’ve pissed Daddy off. Do you know why?” He nipped at her earlobe once more, this time just that little bit harder. “Because this pretty li’l pussy is mine, Y/n. You’re mine. I should punish you.” “Oh, don’t punish me, Daddy-“ Y/n tried to plead, though really, she wanted him to. “Shush. I get to say what goes. And because of this little stunt you pulled without me knowing, you’re gettin’ punished.” He growled, pushing her off his body and onto her stomach, though gently.

“Ass up in the air.” Vince demanded sternly, watching as she obeyed without any hesitation nor complaint. Without warning, he allowed his hand to come down hard on her ass, the slap echoing in the room, paired with the sound of her yelp. “Naughty li’l thing. Didn’t even tell me what you were wearin’ ‘neath your clothes today.” He spanked her again, rubbing over the stinging mark of his handprint. “‘M sorry, Daddy…Should’a told you…” Y/n apologised. “Damn right you should be sorry.” He growled yet again, whipping his hand down on her ass for a third time. “Ya’ could’a taken care of me like a good li’l slut earlier. But you went and decided not to tell me, and now I have to get rough with you. Ya’ gonna do it again?” “No…” “I can’t hear you.” He hissed, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling it back to expose her throat. “No, Daddy. I won’t do it again. “Mhm. Now, are you going to take my cock?” “Yes, Daddy.” The sound of his belt buckle unhooking from the leather filled the room, his hands deftly working to remove his trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping the fabric. He pulled his shirt overhead, tossing it away with a swish of the material, landing on the floor soon to be joined by his trousers. Having been wearing no underwear, Vince’s cock eagerly sprung out, already with pre-cum beading at the reddening tip. Resting on his knees behind Y/n, he lined himself up at her entrance after ripping off her thong, one hand pressing against her back.

“Fuck…You’re so goddamn tight…” He groaned out in appreciation as he sunk deep into her wet depths, bottoming out in what seemed like no time. She buries her face into her pillow, gripping the sheets beneath her tightly. It wasn’t too long after that he began to steadily thrust into her, taking his time working her just right. Reaching up to grab her hair once again, he pulled it all back as he sped up his pace, all before he was pounding into her. “Take it…Fuck, you better take it good…” Grunted Vince, angling her hips just right to be able to find that sweet spot of hers, taking a few sloppy tries until finally finding it. “Oh, Vince!” Y/n cries out in pleasure, arching her back. He swatted her ass in punishment, using that free hand to then grasp her hip in a bruising hold. “I thought I told you to call me Daddy, slut.” He gruffly reminded her, pounding harder into her pussy, feeling her clench desperately around his thick shaft. “Y-Yes, Daddy! Oohhhh, yes! R-Right there! Harder!” With her desperate plea, Vince had tilted his head back, letting out a low groan. “Ya’ want it harder?” He echoed. “You always want it hard…And I always give it to you…” He let go of her hair, instead, practically hugging her hips to push her as far back as he possibly could, wanting to keep inside her at all costs. “Mmm, you feel so goddamn good, squeezin’ my cock like that- Shit-“ Y/n continued to moan and writhe beneath him, just barely registering the words that he had been speaking. Sweat poured out of every crevice of her body, hair sticking to her forehead and stuck in the corners of her mouth by the slight drool that had been collecting.

“Gonna breed you, Y/n…Gonna give you a baby…You like that?” He grunted in her ear, panting all the while. She nodded her head rapidly, arching her back for what seemed like the millionth time that night. “Yeah? You want Daddy to breed you?” He emphasised his words with a deep, hard thrust, hearing the erotic sounds of her pleasured cries. “Fuck, Daddy-!” Y/n gasps out, feeling her insides twisting in a white hot coil, her orgasm rapidly approaching. “Oh, yeah…Gonna cum, Baby…Gonna fill you up…” Vince panted, feeling his own release building. She had came, her climax messy and fulfilling, her body convulsing with the force. He followed not long after, his hips stuttering as his cum spilled deep into her. “There-! There…Hahh…” Vince rested himself against her sweaty back, pressing a tired kiss to her shoulder. “…Did you take my advice, Vinnie…?” Y/n asks with a slight smile, feeling a lot better than she had earlier. He chuckled, kissing her shoulder tenderly yet again. “I did…I’m so sorry for what I’ve done…I know I shouldn’t ignore you like that…” “That’s okay…You made it up to me.” She assured. "You feeling okay? Not hurt, are you...?" He worried over her, running his fingers through her damp hair. "Mhm, I'm fine. I'll probably be a bit sore tomorrow, but...It's all worth it." "That's good. You looked like you were really enjoying your punishment." Vince grinned teasingly, rubbing her back in slow, comforting circles. "Oh, hush." Y/n playfully rolled her eyes, giggling softly. "Maybe I did enjoy it, Vinnie. But did you enjoy paying attention to me for once?" She asked. "More than anything." He replied without hesitation, nuzzling his face in the crook of her neck. "I shouldn't ever ignore you...Never...And as much as I love my money, I could never love it as much as I love you, Y/n." "I love you too..." And that was enough for her.

[purplemagehawke]

still driving me wild how laslow was just casually saying "i like festivals :) there's so many people and lights :)" and xander was immediately like "do you want to dance? because i will use my royal power and influence to arrange a stage for you if that's what you want"

[heich0e]

"you can't eat blueberries for dinner."

the berry pinched between your thumb and forefinger pauses just at the threshold of your parted lips, your eyes flickering up to the man before you who watches you with his hands on his hips. you hold eye contact as you pop it into your mouth, something almost smug in the deliberate maintenance of his stare.

"god gave me free will and a chequing account, so actually i can do whatever i want."

rintarou doesn't find this funny–he does actually, but he refuses to give you the satisfaction of knowing that–and his expression stays passive as he watches you pop another little blue fruit into your waiting mouth. he continues to stare, and you continue to eat (ignoring him) until finally he sighs and shuffles away.

you have very little time to appreciate your victory before you hear a racket coming from the kitchen.

you wouldn't consider yourself a particularly intrusive person, by nature. you're generally happy to live and let live, especially when it comes to your longterm, live-in boyfriend: oftentimes it's better not knowing what suna's up to, for your own sanity. but your nosiness, and his noisiness, soon gets the better of you, and you shuffle over to the kitchen with your little bowl of blueberries in tow.

"what are you doing?" you ask, watching as rintarou rifles through the refrigerator in a crouch. there's something very primitive about his stance, hunter-gatherer even–though you know enough about him to know that were he a hunter-gatherer he'd be unlikely to survive a winter.

suna rises from his stoop with a strange assortment of ingredients in his arms, none of which really go together, and he looks at you proudly.

"i'm making you dinner."

you scrunch up your nose.

"uhhhhh-" you draw out the noise as your brain struggles for a proper response. "i'm not hungry."

he might even have believed you, if you hadn't popped a handful of blueberries into your mouth just after saying it.

rintarou drops his armful of ingredients onto the counter, looking at you pointedly.

"you can't eat blueberries for dinner," he repeats his earlier point firmly.

"why not?" you parry petulantly.

"blueberries aren't a meal. they're a fruit."

"they have antioxidants. they're anti-aging."

suna pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out a long, aggrieved breath. "you're the most pro-aging thing in my life."

you waggle a finger at him accusatorially. "don't blame me for your grey hairs. if anything blame atsumu–he beat me to you by like three years."

rintarou places his palms flat on the counter and leans towards you on the other side. "baby, let me make you dinner."

he's changed his tactic now, playing a different angle in his effort to persuade you. he's softened his tone, lets his lashes flutter in a demure blink, his lower lip pouts slightly. in any other argument it may have been enough to sway you.

there's just one problem:

suna rintarou cannot cook to save his own life.

this is not to say that rintarou can't feed himself, or relies on you to take care of him in that regard. suna's happy to eat whatever he manages to scrape (or singe) together for his own consumption, and does it without complaint. it's just that, in all the time the two of you've been together, you can count on your own ten fingers the number of times he's made a meal that could be considered edible (and that's under relatively lenient terms.)

it really only becomes an issue at times like these.

"rin," you start, choosing your words very carefully, "i'm really not that hungry."

"it's the first night all week you've been home in time for dinner," he argues, "shouldn't you eat a real meal?"

he's not necessarily wrong–much to your eternal dismay. you've been working late all week, and it's the first evening you've made it home while the sun is still up, let alone at an hour that could be considered a normal meal-time. but as a result of your long work days, you're left with no energy to even think about what you might want to eat, let alone prepare something. even just ordering takeout seems too involved for the meagre amount of brainpower you have.

ergo, blueberries.

"i'm too tired," you say, your shoulders slumping slightly. you set your (mostly eaten) bowl of blueberries down on the countertop in front of you.

suna watches your body language shift, sees the visible deflation of your frame. he approaches you, slinking up alongside and pressing himself into you, an arm snaking around your waist. it's comforting, protective even. it makes you feel nice.

suna tugs you into him a little bit further, and you don't have the energy (or the desire) to fight him off. you let him pull you into his arms, burrowing your face in the front of his t-shirt, and you feel his palms brushing comfortingly along your back.

"long week?" he murmurs into the top of your hair after a moment of letting him hold you. you nod as much as you can, squished against his chest. his hands stop patting along your spine, and (mortifyingly) you let out an involuntary sound of displeasure, he chuckles lightly and then resumes the motions, swaying you gently while he's at it.

it's kind of nice, just letting him hold you like that.

you might even call it romantic if you could ever consider yourself so sentimental.

emphasis on might though, because your stomach chooses that exact moment to rumble, shattering any semblance of ambiance that may have existed.

rintarou laughs, really laughs, when it happens. it's the kind of laugh where you know if you were to look at him his teeth would be bared and his eyes would be crinkling, his head tipped back in his mirth. but you don't look up at him, instead you groan and press your face even further into his chest to hide your shame.

suna's arms wrap around your waist, squeezing you tightly before hoisting you up–still laughing as he plunks you down onto the kitchen counter right between his forgotten ingredients and your abandoned blueberries, slotting himself between your legs.

he takes your chin in his hand and tilts your face up to meet his, your nose scrunched up in embarrassed indignity. he kisses your cheek, but he's grinning, so you mostly just feel the press of his teeth.

"at least one part of you is honest," he teases.

you can't really even argue with him, given the circumstances.

suna steps away for a moment, reaching up to the top of the refrigerator and snatching the stack of takeout menus to nagano's finest(-ish) eating establishments (at least within 6 blocks) that the two of you have collected over the years. he fans them out between his fingers and totes them over to you, slipping back between your thighs and holding them up in front of your nose.

"pick one," he says.

"rin, i'm too tired to-"

"just pick a menu and i'll do the rest," he assures you gently. "i'll order, pick up, and hand deliver it right to you on that couch,"–he nods his head over your shoulder in the direction of your living room–"all you have to do is pick one."

you peer at him for a moment, a little shocked–a little moved–by his thoughtfulness.

you place a hand over his and gently lower the fan of takeout menus between you, craning up to press your mouth to his. he seems a little bit surprised by the gesture, but happily reciprocates, parting his lips against your own and tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

you pull away before anything gets too heated, plucking a menu at random from his hand.

