#the glitters absorb his power

[ryllen]

He, who shall not be freed

[solbaby7]

Drifting Away

pairing: azriel x reader

warnings: angst (sorry but it just hurts so good) swearing, mentions of poor mental health, romantic undertones

summary: You've been drowning for a long time and finally someone notices

--

Azriel could hear you crying at night.

He wasn't sure when it started; how long it had been going on before the slinking shadows darted about the house, enjoying their free reign when he hears a noise. One so soft he nearly brushed it off as a breeze but he hears it again. A little louder, more throaty and then it clicks; the undeniable sound of despair being swiftly hidden away by the dark hours of the early morning when others were asleep and none the wiser.

There's an urge to check on you, one so overwhelming he taps his fingers against the smooth mahogany desk filled to the brim with mission reports and carefully notated maps with neat notes tucked in the corner. His ears strain for the sound again, mentally agreeing that if he heard it once more, he'd have no other choice but to check it out.

But nothing sounds.

Not for one minute, or two or twenty but he doesn't forget about it.

Especially not when he sees you the following morning, wearing a bright smile and laughing louder than anyone else in the room. He's subtle in the way he observed you, notating your mannerisms and the effortless charm that dripped from your tongue.

The picture of a well adjusted woman. One who seemed happy and fulfilled until the final line was spoken and the one-woman cast bowed for her performance, basking in the applause from a crowd well entertained.

You were attentive; borderline motherly in the way you took care of everyone around you--easily handing off the food from your plate without even batting an eye and Azriel's brow quirks in attention when he hears you decline more when offered; insisting that you're full, showing off a clean plate as you casually wipe your mouth against dark linen cloth.

However, he's certain you didn't take even a single bite.

It piques his interest; the warning signs of a silent struggle and he finds himself unable to stop from noting other things about you.

Like, the way you seemed to be a reliable sounding board. Mor or Feyre or Cassian would come to you for advice, spilling their burdens on your shoulders and you always welcomed them with open arms. You would nod quietly, never once interrupting and always providing such carefully curated advice. The kind you learned through life experience; pain and sorrow and true mind numbing emptiness that came from growing up with bright embers of hope; only to be pushed into the world and realize how far people will go to snuff those embers out.

And never once did they ask if you needed comfort in return.

“For a spymaster, I would have assumed you’d be better at being subtle when you stare.” It’s startling how silent you’d been, shifting from one end of the room to the next without being detected by his hearing or his shadows—shadows he now notices are circling around your feet, tickling at your bare toes against the wine red rug. “What were you looking at anyway?”

Hazel eyes are calculating when they take you in, brows furrowing when you smile down at him, humming to yourself as you twiddle your toes through the ebbing darkness that grows around your legs, teasing at the hem of your dress with a little tug. “You.”

Rhysand sits proudly in a chair big enough to be a throne, large decorative pillows perched under his arms and a grinning Feyre eased into his lap, head curling into his neck with content. Even Nesta and Cass were sitting closer than usual on the couch, feet bumping at the others as she pretended to be absorbed in some book but there was no way she was actually focusing with Cassian’s arm curled around the back of her shoulders. Mor chats idly with Armen, glittering jewelry shoved on two slim fingers and you can’t help but linger on all the incredibly powerful beings around you.

Such purpose all around and somehow you still couldn’t find your own.

“Well, it’s not everyday I get the privilege of your attention.” You twirl once, the material of your dress skimming the tips of his fingers. “Do tell—how do I look?”

Azriel doesn’t correct how that couldn’t be further from the truth. There’s a pause, his voice more soft when he speaks so it gets drowned out in the chatter behind you. “You look lonely.”

The reply makes you stop your toying with the shadows, gentle smile faltering when you squint down at him, throughly caught off guard. “What?” Azriel watches the second you seem to recompose yourself, smile sliding back in place but he can see the way you look at him, regarding him cautiously; wondering where he was getting at. “That’s ridiculous. I live in a home filled with my closest friends and family.”

You anticipate the nod, the smile and then the conversation will continue like nothing had ever happened; the answer appeasing the questioner and you’d continue about your day as you did all the others. But Azriel doesn’t change the subject, doesn’t accept the answer provided. Instead, a golden hand raises, tea still steaming over the rim. “Then, why do you seem so sad?”

“Where are you getting this from?”

“Because I heard something last night,” He watches the way you freeze, lids squinting a fraction and your hands actually tremble at your side.

“Hm," It’s alarming how good you are at taking control of the conversation; how your body adapts to the emotion that your brain predicts Azriel wants you to convey—happiness. His head slowly tilts to the side when you tip your head back and laugh, one that was so convincing even he nearly fell for it; but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Always the spy, when do you ever take a day off?"

Az can't seem to tear his eyes off of you, not when Cassian chimes in with an inebriated laugh, a heavy hand clapping down on his brothers shoulder and you're grateful for the distraction. The ability to slink into easier conversation, to craft a carefully woven picture of serenity but the golden gaze boring into the back of your head is distracting; makes your hands shake ever so slightly over the width of your glass, the condensation dripping cool trails down the length of your arm.

He doesn't get the chance to speak to you for the rest of the night; either being whisked away by his brothers or somehow getting lead away by Elain and Fey when asking for help bringing out a few more things from the kitchen. Shadows trudge by, being his eyes and ears when one returns with the same conclusion; gone, gone, gone.

For the rest of the night, Azriel remained on edge, unable to relax into the drink in his hand and his foot is practically bouncing a hole in the hardwood when the others finally start filtering out for the night; stumbling into one another on their way to their rooms. Ears strain to hear each door close and he's light on his feet when he bristles down the hall, sharply turning to the right and once he's at the end of the hall he comes to an abrupt stop.

Light still pours out from the crack beneath your door and nerves build in his stomach when he sees the shadow of your feet walking past; there was no reasonable explanation to be here—on this floor—and that becomes abhorrantly apparent when the door opens and your raising a brow at him. "Listening in on ladies in their bedchambers is not very gentlemanly of you."

"I wasn't. Well, I was but it wasn't like that." Azriel's walking past you, entering your room without even asking and he seems genuinely startled by the way it looks. Not that it was dirty or unkempt but it was painstakingly bare. Years of living there and still there were no pictures on the wall, no trinkets or feminine flare; just a bed with thick blankets and a shelf filled to the brim with books. A desk with a single sketchbook and a little bag of pencils and charcoals.

"What?"

He's still taking it in; it had to have been nearly eighty years and still it looked almost identical as it had when Rhys had first offered it to you as your own. "It's just not what I expected, that's all."

Your arms are crossed over your chest, hair braided tightly and it swayed as you walked, still dripping wet from a shower. It was alarmingly warm but you still wore a long sleeved shirt and fluffy socks that went up to your knees. "What did you expect?"

Az shrugs, turning to face you when he hears the way you slowly close the door. "You've been here a while. I suppose I had just expected to see more of you in here."

"Another one of your assessments?" There's no hiding the bite in your tone, the defensive stance you take when he begins wandering around; eyes eating up what little things you did have. Fingers graze over the spines of books, picking up one with tons of little dog-eared pages. "Please do tell what my lack of interest in interior decor says about me."

Book pages flutter, stopping when he catches one page more crinkled than most and his brows furrow when realizing the wrinkly circular dots were tears—your tears. "I wasn't evaluating you but since you asked," Azriel tucks the book under his arm and your lips part with a huff but he doesn't acknowledge the grumbles you give about taking things without asking. He's too busy scanning the contents of your desk; a cup of pens, little bottles of paints and a few brushes to accompany them. The thin drawer attached is half-filled with sketchbooks that were tightly bound an sealed with wax; a clear sign to stay the fuck out. "It shows that even after claiming to be perfectly content in a house filled with your so called "closest friends and family", you still refuse to get settled. That could stem from a plethora of things; variables I've accounted for but a definite conclusion is still pending at this time."

"Asshole," You all but hiss, smacking his hands away from sifting through the pages of the sketches and scribbles scrawled beside them— angsty little depictions of your thoughts when things got too overwhelming; when all you craved was a hot bath, one of Rhys' expensive bottles and an empty house so you could dance the line on how long you could hold your breath underwater.

"You asked." Ever the observer, noting the key you pull from under the neckline of your shirt, bending at the knee to unlock the side cabinet and open it just enough to shove the sketchbook inside. It's locked up tight and the intrigue only grows. "You also didn't say I was wrong."

"Fine," You concede, arms behind your back and braced against the desk, a body barrier between him and the secrets you weren't ready to confess. "You were wrong."

Azriel only smiles and your breath actually catches by how genuinely handsome he is. For once, he's not in his fighting leathers but somehow, the laid-back fashion of his dark sweatpants and t-shirt had your knees even more shaky. "Okay, then tell me something about you—something real."

The request startles you, brows screwing up and nose crinkling. "Why?"

A hand waves around him, shadows sliding over barren walls as if to aid in making Az's point. "Because, I should be able to get everything I need to know from being in what should be the most intimate place in the world for you but all I can get is that you like expensive sheets and quality curtains."

"I enjoy good sleep." It was the only two things that mattered when the sadness really set in. When minutes blurred into hours and in a blink of an eye you'd somehow skipped all three meals and everyone was shuffling away to their rooms for the night. "And I'll have you know the pens and colored pencils alone are more expensive than the duvet and curtains combined."

Azriel hums, fingers ghosting over the tin specifically made to hold them in place, perfectly color coded and all sharped to a point. "You draw? How don't I know that?"

"Because it doesn't save lives." It's meant as a joke, it even sounds like one but for some reason the shadowsinger can't seem to share the laugh. You refuse to meet his eye, creating some distance and tucking the key swiftly back under the fabric of your shirt, hands moving to fiddle with the ends of your sleeves. "I'm not all that good anyway."

"Good enough to spend so much money on supplies."

You let out an annoyed sigh and it doesn't affect him one bit; in fact, he finds himself enjoying any other emotion besides the faux smile he'd seen permanently plastered across your features. Your room smells like something Azriel can't place and he finds himself moving again, taking in more and more, trying to find the source of the sweet scent. "Is there a reason that you're here? You know, in my room instead of your own on the floor above us." You begin to trail behind him, following his line of sight and you too begin looking for whatever he was, rummaging through your closet and sniffing at your perfumes. "What are you doing?"

"I can smell something," It comes out distracted, body working without rationality when he ducks into your bathroom, sifting around shampoos and conditioners, soaps shaped like flowers and ivy but none of it is right. Not until he moves to the little cart by your clawfoot tub, fingers ruffling about vials and jars until he finds something that has your spine straightening. “What is this?”

There’s a pause while your will your voice to relax. “Infused rum.”

“Infused with?”

A scoff, bare toes on glossy floors when you snatch the bottle from him. “I don’t know, I don’t pay extra to get a history lesson. I just like how it makes me feel.”

Azriel raises a brow, eyes scanning the rest of the cart before sparing a glance at the empty tub. “In the bath?”

“Everyone has their own version of relaxation.” The bottle clinks back into place on the cart, tucked inconspicuously next to the other brightly colored vials and jars; perfectly hidden to anyone not equipped to pay attention to such things. “Do you usually question Mor or Elain of their drinking habits?”

It’s meant to push him away. To cut deep and throw him off your trail because Azriel was getting too close—too personal. “I would if they came to dinners faking smiles.” One step ahead forces you to take one step back, eyes squinting like a wounded animal bracing for one hell of a fight if it meant getting away. “I would if I saw them fading into nothing after spending their nights sobbing themselves to sleep.”

“Now you’re just speculating.”

“Am I?” Azriel pushes, evading your space and ignoring your attempts to create distance. It has to be some sort of manipulation tactic; distracting you with his intense presence in order to scramble your brain so that by time you realize he’s backed you into a corner—it’s too late. “Then tell me I’m wrong.” His left hand raises, his wrist enclosed in shadows as his fingers curl around your neck. Your pulse hums against his skin, heartrate spiking at the intimate touch and all words are robbed from your vocabulary.

“Azriel—“

The low rasp of his voice cuts you off, gentle grip never faltering from your neck. A shiver runs down your spine, the callouses on his thumb a welcomed roughness when sweeping at the curve of your chin. “It’s okay to be sad,” His scent is overwhelming, affecting your body similarly to a few glasses of fae wine and it takes effort for your knees not to tremble. “Just don’t let it consume you.”

For a second you think he’ll kiss you with how intensely he stares at your mouth, pulse still jumping against his fingertips.

The distance never fully closes and the phantom reminder of his touch remains branded on your skin as he slowly exits your room. And for the first time in years, instead of sniffling wrinkles into novels overflowing with friendship and love or drowning your sorrows in curated liquors —you sit at your desk and draw the sharp lines of Azriel’s jaw and that intense darkness shadowing golden irises and somewhere along the lines, you find a sliver of hope.

[kingofbodyrolls]

Coming Home to You (m) | pjm

It’s been five years since Hyun was arrested, and you’ve done a lot of healing to get where you are in life; married, finally opening your very own yoga studio. But when the shadows come crawling back, and old memories resurface, will Christmas be ruined?