"this one," you say, clearing your throat and looking away coyly, a heat prickling through your cheeks.

rintarou laughs lightly, taking the menu you've chosen with a nod. he kisses your cheek again.

"whatever you want," he agrees, turning the menu over to see which restaurant you've chosen for your evening's meal.

"you're being really nice to me," you say to him quietly, appreciatively, as close to proper thanks as the two of you usually ever get.

he lifts his gaze from the menu to peek at you.

"duh," he replies, "i love you."

the heat in your cheeks intensifies, and you can't blame the feeling in your stomach on a pang of hunger.

you can't help but laugh at how plainly he says it.

"besides," he goes on to add, setting the menu down under his palm on the kitchen counter, dipping down until the two of you are nose to nose and your lips are almost brushing, "i'm getting dinner, so that means you're responsible for dessert."

[bts-hyperfixation]

Outside of the Fox

Chapter 26 of 30

1860 words

Y/N longs for a new life when the one she’d been living comes to an abrupt stop. Without much thought to those she is leaving behind, the little fox packs a backpack and disappears. She stumbles across the shelter and makes an interim home for herself while she works out exactly what she wants from her second chance.

Last

Other than a few more patches of turbulence, and some very distracting heavy petting, you make it through your first flight relatively unscathed. Being in first class allows you to disembark quickly and make it through immigration before the majority even have a chance to join the queue. At baggage Yoongi and Hobi grab a cart and usher the rest of you out of the door. Namjoon looks uncomfortable at the thought of not helping with the bags but Jungkook clinging to his arm doesn't really allow him to be of much use anyway.

A private transfer is waiting for you all outside and you pile into the very back with Namjoon and Jungkook. Jungkook's leg bounces with anticipation, you can't help reaching out to hold him still. He looks up at you sheepishly, smiling shyly. Now it's finally down to just the pack he is starting to calm down, it seems mostly just his excitement for the vacation is left. 

Namjoon on the other hand seems to be becoming more and more anxious the longer the trip goes on, a problem you don't think is going to resolve itself anytime soon. 

Everyone else seems to be more than ready to get to the beach. Jimin and Taehyung are talking excitedly over Jin about what they want to do when they get to the villa. The doctor looks between the two of them with mild fascination on his face, like he is conducting research more than actively taking part in a conversation. And you can hear Yoongi's laughter before you see him and Hobi come around the corner.

It looks like Hoseok had offered to push the cart by himself, only for the cart to be a little wonky. It turns and runs away from him frequently, leaving Hobi to look more than a little panicked each time. Yoongi just giggles and lets it happen, making you think that perhaps he had offered more assistance before.

Eventually, he does manage to straighten the course long enough to get the cart close to the van, giving up about 10 feet out. Namjoon clambers out of the back and rushes over to help with the luggage. No one misses the glare he gives Yoongi.

"Oh loosen up Joonie." The Jackal sighs, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Namjoon on his cheek.

The bear just grumbles under his breath and continues to haul bags from the cart and into the trunk. It's a tight fit but he manages to squish them all in through spite alone. Yoongi slides into the driver's seat, Namjoon taking the passenger side, leaving Hobi to squish into the back with you and Kookie. 

Jungkook slides a little closer to you to allow more room for the human and leans his head on your shoulder.

"You smell different." He comments, burying his nose into your neck.

"Probably just the aeroplane air." You shrug not really thinking about it.

But Jungkook persists, his nose pressing deeper into your skin. He sniffs along your jaw, down your neck, all the way to your collarbones. That's where he lingers the longest. His tongue flicks out as he reaches your cleavage and you push him away giggling, your cheeks all of a sudden rather warm. 

"It's Jin." He states, eyes fixed on yours.

"What's me?" The doctor says testing in his chair.

"The thing that smells different... Y/N reeks of Jin."

"Well, they did just sit next to each other for hours." Jimin points out.

"That's not it... If that was it then Hobi would stink of Taehyung and he doesn't..." Jungkook twists his head.

You and Jin make eye contact waiting to see what conclusion the Bunny draws, hoping he might just drop it. But of course, he doesn't, and now the whole van is paying attention, even Yoongi glances occasionally in the rearview, although the amusement in his eyes suggests he already knows why you smell so strongly of Jin. 

"We... cuddled." You supply 

"Just cuddled?" Hoseok raises his brow.

"Why does it matter?" Jin interrupts.

"I don't suppose it does... Although Taehyungie is looking rather put out." Hoseok laughs, although there is an air of jealousy in his own tone. 

The panda looks less than impressed for having been called out and turns away from the group, pouting to himself. Jimin takes pity and drops the topic, trying to distract Tae instead and Jin seems content to remove himself too. 

Jungkook seems to make it his mission for the remainder of the car ride to make you smell more like him, running his hands across your waist, and kissing all along your throat. Ever since he kissed you for the first time, it seemed like he couldn't get enough of touching you. It also seemed like he had become far more comfortable with Taehyung and Hoseok too, you had caught him lusting after the pair on more than one occasion, although he hadn't quite worked up the confidence to do anything about it yet. 

The villa you pull up outside of has you do a double take. It's breathtakingly stunning. The grounds are lush, green, and well-manicured. The pool is large, with a jacuzzi section and a slide. The patio is littered with lounge chairs, with a BBQ and bar in the corner. You could probably spend an hour out here just exploring.

But Jimin grabs your attention as he throws open the front door and gasps. 

You follow him along to see what the excitement is about. Taehyung grins to himself as he watches you all take in the humungous living space. The villa puts your humble cottage to shame. A cinema screen takes up the far wall with beanbags and blankets layout before it. The kitchen is to die for and you can already see the way it has garnered Yoongi's gaze. 

Jimin takes the stairs two at a time, dragging Jungkookie with him in a rush to pick their own rooms. 

"Hey! Wait for me," Taehyung yells as he runs after the pair. 

Jin spots a hallway off to the side and takes it as his opportunity to wander off, leaving you with Namjoon.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You ask.

"Talk about what?" He mumbles.

"Why your mood is so sour." 

He had the sense to look a little bit guilty about his attitude. It's hard to miss the way he has retreated in on himself. He avoids your eyes, pretending to take in the new surroundings. You take his hand and lead him away from the living room and out onto the back patio. 

The back is almost more stunning than the front. A wondrous flower garden with plenty of places to get lost in. Namjoon seems to get a little caught up in the new environment. He takes you along with him as he admires different flowers. You aren't sure if he is genuinely enamoured with the place, or if he is just trying to avoid talking to you about his real issues. 

Eventually, you come across a bench and pull him to sit down with you. You sit side by side for a little while, watching as a butterfly flits past. 

"I don't want to ruin everyone's vacation." Namjoon sighs eventually.

"Then don't." You shrug.

"I just can't help but feel like I'm not doing enough for everyone. I could never have afforded anything like this for them." He leans his elbows on his knees and places his face in his hands. 

You reach across his shoulders to comfort him and he leans slightly into the embrace.

"Do you really think anyone cares that you aren't the one who paid for this trip?" You ask him.

"I care." He growls

"Namjoon, you need to get over this. It was one thing when you were the only one catering to a pack of four... But there are so many more of us now, it's unreasonable for you to think you should be the only one contributing anymore." The bear huffs defeated, it's like he knows you're right but he just can't let go. You hear him sniffle and your heart breaks for him. You turn yourself more into him, holding him tighter. His hands come away from his face and he pulls you into his lap. His face buries into the crook of your neck and he holds you for a while. 

He holds you until you are both sticky with sweat from the heat. The air around you two becomes unbearably humid by the time he lets you go just a little. He pulls back to look in your eyes, and you reach up to push the sweaty hair away from his forehead. 

"I'm still the pack leader. I want to do more for all of you." He whines in a petulant voice you've never heard from him before

"You do plenty." You point out, smoothing his hair down even more.

You play with the short strands, curling them around in your fingers.

"You provide so well for your pack Joonie. You put a roof over our heads, food in our stomachs, love in our hearts... You could never do more for us."

He takes in your words, blinking slowly.

"When... when you say love in our hearts. Do you mean that as a collective... or as an individual?" He asks

It's only then you realise what you might've admitted to. 

You think about it for a moment and he waits patiently for your answer.

"I mean it as both." You confirm. 

You can practically feel the way his mood shifts, his scent changing from acrid smoke to comforting warmth. 

"Could you... could you say it as an individual?" His expression turns shy.

"I love everything you do for your pack Joonie. I love how you protect us. and... I think I'm in love with you, just a little bit..." You say, suddenly going shy yourself. 

"I think I'm in love with you too, and I don't think I am the only one." He responds. 

You lean forward into his embrace and he kisses you softly once, and then twice, and then the kisses don't stop until you are both out of breath and you are panting in his lap. The sweat is dripping down your temples, the air sticky and gross, but neither of you pulls away regardless of how hot the world seems.

"Y/N-ah? Joon? Are you out here?" Jin calls through the bushes.

"Over here," Namjoon calls back.

He leans his forehead against yours and waits for Jin to stumble across the pair of you.

"Well, don't you two look cosy." Jin comments smiling at the pair of you. "And you look like you're feeling a bit better." 

He reaches out and ruffles Namjoon's hair. 

"The others sent me to find you, they want to play some game in the pool and apparently we need teams of four." He says.

Jin holds out his hand and helps you off of Namjoon's lap. You cringe when you feel how clammy your palm is in his. Suddenly, you could think of nothing more refreshing than a dip in the pool.

Next

Masterlist

Send me asks - doesn’t have to be fic related. Can be smutty, thirsty, fluffy, angsty, whatever you’re feeling regarding BTS. Can be literally anything doesn’t have to be BTS

[agirlwithdemonblood]

Breaking Free: Chapter 6- Dangerous Reunion

Pairings: AU! Mechanic Dean x Reader

Chapter Summary: After a heavy conversation with Dean and a request from John, Y/N finds herself in trouble.

Warnings: This chapter contains panic, domestic violence, anxiety, violence, abusive relationship,injuries read with caution.

Series Masterlist here!! & Main masterlist here!

-Three Weeks Later-

I woke up to a strange weight on my stomach. Opening my eyes, a smile naturally spread across my face as I glanced at Dean.

His arm was draped over me, his head nestled against my neck in a peaceful slumber. Checking the time, I frowned, realizing he was running late for work.

Leaning closer, I whispered, "Dean, wake up."

He groaned softly, snuggling closer. "Good morning, sweetheart."

His deep, sleepy voice melted me as I kissed his cheek. "You need to get up, your going to be late for work."

Dean smirked, sighing, "My dad's the boss. He won't fire me."

"But he won't be thrilled that on our first night living together, you slept in," I pointed out.

His smile faded, a troubled look crossing his face as he stared at the ceiling. Sitting up, I asked, "You haven't told him we moved in together?"

Dean sat up, taking my hand. "No. Why bother? He doesn't support us."

I sighed, worrying about Dean's relationship with his father. "Dean, I want you to have a good relationship with your dad."

"Our relationship is complicated, Y/N," he admitted, squeezing my hand. "It has nothing to do with you, or us."

Bullshit." I whispered.