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: detective!au, christmas!au, holiday!au, married!au, → Trope: best friends to lovers → Genres: fluff / smut / angst / thriller / comfort / action → Rating: mature/explicit/R18  (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 11.7k → Warnings + triggers: stalking (original character that stalks MC), action/fighting, weapons (guns and knifes), mention of abuse, mention of past s*xual assault, tiny description of assault (but not in too much detail), justice, healing after trauma, fluffy love and comfort, hugs and kisses, unprotected sex that is very quick and vanilla-ish.  → Author’s note: wow. It’s been over a year since I wrote and published this series. I was never quite happy with its ending, so while I was making my different Christmas stories, these characters just begged to get a second chance, so here we are! Please proceed with caution; this story is dark, but also very very fluffy and sweet. I’ve tried to balance the two. Enjoy 🙂 → Read the spoiler? [their text message]   → Read on AO3? [link] 

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It’s been five years since Jimin knelt before you under the soft lantern glow of the couple’s retreat, a promise in his eyes as steady as the stars. Since that night, you’ve woven your lives together, married and rooted in the warmth of his childhood home—a place brimming with memories, both tender and raw. Every room here holds pieces of your past, as if the walls have absorbed every laugh, every whispered secret, every tremor of pain. The familiar comforts you, yet it’s tinged with shadows. Some memories cling like stubborn echoes, ones you’d sooner silence forever—like that night, here, when Hyun’s violence shattered your trust in safety. Even now, an unexpected draft can send an icy shiver down your spine, and you're transported back, heart racing, wishing that day could be unwound and rewritten. You wish you’d taken a different path, not walked home alone, not been stalked and broken by him. But the past is fixed, carved into your story, unyielding as stone. All you can do is move forward—and you have, step by step.

Jimin, ever your protector, signed you up for self-defense the moment Hyun was locked away, knowing that peace of mind is something you now earn, not inherit. “It’s good to know you can defend yourself,” he’d said, his voice a blend of reassurance and determination. And he was right. Now, you walk with a quiet strength, knowing you’ve wrestled with darkness and won, a warrior forged from fear into power. 

Meanwhile, Jimin fights his own battles, tireless in his role as a detective, tracing the city’s shadows to keep others safe. You admire him deeply—how he gives himself so fully, despite the long hours, the late nights, the gravity of December’s cold cases. This month, where joy is promised but rarely found, wears heavy on him, and on so many. December holds a peculiar ache, doesn’t it? Beneath the glitter and false cheer lies an undercurrent of despair, a fragile season where people often find themselves adrift, succumbing to loneliness, sorrow, even violence. 

And yet, in this same season, you’ve created a sanctuary. Your yoga studio, born from the healing you found in stillness and breath, is your refuge, and you offer it now to others—to ground them, to lift the weight of silent burdens, to let them escape, if only for an hour, from the hollow echoes of December’s cheer. Here, people can shed the pressure of forced smiles and indulge in quiet solitude. You understand, perhaps better than most, the importance of spaces where vulnerability can breathe freely. After all, you’ve been there. You’ve survived the darkness and emerged stronger, and now, you offer the gift of peace to those still searching for it.

“How are you doing, babe?” Jimin’s voice crackles through the phone, warm and familiar, softened by the gentle rustle of papers in the background.

“I’m good,” you reply, a soft smile touching your lips as you glance at Hoseok, your friend who lights up any room, carefully arranging plants in sunlit patches to bring life into the studio. “Hobi’s here, helping me make this place perfect.”

“That’s great! Tell him I said hi,” Jimin sings out, his voice laced with love, a warmth that fills even the empty spaces. “I’ll be home around eight, so go ahead and make dinner, okay?”

“Of course, Minie,” you reply, the nickname rolling off your tongue like a familiar song. “Keep fighting the good fight, detective.” You chuckle, blowing him a kiss that floats down the line before you hang up.

Hoseok spins around, catching your playful mood, and clutches his chest as if the sweetness is too much to bear. “Blowing kisses over the phone? You two are too much,” he teases, his eyes alight, his grin brighter than the winter sun. Goofy as always, Hoseok has been your constant—a bright anchor in dark waters, the first person you confided in after you escaped the darkness. He had listened, his presence steady, his paramedic instincts kicking in to heal your wounds, visible and invisible.

“You’ll find your own moon, Hobi,” you reassure him with a smile, your voice soft with hope. “Someone who’ll love you just as much as you love everyone around you.”

He sighs, his shoulders dipping in a rare moment of vulnerability. “I know. It’s just, sometimes I can’t help but be a little jealous, you know?” His words trail off, filling the room with a quiet ache.

You stand and fold him into a hug, looking directly into his eyes. “Everything has its time and place,” you whisper, offering him the kind of solace he’s given you time and time again.

The two of you spend the rest of the day crafting the studio into something magical, every corner an invitation for peace. Tomorrow marks the grand opening, and you’ve chosen to offer free classes to anyone willing to step into this sanctuary of calm, hoping to bring yoga’s quiet power into their lives. Hoseok agreed to change shifts and lend a hand; his kindness surrounds you, a bright echo in a world that often feels hollow. As the evening draws to a close, you embrace him once more, feeling his warmth and the comfort he brings.

“Thank you, Hobi. I couldn’t have done this without you,” you say, voice heavy with gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, his smile soft as he waves you off, “and you deserve every bit of it.”

Locking the door behind you, you head toward your car in the near-empty lot. Shadows stretch long under the dull streetlights, their yellow glow casting ghostly halos in the foggy December night. As you fumble with your keys, an uneasy feeling prickles at the edge of your senses. The chill digs deep, sharp as a needle, and your heart quickens. It’s been years since you’ve felt that lingering, ghostly presence—the kind that turns your breath shallow and your steps quiet. You glance over your shoulder, searching the dimness, but there’s nothing there… only the hollow emptiness that seems to breathe with you. You shrug it off, telling yourself it’s the cold, the dark, the way memory sometimes pulls you back against your will.

Sliding into the car, you grip the steering wheel a little tighter than usual, feeling relief only as the streetlights blur by in the rearview mirror. When you pull up to the house, you spot Jimin’s car, parked and waiting like a beacon in the night, and your heart lifts. Home at last.

As you open the door, the air blooms with the rich aroma of spices and warmth, curling around you like a long-awaited embrace—Jimin’s cooking, you realize. Smiling, you slip off your shoes, the soft hum of a quiet evening unfolding as you make your way into the kitchen. There he is, framed by the golden glow of the stove, stirring a pan with practiced ease. You step behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“It smells heavenly,” you murmur, feeling his chuckle reverberate beneath your hands.

“You think so?” He turns just enough to meet your eyes, a flicker of concern softening his expression. “And you’re not feeling queasy today?”

“No, not today.” You lean up and kiss him, tasting the hint of laughter on his lips.

“That’s good,” he hums, turning his attention back to the pan, its contents simmering and bubbling in the low light. He stirs with gentle, rhythmic motions, as though coaxing comfort from each ingredient.

Yet that shadow from earlier lingers, stirring something unsettling deep within you. Without thinking, you ask, “Jimin, do you know if Hyun got released?” The words feel strange in the warmth of the kitchen, unwelcome as winter air creeping through a cracked window. That strange chill you felt in the parking lot refuses to let go—an echo of a memory, a feeling you wish you could brush off. By all accounts, Hyun should still be locked away, yet something in the back of your mind feels suddenly exposed, vulnerable.

Jimin pauses, turning to face you fully. “No, I haven’t heard anything,” he says, brows knitting together. “Didn’t he get a long sentence?”

“Eight years isn’t long, Minie.” You cross your arms, frustration flaring. “The law’s too forgiving, too willing to grant second chances.” Your voice trembles slightly, carrying the weight of those years—the years that man stole from you, the scars he left. How could the scales of justice tip so unevenly, leaving you with a lifetime of healing, and him with a mere eight years? Sometimes you wish you’d had the strength to end it that night, to ensure he’d never breathe free air again. But you’re not a murderer, not someone willing to stain their soul—even for justice. You took the honorable path, trusting the law, though part of you wonders if that was enough.

Jimin reaches out, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re completely right,” he says, his voice soft yet laced with a sorrow he rarely lets show. For a brief moment, his hand clenches into a fist, a glint of steel in his eyes. “I should have ended it myself—to make sure you’d never have to worry, not even for a moment.” His words surprise you, not in their meaning, but in the honesty of his anger. Jimin’s a man who believes in the law, in justice served through rightful means. To act outside of that would shatter something essential in him, an integrity you know he holds dear. And yet, his love for you runs deeper than those lines, testing the boundaries he’d never thought he’d consider crossing.

With a breath, he steadies himself, the warmth returning to his gaze. “I’ll look into it tomorrow at work, just to make sure,” he offers, his voice calming, his hand soft against your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you sigh, exhaling the last of that tension, allowing it to blend with the warmth of the kitchen, the comfort of Jimin’s presence. “It doesn’t hurt to check.” Leaning in, you brush a kiss to his cheek, feeling his silent promise lingering between you, unspoken but clear. Then, moving with quiet purpose, you begin setting the table, the simple act grounding you as Jimin finishes preparing dinner.

Tonight, the weight of the past lingers, yet in this big, familiar kitchen, you find a peace that holds you, a love that softens the edges of memory. Here, beneath the golden light and the scent of spices, you feel safe. And tonight, that’s enough.

It’s Friday morning, and the air in your yoga studio hums with the quiet promise of new beginnings. You and Hoseok move together in the spacious room, arranging mats on the polished wooden floor, each movement precise and grounding, as if setting intentions for the day. Only thirty minutes remain until opening, and excitement tingles under your skin, mixed with the flutter of nerves. Will they come? Will this space—your sanctuary—become theirs too?

“You’re fidgeting!” Hoseok grins, catching your restless hands as he lays mats in neat rows. “Everything’s going to be fine. Trust me.”

You draw a deep breath, letting the calm settle within you like dust in sunlight. Yes. Everything is going to be okay. 

Time slips past in a blur, and when you glance up, your heart skips. There, just beyond the glass doors, is a line—a line of people waiting to enter. A thrill runs through you, and Hoseok’s laughter bubbles up beside you as he grabs your arm, both of you practically floating to the door to welcome them.

“I told you it would be popular!” he chuckles, and together you swing open the doors to greet the eager faces. You offer warm smiles and greetings as people file in, and by the time they’ve settled, thirty mats are filled. Thirty. The sight sends a rush of gratitude through you, filling every corner of your heart.

“We’re going to need more mats,” you whisper, half in awe, and Hoseok is quick to gather extras, laying them out with practiced ease. The low hum of conversation fills the studio, blending with the gentle notes of mindfulness music, creating a cocoon of peace within the room. You take your place at the front, grounding yourself in the present, wearing your favorite flowy top and comfy tights—ready to share the gift of calm with those who’ve gathered.

A smile spreads across your face as you welcome them. “Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for coming to the grand opening of Journey of the Mind Yoga Studio.” Your voice is soft yet steady, carrying over the room as you scan the faces, each person a new journey unfolding. “Today’s class is free, a taste of what we offer here. I hope that after an hour of mindful stretching and release, you’ll feel inspired to join us again next week, just in time to find a bit of peace before the holiday rush.”

Appreciative nods and murmurs ripple through the crowd, and you feel the energy shift—a sense of community already settling over the room. You introduce Hoseok, your steady companion, who will offer modified versions of each pose, and together you begin. Your body flows naturally, guiding them through stretches that release tension, each pose a door opening to calm and clarity. The music sways through the room, a gentle river of sound, and as you lose yourself in the movements, your mind drifts, reaching that faraway place of tranquility that yoga always brings. For a moment, everything melts away—there is only breath, flow, presence.

An hour slips by as if in a single breath, and when you rise to close the session, you see faces glowing with newfound peace. Gratitude fills the room as they linger, a few stepping forward to sign up for paid classes. You watch them with pride and joy, knowing this day is just the beginning.

A thirty-minute break passes, and then another class begins, and another, each session flowing effortlessly into the next. By the end of the day, it feels like a dream—one filled with kind faces, gentle energy, and a hundred tiny transformations.

Before the last class, you find Hoseok at the front desk, flipping through a stack of sign-up sheets. His eyes widen, and he looks up at you, grinning. “Have you seen this? A hundred people signed up for classes today!”

You step closer, scanning the forms, disbelief melting into pure, unbridled happiness. “A hundred?” The number echoes through you, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You blink them back, laughing, unable to contain the joy swelling in your chest.

You can’t wait to tell Jimin—about the line that stretched outside, the calm that settled over your studio, and how, at the end of this first day, a hundred souls have chosen to join you on this journey.

It’s the last class of the night, the deep blue twilight casting shadows over the studio floor, and only one more hour separates you from home, from Jimin’s safe embrace. The soothing notes of the background music play on, grounding you as new faces trickle through the door. You greet each arrival with a wave, directing them to mats. Then, suddenly, the sight of a man draped in black—a hood pulled low over his eyes, dark sweats swallowing his form—stops you in your tracks. A chill sinks through you, and you feel your heart lurch.

Those eyes. 

Dark, unrelenting, too familiar—ones you’d memorized against your will, forced to hold their gaze when all you wanted was to look away. Your stomach knots, twisting tight. Hoseok, ever attuned, glances over and catches the change in your expression, worry shadowing his own face as the man settles on a mat in the back row, lingering like a storm cloud.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, eyes flitting between you and the figure in black, his own posture tensing.