I knew I was overreacting, but the thought that I might be ruining lives weighed heavily on me. All I wanted was for Dean to feel loved, especially since it was clear he wasn't getting that from his dad. Dean clearly looked up to him, and I hated that my presence seemed to prevent him from feeling that pride.

"Was the fight in the office the first fight you had about me, or was there another before?" I asked gently.

He sighed, wiping his face. "Before. The day I dropped off the car, after the Andrew incident."

I sighed heavily and buried my head in my hands. "What was the fight about?"

He sighed too, drawing closer and taking my hand in his. "Y/N... You really don't need to hear this. It's only going to make you feel worse."

Shaking my head, I met his gaze directly. "No, I need to know."

"Okay..." He hesitated before continuing. "It was because Andrew was supposed to interview my dad, but after the motel incident, we lost the opportunity. My dad was furious that I got involved in the drama between you and Andrew..."

I nodded slowly, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

Then, a memory flashed through my mind: our first date, when I noticed a cut on his lip and a bruise on his cheek. He hadn't had those injuries before he dropped off the car.

Memories flooded back—Dean's bruises on our first date. My heart raced. "Dean, those bruises… were they from your dad?"

He swallowed hard, his head bowing slightly. "Yeah."

My heart shattered as panic rushed within me. He had been hurt because of me, and that thought was unbearable, especially after what happened with Andrew.

"No, no... Sweetheart, please breathe," he urged gently.

Tears welled up in my eyes. "I-I can't believe I did this to you..."

His expression fell, pained. "You did nothing to me, sweetheart. It wasn't you. My dad and I have had our differences for a long time, and it's not the first time things have turned physical."

I wanted to hear him, to take in the words he was saying but all I could see was flashes from my past, every time Andrew told me it was my fault this was happening, now that Dean was the one getting hit, I believed it. It was my fault.

"Y-Yes, but for him to hit you… because of me… I can't…" I gasped for air, feeling like my chest was tightening, my ears ringing.

I collapsed to the floor, and Dean quickly followed, pulling me onto his lap. "Whoa, wait no, Y/N, breathe!"

I looked up into his eyes, seeing concern and pity, and I despised it. I hated feeling so reliant, like such a burden.

His hand moved soothingly up and down my back, his gaze locked onto mine as he took slow, deep breaths, silently urging me to follow suit. Without thinking, I mirrored his breathing, feeling the tension ease and the air flow back into my lungs.

He sighed with relief and then gently rested his chin on my head. "Sweetheart, I want you to know that it wasn't your fault. I wouldn't change a thing. Did I like that John hit me? No, but it's not the first time and won't be the last. It has nothing to do with you. He's just a jerk when he doesn't get his way."

I nodded, wiping my eyes. "I wish things were different for you. I wish he didn't hurt you."

Dean swallowed hard, his face becoming serious as he composed himself. When I looked into his eyes, I saw tears forming. "Dean?"

"This is the first time I've really talked about John... my dad hitting me. And it's the first time someone has cared enough to wish it was different. Usually, people just tell me to toughen up and deal with it, but they don't know about the hitting."

I held him tighter. "However you handle it, you're still a man. It's okay to be hurt by it. It's okay to hate him for it. It's okay to not be okay."

He nodded, kissing my head gratefully. "Thank you. Do you feel any better?"

"A little. I'm sorry I freaked out..."

He shook his head, helping me to stand, a reassuring smile on his face. "I understand, sweetheart. Fists, violence, abuse—it's a trigger. If it's happening to someone close to you, it can cause panic. Don't apologize... and thank you again, for what you said."

I kissed him gently and hugged him close. "Now you really should get ready before you get into trouble."

He winked, heading to the bathroom to dress. It only took a few minutes for him to get ready and grab his lunch before kissing me goodbye and leaving.

Alone, I sighed deeply. I did feel somewhat relieved, but I couldn't shake the discomfort of how violence seemed to be a common response in our town. Where had communication and understanding gone? Where was the compassion?

The day dragged on slowly. I cleaned the entire apartment and searched for jobs without any success. I updated my resume and watched TV, and it wasn't even evening yet. Dean wouldn't be off work for a few hours, and I knew I had to do something before I went stir-crazy being alone here.

I quickly got dressed and headed to my car. I figured I might as well pick up dinner or do some shopping—anything to pass the time. Just as I was about to start the car, my phone rang in the cup holder. I frowned at the unknown number flashing on the screen, but I answered it anyway.

"Hello?"

The voice hesitated, before speaking. "Hello.. Is this Y/N?"

I froze, recognizing the voice, and anxiety began to creep in. It was John.I tried to keep the shake out of my voice,

"Um, yeah, it's me. Is this John?"

"Yeah. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment. Can we meet up?"

"Uh, sure. Do you want me to come to the shop?"

There was a brief silence, making me even more nervous.

"No, I'd rather not involve Dean in this, and you know how he gets when he's protective."

"Got it... Okay, how about the coffee place around the corner?"

"Sounds good. See you in about 10 minutes."

I hunt up the phone and took a deep breath, wondering why John wanted to meet in person. Did Dean tell him we were living together? Was he going to confront me about something?

The uncertainty made me drive quickly, spotting him already seated inside the coffee shop. I put on my best poker face and walked inside, greeting him with a gentle smile. He returned the smile, but I could tell he was a little uneasy about this meeting as he motioned for me to sit across him from in the booth.

As I sat down, the air thickened with awkwardness, and my nerves began to rise.

"So, I just wanted to apologize for how I spoke to you the first time we met. I hope you understood where I was coming from," John started.

I nodded. "Yeah, and I'm sorry I haven't left Dean. I couldn't."

He raised his hand reassuringly. "No, don't. Dean told me about you guys moving in together this morning, and I'm happy for you guys. I don't get it, but I'm happy. But I do have a huge favour to ask."

I nodded for him to continue, my anxiety growing.

"Andrew has been ignoring my calls, but I finally got through to him when I mentioned that you were dating Dean," John explained.

My heart sank as fear gripped me.

"He said he'll agree to do the interview, the review, the news segment, but only if you're willing to talk to him. Just one conversation with him, for closure," John continued.

I froze. Why did Andrew want to talk to me? Did he actually want closure? Naturally, I wanted to refuse, to tell Andrew off. But here was Dean's father asking me for a favour. This could be my chance to prove I'm a good person.

"Now, I know that's a lot to ask, but—" John began, but I cut him off.

"I'll do it," I said firmly.

He looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah. You're right, it's good for your business, and this drama between me and Andrew has nothing to do with you. If talking to him is the only way to clear things up and help you out, then I'll do it."

John stood up, moved to my side of the booth, and pulled me into an unexpected hug. I laughed and hugged him back. It felt good to be appreciated, even though the thought of facing Andrew made my heart race.

After saying our goodbyes, I left the diner and pulled out my phone, dialing the familiar number that always made me cringe.

"Hello Y/N." Andrew spoke knowingly.

"Hi Andrew. I just finished talking to John. I'll talk to you if you give him the interview and the segment." I replied firmly.

"Okay, deal. Can you come by the house?" He questioned.

I hesitated, "Maybe it's better somewhere in public.." He sighed and I could feel the frustration rising.

"Y/N, your stuff is still here. Come talk, grab your stuff and you can go."

I hesitated for a moment. Being at his house with no witnesses wasn't a comforting thought. But John knew my where I was going. "Okay, I'll be there in 15."

I hung up and dialed John's number immediately. He picked up quickly.

"Hello?" John answered.

"Hey, it's Y/N. I'm on my way to Andrew's. Um, I hate to ask this, but can you try calling me in about an hour? And if I don't answer, can you come by the house? Or send help?" I requested urgently.

John sighed as he paused, finally realizing maybe I wasn't making everything up after all. "Yeah, for sure. I'm sorry I asked you to do this.. and please, don't tell Dean yet, he will be pissed."

"Don't apologize. I understand, I won't tell Dean. Just please call me in an hour," I pleaded.

"I will," John assured me before we hung up.

I ended the call and started my car, heading towards the familiar house that always filled me with anxiety.

I wasn't sure why Andrew had insisted on talking, or why he'd used John as a middleman, but I knew I had to do this for him. For Dean. For myself. I needed to get closure, to say goodbye to the pain of the past. To do something big for others, and myself.

As I pulled up, I stared at the house. It looked charming from the outside and no one would suspect the nightmares hidden behind those gray walls. But I knew. I knew the darkness that lived within.

The walk to the door felt endless, each step heavy with fear. When I finally knocked, time seemed to quicken.

Andrew greeted me with a smirk. "Y/N, come on in."

I managed a smile and entered, glancing around at the unchanged surroundings. My clothes were still in a hamper, as if time had stood still in this place. Did he even live here anymore?

Sitting down on the couch, I waited for Andrew to join me. He sat across from me, his expression unreadable. "How have you been?" he finally asked.

"I've been alright... How about you?"

He smirked, avoiding the question with an angry look. "So, I hear you're living with Dean now."

I nodded, feeling the tension rise. "Yeah, for a few weeks."

He sighed, a hint of frustration in his voice. "This is getting ridiculous, Y/N. You must know people are talking."

"Talking about what?"

"About you leaving a news reporter for a mechanic. It doesn't reflect well on you, or me for that fact."

I felt anger flare up inside me. "I don't care what people say. I'm happy."

He rolled his eyes. "Are you really? Happier than you were with us?"

"Andrew..."

"No, let's talk about this. Are you really happier now than when it was us? What did I do so wrong?" Andrew's voice was edged with disbelief.

I couldn't meet his eyes, gripping my fists tightly. "You hurt me."

He shook his head, "You know, your not innocent here. You always pushed me. We fight, is that enough to throw everything away?."

I stood up, the anger boiling over. "Yes! It was enough because you beat me until your fists were covered in my blood, and then you made me believe it never happened. You made everyone think I was worthless and a liar, and that it was my fault. I'm glad I left."

He scoffed, advancing towards me. "I have much more at stake than you do, Y/N. What do you have? A family that barely acknowledges you? No friends? A mechanic as a boyfriend? I moved here hoping to build a future with you. If you slander my name, it could destroy my career. Do you not understand that?"

I lowered my head as fear flowed through me at his distance, "I understand, but I haven't gone around spreading lies about you. I've only defended myself when others accused me. No offense, Andrew, but I don't care enough about you to ruin your career."

He rolled his eyes and sat down, burying his head in his hands, pretending to be upset. This was his tactic after every major argument—break down, apologize, beg for forgiveness, make me believe it was my fault. But this time, it wouldn't work.

"Why did you want to talk to me?" I asked, my voice steadier now.

"Because I want you back. I want the rumours, the fights, the drama to stop. You and I have a history. Can't you just come back home?"

I shook my head, staring at the floor. "This isn't my home. Dean is my home. You messed up. You hurt me. You tried to destroy my life. I'm not coming back."

He looked at me, his expression hardening. "Never?"

"Never."

He nodded, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants. "Fine. Your stuff is still upstairs. Let's go get it, and I'll help you load it into your car."

I nodded cautiously and followed Andrew upstairs to our old room. He moved with intentional slowness, his behavior unsettling. Deep down, I sensed danger, but I was too overwhelmed to act on it.

Checking the time, I realized John would call in about 15 minutes. I held onto the hope that I would be safe then.

But Andrew's anger was overflowing, he was disgusted by the fact that I would choose Dean over him, he couldn't understand what he did wrong, or he didn't care.

Once we got into the bedroom, he turned towards me, a sinister grin on his face. "I've changed my deal. I'll do the segment and the interview only if you come home to me."

I froze as the anger bubbled, "That wasn't the deal. You said if I came to talk to you."

He smirked and rolled his eyes, "Yeah, becuase I needed you to come here. Do we have a deal or not?"

I didn't even hesitate, there was no way this was happening. "Absolutely not, this is done."

Turning to walk away, fear rose as I felt his hand gripping my arm tightly, "Our conversation isn't fucking done, do not walk away from me."

"Andrew, let go of me!" I shouted, horror filling my body as he pulled me closer, hand closing around my throat, squeezing the sides tightly.

I panicked and acted fast, raising my knee to kick him before I rushed out of the bedroom as fast as my feet would take me.

I reached the top of the stairs when I felt a force push me from behind. Time seemed to slow as I tumbled down the stairs, landing with a painful thud at the bottom.

Andrew stood at the top, looking down at me with a cruel grin. I struggled to move, feeling intense pain throughout my body. My legs were numb, my head throbbed, and the taste of blood filled my mouth. I feared I had broken my entire body.

My phone rang, and I strained to reach it, but Andrew was quicker. He descended the stairs, snatching it away and covering my mouth to keep me quiet. He answered the call with a falsely calm attitude.

"Hello, John. Yeah, everything's fine. Y/N is just in the bathroom. Oh, and tell Dean that Y/N decided to come back to me. I'll definitely be doing your interview. Talk later, bye."

Tears streamed down my face as Andrew ended the call. I rested my head back, praying desperately that John wouldn't believe Andrew's lies, that he would sense something was terribly wrong.

Please, I pleaded silently, please see through this. Please, John, save me.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Chapter 7 coming soon stay tuned!

Like, comment, and reblog, feedback is my fuel 💕

[gigifluidcat]

Writing/Animation prompt I wrote out at 5-6am:

The film starts out with a lovely artstyle reminiscent of Classic Disney. Smooth frames with bright colors, with talking objects and animals. Including a pet Golden Retriever the main character keeps on their side during their quests. It is here that they experience a lively imagination of fantasy. Slaying dragons, saving princesses, seeing fairies, the works.

But as time passes, the main character grows up. And while excited, it was hard to notice the lower frames of the animation quality. Sure, it wasn't liquid smooth, but it still looked relatively fine enough for plenty of life. The character continues their quests, the objects and dog still talk.

Many minutes come by, and one would start to notice the less and less frames the film would have for the animation. It looks like something off the Internet now, as the character enters teenage years. They reinvent their fantasy by incorporating mature and edgy stuff into it (Like drugs, blood, and War.), and for a while it worked.

For a while anyway. Even with all the exciting "mature" stuff, the objects no longer talk. Though their dog does, and even guides them on their journeys through teenagehood.

But eventually, that dies out too. That one hope, all forms of fantasy fades away as the animation gets even worse. To the point of it looking like a sitcom. Life, but less about happiness and more about keeping you alive. Much like the animators' work. Their fantasy world is gone. Completely. Only in a house that vaguely resembles that world. The objects don't even have facial expressions at all. Even the artifacts and posters on the wall from teenagehood are deteriorating. They look at the window outside your house, only seeing a cloud of putrid smoke and faint scenes of destruction.

And yet, going back inside there is one hope left. One glimmer and memory of their whole life: Their dog. Which still talks. Though he himself is getting older and more frail. After a few more minutes of conversation, he eventually collapses to the ground. As his heartbeat slows down at an ironically fast pace, he begins to speak his final words to them. Afterwards, his head falls into their hand, gone. Disappeared. His body even disintegrating in their arms.

Nothing then, was the same. As we near the end of the film, things still changed. Even the style, the adult animation style, was being made worse and worse to the point where they forget to move certain body parts. Until they couldn't even blink anymore. They're just merely a drawing that speaks in a setting and nothing more. The budget gets lower, there are no colors now, the animator forgets to had integral features to their design.

The background is blank, nothing is there. The character that the animator had drawn all this time, is just a poorly drawn headshot. Can't even talk, blink, or breathe. It was just there. For the last 5 minutes of the film, it just stood there. Staring back at you, as the lines get thinner. The character looks at you one last time, front facing. Almost begging for the animator to not go to the last frame. But they do anyway, and now it's just blank.

Literally nothing there. No description whatsoever. The film ends.

A degradation of a book that represents the death of childhood, the fatigue of adulthood, and the loss of innocence and life.

[perhaps-in-anotherdream]

[CN] Victor’s Cold Winter Date (Eng Translation)

⌚Warning⌚ This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 凛冬之约, that is yet to be released on the global server! ♡

[Translation under the cut]

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

【Subbed Video】

[anika’s notes]: I do very very very highly recommend to watch the video for full immersion + absolute god-level voice acting + the gorgeous music pieces!!! ༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽

—

【Prologue】

I behold  My homeland disappear in the daylight, and emerge in the night.  I behold  The everlasting power engrain within the vast blood of my people.  I behold  A snow-white rose bloom in the winter,   And I behold as it withers in the winter – each petal sailing across the ocean,  To a kingdom no one can reach. 

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 1】

As the night gradually deepens, the heavy curtains in front of the window are drawn by the attendants, veiling the silvery, meandering moonlight. 

I take a deep breath and push open the doors to the royal bedchamber engraved with a luxurious imperial coat of arms. 

Inside the bedchamber, my newly wedded husband, King Victor, is fast asleep. 

Not long ago, at the behest of my father, Duke William, I was betrothed to Victor.  

Regrettably, before the ceremony could be held, my parents died of ailing health. 

However, the wedding was not delayed due to the unexpected tragedy, and the ceremony proceeded as scheduled, with the Church as witness. 

After all, to those people, what mattered the most was not the protagonists of the wedding, but the wedding ceremony itself. 

–– That’s right, it’s not just me; even the king, Victor, is not held with significance in their eyes. 

After all, it’s known to everyone in the capital that the royal family’s influence is eroding with each passing year. And since Victor succeeded to the throne, he remains in a coma all year round and is merely a puppet in the hands of the Church and nothing more. 

The elusive fragrance of beeswax pervades the air in the room. I step on the soft woolen carpet and draw closer to the bedside. [1] 

Lately, the capital has been shrouded in a haze of doubts and suspicion regarding the disappearance cases, and it was not the appropriate time for grandeur. Therefore, after the hasty wedding, I was ushered into the imperial palace. 

And tonight marks the third night I’m spending alongside His Majesty, the King, who’s been in a state of perennial coma. 

Victor is still in a deep slumber. 

The light from a few candles illuminates one side of his profound features, while the lingering shadows dance across his face as if with fondness. 

Throughout the generations, the kings have always been in robust health. But during Victor’s reign, his health has been continuously plagued with illness. 

It seems even the gods cannot bear to be too cruel to him. His illness has only brought a touch of frailty but has not marred his looks. 

I inhale softly and sit on the edge of the bed, propping my chin up as I gaze at Victor in his slumber. 

MC: ...why are you still sleeping? 

I’ve already started to grow accustomed to this— the bedchamber echoing only my own whispered monologues. 

MC: I thought the Church was so wary of you because you had some secrets that were unknown to the outsiders.

MC: Now it seems your biggest secret is that you were born this good-looking. 

I crack a joke to myself, which also lightens my mood considerably. 

MC: When I think about it this way, being married to you is far better than being forced by the Church to marry one of those evil, rotten old men. 

In addition, within the palace, at least, there are no hypocritical relatives and those ever-watchful eyes— 

I have enough space to contemplate my plan for revenge. 

MC: Revenge... revenge...  MC: But how can I go about taking revenge on the Church... 

Clutching a corner of Victor’s blanket, I cover my face with it in anguish. 

The Church conspired to murder my parents. 

Because my father was a leader of the reformist faction, they extended their malicious hands targeting my family. 

And this marriage, which was arranged by my parents, is now being wielded as a means to threaten my life. 

As I ponder on this, the resentment in my heart swells. I heave a sigh, deciding to change my mood and say something interesting. 

I sporadically recount some happy and entertaining anecdotes from the past, treating Victor as a well-behaved “sleeping beauty doll.”

MC: ...in autumn, you know, there wasn’t much to do. Winter, in comparison, was way more fun.  MC: When I was young, what I loved doing the most was building little snowmen in the courtyard of the duke’s mansion after it snowed. Look, I could make them this big— 

Of course, Victor can’t see any of this, and there’s no hope for a response either. After mustering the spirit to prattle on for a while, all I am left with is endless emptiness. 

I tug at the corners of my lips, forcing a smile, and as if driven by some strange impulse, I reach out and poke Victor’s face, wishing to get him to have the same expression as me. 

MC: Sigh, it’s no fun. I won’t say anything more.  ??(Victor): Why won’t you say anything more? 

An icy voice suddenly sounds in my ears, carrying with it the raspiness of just being awakened. 

I turn my head and nearly let out a scream. 

MC: Y-Your Majesty... when did you...! [2] 

I’m not sure when, but Victor has regained consciousness at some point. Leaning on a soft pillow, he rubs his temple with one hand.

Victor: I’m conscious, not revived back to life. 

MC: ... I’ll sincerely obey Your Majesty’s command! 

In a low voice, I respectfully offer him a curtsy. Victor seems to find my behavior amusing, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

Victor: The term of address was “you” even just a moment ago. A certain someone changed her tune rather quickly. [3]    MC: I’m not “a certain someone,” I am...    Victor: I know, Duke William’s only daughter.    MC: [surprised] Eh...? 

Victor: At the age of seven, you received a scolding for building a snowman with the servants. When you were nine, you had a quarrel with a parrot and suffered a crushing defeat–– 

MC: Wait a minute, you... you heard all of that? 

Victor: You’re too noisy. It’d be hard not to hear, [breaks into a coughing fit] cough, cough... 

His words are cut off by a cough. I hastily pour a cup of water and offer it to him under his scrutinizing gaze, keeping silent. 

I can’t help but break into a cold sweat. 

Could it be that... all the past events I casually mentioned, all those self-deprecating remarks, and even... did he really listen to everything? 

But, two days ago, when I plucked up the courage to poke his face, he didn’t react at all... So, when did he actually become conscious? 

A vague, looming sense of oppression involuntarily makes me shrink my neck, and I tentatively open my mouth. 

MC: ...you know about everything regarding me? 

He tilts his jaw slightly upwards, studying my features. His eyes are submerged in the shadows cast by the candlelight, reminiscent of a predator in the dark night. 

A good while passes before he eventually accepts the cup, speaking in a tone that is neither amiable nor impassive. 

Victor: I do. 

I nod and, after a rapid mental calculation, make up my mind. I take a step forward, wearing a small smile on my face as I speak. 

MC: Including the fact that I was sent as a spy by the Church? 

Victor: [seemingly chokes on water] … 

Victor: Are you aware of what you’re saying?

MC: Yes, I’m aware. 

I wish to work together with the king to bring down the Church. 