Your voice is a murmur, low enough that only he can hear. “It’s Hyun,” you manage, feeling your pulse thunder in your throat.

Hoseok’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of recognition. “Hyun? The one who…?” His words trail off, but his face says it all. He shifts, dropping down beside you and pulling you into a quick, fierce hug. “I forgot his name. Do you want me to throw him out?”

You take a breath, trying to still the quake inside you, and shake your head. “No. This class is open to anyone, and I don’t want a scene.” But even as you speak, you feel the storm of tension in your limbs, the instinct to flee. Hoseok holds your gaze, and in that moment, you draw strength from his steady presence.

Jimin hadn’t confirmed Hyun’s release, but you have your answer now—he’s here. You remind yourself of the years spent rebuilding, of every inch of progress carved out of moments like this. Even with every fiber of your being itching to run, you anchor yourself to the space you created. It’s yours, and he cannot take that from you.

With a final inhale, you center yourself, allowing the soft music to pull you inward, body flowing into each pose like water, each stretch drawing you into peace. Gradually, you lose yourself in the rhythm, the silent connection with your students and the gentle pulse of your breathing. And, for a while, Hyun fades away, a mere shadow swallowed by the calm you find within.

The hour evaporates, and as the last pose ends, your students begin to gather at the front to inquire about signing up for future classes. When you look up, he’s there, standing apart from the others, a sinister calm in his gaze as he steps forward. Hoseok intercepts him, a wall of silent strength, hand raised as Hyun tries to add his name to the sign-up sheet.

“Hold it right there,” Hoseok says, voice low but firm, a quiet line drawn in the sand.

Hyun cocks his head, feigning innocence. “What? I’m allowed to sign up, aren’t I?” His eyes find yours, and a sickeningly familiar smirk pulls at his lips.

The air feels thick, each breath heavy, but you step forward, not retreating. “I don’t want you in my class,” you say, voice clear, each word a stone dropped into silence.

He doesn’t flinch, though his smile twists into something mocking, his voice dripping with that old, poisonous charm. “Oh, hi, Y/N. Long time no see. Miss me?”

Your stomach churns, but your voice is calm, steady. “No.” With a resolve you’ve fought for, you reach forward, collecting the sign-up sheets before he can so much as touch a pen. He holds your gaze for a moment longer, but you don’t look away.

He may have stepped into your studio, but the power is yours now. He has no place here.

“How’s that detective boyfriend of yours?” His words slither out, and you flinch as if struck. How dare he even speak Jimin’s name? Rage blazes up inside you, hot and sudden. You’re no damsel anymore, no victim to be cornered and toyed with. Hoseok catches the fire in your eyes, and you see his gaze sharpen with quiet caution.

You clench your fists, jaw set like iron. “Detective husband,” you correct, voice edged in steel, as you gather mats with controlled fury, each motion meant to keep you from shattering the silence with something far less civil.

Hyun’s smirk deepens. “Oh? Well, congratulations, then. A shame I couldn’t attend the wedding.” His voice dips, sickly sweet, heavy with implication. “Maybe I’ll swing by with a gift.” His presence feels like a noose tightening around you, air thickening as if his mere proximity could smother you. Your pulse hammers as the realization creeps in—he’s marked you. A warning, thinly veiled, wrapped in poison.

You glare at him, the question cutting through your clenched teeth. “Is that a threat?”

His brows lift in mock surprise. “What? No, of course not.” But his smirk widens, his words a sham, oozing with menace beneath the feigned innocence.

“Don’t you dare come to my place!” you snap, and the challenge fires through your voice, every bit of strength you’ve built since his prison sentence fortifying you. Your finger lifts, pointing sharply at him, defying every shadow he’s tried to cast over you. Hoseok’s hand on your arm is gentle but grounding, a reminder to hold back, to stay in control.

“We’re closed. Leave,” you say, already moving to the door, holding it open like a shield. “And don’t come back here again,” you add, voice steady but laced with finality as you close and lock the door behind him.

Hyun offers nothing but a wave, his smile sick and twisted, the kind of look that stains your thoughts long after it’s gone. Your stomach knots, and before you can stop it, bile rises, and you double over in the parking lot, dry-heaving, sickness flooding your body with the aftershock of his presence.

Hoseok is by your side instantly, his hand a firm, steadying weight on your shoulder. “Y/N, are you okay?”

You straighten, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to steady your breath. “I’m fine, just… a little sick.”

“Let me drive you home,” he says, voice filled with quiet concern. You nod, passing him your keys as the fatigue of it all begins to settle deep in your bones.

The car ride is silent, words seeming too heavy to pull into the space between you. The tension clings, raw and open, until you finally reach your driveway, the warm glow of Jimin’s car waiting like a beacon. Hoseok walks you up to the door, the both of you stepping into the soft, familiar warmth of home, leaving the shadows outside where they belong.

Jimin’s gaze snaps up from the television as he catches the sound of more than one pair of footsteps entering. He rises quickly, worry flickering over his face as he takes in the strained silence between you and Hoseok, the exhaustion etched deep in both your expressions.

“Hoseok, what happened?” His voice is tense, yet gentle, sensing more than just the weariness in your eyes.

Hoseok shifts uncomfortably, glancing at you, hesitant to steal your voice from what needs to be said. “Y/N… she threw up,” he murmurs, trailing off as the words catch in his throat.

You swallow hard, your voice raw as you push the words out, barely a whisper. “Hyun was there.” Tears prick your eyes, and despite all the strength you’ve gathered, you feel it unraveling now. The weight of the encounter, of old fears returning, pressing down like a weight you thought you’d left behind.

A flash of steel darkens Jimin’s expression. “Hyun…?” His voice falters, regret layering his tone. “I’m so sorry. I meant to tell you. He was released recently. ‘Good behavior,’” he adds, voice bitter with an edge of apology.

“Good behavior?” Hoseok spits out, disbelief lacing his words. “How’s that even possible?”

You feel your composure slip as nausea stirs again, dragging you toward the bathroom, leaving their voices distant and blurred behind you.

Hoseok watches you retreat, worry stark in his eyes as he turns to Jimin. “Will she be okay? He was taunting her. It was… ugly.”

Jimin sighs deeply, clenching his fists before releasing them with a slow exhale. “She’ll be okay. She’s just worn down. Probably a bug, and—thank you, Hyung. For everything.” He pulls Hoseok into a brief hug, a silent exchange of gratitude.

After Hoseok leaves, Jimin locks the door, the click echoing in the quiet house. He moves down the hall, following the quiet sounds of tears and finds you on the bathroom floor, knees drawn up, head resting against the cool tile as your breathing comes in shaky waves.

He crouches down beside you, gathering you into his arms, his warmth an anchor against the chill of the evening’s shadows. “It’s going to be okay, love,” he whispers, his voice a steadying calm. “He won’t come near you again.”

You let out a shuddering breath, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “He said he’d come by the house,” you murmur, the words tasting of dread, each one a reminder of the past you’ve been fighting to escape.

Jimin’s hand rests firmly on your back, grounding you. “We’ll get a restraining order,” he says, his voice quiet but determined, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back, trying to slow the erratic beat of your heart.

You shake your head faintly, skepticism clouding your gaze. “A piece of paper won’t stop him, but… yes, let’s get one,” you say, your voice breaking as another wave of nausea churns in your stomach. Jimin stays by your side, his hand never leaving yours, his presence a reminder that you are not alone in this—never again.

You spend the weekend with nerves stretched thin, every sound outside tightening your pulse like a taut wire. A single creak, a rustle in the yard, and you freeze, bracing against the shadows in your own mind. No matter how much healing you’ve embraced, the sight of Hyun pulled you straight back into those dark beginnings, and the steps forward now feel fragile underfoot. You hate the way your mind oscillates, flitting between fear and sharp, practiced vigilance, ready for him if he dares to cross that line.

But the days pass without a sign of him. By the next week, your hours are full, carried along by the rhythm of classes at your yoga studio, a flurry of smiling students, and Jimin’s comforting presence. He’s taken to working from home more often now, lingering in the warmth of your shared space. You’ve told him he doesn’t have to—reminded him you’re okay, that you’re safe, and that the gun is exactly where it needs to be. Still, he stays as much as his job allows, though the detective in him calls him to the streets more often than either of you would like.

Another Friday comes, winter resting like a hush over the town, and this evening you’re hosting your parents and Jimin’s mother for an early holiday dinner. You feel that strange flicker of a shadow behind you as you lock up the studio, but when you turn, there’s only emptiness. You brush off the feeling, slipping into your car and driving home, where warmth and the comfort of Jimin’s cooking greet you at the door.

The scent of rosemary and roasted vegetables fills the air as you step into the kitchen and wrap your arms around him from behind. “I think that restraining order might be working,” you murmur against his shoulder. “I haven’t seen Hyun all week.” You tell him about that lingering shadow, though, the chill it brings, because nothing is hidden between you anymore.

Jimin sighs, his voice firm. “Good. I hope he stays the hell away.”

The doorbell rings, and for once, it doesn’t spike your anxiety—your parents’ familiar voices float in as you welcome them with warm hugs. Moments later, Jimin’s mother arrives, her eyes lingering with approval on the home she once knew, touched by the renovations Jimin’s loving hands have made over the years.

While he puts the finishing touches on the meal, you and his mother set the table, her gentle warmth as comforting as it was on your wedding day, radiating that kindness she passed down to her son. At last, Jimin brings out the food, setting down a beautiful feast. He pours a rich red wine, and the conversation flows as easily as laughter, the air alive with the simplicity of joy and the sheltering presence of those you love most.

A gentle quiet has settled over the table, filled only by the warmth of shared glances and the comfort of a good meal, when your mother’s voice breaks the silence. “So, Jimin, Y/N… when can we expect grandchildren?” Her words hang playfully in the air, and you nearly choke on your water. Jimin chuckles, his hand soothingly rubbing your back as his eyes find yours, twinkling with that familiar, soft affection.

Jimin’s mother joins in, her laugh carrying a hint of nostalgia. “Yes! You’re both getting older, you know. People these days wait so long… not like us, having kids in our early twenties!” She beams at you both, her gaze filled with warmth.

You feel a surge of emotion and rest your hand over your stomach, a tender touch that doesn’t go unnoticed. You glance at Jimin, sharing a look that’s brimming with unspoken love. Your father, keen-eyed and quiet as always, spots the gesture first. His face lights up with a dawning realization. “Wait—don’t tell me… you’re pregnant?”

All eyes are on you, hopeful and bright, and you can only nod with a smile that grows as the news settles around the table like a warm blanket. “Yes,” you whisper, happiness spilling from your voice as Jimin’s hand finds yours beneath the table. His fingers interlace with yours, and he presses a tender kiss to your cheek, his gaze brimming with pride and love.

“Congratulations!” Your mothers erupt with joy, voices a mix of laughter and tears. They dive into discussions of baby names, nursery colors, and whose eyes the baby might inherit, their delight a bright flame you’re content to bask in. Across the table, your father sits quietly, his expression full of a soft pride that words wouldn’t quite capture. He’s always been a man of few words, but in his gaze, you feel the depth of his happiness for you.

You savor the moment, spoonfuls of Jimin’s lovingly prepared meal mingling with the joy of your family’s celebration. Hours slip by, the conversation growing more animated, laughter blending with gentle memories and future dreams, until the night draws to a close. Your parents and Jimin’s mother, reluctantly but joyfully, gather their things to head home, lingering in the doorway for one last hug and a few parting words. They fuss over tidying up, but you and Jimin wave off their offers, sending them off with smiles and waves as they disappear into the night.

When the door closes, the world shrinks down to just the two of you. The kitchen is dimly lit, the last traces of laughter lingering in the air as you work together to clear the table, each movement wrapped in unspoken affection. Jimin carefully rinses dishes and stacks them in the dishwasher, his gaze soft when it drifts to you sitting on the countertop, your legs dangling as you watch him, feeling the quiet joy of simply being here.

“Tonight was wonderful,” you say softly, a gentle smile curving your lips.

Jimin glances over, the warmth of his smile a reflection of your own. “Yeah… a perfect start to the holiday,” he agrees, placing the last dish in the washer and wiping his hands. He steps close, his hands finding yours once more, as if grounding both of you in this quiet, beautiful moment.

You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the peace and warmth of the evening settle over you like a blanket. It’s in these little moments that everything feels right, the future unfolding in each shared glance and gentle touch, and in this quiet stillness, you can feel it—life, love, and everything beautiful, blossoming right where you are.

He shifts his full attention to you, gently parting your legs to make space as he moves closer, bringing you face-to-face, your gazes locked at the same height. Your smile mirrors his, a gentle curve of affection that makes his eyes deepen with warmth. Leaning in, he brushes his lips against yours, a tender kiss that soon grows hungry and consuming. His hand slides to cradle your face, fingers tracing softly as though memorizing the moment, while the other finds its way over your heart, savoring the feel of you, pulling you closer as you wrap your legs around his waist.