And when working with a person like Victor, being transparent and honest is the first principle.

I crouch down at the edge of the bed, looking up at Victor from below. 

MC: Your Majesty, I don’t want to hide anything from you. 

MC: Prior to our nuptials, my parents were brutally attacked by the Church due to their advocacy for the reformation of the Church. 

MC: The Church, to exploit my worth, spared my life and assigned me to spy on you. 

Victor arches an eyebrow, clearly still assessing the credibility of my words. 

Victor: Continue. 

I press my lips together and lower my head, trying to convey my utmost sincerity. 

MC: ... I’m unsure of to what extent you know about me, but I’ve never once considered surrendering to the enemies who murdered my parents. 

MC: Now, in terms of both sentiment and reason, we are a family, and I cannot betray my husband. 

MC: So... Your Majesty, will you take me under your wings? 

I blink my eyes at him with a pitiful look, not knowing whether Victor would buy into it. 

Victor: … 

As if in need of a moment to compose himself, Victor seems to momentarily avert his eyes before he turns them back to me again. 

Victor: Family... you seem to have accepted your new identity quite readily. 

MC: Besides you, what else do I have to rely on? 

MC: On the contrary, even after hearing my confession, if you’re unwilling to help me, I don’t have anything to lose. 

I flutter my eyes at Victor. 

MC: Your Majesty, I’ve already got nothing left to lose. 

Victor holds a straight gaze on me. In his eyes, while there is finally a hint of recognition, it’s more as if he is peering into the past through me. 

Victor: ...I will help you. 

His well-defined hand sweeps my loose hair strands back for me. But before I can breathe a sigh of relief, the next second, my chin is cupped and pivoted to face him. 

Victor: The prerequisite is that you can offer sufficient value to me. 

His grip is surprisingly strong for someone who has just regained consciousness. As our eyes interlock, his penetrating gaze intently scrutinizes my innermost thoughts. 

Victor: In your eyes, your husband, whom you’d never met before, is nothing more than a puppet who remains in coma year-round, isn’t that right? 

Victor unfolds his hand to me, revealing a gem as vividly red as the human heart in his pallid palm, and then he encloses his hand— 

In the blink of an eye, the signs of illness are shed off his face, and a rosy hue colors his cheeks, and he seems to be bathed in a divine light. 

MC: This is... do you know witchcraft?! 

Victor places the gem back in its case, then casts a brief look in my direction, apparently turning a deaf ear to what I’ve said. 

Victor: This doesn’t concern you. 

He slowly curls his lips, and his pupils, akin to the deep sea in the darkness, are as profound and enigmatic. 

Victor: There’s a set of clothing on the bedside table. If you want to prove that you’re not just a noble canary— 

Victor: Tomorrow morning, change into it and accompany me out of the palace. 

────────── 

[Notes]:

[1] Beeswax is often considered a symbol of “eternal love” in Eastern cultures. 

[2+3] During her monologues in the 1st quarter of the date, MC was addressing Victor by “你” (informal ver. of ‘you’) pronoun. But the moment he butts in, i.e., gains consciousness, MC immediately switches to “您” (courteous/ respectful ver. of ‘you’) and the respectful address “Your Majesty,” which he teases her about here, haha. 

Point to be noted: MC doesn’t switch back to the informal terms of addresses until the 3rd chapter of the date, when they’re already in love and inseparable for the time being. ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ 

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 2】

While I’m still struggling with myself, Victor has already closed his eyes again. 

Victor: You can sleep anywhere you want; just don’t make any noise. 

MC: ...Yes, Your Majesty! 

The idea of having this mysterious and aloof king sleeping next to my pillow feels more chilling to me than freezing in the cold itself. 

I don’t hesitate at all. I swiftly grab a pillow from the bed and get prepared to spend the night on the sofa. 

But it turns out I actually overestimated my ability to withstand the cold. Before the clock hands have even moved a few notches, I quietly tiptoe back to the bed, hugging the pillow. 

MC: [to herself] It’s just that the weather is too cold. I just want to feel a bit nice and warm— 

With a huff, I murmur in a soft voice and gently lift the coverlet to slip inside. 

Once I’ve got my body settled comfortably, I cautiously look towards the person on the pillow next to me. 

Victor isn’t awakened by my movements. Even in the darkness of the night, his skin is luminously white, his features handsome— he is reminiscent of a sculpture crafted from snow. 

Considering this person’s track record of feigning sleep, I simply watch him quietly without making any more rash moves. 

As I continue watching like this, my mind inexplicably begins to wander. 

Although just moments ago, I kept addressing him as “my husband” repeatedly, when I look at Victor’s cold and handsome demeanor, I always find it difficult to connect him with that identity. 

In my impression, the image of a husband and wife is like that of my parents. So, in the future, will Victor and I also be joined at the hip and inseparable like that? 

Thinking about that reserved and unsmiling face, I can’t help but get chills. 

In his eyes, I seem to be nothing more than a “useful person.” But what value can I provide for him? 

The more I ponder, the more my head throbs, and it’s not until the horizon starts to turn slightly pale that I eventually drift into sleep. 

────────── 

With the break of dawn, I promptly get out of bed and change my attire. Victor has woken up as well. 

Seemingly noticing the dark circles under my eyes, he arches an eyebrow, lifts his hand, and tosses a cloak over to me. 

Victor: It seems like while your courage is not at all small, your confidence sure is lacking. 

MC: I just don’t wish to unnecessarily show off in front of you. 

I fasten the cloak tightly and purposely straighten my neck. 

MC: Your Majesty, please lead the way. 

We exit the palace through a small gate, cross through the commoner’s district, and Victor leads me straight into a small house. 

────────── 

Going from the small house into the cellar, and after navigating through a labyrinth of winding pathways, the cramped field of view suddenly opens up to a wide panorama. 

Everyone: Your Majesties. 

I never anticipated that the entire hall would actually be filled with guards, all standing in a perfectly ordered formation. 

— To pull together an assembly of so many armed personnel, Victor must have spent a substantial amount of time, hasn’t he? 

I’m hardly able to restrain my inner shock as I think back to the frequent news in recent years of nobles associated with the close-knit sects being removed from power or inexplicably meeting tragic ends. Now, it seems... 

Every single person, myself included, severely underestimated this “dying” king standing before me. 

At this moment, Victor picks something up from the long table, and it’s only now do I notice that there are all kinds of torture equipment laid out on the table. 

The appearance of these torture instruments is menacing, and at their tips, dried blood remnants are still visible. 

Practically, the moment I get a good look at them, the reeking of blood and rust assaults my nostrils. I subconsciously cover my nose and mouth, tightly gripping the cuff of my sleeve. 

Subordinate: Reporting to Your Majesty, these are the “refining” equipment we found at the scene. 

Subordinate: But those people are as cautious as rats at dusk; we’ve only found these pieces of material evidence so far. The remains of the blood sacrifice are still being sought. 

Victor nods calmly, and once the arrangements are made, the guards depart in an orderly manner through various secret passageways. 

Victor and I are the only ones remaining in the large hall. I make a conscious effort to restrain myself from looking at those torture instruments, regulating the rhythm of my breathing. 

MC: Your Majesty, did you bring me here to witness something so horrifying to disclose some kind of truth to me? 

Victor: Face has turned pale, but still got some courage. 

A smile tinged with what appears to be praise appears on his face, as he takes out from his bosom the gem that resembles a human heart from last night. 

The crimson light radiating from the gem spreads across his cheeks, eerie yet bewitching. 

Victor: The purpose of all these blood sacrifices is to provide energy for this “Blood King Crystal.” 

My eyes widen in incredulity as I stare at the pulsating vivid red in his hand, sensing a faint inkling of what it might signify. 

MC: When you hold this Blood King Crystal, your complexion appear rosier, and you don’t cough as much... 

MC: Could it be that the Church officials want to extract energy from commoners to enhance their physical strength? 

Victor: Not the Church; it’s the Royal Family. 

Victor doesn’t shy away from nodding his head. He stares fixedly at the red gem that provides him with strength, but in his eyes, there is only icy coldness. 

Victor: The vitality and longevity of successive kings across the dynasties were all due to their possession of the “Blood King Crystals” that were assembled from the lives of countless ordinary people. 

Victor: The Church refines it, and the Royal Family uses it, thus resulting in the Royal Family being controlled by the Church from then on. 

Victor: And anyone who uncovers this secret will die. 

My thoughts go back to my parents, as well as the reformist cabinet ministers— could it be that they all had...? 

My heart immediately falls into a valley. 

I close my eyes for a moment, then fix my gaze firmly on the unwavering king before me, a king who has endured extreme hardships and made sacrifices to stand where he is now. [4] 

MC: Your Majesty, currently, there is a significant following of the Church among the populace. We must find the evidence of the blood sacrifices and bring it to light for everyone to see. 

MC: I will carry on my parents’ legacy and work alongside you to find evidence of the Church’s blood sacrifices. 

In those forever serene eyes of Victor’s, I see the glint of a smile. 

Victor: [assuredly with obvious happiness] It appears you’ve perfectly inherited the chivalry and wisdom of Duke William. 

MC: Well... it’s not entirely that. Whether in public or private matters, it’s only right that I stand by your side. 

I wink at him, half-jokingly breaking the somewhat somber atmosphere. 

MC: After all, I’m not only the daughter of Duke William. I am your wife and, more importantly, the queen of this country. 

Victor: Is that right? It doesn’t seem to me that a certain someone possesses the temperament of a queen. 

MC: Regarding that... I will work hard, so you can’t keep teasing me all the time. 

Victor laughs in spite of himself and reaches out his hand, gesturing for me to take his arm. 

Victor: [laughs helplessly] Very well. My Queen, we should return now. 

────────── 

After coming out of the subterranean passageway, we follow the same path back. We were in a hurry when we came here. It’s only now do I take notice of the surroundings. 

In the nearby roadside, peddlers are selling fresh produce, while in the distant square, a group of less fortunate are circled around a fire, warming themselves and singing songs. 

The streets in the commoner’s district are intersected, narrow, poverty-stricken yet bustling with life, in stark contrast to the overwhelming dead silence of the royal palace. 

I hardly ever left the mansion, so I find myself unable to resist taking in the surroundings repeatedly. 

Victor: Does the Duke’s daughter find these things interesting? 

MC: ...no, no, I’m just looking around in passing, that’s all! 

Victor’s hand offhandedly adjusts a corner of my cloak. He takes a long stride, veering from the route back to the palace and heading in a different direction. 

Victor: That path is too narrow. Let’s stroll this way and get some fresh air. 

We slowly stroll along, taking in the surroundings as we walk. Not far ahead, there is a dilapidated small tavern. Victor gestures for me to take a look. 

Victor: I just suddenly recalled that you mentioned being curious when you were little and licking the snow with a fork. 

Victor: During winter, the iron cups in the tavern also have an element of sweetness. You should try it some other time. 

My scattered thoughts, fluttering around like wild and untamed grass, suddenly drop to the ground, and I can’t help but choke. 

MC: ...Your Majesty, are you teasing me? 

There is a slight curve at the tip of Victor’s brow as he gently curls the corners of his lips into a smile. 