Your breath mingles as you whisper his name against his ear, each word trembling between desire and intimacy. The way he looks at you, dark eyes glistening with both love and want, sends a rush through you. “You’re beautiful, love,” he murmurs, his voice weighted with meaning, and despite all the time you’ve been together, you feel a familiar warmth bloom in your cheeks. His words have always had this effect, ever since the two of you were children, growing up side by side. The love that sprouted so simply back then has blossomed into a romance that still fills you with wonder.

He lets his hands explore your body, caressing gently yet firmly, and you’re lost in the soft rhythm of his lips against yours, feeling every kiss ignite something deep and primal within you. Your fingers find their way into his soft, blonde hair, tugging slightly, which earns you a low, muffled groan from him. The world fades, leaving only the intensity of the connection between you.

“I’m so wet for you, Minie,” you murmur, feeling him pressed against you, the heat building as his mouth finds your cheek, his hands anchoring around your waist.

“And I’m already lost in your ocean, beautiful,” he replies, breath catching as his lips graze your skin. Every touch, every kiss sends waves of warmth through you, until the longing turns into an urgent need. You’re both enraptured, no barriers, just pure feeling.

The rest of the world falls away as he slides his hands down to remove the last of the barriers between you, his movements tender yet filled with intent, every gesture echoing the love that began all those years ago. And here you are, together, woven tightly in each other’s arms, the love between you more radiant, more alive, and infinitely more powerful.

He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you, and instinctively, you wind your legs around his waist, feeling the warmth of him pressed against you. With steady strength, he lifts you, likely intending to carry you to the bedroom, but you stop him, breathless. “Take me here against the wall,” you whisper, voice edged with urgency as you tug him toward you, feeling the hard press of his cock.

He pauses, his gaze meeting yours with a question, “Are you sure?” His voice is soft, considerate—he’s always careful with you, gentle by nature, respectful of the parts of you that have been hurt before. That care has only made you fall for him more, and while you love his tenderness, tonight you need his fire. You nod, eyes shining, and he’s helpless to resist.

In one fluid movement, he presses you against the wall, his hands anchoring you there, firm yet tender. You can feel your heart racing, every nerve alive under his touch. He shifts, aligning with your entrance, and with a slow, steady push, he fills you, sparking a surge of pleasure. A moan escapes your lips as you grip his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin, grounding you both in the intensity of the moment.

“Don’t hold back,” you murmur, breath hitching as he moves, and he responds with a deep, steady rhythm, each thrust bringing a fresh wave of heat. He breathes in your scent, voice rough with longing. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmurs, his pace quickening as he finds his rhythm. You cling to him, each movement taking you higher, your breath mingling with his.

“Yes, just like that,” you gasp, urging him on as he moves faster, the intensity building. He kisses you deeply, his mouth tracing along your jaw, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. The touch sends shivers through you, making you tighten around him, drawing a low groan from his throat.

Every movement, every kiss, feels like poetry written just for you, a melody of intimacy and trust that’s as powerful as it is passionate. You lose yourself in him, the world outside disappearing, leaving only the two of you, intertwined and complete in each other’s embrace.

“God, I love you,” you whisper, voice thick with passion as each thrust sends shivers up your spine, grounding you in the heat of his touch and the rhythm of his heartbeat. You’re swept up, utterly consumed, and he meets your moan with a deep, urgent growl, holding you even closer, moving as though nothing else exists but this moment with you. He doesn’t need to say it back right now, because you know he feels the same.

“Are you close?” he breathes into your ear, his voice dark and velvet-soft, a question that’s half promise, half plea. Every inch of you is alive under him, and all you can manage is a fervent nod, your body arched into his, lips parted in breathless surrender.

His mouth trails down to your earlobe, nibbling, his breath warm as he kisses there, pulling you to the edge with one gentle bite. That tender touch is your undoing, and as you reach your release, a tremor of his name escapes your lips—a sound filled with love, with surrender, with the rawness of being completely his. Your body clenches around him, every nerve singing, and he murmurs a groan into your neck, his words barely audible, “God, you’re perfect.”

“Just a little more,” he grits out, voice rough and heady, feeling your muscles gradually relax in the aftermath. But still, he holds on, his hips relentless, moving faster as his own climax builds.

“Please, Jimin—fill me up,” you breathe, brushing your lips against his neck, leaving the lightest bite just where you know he loves it. He shudders at your words, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you against him. And then, with a breathless gasp, he reaches his peak, holding you in place as he comes, his body quivering with the intensity. As his breathing steadies, he kisses you softly, reverently, before gently setting you down. The warm evidence of your shared release traces down your skin, and you can’t help but smile at the beautiful mess you’ve made together. 

“Let me clean you up with a shower, love,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. And with that, he scoops you into his arms, carrying you to the shower like a precious secret, his love wrapped around you as perfectly as his embrace.

The holiday season has always been your favorite, but this year feels even more special with Jimin home, his presence like a cozy fire warming you from within. Today, you’re headed to the town’s annual Christmas fair, your excitement bubbling up like a child’s as you watch the fresh snow blanket the world in shimmering white. The air is crisp and cold, frosting your breath in soft clouds, and as you step into your thick parka and tug on your wool hat and gloves, a familiar thrill sparks in your chest.

When Jimin pulls the car into the bustling fairground, the festive scene unfolds around you like a magical wonderland—ferris wheels lit up in every color, carousels spinning with children’s laughter, the sweet aroma of cinnamon and cocoa wafting from food stands. You take Jimin’s hand, his warmth grounding you, sending tiny shivers up your spine that make you feel safe, cherished.

“What should we do first?” he asks, his voice full of warmth and mischief. He leans in for a quick kiss, and you can’t help but laugh, feeling the giddiness of the season wrapped around you both. “Maybe a snack before we dive in?” you suggest, knowing your holiday joy can’t hold out too long against the allure of fair food.

Hand in hand, you make your way to a nearby stand for corn dogs, laughing as you watch Jimin take an exaggerated first bite, just to get you laughing too. As you wander through the fair, you try the carousels, giggling at being the only adults who dare to let loose on the spinning, painted horses. Jimin pulls funny faces just to make you laugh, and you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, unable to remember the last time you felt this carefree.

Then, when the two of you board the ferris wheel, you press yourself close to Jimin as the car rises, high above the lights and noise. The view stretches out over your small hometown, blanketed in snow, the twinkling lights below like stars that have settled on earth. You lean against his warmth as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you even closer, his gaze soft and full as he cups your chin, drawing you into a kiss that’s slow, lingering, a promise of forever in the way he holds you. For a moment, the world below disappears, leaving only the quiet and the blue sky, and the warmth of Jimin’s hazel eyes gazing into yours. 

As the wheel lowers, you link your fingers through his, laughing softly, already craving another snack and wondering what else this cozy winter day will bring. The sky dims, the fairground lights beginning to glow more brightly against the deepening twilight, and time feels like a gentle whisper, moving too quickly yet perfectly slow.

But then, a shadow passes through your heart, and a prickle of cold worry begins to creep along your skin, a reminder of something you can’t quite shake. You glance over your shoulder, and nothing’s there. Still, the thought of Hyun stirs in the back of your mind, his ominous words echoing faintly as your heart begins to race. You tighten your grip on Jimin’s hand, and he senses the shift immediately, glancing down with concern before pulling you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Hey, don’t worry too much,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm. But you can’t help it—the fears that live in the corners of your mind sometimes refuse to fade, conjuring memories of times you’ve worked so hard to put behind you. Tonight, it’s as though they’re breathing down your neck.

Jimin holds you a little tighter, and for now, with his steady heartbeat against yours, you close your eyes and try to believe that this night will stay as warm and beautiful as it began.

“It’s okay, babe,” Jimin whispers, his voice a warm anchor in the chilly evening air, his gaze sweeping the crowd as if to shield you from every shadow. “Want to try one of the mini-games? Might be fun, right?” He nudges you gently, his hand wrapped around yours like a lifeline, and you nod, letting him lead you toward a brightly lit shooting game with yellow plastic ducks bobbing across the water. A neon sign above promises a plush prize to anyone who hits seven in a row, no misses allowed.

“Want to take a shot?” Jimin asks, his eyes sparkling with playful encouragement. You hesitate, glancing between the toy rifle and the ducks. You’ve never been much of a sharpshooter, and he is, after all, a cop. But something inside you wants to take the challenge, just to feel a little braver.

“Yeah, why not,” you say, smiling up at him as the game attendant hands you the toy rifle. With a deep breath, you take aim and fire, hearing a satisfying ping as the first duck falls. Jimin lets out a low whistle. “There’s my sharpshooter,” he murmurs. You grin, managing to hit the second, then the third. Your confidence grows with each shot, until only the seventh duck remains. With Jimin’s hand resting on your lower back, grounding you, you hold your breath, aim, and pull the trigger. The final duck topples.

“Yes!” Jimin’s cheers fill your ears as he pulls you in for a quick kiss, his lips brushing against your cheek, making you blush. “That’s my princess,” he beams, pride gleaming in his eyes. “Guess you learned from the best, huh?”

You laugh, “I had a pretty great teacher,” you tease, hugging him tight, though you know his lessons were few and far between—guns aren’t exactly your thing.

The man at the booth sighs, clearly reluctant to part with one of his prizes, but rules are rules. “Which one do you want?” he grumbles, gesturing toward the row of plush toys. You scan the lineup of bears, unicorns, ducks, dogs, and cats until a small, soft chicken catches your eye. Round and silly-looking with a chibi expression, it’s too cute to resist.

“I’ll take the chicken,” you say, and the attendant hands it to you with a reluctant sigh. Hugging the plushie, you feel an odd sense of victory. 

Jimin wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you close. You lean back against him, feeling his warmth spread through you as you nuzzle the plush chicken. “So,” he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear, “what’s next? Ready to call it a night, or is there something else my champion wants to try?”

Your stomach growls in reply, making you both burst into laughter. “Food?” you giggle, rubbing your belly. “This little one has no mercy on my appetite.” He grins and takes your hand again, leading you to a cinnamon roll stand where the air is thick with the smell of sugar and spice. You savor the warm, sticky sweetness as you wander, munching on rolls as the world around you seems to fade to just the two of you in the glow of the fairground lights.

The sky darkens, and the colorful lights of the ferris wheel cast a dreamy glow over the fairground, painting the snow in soft hues of pink, blue, and gold. You can’t help but feel that shadow again, that prickling awareness, as though someone’s eyes are on you from just beyond the lights. You glance over your shoulder, and Jimin notices, squeezing your hand. “I swear… I feel like we’re being followed,” you murmur, trying to brush off the chill that’s settled into your bones.

Jimin’s arm tightens around you, his voice gentle. “I’ve got you. I promise. Let’s enjoy our night.” He scans the area one last time, reassuring you with a nod, and though you try to shake off the unease, your mind keeps circling back to shadows of memories and unwelcome fears.

As the evening winds down, you stroll hand in hand through the fair, taking in the final sights and sounds as the ferris wheel spins in the distance, a vibrant crown against the night sky. You head back toward the car, Jimin’s hand steady in yours, his presence like a shield against the cold and the shadows that linger in the corners of your mind.

It’s Christmas Eve morning, and waking beside Jimin feels like unwrapping a gift, precious and comforting. His warmth is the first thing you reach for, stirring your tired limbs awake as you press against him. He stirs, stretching languidly, then leans over to brush his lips against yours, a soft good morning murmured into the quiet. He reaches for his phone, eyes still soft with sleep—until something there pulls him fully awake. A line forms between his brows as he scans the screen, and then, a single word, “Shit.” The morning shatters. Jimin is up, rummaging hurriedly for his work clothes, pulling on formal slacks, a crisp white shirt, his hands deft as he straps his holster and gun into place.

“An emergency,” he explains, voice hushed but apologetic. “I’ll be back as fast as I can, okay?” His eyes linger on you, warm but tense, his lips brushing your forehead before he rushes out of the room.

You listen to his footsteps fade, the silence swallowing them like a gust in the snow. A strange feeling, subtle as a shadow, lingers in his absence. You try to brush it off, making your way to the bathroom, relishing the warmth of the heated floor beneath your feet. Under the hot spray of the shower, you ease yourself into the day, trying to shake the unsettled feeling, the vague sense of something amiss. In the kitchen, you make a cup of hot cocoa, cradling it in your hands as you settle onto the couch, fingers resting on the gentle swell of your belly. You find yourself drifting, dreaming of a future where you hold a small hand in yours, and Jimin beside you, as steady as the earth beneath your feet.

The hours slip by with quiet ease, the TV playing soft holiday movies in the background. But as afternoon settles into evening, a heavy quietness falls over the house. You haven’t heard from Jimin since he left, and though emergencies often keep him busy, a sense of something unresolved stirs within you, growing heavier with each passing hour.

A faint rumble from the bedroom breaks the silence, freezing you in place. The unease you’d tried to ignore rushes back, prickling the hairs at the nape of your neck. It’s nothing, you tell yourself, forcing a deep breath, though your fingers tighten around your phone. But your body is already in motion, carrying you down the hall, each step slower than the last, toward the darkened bedroom.