Victor: [laughs softly] Perhaps I am, or perhaps, it is a sincere recommendation. 

MC: Could it be that you’ve drawn that conclusion after experiencing it firsthand? 

Victor: You could say that. 

Seeing him take the bait, a massive smile spreads across my face. 

MC: So, speaking of, does that mean that you’ve also stuck your tongue to an iron cup in the past? 

Victor seems to choke on his words for a moment. He shoots me a wordless look and walks forward, paying no mind to me. 

MC: [teasingly continues] So, did that really happen? Did it happen or not... 

We’ve almost circled the area surrounding the palace. Victor is tall and has long legs, but from the beginning, he has maintained a matching pace with me, making it so that I can always touch his shoulder by simply turning sideways. 

The weather is very cold today; my hands and feet are freezing, yet I deeply breathe in the bitingly chilly but liberating air. 

Even though I cannot purchase any dubious items to bring back to the palace, and even though I know the end of this path leads to the imperial palace that holds me captive— 

But perhaps because I have someone walking alongside me, I feel surprisingly at ease. 

In my sight, obscured by the chilling breeze, I see Victor squatting down and petting a skinny kitten at the corner of the alley. 

The cat stretches its body and lays down lazily under Victor’s hand, meowing. Victor smiles, and both of them then look at me together. 

Victor: [extremely softly] The winters in the future won’t be as chilling anymore. 

────────── 

[Notes]:

[4] The idiom used here is “越王勾践,” which came to life from the true story of King Goujian. I’d encourage you guys to just even google and see the small wiki on him if you can. This idiom in and of itself is the essence of the date in terms of Victor’s perseverance, and how he imposes suffering on himself for the constant reminder of what it is he’s fighting for by refusing to use the “Blood King Crystal.” 

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 3】

Victor soon announces the news of him regaining consciousness to the masses, sending waves of shock to everyone across the country. 

Amidst the reigning turmoil among the Church and the nobles, he proposes visiting the prominent noble households. 

In my capacity as the queen, I rightfully visit every noble residence with him, where we find numerous correspondences implicating the collusion between the nobles and the Church. 

The nobles kept the letters for the purpose of blackmailing the Church, both sides engaging in mutual exploitation, but they never once considered that there could be one day when they’d have to face the consequences. 

Using the letters as a starting point, a series of pivotal evidence regarding the Church’s blood sacrifice is unearthed through Victor’s thunderous methods. 

I, on the other hand, use my identity as an orphan of the reformers to help him win over the newly elevated nobles. More and more people begin to rally to our side... 

When a former subordinate of my father hands me a letter, as if in tacit agreement, both Victor and I simultaneously realize that the final piece of the puzzle has fallen into place. 

It’s about time for the verdict to be pronounced. 

────────── 

Tomorrow, Victor will convene a National Convention to expose the crimes of the Church to the masses. 

I can’t fall asleep, so I rise from the bed and pace around the bed chamber in my nightgown. 

Victor: [laughs helplessly] If memory serves me right, the person set to address tomorrow is not the queen; it’s the king. 

He is lying in bed with drowsy eyes. Turning towards me, he speaks in a low, raspy voice, infused with a teasing tone. 

MC: ...I didn’t realize I’d wake you up despite the carpet being so thick. I guess I’ll just go outside and sleep elsewhere. 

As I drape on my outer garment and am about to head outside the chamber, my wrist is suddenly gripped from behind, pulling me back onto the bed. 

Victor: [in an overwhelmingly sensual tone] You’re the queen. Where do you plan on sleeping when you look like this? 

Tangled up in my thoughts, I have tousled my hair, causing it to become disheveled. Victor sighs, who then picks up a comb and sits behind me. 

Victor: [switches to an overwhelmingly tender tone] Dummy. What is there to be nervous about? 

The moderate pressure on my hair pacifies my restless heart. I rub my ears, which have heated up, trying to shift the topic of conversation to conceal my shyness. 

MC: In the past, when my father would go to visit the king, my mother would become anxious like this and often wouldn’t even be able to eat anything. 

Victor: So, what would happen next? I’m afraid the duke probably wouldn’t let his duchess remain in a constant state of worry. 

MC: Mm-hmm. Whenever this kind of situation arose, my father would always hold my mother’s hand... 

As I speak, I immediately begin to regret it a little. It feels like I’m sending a rather awkward hint. 

Without waiting for me to dwell on more embarrassing thoughts, Victor’s hand has already enveloped mine, and the warmth from his palm flows to my icy fingertips. 

His temperature is reminiscent of dandelions in a garden, floating gently, landing on my face and neck. 

We are the puppet king and queen, husband and wife in name only. Even though we reside together in the same bedchamber, we’ve never been this intimate. 

I feel a sensation as if a feather quill is caressing my throat, making it impossible for me to conceal the true feelings harbored in my heart. 

Reflexively, I tighten my grip on Victor’s hand and turn to face him. 

MC: Victor, to be honest, even though I never mentioned it before, I used to think you were quite unfeeling. 

Victor: There was no need to say it; it was written all over your face. 

Victor: Also, not addressing me as “Your Majesty” anymore? 

MC: In any case, you are not going to hold it against me now, will you? 

MC: During this period of time that I’ve spent with you, running here and there together, I’ve come to realize in every passing moment that I hardly knew anything about you before. 

MC: For instance, in the case of those Church henchmen, according to the old laws, their families should have been exterminated, but you chose to exercise your discretion and grant amnesty to those who were unaware. 

MC: And regarding the commoners who have fallen victim to the blood sacrifice, you’ve been supporting their families with long-term financial aid. 

MC: You always project an image of keeping people at a thousand-mile distance, but in reality, there is also a tender side to you. 

A flicker of astonishment crosses Victor’s eyes, but he simply tightens his grip on my hand. 

Victor: [with a very evident hesitation in his tone] It sounds like... getting to know me is something that brings you joy? 

MC: Yes, it does. I wish to know you even better— the past you, the present you, and the future you. 

I gaze deeply into his eyes. 

MC: But you’re so encumbered by everything. I can only utilize the little time you set aside for me each day to learn about you amidst the calls of the people. 

Victor: ...MC. 

Victor’s eyes tighten, and a heartfelt and regretful emotion swirls within them. 

MC: I don’t wish to rob you of your time because of my selfish desires. 

MC: So, after the National Convention concludes, and when you’re no longer so busy... 

I draw in a breath, low and slow. And like that, just like the first time I met him, I lay bare all my yearnings and affections before him. 

MC: Reserve some time for me, will you? Not in your role as the king, but as my husband. Share your stories with me. 

MC: Will you, Victor? 

All my thoughts translate into clumsy words, pouring out like the way winter grass eagerly awaits spring rain, confessing everything I have in me. 

Victor continues gazing at me like this, until that gaze of his becomes infused with almost sorrow and a reluctance to part. 

Before I can decipher those cryptic code words, he has already cast his eyes downward, veiling the emotions within. 

Is this a silent rejection? I exert myself to force a smile, intending to crack a joke to ease the situation, but then he speaks first. 

Victor: [if a person’s voice alone could shatter one’s heart, I swear this would be it] There’s no need to wait till later. Let’s do it now. 

In astonishment and jubilation, I look up, locking eyes with his sincere gaze. 

On the night before the pivotal moment in destiny, I finally witness Victor’s wordless confession. 

────────── 

The following day, the National Convention proceeds as scheduled. 

Attired in royal robes, Victor stands at the forefront. Below the platform, countless eyes, some treacherous and others devout, are all converged on him. 

Victor: In my capacity as the king, I stand here only to declare one thing. 

Victor: The mysterious disappearances in the capital over the years have all been caused by the Church. 

The earth-shattering statement stirs up a commotion among the people, and the followers of the Church appear visibly unsettled. 

Victor: The Church extracts energy for the “Blood King Crystal” through the massacre of civilians in blood sacrifice rituals. 

Victor: As for the particulars, I will leave it to the Knight Commander to elucidate. 

The attendants toss numerous sheets of paper into the crowd off the platform, each containing records of clear and unmistakable evidence. 

In a matter of moments, the crowd transitions from initial silence to restlessness, ultimately erupting into an agitated uproar. 

It turns out that the matter of the true culprit behind the disappearance cases has been an enduring emotional anchor for the people, completely overturning everyone’s cognition. 

Some hurling curses, some wailing, and some even charging to express their scorn at the Church... 

Amidst the chaos, only Victor’s voice, his calm and powerful words, continues forward with a steady resolve. 

Crowd: Overthrow the Pope, give us back our people! Overthrow the Pope, give us back our people! 

As the chants and shouts cease and amid the furious uproar of the crowd, the Pope, who is ringed, calmly casts a glance in Victor’s direction. 

The Pope: Silence. Dear Compatriots. 

The elderly Pope walks slowly to the center of the platform, an inscrutable and chilling smile playing on the layers of wrinkles on his face. 

The Pope: His Majesty speaks the truth. The Church does indeed extract energy for the “Blood King Crystal,” and the blood sacrifice of civilians has truly occurred. 

The Pope: However, all these casualties and deaths stemmed from the demands of the royal family! 

The Pope: Throughout history, every king has relied on the “Blood King Crystal” to survive, and even our righteous and dignified king, His Majesty, is using it at this very moment! 

The Pope: The very purpose of the “Blood King Crystal’s” existence is to secure the longevity of the king. Without a king, who will lead the country? How can the kingdom have a future? 

The Pope raises the scepter high, directing it towards Victor. 

The Pope: Your Majesty, the Church has been faithful and devoted to the Crown for all these years. As you pronounce judgment on the Church’s sins today, do you not feel a sense of guilt? 

The wrath of the masses below the platform has no outlet after his manipulative and distorted speech, and their eyes shift to Victor. 

Silent inquiries and judgments flood the eyes of the crowd, prepared to tear everything to shreds at any second. 

The noble king, however, has maintained his impassive demeanor from the beginning. He lapses into a moment of silence, gazing into my eyes. 

Amid the scrutiny of the spectators below, I lock my eyes with him, and in that gaze, I see the very same expression of unwillingness to part that I wasn’t able to discern last night. 

But at this moment, I seem to understand its meaning. 

Holding back the bitterness in my eyes, I take a step forward and speak in a loud voice. 

MC: What the Pope said is true. The kings of the previous dynasties colluded with the Church for their personal gains, resulting in the slaughtering of civilians. 

MC: However, the Blood King Crystal has never been a precious treasure, but rather a curse. 

MC: As each king became more reliant on it, the health of the royal descendants suffered increasing repercussions, which led to an even deeper dependence on the Church. 

MC: His Majesty has been working tirelessly to put an end to these nefarious activities, solely for the sake of the future of this country. 

MC: As for the Blood King Crystal... 

I close my eyes, my eloquent speech coming to an abrupt halt. This elicits puzzled murmurs from the crowd off the platform.  

At this time, Victor walks to the forefront of the stage. 

He retrieves the vivid red gem from his bosom, and the blinding luster falls on his chest, projecting an image as if blood were coursing through. 

Victor: Behold, the Blood King Crystal. 

Before anyone can comprehend, Victor swiftly exerts a slight force with his fingertips, and the Blood King Crystal instantly disintegrates into fine fragments in his hand. 

Pope: You...!! 

Countless crimson red powder, reminiscent of blood, streams out from between his fingers, and his complexion has already turned a shade of pallor. 

The elixir of immortality, amassed from the sacrifice of countless human lives across generations of kings, the venomous sac upon which the Church depends for survival, has been completely eradicated before the eyes of everyone. 

Victor: Those deserving of being brought to reckoning, not a single person will be spared. 

Victor: That includes the Church, as well as the Royal family. 

He unfurls the hand that holds the Blood King Crystal. His palm now only holds a thin layer of gemstone powder, and he allows it to be carried away by the northern breeze. 

Victor: Henceforth, dust will return to the earth, and blood will be bestowed upon the people. 

Victor: I shall personally redeem the filth that has accumulated for far too long. 

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 4】

In the wake of the National Convention, Victor instigates a series of reform policies to root out corruption, setting off a massive surge across the country. 

He works tirelessly day and night, paying no heed to my attempts to dissuade him. There is an urgency in him that I don’t want to understand, a rush that drives him to get everything in order. 

Throughout this time, I’ve been seeking out renowned physicians from everywhere, but all I’ve received are negative answers filled with a mix of dread and despair. 

Until one day, he slips back into a coma again, and even the duration of his coma seems to be stretching longer and longer as the days elapse. 

And all I can do, or more accurately, want to do, is simply to remain by his side. 

With his eyelashes hanging low, a gentle shadow falls upon that beautiful yet pallid face, and it seems even his breathing has become very light. 

As I gaze at Victor’s side profile in deep slumber, I can no longer find the same relaxed and carefree state of mind I had when I first stepped into the royal bedchamber. 

He is no longer someone who could have confined me, the husband I had never met before, but rather my beloved with whom I have been through thick and thin together. 

My only wish is for him to open his eyes and look at me, share some dry jokes, and then walk with me through the streets and alleys again and observe how people are living nowadays... 

Victor’s life began wither away the instant the Blood King Crystal was shattered. All he can do now is expend every ounce of the remaining warmth. 

He knew the consequences better than anyone else, yet he still orchestrated his own ending with his own two hands. 

I remain by the bedside, tightly holding onto his hand. I can’t tell whether I’m trying to comfort him or myself. 

MC: [sobbing] Victor... 

Tears well up and stream down my eyes. A hand reaches up to caress my cheek, gently wiping away those tears. 

Victor: Why are you crying? 

Victor has woken up at some point without my notice and is now frowning as he looks at me. 

Quickly, I wipe away the tears in a haphazard manner, the corners of my eyes stinging from the abrasion of my forceful fingertips. 

MC: I’m alright. Are you hungry? What would you like to eat? 

Victor doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze passes over my shoulder and settles on the view outside the window. 

Victor: It’s snowing. 

It’s only now do I take notice that the imperial palace courtyard has already been blanketed in snow, transforming into an expanse of pristine white. 

Victor: Weren’t you most fond of building snowmen when you were a child? Why not give it a try now? 

MC: But your health... 

Victor: [in an even tender and heart-wrenchingly weaker tone] It’s just building a snowman. 

I press my lips together. The truth is, I have long grown to despise winter, and I don’t like building snowmen anymore. 

After the death of my parents, the attendants who had been my companions from childhood to adulthood were all substituted with the informants from the Church, and the duke’s mansion became eerily cold and desolate. 

The winter season I once loved became increasingly colder as time went on, and I no longer had the desire to go out. Warmer seasons began to become more likable to me. 

But none of these are worth mentioning to Victor. Because this winter— it is marked by the moment I met him. 

I nod. 

MC: Of course. 

MC: In that case, I must show you the snowmen-building skills I’ve honed since childhood! 

I force a smile and step outside with Victor after donning our outer garments. He tucks my hand into his cloak. 

Victor: A certain someone was shivering in the cold during the last outing, and she still forgot to bring her gloves this time. 

MC: I did it intentionally. Otherwise, how could I get Your Majesty to help warm my hands? 

With this said, I slip my chin into my cloak, and the smile at the corner of my mouth instantly fades away. 

Victor’s hand is much colder than mine. Taking a deep breath, I grip his hand even tighter, and together, we step into this pure white world. 

────────── 

The chilly breeze howls as Victor and I tread through the snow, neither of us uttering a word. [5] 

Reminiscent of a wanderer losing its way, the mist hangs over the frigid ground and eventually dissipates into the pale grayish expanse above. 

Victor suddenly loosens his hold on my hand. 

Victor: Didn’t you want to showcase your skills to me? Why aren’t you going yet? 

I cast a brief glance at the mounds of snow under the trees, nod in silence, and reluctantly let go of his hand despite my heart breaking. [6] 

MC: Well, Your Majesty, please wait for just a short while. 

I tighten Victor’s cloak for him, then dash to the snowdrifts and begin building a snowman. 

My hands move at a blazing pace. There is only a single thought circling in my mind right now, and that is to swiftly end this time-wasting game and return to his side as fast as possible. 

To add to my woes, the newly fallen snow proves challenging to shape, much like bleached wool. Despite my vigorous efforts to press the snow together time and again, the snowballs continue to fall apart, each and every time. 

A mix of vexation and restlessness churns in my heart. I have nearly exhausted all the strength left in my body to mold the snowballs, and both my hands are now aching from the cold. 

Victor: [with endless helplessness] Dummy, no one is competing with you for first place. There’s no need to be in such a rush. 

Subconsciously, I pause in my movements, turn my head, and find him gazing at me with a serene expression. 

The urgency and anxiety in my heart seem to find equilibrium, and my hands unconsciously settle into a steadier motion. 

Regrettably, the snowman I end up crafting doesn’t even qualify to be described as “adorable.” Even so, Victor earnestly lowers his head, observing it with the bearing of a connoisseur appreciating a gem. 

Victor: To create this shape without it falling apart is indeed a testament to skill. 

His teasing remark elicits a chuckle from me. I pick up a twig and walk over to him. 

MC: There’s still one last step, but it requires Your Majesty and me to complete it together. 

Placing the twig in his hand, I then hold onto his hand, and together, we draw eyes and a mouth on the snowman’s face. 

Victor chuckles softly, and conversely, he grasps my hand, guiding it to make strokes. 

Victor: You’re holding so tightly; its eyes are all crooked now. 

Looking at the snowman with its enlarged eyes due to our modifications, I’m just about to crack a few jokes when I notice a touch of weariness on Victor’s face. 

MC: We’ve almost completed the snowman. Would you like to rest for a while? 

Victor: I know a tavern. Come with me. 

We’ve arrived at the alley where we met that kitten before. It has undergone a complete transformation, and the newly opened tavern is bustling with patrons. 

It’s a snowy day, and the tavern is filled to capacity. I initially thought that there would be no seats available. However, the owner leads us straight into a room. 

MC: Huh? Did you reserve the room with the owner in advance? But you weren’t... 

Victor brushes away the snowflakes off my head, seeing through my puzzlement. 

Victor: I arranged it in advance, yes. 

Victor: Since I didn’t know when I would be awake, I told the owner beforehand that I would have this room reserved for as long as it snows. 

The fire in the hearth produces a crackling sound. Victor’s facial features are enveloped in the cloud of heat, his eyes gentle. 

Victor: I just thought that one day, I would take you out to see the snow. 

We sit on the terrace, sipping the warm wine. Amidst the aroma of wine wafting in the air, he speaks in a soft tone. 

Victor: I did stick my tongue to a cup in the past. It happened when I was five years old and had a taste of my father, the king’s red wine in secret. My mother, the queen, had gotten quite the shock. 

MC: Eh? What are you talking about... 

Victor: Dummy, aren’t you always clamoring about wanting to hear my stories? 

He says it as if it were the most natural thing, as if this were merely an ordinary winter day, as if we were an ordinary married couple offhandedly conversing about our everyday life while enjoying a drink and keeping ourselves warm by the fire. 

The north breeze makes my eyes sting, but I still force myself to smile as I look at him. 

MC: So, it turns out that His Majesty was a dummy, too, when he was five years old. How about when you were six? What was it like? 

Victor: When I was six... 

In the back-and-forth questions and answers, more than twenty years of Victor’s life have become etched in my mind. 

I dare not listen. I can’t help but feel as if once I’ve heard everything, he will leave me. And yet, I listen carefully to every single word. 

I listen to the way he speaks each word— the way his teeth collide, the way his two lips meet, the way the nuances of his trailing notes alter between closing and releasing. 

Victor: Next, it’s the day when I got married to a certain someone. 

MC: ...there’s no need to tell the next part of the story. After all, the stories related to me have only begun. 

Victor pauses, but doesn’t follow up my words with a playful remark.

MC: ...Victor? 

Victor: What’s wrong? 

I shake my head, and when I open my mouth again, the name that has been lingering on the edge of my lips and weighing on my heart spills out involuntarily. 

MC: Victor.  

Victor: Mm, I’m here. 

He tacitly acquiesces to my almost naïvely foolish behavior, responding to my call of his name over and over again. It feels as though, if only I can keep confirming like this, the hole in my heart would be filled. 

MC: ...Victor. 

This time, he doesn’t speak. The silence forces me to stop. 

MC: [sobbing] I just want to know... what can I do to make you stay... [7] 

Victor sighs softly and beckons to me. 

I lean over and nestle in his frigid arms. 

As if he can no longer support the weight of his long, ink-black eyelashes, he casts his gaze downward. His nearly translucent skin appears as if it’s about to blend with the sunlight. 

Victor reaches out and touches my cheek, his finger pads caressing the contours of my face with utmost gentleness, as if sketching my features. 

His fingertips carry with them the chill of death, making me shiver involuntarily. 

Slowly and stiffly, I weave my words together, but the sentences that come out of my mouth are still shakily out of tune. 

MC: [teary-eyed x1] Victor, do you find it a little chilly? Maybe your cloak is too thin? 

MC: [x2] The fire is obviously burning so strongly, and the mead is also very warm... [8] 

MC: [x3] Look, there’s a kitten on the eaves over there. Isn’t it the one we met that day? 

MC: [x4] It looks so lively today. Seems like its frame of mind is as cheerful as ours. 

When I utter the last sentence, I hear his gentle sigh. 

At the same time, the laughter of playful children chasing each other, the chatter of young people, and the sighs of emotions of the elderly can be heard amidst the wind and snow. 

Victor: Hear that, the sounds outside. 

The sunlight seeps through the terrace, haloing and enveloping the surroundings with a layer of warm and bright haze. 

Bathed in that glow, my body’s consciousness returns little by little. I tightly clutch his hand, no longer shaking. 

MC: [x5] I can hear it. It’s almost New Year, and the streets are bustling and serene. 

Victor: The snowfall this year is promising. So, the harvest will be abundant next year. 

MC: [x6] Yes, people will become more affluent and happier. 

Victor: You will be a part of it all, too, and that’s really good. 

I bury myself in his chest, silently listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat, one beat after another. 

The heartbeat in my ears, following its rapid pace, begins to grow increasingly feeble. A realization dawns on me, and I force myself to lift my head and look at him. 

He is akin to a wan rose, wilting before my desperate eyes that seek to make him stay, withering within my outstretched arms as I reach out to hold on. 