When you push open the door, all seems still—nothing out of place. But as your gaze drifts to the window, you notice the curtain shifting, disturbed by a breeze that shouldn’t be there. Heart pounding, you step forward to shut it, and in that instant, you feel a presence behind you. You turn, but it’s too late. A hooded figure looms before you, shadowed and terrifying. Your phone slips from your hand, a dull thud against the floor.

Before you can scream, a rough hand clamps over your mouth. The scent is all too familiar, acrid and sickening. You know who it is before you see him—Hyun. His voice rasps in your ear, dripping malice, “Didn’t I promise you a wedding gift?”

The room seems to spin. His grip presses harder, his body trapping you in place. Terror courses through your veins, and your mind flashes to Jimin, to the phone lying just out of reach. Adrenaline surges as you focus on your escape. You mumble something, forcing a desperate, repulsive trick as you lick his palm and bite down hard, tasting blood as he yanks his hand back, cursing. 

You wrench free from his hold while he cradles his bleeding hand, wincing. Without a second to waste, you grab your phone off the floor, heart pounding, and sprint down the hall, locking yourself inside the bathroom. You sink to the floor, body trembling as you fight to steady your breaths, your fingers fumbling to open your messages. Somehow, you manage to type, sending two simple, desperate texts to Jimin.

You [19:24]: 9-1-1   You [19:24]: He’s here.

There’s nothing more to say, only the hope that he’ll see the messages in time. The moment hangs in silence—a fragile beat of hope—before you hear heavy, menacing footsteps in the hall. Then, a pounding at the door. “Y/N!” Hyun’s voice cuts through the wood, thick with malice. “Don’t play hide and seek with me. You know I’m gonna get you, my sweet thing, in the end."

Revulsion twists in your stomach, bile rising as tears prick your eyes. Trembling, you dial the emergency line, and as it rings, you realize there’s no refuge here—he won’t stop, won’t disappear no matter how hard you wish him gone. Your thoughts race as you pocket the phone, steeling yourself. But he doesn’t give you time to think—suddenly, the door crashes open, hinges splintering like brittle bone.

You scream, crawling back as fast as you can, but he’s on you, fingers wrapping around your ankles. Your hands claw the now cold tile as he drags you from the bathroom into the living room, your voice tearing from you in desperation, “Let go of me!”

He pins you down, his frame towering, shadowing you in an oppressive, hateful presence. “I’m never letting you go,” he whispers, his words thick with a sick promise. You feel his twisted obsession, the monstrous need that drove him here. You thrash, trying to throw him off, but he leans in, pressing his face too close, forcing his mouth onto yours. The taste is wrong, bitter, and you recoil, every part of you recoiling.

“Get off me!” Your words are a choked plea as you twist beneath him, managing to free your arms enough to claw at his face, leaving red, angry lines that well with blood. But he only smirks, taunting, “Cute. You think that’ll hurt me?”

He’s unfazed, mocking as he grasps your throat with both hands, squeezing, pressing until your vision blurs, and the room begins to darken at the edges. You gasp, a strangled sound, as the pain becomes a crushing, unbearable force. Memories flash unbidden—the last time he did this, the way his hands felt cold and final around your neck. But this time, it’s worse, the stakes higher, a life growing inside you that you’re desperate to protect. You have to live. You have to fight.

Your nails rake his skin, drawing blood that drips down his neck as you struggle, grunting against his grip. His hands press tighter, cutting off the last shreds of air, and your hands fall limp to your sides, your strength draining as your vision fades further, a comforting darkness luring you under. No—you can’t give in. Not now. Not ever.

Just as you begin to slip away, his hands release, and you collapse back, choking as air rushes in, searing your throat. You sputter, gasping for each ragged breath, your chest heaving. 

He laughs—a hollow, twisted sound that scrapes against your raw nerves. Your hands fly instinctively to your bruised throat, fingers trembling over the tender skin where his hands left their cruel mark. Swallowing sends a lance of pain through you, but you grit your teeth and do it anyway, fury simmering beneath the ache. His laughter thickens, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s savoring your suffering, feeding on it. The thought turns your anger molten.

Without warning, you bring your knee up hard, aiming for his groin. His laughter cuts short as he doubles over, collapsing onto his back with a low, strangled sound. You don’t hesitate—climbing on top of him, your fingers find his throat, tightening with all the strength you have left. You press down, leaning your weight against him, mirroring his cruelty. But instead of fear, his mouth twists into a mocking smile, a dark glint in his eyes as he taunts, “Do you really think you can strangle me?”

No. You don’t. But that isn’t what you want—not his life, only your freedom. Only for him to be gone, to take his darkness and leave your life untouched. You press down harder, desperate, as if force alone could drive him out of your world, out of your head. But his lips curl into a smirk. “You know…” he sneers, his voice a poison, “I’ll keep coming back for you.”

A cold shiver snakes down your spine. His words claw at something raw inside you, turning your stomach. His eyes drift lower, his sneer deepening. “And I heard you’re carrying his child—that should be mine, not his.”

The air thickens with the weight of your anger, a red haze filling your vision. How dare he speak of you this way, as though you were something he could possess, as though you ever belonged to him. “I am not yours,” you snarl, voice thick with hate. “I never was, and I never will be. I just want you to leave me alone.” Your fists beat against his chest, fists shaking, as tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision. “I hate you—I hate everything you did to me, how you ruined me,” you cry, panting through clenched teeth. “And I said no. I kept saying no.”

Your voice breaks, and for a moment, you see a glint of something like triumph flicker across his face. He grips your arms, hard, and rolls you to the floor, pinning you beneath him, a sickly satisfaction in his eyes as he leans in close, close enough that you can taste his twisted need.

“Every time you said no, you wanted it more,” he whispers, voice dripping with malice. His hands slither over you, invading spaces that are yours alone, your body recoiling even as his grip tightens, forcing you still. “No!” you scream, thrashing against him, but his strength bears down like a stone weight, ignoring your protests. Slowly, the world fades around you, and you feel yourself withdrawing, spiraling inward to somewhere far from here, a place where his words and hands cannot reach.

But a spark within you flares, burning through the haze, and with a rush of fury, you bite down hard on his arm, tasting blood as he yelps in pain, finally loosening his hold. With every ounce of strength, you scramble away from him, crawling back to the nearest wall, your breaths ragged and desperate.

Across the room, he sits clutching his bleeding arm, his grin now faded, eyes narrowed in contempt. You lean against the wall, heart pounding, body shaking, but you’re grounded in your own fierce defiance. You will not give him the power he craves—you are done being his prey.

He staggers to his feet, a twisted smile curling as he steps closer. “I’m going to take my time with you,” he sneers, his voice a slow, venomous drawl. “Then I’m going to show your husband just how you submit to me… and then I’ll kill him.”

Rage flares, sharp and hot, flooding your veins with an almost blinding heat. It’s not just his threats against you that ignite this fury; it’s his words dripping poison over Jimin, over the fragile life blooming inside you. A primal protectiveness surges within, and without thinking, you hurl yourself at him, slamming into him with enough force to send both of you sprawling to the floor. He crashes down, the impact reverberating through the room with a sickening thud.

“Do you think you’re going to touch me? Or my husband? Ever again?!” Your voice, jagged and fierce, fills the space as your hands close around his throat again, pressing down with every ounce of strength. Rage surges, raw and instinctive, clouding your mind with only one thought: end this. End him. Your fingers dig deeper, feeling his pulse thrumming beneath your hands as his face begins to contort.

The front door bursts open, splintering the tense air. You flinch, loosening your grip just as Jimin and Yoongi storm in, guns drawn, with Seokjin and Hoseok rushing in behind them, wide-eyed and bracing. Jimin’s gaze finds you immediately, the calm surface barely veiling the torrent of worry and rage roiling beneath. You tremble, relief flooding through your exhausted body, but as you’re getting up, Hyun strikes—swinging his injured arm in a brutal arc, smashing his fist against your face. Pain explodes in bright, sharp pulses as you fall back, clutching your throbbing cheek, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth.

“Why can’t you just let me touch you?” he spits, voice laced with fury and twisted desire.

Jimin’s composure cracks, a murderous glint darkening his eyes. He moves forward, tension coiling through his every muscle, his voice low and lethal. “Take your hands off my wife, you sick bastard.” He grabs Hyun by the collar, wrenching him off you, his grip hard as iron.

Hyun thrashes, laughing with a manic gleam, his voice ringing with a sinister satisfaction. “This is exactly what I wanted, Officer Park. And guess what? She’s just as responsive as I remember, all soft and sweet…”

A flash of unhinged rage sweeps over Jimin’s face, his jaw tightening as his hands shake, clenching tighter on Hyun’s collar. For a moment, his fingers inch toward his holster, Yoongi’s voice cutting in sharp and steady. “Park, don’t do it. Stay in control.” Jimin forces himself to release a breath, loosening his grip. He can’t, won’t, give in to the darkness Hyun is trying to pull him into. But his voice is thick with barely restrained fury as he hauls Hyun away from you.

Hoseok moves to your side, his face stricken as he watches you cradle your bruised cheek. His hand hovers just over your shoulder, cautious yet protective, as though he’s afraid you might break under his touch. You manage a shaky breath, giving him a nod of reassurance, though you can tell by the raw look in his eyes that you must look far worse than you feel.

And still, Hyun laughs, his eyes gleaming as they flick between you and Jimin, his voice dripping with contempt. “Oh, she’s going to remember me, Park. Forever. Just like she did five years ago. You remember, don’t you, sweetheart?” His words, cruel and deliberate, slice through the room like barbed wire, ripping open old wounds, dragging you back to that nightmare.

In a flash, Jimin draws his gun, pointing it squarely at Hyun’s chest, his finger hovering on the trigger. His body shakes with barely contained fury, the air tense, thick, every second stretching out like eternity. The memory of five years ago floods your mind—the fear, the helplessness, the feeling of being trapped in a nightmare that wouldn't end. 

Your voice, raw and trembling, breaks the silence. “Jimin, please… don’t let him win.”

Hyun grins, even now, even in the face of the loaded weapon, as though he’s reveling in every ounce of pain he’s inflicted, every scar he’s carved into your life. His laugh is a twisted mockery of joy, a chilling echo that fills the room.

You know Jimin would never risk you, never gamble his career or his life with reckless abandon. But in his eyes, you see a glimmer of something dark and wild, something that whispers of casting it all aside, of ending Hyun’s life here and now. For a heartbeat, it seems Jimin might surrender to the rage, might be ready to take Hyun’s last breath in his hands.

But he doesn’t. He holds steady. Jimin’s hands shake, his gaze locked onto Hyun’s smug face. Slowly, he draws in a breath, the gun lowering by inches as he chooses, once again, not to let the darkness claim him. And then—Hyun draws a knife from his pocket, the steel flashing in the dim light, and the room holds its breath.

“She doesn’t belong to you. She never did. She’s mine,” Hyun hisses, leveling the knife at Jimin’s throat. You scream, voice raw, tears spilling down your cheeks as panic tightens around you like chains. All you can think is, not him. Not my husband.

Jimin moves to block the blade as Hyun lunges, deflecting the strike, but not without a cost. His forearm slices open, and he falls to the ground with a muffled groan. But even as Hyun’s relentless fury bears down on him, Jimin’s gaze shifts—just enough to spot you crawling closer, determination sparking in your eyes.

Desperation drives you as you surge forward, grabbing Hyun’s hair and yanking him back with a fierce strength you didn’t know you had. “Don’t you dare touch my husband!” Your voice echoes, fierce and unbreaking. 

Hyun stumbles and crashes to the floor, the knife sliding out of his reach. You think it’s over, for a moment, but he strikes back, shoving you to the ground. The world blurs as he moves, clambering over Jimin, both of them grappling for the gun. And then—Hyun pries it from Jimin’s grip, pressing the barrel to Jimin’s chest. Time seems to stop, your own heartbeat falling out of rhythm as you watch in horror.

“Put the gun down,” Yoongi’s voice, hard as iron, cuts through the chaos. He stands steady, unshaken, his own weapon drawn, his gaze burning with lethal intent. But Hyun only laughs, the sound dark and manic, pressing the gun tighter against Jimin’s heart.

“This is your last warning,” Yoongi growls, words like an unbreakable vow. “You’re threatening a police officer.”

Jimin lies still beneath Hyun, his chest heaving, his eyes distant. You don’t understand—why isn’t he fighting? Has he given up? You search frantically for the knife, fingers shaking, your vision blurring with helpless tears as you feel the weight of your worst fears bearing down.

Then, with a sickening click, Hyun releases the safety. The gun hovers closer to Jimin’s heart, and a scream rips from you, piercing the air just as a gunshot rings out. A heavy thud follows, reverberating through your bones.

The noise fades, yet you’re still trembling, crawling to Jimin, your hands reaching instinctively to cradle his face. “Please don’t be dead. Please, Jimin…” The words tumble from you, desperate and broken.

He blinks, his hand rising slowly, tracing your cheek, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m okay. You’re okay.” Relief, dizzying and sweet, floods you as you crumble against him, tears dripping down onto his face as you press your forehead to his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and warm beneath you. He’s alive. You’re alive.

With a trembling breath, you glance back—just long enough to see Hyun lying on the floor, his body still and lifeless, blood pooling in dark rivulets beneath him. For a fleeting moment, you feel a strange satisfaction in seeing him silenced, the violence of his presence extinguished. But you look away, unable to bear it any longer.

Hoseok is beside you again in an instant, his hand gentle on your shoulder, murmuring reassurances as he checks for injuries, while Seokjin tends to the gash on Jimin’s arm, his expression pinched with worry. Yoongi approaches the fallen body, nudging the gun from Hyun’s grasp with cold detachment before leaning down to confirm what everyone already knows. His voice, quiet but resolute, carries a finality that cuts through the air.

“He’s dead.”

You finally breathe, feeling the weight of it all leave your chest as Seokjin and Hoseok finish tending to you both. The bruises will fade, and the cuts will heal, but now, only Jimin’s embrace matters. You step toward him, wrapping yourself around him as if to fuse your souls together, and murmur, “I’m so sorry,” the words barely slipping out.

“Why are you sorry, princess?” he asks gently, holding you as though you were made of glass. “You did everything you could.” He kisses your hand, his lips warm against the chill of your skin. “If anyone should apologize, it’s me—for getting here so late.” His words sink deep, yet the ache in your heart remains, a guilt that’s hard to explain. It was your fault that Hyun came back after all, right? That question gnaws at you, but Jimin seems to read your thoughts.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. All that matters is that you’re here, that we’re safe.” His hand falls softly to your belly. “Did he…did he hurt you?”

You nod, voice catching. “He did. He forced himself on me, tried to—” Your words fall short, choked with the memories, and he sees it all in your eyes. His face darkens, his heart sinking as he notices the bruises around your neck, stark and cruel reminders of what he wasn’t there to stop.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, pulling you closer, anger mingling with the helplessness he feels. He would have torn through any distance to protect you. But though he rushed the moment he saw your message, he still hadn’t made it in time.

Suddenly, you remember the phone call, the open line. Trembling, you pull out your phone and bring it to your ear, asking the emergency line if everything was recorded. The answer is a quiet “yes,” confirming you’re heard, that justice has begun. You let out a long breath and place your hand over his, a sense of finality washing over you.

“I’m sorry…for ruining Christmas.” You offer a wry, exhausted smile through the tears that finally still.

Jimin shakes his head, his fingers brushing away what’s left of your tears. “Please stop saying you’re sorry, love. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

With gentle concern, he glances toward Hoseok. “Can you get Y/N an ultrasound? Please—just to be sure that everything is fine with the baby.”

Hoseok nods, eyes warm with silent understanding. He hadn’t known of your pregnancy, but now that he does, his hands are even gentler as he helps you onto the stretcher. Inside the ambulance, Jimin sits beside you, his fingers never leaving yours. Outside, Yoongi is coordinating, ensuring the coroner and cleaners will take care of every trace left behind.

At the hospital, you and the baby are checked with steady hands and comforting reassurances. Taehyung confirms that everything’s fine, that the baby’s heartbeat is strong and steady. With every check, every calming word, a weight lifts. By the time Seokjin’s done stitching Jimin’s cut, it’s late into the night, and Yoongi arrives in his police car to drive you home. 

Silence settles in the car, deep and quiet, until Yoongi breaks it with a solemn murmur, “I’m glad you didn’t do anything rash, Jimin. And Y/N…I’m glad you’re safe. That bastard can never hurt you again.” You nod, gratitude filling the spaces between your breaths, and reach for Jimin’s hand. All you want now is to feel his warmth beside you, to finally rest.

When you step through the front door, Jimin wraps his arms around you, and the world outside feels a little further away. The faint smell of cleaning agents lingers, but the Christmas tree still stands, softly lit, in the corner of the room. You find yourself drawn to the couch and sink into it, letting out a heavy sigh, Jimin settling in beside you.

“You fought well, my princess,” he says softly, his hand gently patting your hair. “You can finally rest.”

A small, tired laugh escapes as you close your eyes. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

Jimin smiles, warm and real. “Merry Christmas, love,” he whispers, settling you against him as you drift, exhaustion filling every inch of you. He strokes your hair with one hand, the other resting gently over the life growing within you. And in that embrace, all the pain and fear fade into something softer, warmer. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re safe, nestled into the arms of the man who’d go to the ends of the earth to protect you. 

→ Requested taglist: @13-manggaetteok @thelilbutifulthings @nora12379 @joonsmagicshop @pjmxxjm

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv

→ Author’s endnote: okay… wow. So what do you think? It’s kinda similar to the events that went down in the original story, but I never really liked the ending. I really wanted Hyun to die lol. But when I wrote the original story I was very much afraid of what people would think of that, so I didn’t go down that route. So this Christmas story gives me the ending that I truly want—but with a twist. Because I again debated who should kill Hyun, and original it was going to be the reader (with consequences), but I decided to change that and not give her even more trauma to process, lol. Well, I hoped you like it, even though it was rather dark (not what I usually write 🤭). Thank you for reading! 🌟

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2024 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[luludeluluramblings]

I got to say it's honestly funny that a lot of people forget Bruce's side does have powers. He's the descendant of Morgana. It's part of why no one wants to teach him magic. Not only would he have an extreme advantage, he'd be borderline unstoppable.

(There's also the fact he's canonically labeled as a Meta Human by Amanda Waller and that he's someone she wants for the Suicide Squad. His body absorbed Nth metal, which is literally the cause of Meta Humans on Earth. Though, to be fair, this was after Damian was conceived. So it shouldn't factor into this family gene pool.)

Imagine Small-town!Reader finding out that she's also has an advantage in learning magic?

We’ve all thought of the Hogwarts!AU. Having fun with the Muggleborn!Reader finding out about that fact and going back to school with a “Suck it bitches!” attitude.

I was really having fun with a Winx!Reader, though. I just think it would be ironic for Bruce to have a literal magical-girl (GN!) child kicking ass in frills with the power of friendship while he’s all dark and broody. I really really wanted to do something with this idea. The look on Bruce and the rest of the family’s faces as they watch the however long transformation sequence would be hilarious. (Plus, the whole, adding in the descendent of Morgana thing would make it even more ironic.)

To add the yandere aspect, everyone would be thinking Winx!Reader is too sweet for Gotham and wanna keep them safe. Even after finding out their some all powerful fairy they would still delude themselves into thinking Reader needs protection because of their preconceived notions on Fairies and because that much glitter is not practical. They don’t care if you can kickass with it, the answer is no. (And, then you can have fun with idea of them trying to actually take Reader’s wings for their safety. So messed up.)

[ebbaskitchen]

Suguru Geto x Reader

Text in bold italics are his thoughts 🤍

Summary: Geto comes back to you after his difficult missions looking for comfort.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Excorising, absorbing.

I kept repeating these tasks.

Exorcising.

Absorbing.

No one knows...

the taste of Cursed Spirits.

It's like swallowing a cloth

that has wiped vomit.

Exorcising.

Absorbing.

Continuously, unbeknownst of anyone around me.

Then, why am I lying here…

In your arms…

Small hands, warm and tender hands, run through his raven colored hair. Hands that somehow… just somehow, knew how to bring him comfort. Hands that knew where he was hurting — as the fingers trace the gentle crease of his hairline. Hands that he came back to every so often.

Your hands…

As your fingers waltzed with the strands of his dark hair, Suguru couldn’t help but ease into their touch …into your touch.

It always took him a bit to relax— starting from tensed muscles like those experienced in moments of shock or fear; but as he learned more about your touch by coming back to you so frequently, he began to relax in the feeling of them.

As your thumb gently swipes the tip of his nose to remove a fallen eyelash, he catches the lingering scent of cookie dough on your fingertips.

How did you know? I’ll never know…

But you knew the moment you asked me…

“Suguru, what do curses taste like?” You asked me with such gentle concern, I almost questioned if it was real or not. Was it a joke— was the world teasing me— or did you notice…?

I never got to answer your question… and still you knew.

If Suguru was to look up from his place on your chest, he knew exactly how you would look at him. Eyes that held nothing but adoration, concern, and gentleness. Eyes that glittered whenever they made contact with his dull orbs.

Knowing this, Suguru decides to look up, catching the way your pupils dilate when his stare meets yours— his natural strand of bangs falling into their rightful place.

You looked at me that way then too…

Studying your gaze, Suguru is reminded of a moment in his distant memory.

A few weeks after having met you, Suguru was assigned a mission on his own. He came back hurt, devastated — a look so dead in his eyes… but no one would notice that.

Subconsciously, he was looking for you when he had come back from that mission, but you were nowhere to be found. You had befriended him and he had taken a liking to you, your presence was comforting to him, even though he never expected anything from you. Giving up on the idea of finding you, he went to his dormitory, only to find the door was partially opened.

I thought it was a curse… I couldn’t bear to swallow one more that day.

I opened it hastily, wanting it to be over quickly but then I saw you…

And I smelled—- cookies??

He could never explain to you the way his heart fell to his stomach that day. And he could never explain to you the way his breath hitched in his throat when you said…

“To help with the aftertaste…” you whispered so softly

I couldn’t tell if the guilty look in your eyes was for being in my dorm when I wasn’t

or for making those cookies for me. Did you pity me…?

Though the first time he barely acknowledged the cookies due to fear that your concern for him wasn’t real, the second, third, fourth, and many other times you did make them, he was convinced it was more than just concern.

It soon became a ritual, whenever he went on a mission, he’d expect you in his dorm making cookies when he came back. And every time you’d say something along the lines of getting rid of the aftertaste from the curses he had to consume that day. And, on the more difficult missions, he would hesitantly lay in your arms. He knew you didn’t have his power, nor did you ever have to bear the feeling of eating or tasting a curse, but you did this for him as if you understood exactly what it felt like.

Now, in present time, looking back into your loving eyes, he swallowed something that, for the first time, wasn’t a curse.

I love you.

”Suguru,” your voice tickled his ear with warmth, “is something on your mind..?”

And he swallowed again.

I love you.

Your palm came to cup his cheek, the touch of you so magnetic, he slowly began to lean into it. And for a moment, no words are exchanged between the two of you, just audible breathing and even more audible heartbeats.

You began to lean your face closer to his, he didn’t notice how close you were until he could feel your breath on his skin. He held his breath the way he did when he first caught you in his dorm.

Your lips made contact with his skin. The press of them is so gentle against his forehead as if you could break him if you kissed any harder.

Lingering your single kiss there for a moment, Suguru couldn’t help but close his eyes under your affectionate lips. Pulling away from his forehead, he could see your brightly-dusted, pink cheeks that rose as you smiled so beautifully at him.

“I love you,” you’d be the first to say.

Excorising, absorbing

I kept repeating these tasks.

Exorcising.

Absorbing.

No one knows...

the taste of Cursed Spirits.

It's like swallowing a cloth

that has wiped vomit.

Exorcising.

Absorbing.

“I love you too,” he would answer in a barely heard whisper. But you heard it. You always heard him.

But somehow you knew…

And I knew

As long as I come back to you…

I’ll be okay…

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Ebba’s Note

I hope you enjoyed it.

I used some of the script from the show but the rest is my original work.

Thank you 😊🤍

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Live from Baku

Word count: 1.2k

Pairing: Toto Wolff x sky sports!reader

Summary: On her first race day as a Sky Sports presenter at the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, Y/N navigates the chaos of a live grid interview with Toto Wolff, only to be caught off guard by him

________________________________________________________

Standing on the grid at the Baku City Circuit in Azerbaijan, with the imposing skyscrapers towering above and the Caspian Sea glittering in the distance, I still couldn’t quite believe I was here. This was my first full weekend as a Sky Sports F1 presenter, and everything about the moment felt surreal—the roar of engines, the scent of hot rubber and gasoline in the air, and the palpable excitement humming through the paddock.

Getting to this point had been a journey. Motorsport had always fascinated me, ever since I was a kid watching races on TV. My path into journalism wasn’t typical, but I’d clawed my way up from writing small blogs about motorsport to landing freelance pieces that covered F1. Eventually, those freelance jobs turned into bigger opportunities, and a few key interviews caught the attention of Sky Sports.

This gig with the Sky team was a dream come true, but it was also overwhelming. Friday and Saturday had passed in a blur—back-to-back segments, shadowing the seasoned presenters, learning how to manage the fast pace of the weekend, and absorbing as much as I could. The Baku Grand Prix was known for being unpredictable, chaotic even, and my first weekend here was no exception. I had to stay sharp, not just for the interviews but because the world of F1 is relentless. One mistake and the audience would pick up on it instantly.

By Sunday, race day, I had gotten a taste of the pressure. I’d already done some pre-race interviews, navigating through the throngs of team members, engineers, and VIPs walking the grid. The noise was deafening, the anticipation thick, but I was starting to find my rhythm. Being here, in the center of the chaos, was a rush like nothing else.

I stood next to Bernie, one of the veteran presenters, prepping for our next live segment. We were getting ready to speak to Toto Wolff, the Mercedes team principal. I’d seen countless interviews with him, and I admired how composed and sharp he always was, even under the immense pressure of race weekends. We had spoken to Christian Horner just minutes ago, and I expected this to be another routine conversation—just a few questions about race strategy, the pressure of the championship battle, and Mercedes’ performance. But nothing could have prepared me for what was about to unfold.