From limbs to blood, to the light in his eyes— bit by bit, the luster fades. 

My king entrusts the future of this country to me, and then he steps out of time, heading toward eternal peace. 

I gently incline my body, kissing his peacefully closed eyes. 

MC: ...good night. 

This time, I don’t receive any response from him, but the snowstorm suddenly ceases. 

The curtain of the evening has already descended, and the vermillion sun sinks below the horizon. The final ray of the splendid afterglow thaws the ice and snow of the land. 

MC: Victor, I will take you to witness the tomorrow of this kingdom. 

────────── 

[Notes]:

[5] The exact phrase here actually was “冷风呜呜作响,” which literally means “the chilly breeze is producing a mournful sound”-- the “呜呜” used here is the onomatopoetic word for “sobbing/ wailing.” wanted to include this note as an example to gush about the brilliant atmospheric descriptions LZY writers use, e.g., the picture painted here echoes that even the nature is mourning at this slow, rather unfair, transition, mirroring the heroine’s and LZY’s pain of parting. ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ 

[6] The expression used here is “依依不舍,” one of my favorite phrases and hated ones to translate LOL. You’d usually see this phrase being translated as “reluctant/unwilling,” but it doesn’t even come close to expressing the depth of its meaning. The phrase means “reluctance to part with sb you love/ being broken-hearted at having to leave,” with an underlying tone of “wanting to be with that person regardless,” -- and I tried to retain the OG meaning without being too wordy haha~ 

[7] Not sure how much of the sentiment I could make it come across in the translation—the term (留住) MC uses here literally means “ask sb to stay/ keep sb for the night/ ask them to wait.” the beauty of it lies in the fact that it expresses such a multitude of emotions— desperately wanting to keep sb in your life despite knowing it’s not up to either of you so you want to know if they can wait for you even though you know it’s not possible~ ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ   

[8] Mead (蜂蜜酒), also known as honey wine, is a type of alcoholic beverage made by fermenting honey mixed with water and other fruits. You can google it to know about it in detail if you want LOL.

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── 

[kafhiime]

When a Star Dies

Pairing: Kafhime

Word count: 1.7k

Summary: Pre-HSR Kafhime stargazes…… romantically… I think…

Ao3 Link

—

The trek up the hill to XEL-II’s best stargazing spot was by far the most difficult that Kafka has ever subjected herself to.

Earlier that week, while pushing back deadlines on requests, Kafka had got a message. In the darkness of her room, her phone lit up to a phone number she had barely recognized. The attempt at anonymity made her chuckle, knowing exactly who it was the moment she read it.

You always wanted to hear me talk about stars, meet me here.

And an attached link led Kafka to coordinates that were extremely far from her. It’s a pity the sender knew Kafka would traverse the entire universe for her.

So now, at the flat outlook of the hill, sat a lovely red-haired lady. Kafka could only see the back of her head as she walked towards the telescope and the small blanket that the woman was sitting on. Kafka took a minute to think of what to say, before her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.

“I can see your shadow, Kafka.” Himeko’s voice broke through the windy night, laughing quietly at Kafka’s failed attempt at stealth.

Kafka sighed, now making way to sit beside her partner on the blanket. She placed her arm around her bare shoulders—barely protected by her long dress—before commenting, “Are you not cold?”

Himeko smiles at her concern—which makes Kafka suck in her breath. It had been a while since she had last seen the trailblazer; she had been too caught up in her exploration to make time for Kafka, but it didn’t bother her. Kafka had cherished every moment she had with her, even if they were scarce.

“It’s barely cold, Kafka.” Himeko held the hand Kafka had on her right shoulder, squeezing it, “You’re just cold-blooded.”

Kafka let out a laugh at her joke, “I’m sure—us devil hunters tend to be such.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds, staring at each other before Himeko bit her lip and turned her head.

“You’ve been busy,” Himeko looked at the stars, “you’re a hard woman to contact, you know. I could’ve never spoken to you again if I didn’t figure it out.”

“But you did; you always do.” Kafka draws circles on Himeko’s shoulder, letting her hand move down her arm.

Himeko seems frustrated at this, holding her glare for the stars instead, “But I could’ve chosen not to.”

Kafka knows this, of course, she’s not the type to pressure the people she’s with. Part of her wants to hold on to Himeko, continuously message her day and night; but, that isn’t possible, not for Kafka.

“Then I would let you,” Kafka removes her touch from Himeko entirely this time, “but, you won’t, so it’s alright. No harm done, right?”

Himeko thinks about it for a beat before speaking, “Yeah, I wouldn’t.”

The soft reassurance sends something sparking in Kafka. The care she felt from Himeko was new, this back and forth chase since the day they met by the wreckage of the Astral Express. Kafka knew her life had always been spontaneous, but the consistency that was Himeko was welcomed. Himeko had been there for her even when Kafka couldn’t reciprocate.

It’s a shame, though, that Kafka was never in it for the long run.

Kafka feels the touch of Himeko’s hand, now resting atop of hers as golden eyes stare into hers. The moonlight dusts the top of Himeko’s hair, not quite reaching her face. Then, when Himeko’s face shifts to smile, shadows leave her eyes in favor of letting the light glisten in her eyes.

Kafka loves her, she thinks.

“I wanted to show you,” Himeko doesn’t take her eyes off Kafka, “there’s a celestial event going on here.”

“Here?” Kafka raises her eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, light years away, but here is the safest spot to observe it,” Himeko explains, now turning to her telescope. She angles it carefully before letting Kafka look.

Kafka peers into the telescope, looking at what seems to be a very distant white star.

“It’s a white dwarf, reaching the end of it’s life,” Himeko speaks, “this one is relatively small, but it’ll have a thermonuclear explosion in a few minutes.”

“And what is that?” Kafka wasn’t as well-versed in astronomy as Himeko was, but she admired the lengths her lover would go to explain everything in detail.

“It’s—well, I can tell you about how it looks,” Himeko moves the telescope back, “It’ll be red and orange, it’s like fire—it is fire. It’s pressure built up to create a nova.”

“Not a supernova?” Kafka jokes, “sounds like this star is lacking.”

Himeko softly hits Kafka’s arm, “A supernova would be hard to see, but this is just as beautiful.”

“I’m sure it is,” Kafka laughs, looking up at the star, “The death of a star is a beautiful sight, sounds unfortunate though.”

“I don’t think so,” Himeko sighs, “It’s sad, but the material of the star scatters away to create new stars. It’s still living in a way.”

Himeko pauses, leaning her head on Kafka’s shoulder. The sudden movement surprises Kafka, who was still admiring the stars until now.

Himeko continues, “I think it’s poetic, in a way.”

“The star's death?” Kafka asks, now moving her hand to play with strands of Himeko’s hair.

“Yes, even if it dies, it passes along to create more,” Himeko leans into Kafka’s touch, “It’s memory is never forgotten, because it leaves so much behind. Even in a supernova—the star pulls everything into it. Every black hole is what once used to be a star, it just changes.”

Kafka sits still with the information, “But, humans seem to forget it, isn’t that cruel?”

Himeko shrugs awkwardly in her position, “Human’s memories are fragile anyway.”

“They lack significance compared to the universe’s memories.” Kafka finishes for her, now looking at Himeko from the side.

“It’s a bit harsh, sometimes our memories are important,” Himeko smiles, looking back at her.

Kafka considers it for a moment, the only memories she truly cares about are the ones she has with Himeko. There hasn’t been a point in her life where she felt the need to care for human emotions until she met Himeko. She wondered sometimes why Himeko put in so much effort for someone as nihilistic as her—yet, here she was, holding her close in the moonlight.

“You’ve been thinking about this a lot,” Kafka interrogates softly, “what’s got your mind on the death of stars?”

Himeko exhales, “I’ve just been thinking about death.”

Kafka pauses. Her shock is evident on her face yet Himeko doesn’t seem to notice.

Himeko continues, “It’s just funny, you know, we all can die.”

Kafka still doesn’t seem to say anything, she doesn’t know how she feels about the concept of Himeko saying this, it’s too out of her reach.

“When you didn’t contact me for months, I started to almost grieve you,��� Kafka feels the tinge of guilt at her words, now focusing on them completely, “but then, I thought, should death be something to grieve?”

Kafka doesn’t know if she should reply to this, but she lets Himeko continue anyway.

“When a star dies, it’s a celestial phenomenon,” Himeko’s voice is almost apathetic—no, she’s admiring, “I want my passing to be like that.”

“Yours?” Kafka questions.

Himeko is silent, as if she’s contemplating what she wants to say before saying it. She lets this go on for agonizing seconds before finally speaking.

“I dream of death,” Himeko smiles at the starry sky, almost refusing to look at Kafka.

Kafka’s reply takes time, it’s only a few beats later that she can let out a small: “What?”

Himeko sighs, adjusting herself off of Kafka’s shoulder so she can face Kafka completely now. Memories fleeting in her mind of her dreams.

“There’s fire,” Himeko pauses, “there’s fire everywhere, at the end I’m staring at a girl I don’t know as my body burns away in ashes.”

Kafka sucks in her breath, deadly still where she is sat. Her expression is mixed as she stares at Himeko.

“I wonder when I wake up if anyone finds my body. I wonder if anyone is there to find it anyway. I wonder who that girl is,” Himeko turns her head to look at the sky, “but I’m never scared.”

“Why doesn’t it scare you?” The response is out of Kafka before she can even think of what she’s asking.

Himeko chuckles lightly, “I may not be like you: fearless and unmoving. I do fear things. Though, I think acceptance outweighs that fear now.”

There’s silence as the stars move. Kafka stays still.

“I used to wake up from that dream in shock, I used to be sweating and shaking, now I just wake up warm,” Himeko looks up at Kafka now, “I feel like a phoenix in some ways. The ashes crumble and I’m left in dust. Now, if I die like that, I can die happy.”

Himeko sits up and places her hand in Kafka’s, squeezing it tightly.

“I’m more afraid of the ones I love leaving. I’m fine if I can die knowing I had you with me.”

Kafka feels the lightest brush in her heart. The soft beating speeding up in her mind as she squeezes back. Her voice isn’t heard in the moonlight when Himeko kisses her, she’s been silent for long.

Kafka isn’t sure how to feel. Beside her undying trust for Himeko, she feels an urge to close a door. Something that had been nagging at her for years. She wants to know what fear is like—but as the world turns to face new constellations, she finds herself lost in the stars that are Himeko.

Love wasn’t something Kafka had known. She had no family, no friends, and no partners. The life of a devil hunter was a lonely one, there was no time for love. Her apathetic nature towards others had made sure of that fact.

But in her life, there are flukes. Himeko had her utterly soft; she became everything that she wasn’t.

There’s a bright light in the sky, the white dwarf has exploded, Kafka can see the reflection of reds and yellows in Himeko’s eyes.

It’s gorgeous.

Kafka takes the moment to bring Himeko into her hold, hugging her tightly. She isn’t sure why she feels like she has to keep her close.

She looks up at the short-lived exploding star, watching as the light travels around. She feels Himeko smile into the embrace.

Kafka knows that, for as long as the stars let her, she will love Himeko.