The engines revved in the background as Toto strode over to us. He was tall, confident, his stride purposeful. My heart raced—not out of nerves anymore, but out of anticipation. This was it: a live interview with one of the most powerful figures in Formula 1.

The grid was alive with the sound of roaring engines and the buzz of anticipation as the Azerbaijan Grand Prix was minutes away from starting. Bernie stood beside me, microphone in hand, her sharp eyes scanning the chaotic scene. I still couldn’t believe I was here, my first race weekend as a presenter for Sky Sports, and here we were, about to interview Toto Wolff.

Bernie nudged me with her elbow, her Northern Irish accent cutting through the noise. “Right, love. Time for Mercedes. Ye ready?” she asked, her voice laced with a mixture of warmth and professionalism.

I nodded, gripping my microphone a little tighter. “Ready,” I said, though my nerves fluttered in my stomach.

As Toto Wolff approached us, his towering frame moving easily through the grid, Bernie took the lead, her years of experience evident. She raised her microphone, smiling at Toto. “Toto! Good ta see ya. We’re just a few minutes away from lights out, how’s Mercedes feelin’ today?”

Toto smiled down at us, leaning slightly closer to hear over the roar of the engines. “Good to see you too, Bernie,” he replied smoothly, raising his own microphone. “We’re feeling confident. Yesterday’s qualifying was tough, but we’ve made some adjustments, and we’re ready for the fight.”

I was next, and though my heart raced, I reminded myself to stay calm. This was live television, and I had to focus. I stepped forward, lifting my mic and directing my question toward him. “Toto, after qualifying yesterday, do you think Mercedes is in a good position for today’s race?”

Toto leaned down toward me, his large frame towering over my much smaller one. It was so loud that I had to repeat the question. “Do you feel confident about today after yesterday’s performance?” I asked again, speaking directly into his ear.

His smile widened, and he straightened slightly, his eyes locking onto mine for a second longer than necessary. “Ah, yes,” he said smoothly, his voice almost teasing. “Confidence is always high, especially today. But I think having good company helps.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the way he said it. Was he flirting? No, surely not—this was live TV, after all. I forced a smile, assuming I was reading too much into it, and stepped back as Bernie jumped in with her next question.

“Now, Toto,” Bernie said, her accent making the words flow with a familiar rhythm, “what can we expect from yer strategy today? Red Bull’s been puttin’ the pressure on. Any surprises from Mercedes?”

Toto’s gaze flicked back to me for a split second before he turned to answer Bernie. “Well, we’ve got a few things planned,” he said with that same easy confidence. “But sometimes, surprises just… happen. Some things you can’t plan for.” His voice dipped slightly on the last part, and again, I felt a flutter of something—was it nerves? Or something else entirely?

Bernie shot me a quick look, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly, but she kept things professional as always. “Well, sounds like we’re in for a good race,” she said, wrapping things up. “Thank ye, Toto, for yer time. Best of luck.”

Toto nodded and gave his usual polite smile, but before he walked away, he turned back toward me, leaning down once again. “Before I go,” he said, his voice softer, meant only for me, “I’d like to get to know you better. Maybe after the race… I could get your number?”

I stared at him, momentarily frozen. Was this really happening? On the grid? Live? Before I could even process a response, his team radio crackled, pulling him away. “Toto, we need you back at the garage,” the voice of an engineer called through his earpiece.

He smiled one last time, giving me a small wink. “Think about it, *liebling*,” he added with a grin before heading off toward the Mercedes garage, disappearing into the crowd.

I stood there for a moment, my microphone still in hand, mind racing as I processed what had just happened. Bernie glanced at me, a smirk playing on her lips. “Did he just…?” I asked quietly, still unsure of what to make of it.

Bernie raised an eyebrow, her accent thick as she whispered back, “Flirt wit’ ye? Aye, I reckon he did.”

I felt my cheeks flush as Bernie chuckled softly beside me. “On live TV, no less,” she added with a shake of her head, her voice full of amusement.

We stood there for a moment longer, the noise of the grid surging around us, but all I could think about was what had just happened with Toto Wolff. My first race day, and it was already unforgettable in ways I hadn’t expected.

[sp1cy-t0ss]

Antares

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45534721

The first thing Nightwing hears upon regaining consciousness is ominous chanting. A man’s voice rings out over the rest, ranting about an Eternal King, infinite power, and -- oh boy -- sacrifices. He tunes it out to assess the situation.

He’s in an old warehouse. Robin’s here too, looking even more annoyed than Nightwing feels, and both of them have their hands and ankles bound in rope. His comm is on silent, just as he left it, like an idiot. The ranting man and his followers in matching robes are gathered around a ritual circle in the middle of the floor. Yeah, that tells him all he needs to know. They need to get out, now.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly when the leader finishes his speech and turns to them.

“So,” the man asks with a cruel smile. “Which of you ‘heroes’ will have the honor of bringing our Lord to this plane?” 

“I will.” Robin’s voice is sharp, unyielding. 

The man is obviously surprised to receive an actual answer to his taunt, but obliges. He pulls Robin away without another word.

“What?! No! Robin, you can’t--” Nightwing’s protest is cut off with a punch to the stomach from one of the robed lackeys.

“I have my reasons, Nightwing; it must be me.” Robin’s face reveals nothing, but he gives a subtle hand signal: I have a plan.

Nightwing forces himself to calm down. They’ll get out of this. He just has to trust his Robin. While everyone’s eyes are off him, he quietly works at the amateur knots.

The leader drags Robin into the circle without a fight. He raises a jeweled dagger, intentions clear... 

But Robin is faster. He bites his own wrist, hard, and spits his blood into the circle. The runes light up in terrible Lazarus green, and Robin pushes himself upright with a malicious grin.

The lead cultist scrambles back from the circle and into a deep bow. The chanting stops as his minions follow suit. Robin continues to look far too smug for his situation. Nightwing feels a headache coming on somewhere under his renewed panic.

This is his plan?! 

There’s a blinding flash of light. When the spots clear from Nightwing’s vision, the Eternal King is floating in the circle, mere feet from the bound Robin.

The Eternal King isn’t quite the grotesque horror he expected. Their body is a glittering black void, a sleek humanoid shadow with misty white hair and bright, bright eyes of toxic green. A cold fog rolls off of their body in waves.

“Antares,” the shadow rumbles, and Nightwing feels static thrum in his bones with the sound. The room is painfully cold, but the King doesn’t seem aggressive yet. Maybe they really can bargain their way out of this mess.

Robin doesn’t flinch. He looks the Eternal King right in the eyes, utterly fearless, and smirks. “Hello, Beloved.”

What?

The King stares silently, floating closer. For a long moment, no one moves. No one speaks.

“My lord, does the sacrifice please you?” The ringleader cuts in, standing up with a greedy gleam in his eyes. 

Something in the air changes as the King turns toward the man. Something cold, electric, heavy under the skin. Nightwing suppresses a shiver as he works through the last of the rope.

“You d̵̢̛a̵̼̽ṙ̴͎e̵͙̐.”

The leader pales and falls to his knees. “My Lord, if this offering is insufficient, we have another--”

The King s̴̱̖̺̺̓͊̕̕ć̵͇͇͔̈r̴̥͐e̸̥̬͌̂̌̊a̴̭̔̓̀̔͘m̵̯͑̋͌͠s̵̗̤̻̭̍̿, a furious howl that blurs Nightwing’s vision and claws his ears. The sound is everywhere, driving him to his knees. Growing shadows seem to absorb his little brother just as Nightwing realizes he’s blacking out. 

They’re falling, they’re falling someone help they’re screaming he’s screaming make it stop dead on impact blood and bones make it stop make it STOP--

When he comes back to himself, it’s quiet. Nightwing blinks tears from his eyes, gasping for frigid air that pierces his lungs like knives. The floor outside the circle is covered in blood splatter. The cultists have all been struck down, and many aren’t moving. 

But he’s not looking at them.

Because the monster is coiled around Robin like a snake, eyes burning as it surveys the room. Robin seems unharmed for now, but he has to get his baby brother away from that thing.

He steps forward, and those endless green eyes lock onto him. It snarls at his approach, revealing multiple rows of teeth. Claws subtly tighten on Robin’s shoulders. Nightwing sinks into a combat stance, and the creature braces itself to leap.

Pure, animal instinct screams that Nightwing won’t survive this fight.. It doesn’t matter. He’ll give his all like he always has, and Robin can escape. The others will find a way to take it down. He just has to buy time.

“Dove, it’s alright.”

To Nightwing’s amazement, the creature freezes. It turns to look at Robin, warbling in apparent confusion before turning back to Nightwing with a hiss.

Robin grabs its face in both hands and forces it to look at him. “No. That’s Nightwing, remember? He will not harm us. I am safe. We are safe.” His voice is steady, soothing as he gently presses their foreheads together. A spark of awareness slowly returns to ‘Dove’s’ eyes.

“Come back to me.”

The monster sags in Robin’s grip, slowly folding in on itself until a nearly-human teen with snowy white hair is left floating gently in its place.

Robin smiles, gentle and shockingly warm. “There you are.”

‘Dove’ is shaking. Their eyes are locked on Robin, as though he’s the only thing in their universe. “Antares,” they breathe, before wrapping Robin in a tight hug.

Robin briefly looks to Dick, gesturing toward the cultists. He then returns his attention to the distraught being, resting his chin on their head and both hands on their back. The obvious dismissal makes Nightwing uneasy, but the kid has a point. They'll just have to check him for hypnosis or mind control back at the Cave.

Now that Nightwing is actually looking at the cultists, their injuries are horrific. Deep lacerations, stab wounds, frostbite, severed limbs...none of them seem likely to die with medical treatment, but every last one is maimed. 

The ringleader is worst of all. His eyes are gouged out, and his hands ripped off and cauterized by the same unearthly frost that burns scattered marks into his skin. An unfamiliar symbol has been clawed into his chest. 

Nightwing looks back to the circle, where Dove is quietly sobbing. Their face is tucked securely into Robin’s neck, and Nightwing hears whispers of I was scared and can’t lose you too.  

This is the same person?

By the time the cultists are all secured and the police have been called, Dove seems to have calmed down. Time to play the diplomat. Again. 

Damn, maybe Steph has a point about Eldest Daughter Syndrome.

“I, uh, hate to interrupt, but we should probably get out of here, yeah? GCPD will be here in a couple minutes,” he proposes with a friendly smile.

Dove wipes their eyes. “Right.” Then they look around the room and wince. “Uhm, sorry you? Had to see that? I...panicked. You’re okay though, right? Not hurt or anything?” The question is disarmingly earnest, and there’s nothing but concern in their eyes. Hm.

“Nah, not a scratch,” Nightwing dismisses. Then he remembers he’s apparently talking to a king. “Thank you for saving Robin, Your Highness,” he adds with a bow of his head. 

“Nuh-uh, no titles. Gross.” The King makes a face, then smiles with renewed cheer. “Call me Phantom. He/him, ghost, and general pain in the ass, at your service!” He floats higher and punctuates his announcement with a midair flip. “You might as well know, since we’re gonna be seeing each other a lot now.”

Crap. “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Nightwing ventures.

‘Phantom’ exchanges a meaningful look with Robin. Nightwing barely has time to register the mischief on both their faces before Robin pulls the being down into a kiss. 

A deep kiss now. Really deep. Yeah, they’ve definitely forgotten he’s here.

When they finally separate, Robin looks quite satisfied. Phantom, however, sticks out a forked tongue and scrunches his face. “Blech, blood. What did you...” His eyes land on Robin’s still-bloody wrist, then the droplets still in the circle. 

“You didn’t.” A grin creeps across his face. “You have me on soul speed dial and you still hijacked a whole-ass summoning!”

“Tt. I was making a point.” Robin crosses his arms.

Phantom cackles. “You are literally the most dramatic person I’ve ever met!” he crows.

Robin raises an eyebrow and gestures to the warehouse full of mangled cultists. Phantom opens his mouth to retort, but it’s at this point that Nightwing finally manages to pull his jaw off the floor and speak. 

“Robin,” he says with deliberate calm. “What the fuck.”

And then they hear police sirens. Fantastic.

“Crap. Don’t worry, I got it!” Phantom declares as he rips a green hole in existence. Robin is unfazed, which is rapidly getting less and less surprising.

A woman in the corner stirs. Phantom makes a ‘one moment’ gesture before he stalks over and yanks her forward with a growl. “You’ve kept your tongue for a reason. Spread the word: Robin is mine.” (Robin stands taller, obviously pleased by that extremely concerning statement.)  The woman nods frantically, and Phantom drops her to the ground. 

Without further preamble, Phantom zips back over and shoves both vigilantes through the rip.

Just like that, they’re all in Damian’s bedroom. The two boys immediately sit together on the edge of the bed, while Dick remains standing. Dick doesn’t even know where to begin, so he can only give a helpless ‘why’ sort of gesture. Thankfully, Damian seems to take pity on him.

“Richard, this insufferable fool is my Beloved. His name is Danny, and he is seventeen.” Then he smirks. “You may refer to him as High King Phantom of the Infinite Realms; The Tyrant’s Bane, True Balance, Son Of Stars, Pride of Time, Death’s Chosen--”

The ghost groans dramatically, flopping across Damian’s lap like a wet noodle. “Oh my gawd, Dames, why would you tell him that?”

"It is very important that Richard recognizes your position and authority.” Damian says, not even trying to sound convincing.

Danny reaches up and pushes at Damian’s face. It brings to mind a pair of cats, especially with Damian doing his best to look annoyed instead of fond. “Betrayal! I want a divorce!”

That’s the last straw. Dick chokes on his own spit and has to thump his chest a few times to breathe right again. With monumental effort, he manages to wheeze out a strangled “Are you MaRriEd?!”

Danny tries to sputter out a reply, but Dick is distracted by Damian laughing. It’s a low, light sound, with no attempt made to disguise it. 

“Of course not,” Damian says. He cards a hand through Danny’s hair, the other boy sighing contently and looking up at him with adoring neon eyes. “We've only courted for seven months now. It will be another three years before we wed.” 

Dick is just. Gonna ignore that last bit. For his own sanity. “Wait, how did you keep a whole boyfriend secret for seven months? In this family?” 

“Bribery.” “Threats.”

Yeah, that sounds about right. Babs and Duke probably know then.

“Cool, good to know. One more question.” Well, more like a billion, but he may as well start with an icebreaker before the inevitable interrogation. Besides, it’s a big brother's duty to embarrass his siblings. “Why Dove?”

Damian says nothing, but his deep blush is almost audible.

“Because I’m cute and fluffy!” Danny chirps.

“Hardly,” Damian scoffs. “It’s because you are raucously annoying and constantly crash into windows.”

Literally everything about this situation is baffling, but Danny looks so offended that Dick can’t help but laugh.

“You lying asshole!” Danny screeches.

Damian turns to Dick. “He attempted to use a grapple three times and broke eleven windows; four of them with his face. I have videos.” Danny gasps, the two start bickering, and Dick is left to his thoughts once more. 

Even as the pair separate to point fingers and trade increasingly creative insults, their body language is completely relaxed. As much as Dick is panicking about a powerful undead monarch around their family, Damian is happy. He has been for months, now that Dick thinks about it. He’s been loosening up a little, leaving the manor more, and even mentioning a few new friends (though he refuses to use the word.)

Whoever or whatever Danny is, he’s been good for him.

“Well,” Dick cuts in, interrupting an inventive declaration about overripe cheese. “We’ll obviously need to talk about this. But for what it’s worth,” he smiles. “I’m happy for you, Baby Bat.” 

With that said, Dick walks out of the bedroom. Danny gives him a grateful smile, and a quiet thank you, Richard can be heard as he closes the door behind him.

Dick walks away at a leisurely pace until he reaches the end of the hallway, where he promptly breaks into a sprint toward the Cave. Checking the Batcomputer to make sure Damian hasn’t noticed the planted bug yet, he turns on his comms. Unsurprisingly, the entire family is yelling and demanding answers.

Well, at least he won’t be the only one having a heart attack tonight.

[misseviehyde]

REVERSE THERAPY

Martin had known he was potentially risking his entire career when he agreed to treat his daughter's bully through specialist therapy sessions. He should have announced to her family that he had a vested interest, but Gracie and her rich Daddy had no idea that the guy administering experimental therapy to the bored, spoiled rich girl, might have an axe to grind.

Gracie and Martin's daughter Susan attended the same prestigious school, but whilst the blonde, sexy and confident Gracie was popular and the Head Cheerleader - his daughter was a nobody bookworm. Gracie bullied Susan constantly and Martin was determined to help end the cycle of negativity. After all, he strongly believed in the power of therapy. Gracie was obviously bullying Susan because of her own hang-ups... he could cure her.

Gracie was actually a highly compliant subject and her mind seemed particularly susceptible to his therapy process. Martin was experimenting with a mind melding technology that allowed him to share consciousness with his patient. He was determined to see if he could turn Gracie from being a mean girl into a nice person by examining her experiences and tweaking her personality.

They both lay in Gracie's pink princess bedroom, the mind transfer bands round their foreheads. Deep in a meditative trance, their minds merged and Martin floated inside Gracie's consciousness.

It was a petty, spiteful, narcissistic mind. A mind that hungered for sex, power and constant attention. It was an enticing combination of sharp glittering edges and soft spoiled silk - you could lose yourself in a mind like this.

Deliciously toxic femininity washed over Martin as he tried to absorb Gracie's memories and life story so he could try to understand why she was such a bitch.

He would try to control and alter those memories to make Gracie ashamed of being cruel and evil. He could make her a better person.

Instead, he found himself being overwhelmed and flooded with strong sexual desires as he began to relive memories of Gracie's depraved life and found he enjoyed it.

He groaned and his cock got rock hard, as sensations and memories of being an evil bad girl pulsed through him. Gracie got off on being mean.

His lips curved into a smile as he experienced the memory of clopping through the school halls in high heels, his tight shaven pussy dripping wet as everyone got out of his way. Chewing gum, Martin blew a bubble and giggled. It felt so fucking good to be feared and desired.

These memories felt good, but nothing had prepared him for how much it would turn him on to relive memories and experiences of bullying his own daughter.

Cruel, mean, dominant emotions rushed through him. The way he called Susan a fucking loser, the satisfaction when he saw tears in her eyes. Making her do his homework, spreading rumours about her.

Even hotter memories rushed through his mind. Susan whimpering as he rubbed his pussy in front of her face, his cheerleader skirt hiked up and his minions pinning her arms back as he laughed and squirted all over her glasses and face and made her lick up his cum as he finished orgasming.

"You're a fucking loooooser Susan and that's all you'll ever be. A poor, worthless, pathetic little loser. I'll always be better than you."

Seeing his daughter humiliated and destroyed should have angered and enraged him... instead it just felt so fucking good. Martin had a big smile on his lips, he shivered in taboo pleasure. Being a bully felt good... it made him horny.

His daughter WAS a fucking loser. It felt good to think it... to feel it. His hands clenched and he imagined pink acrylic claws on his fingers. He imagined boys worshipping him, having a tight slutty body.

He wanted it bad.

With a gasp he awoke and ended the therapy session.

***

Martin realised something was wrong but he was now too addicted to stop. The therapy wasn't working right. Instead of making Gracie better, the therapy was making HIM worse.

He now couldn't stop thinking about being an evil teenage bully and destroying his pathetic daughters life. Gracie's cruel and spoiled personality was transferring over to him... and he liked it.

He began to find phrases and idioms that Gracie used were now part of his vocab. An 'OMG', 'loooser' or 'bitch pleeease' would occasionally escape his lips. His physical mannerisms had changed. He was now more expressive with his hands and his lips had become a constant bitchy sneer.

He lay on his bed pumping his cock, imagining he was Gracie. Imagining he was the bully and desiring more.

Each time they had therapy, Martin would now dive into Gracie's mind and let her evil personality wash over him. He sucked it into himself - pushing out his own memories and thoughts to make room for more of Gracie's.

"Yessss, fucking infect me with your bitchiness," he hissed in pleasure as he eagerly fed on Gracie's wicked personality and mentally orgasmed.

"I'm a bitch, I'm an evil fucking bitch" he groaned in his mind, cumming again and again to the sensations of being a tight, bullying slut.

But as the sessions continued and Martin adopted more and more of Gracie's personality and memories he began to notice that she was acting weird too. She began dressing more demurely and her bullying, confident attitude began to fade. She even began to act more friendly towards Susan.

He began to realise that he was somehow draining Gracie's evil mind into himself. The memories, thoughts and feelings he was pushing out to make room were taking hold in her mind. Soon she would be a good girl trapped in a slutty bitch body and he would be a bitchy bully trapped in a mans body. This would never do...

Deactivating all the safeties on the therapy bands, they lay in Gracie's bedroom. Martin moaned as he entered Gracie's mind and felt one last moment of doubt. Could he really take it all? Could he absorb all of Gracie's remaining bitchy mind and BECOME her? Could he slide into this body and be the new driver, leaving her as the controller of his old body?

A memory of Susan, a memory of the love he once had for his daughter almost stopped him. Then an image of Susan kneeling at his feet begging for mercy made him groan in delight and he knew what he wanted.

"Give it all to me you bitch... your mind, your memories, your BODY! Ooooh fuckkkk yesssss!"

The duo convulsed, sparks flying from the transfer bands. Martin screamed in pleasure. He greedily sucked and sucked, drinking in and absorbing all of Gracie's memories. "Yessss I'm mmmmh a bully, I'm hot... I'm a girl! Yessss make me an evil princess!"

Martin's mind warped and buckled. Images of pink lingeire, of shopping with his girls of being a self-entitled brat overwhelmed him as he drew them into himself and pushed out his own memories. His sense of self, collapsed and the new Gracie purred as she felt the last remaining hold-outs of her old personality forced out.

She was a fucking bitch now. She remembered she had once been Martin, but this was soooo much better.

"Yesssss I feel sooo fucking good," she moaned flowing with a wicked grin into HER body. There was another mind in here, but it was weak and she tore it loose- hurling it back into the body she has just come from.

"Hahah fucking looooser," she gloated as she flowed into her body and took control. She groaned as she ripped the transfer band from her head and sat up.

Blonde hair fell around her head... HER blonde hair. She looked down and wiggled her pretty pedicured toes, giggled at the sight of her pert titties on her chest... the feel of her deliciously feminine body.

Gracie could taste lip gloss and smell Chanel perfume. She was all-girl now and she loved it. She was the Alpha Bully now.

"Wh... what did you do?" moaned a male voice and she turned to see Martin groggily rising from his seat.

Throwing the transfer band to the floor, Gracie brought a wedged heeled foot down on the delicate circuits- hearing them crunch and break forever.

"It's like simple loooooser. I'm like totally Gracie now and you're that fucking sad sac Martin. We swapped and if you like ever try to tell anyone I'll fucking destroy you. You like remember just enough I like hope to know I don't make threats."

"You evil slut, you mean I have to be a man? I can't remember anything other than I used to be you!"

"That's like right. Your life, your memories, your soul... they are like totally mine. OMG - you're the Daddy of that fucking loser Susan now."

"Susan... I... I love her?"

"Yeah you do, although part of you still hates and despises her, especially because losing this body is kind of all her fault. Mmmmh in fact, just because we swapped doesn't mean EVERYTHING has to be the same. How about you bully Susan too? Between the two of us we can make her life hell."

Grabbing Martin's cock - Gracie giggled as she began to stroke.

"Ughhhh that feels good. What are you doing?"

"Teaching you how to be a good boy for me. Let me give you some real therapy. This time just using my mouth and my tight body I'm like going to make you HATE your daughter again. I'm like gonna corrupt your soul baby until you're evil again."

Martin moaned as Gracie's pink bubblegum lips slid round his cock and she began to suck. Mmmmh being a man wasn't that bad after all. Under Gracie's tutelage he would learn to be an Alpha man and would soon enjoy the benefits of his new body.

Banging her tight pussy every chance he got would bring out the bastard in him and help turn him against his daughter. Not that she was really his daughter... was she?

Martin was confused - but as Gracie took control of him he realised it was simply easier to let her do the thinking.

After all, she was the trained therapist and SO good at sucking cock...

THE END

[unabashegirl]

Entangled | sneak peak

Y/N, punished by her gang leader for a failed mission, meets Harry, a rival gang member, at a club. Their encounter turns intense and passionate.

Author's note: Hello everyone! I hope you are all doing well! I wanted to give you all a sneak peak of the one shot that has just been uploaded on my Patreon. It is a two part one shot with smut included. Both parts have just been uploaded!

check out my patreon and get full access to the first part (+4K words) and much more :) thank you beforehand!

masterlist

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The club's music thumped steadily in the background, creating a heavy rhythm that seemed to sync with Y/N's racing heartbeat. Neon lights flashed in sync with the beat, casting alternating shadows and bursts of color across the dance floor. Feeling the need to escape the intensity of her thoughts, Y/N made her way to the center of the crowd and began to dance. Her movements were fluid, confident, and for a moment, she allowed herself to get lost in the music, the energy of the club enveloping her.

From his vantage point, Harry watched her with a mixture of surprise and admiration. He had never seen this side of her before, and it intrigued him. As she moved, completely absorbed in the rhythm, Harry felt an irresistible pull. He made his way through the throng of people, closing the distance between them.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” Harry murmured as he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against her ear.

Y/N smirked, not giving him the satisfaction of a straightforward answer. “You don’t know half of it,” she replied, her eyes glittering with challenge.

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Care to enlighten me?”

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. “And give you more ammunition? I don’t think so, Styles.”

He leaned in even closer, their faces just inches apart. “I don’t need ammunition, Y/N. I know what makes you tick.”

She felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of annoyance and undeniable attraction. “Nice try,” she said, her voice steady despite the proximity. “But you’ll have to work harder than that.”

Harry’s lips curved into a sly smile. “I like a challenge.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. “You’ve got your work cut out for you then.”

He chuckled, the sound low and intimate in her ear. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They sipped their drinks, the moment stretching between them, charged with a tension that was as much about attraction as it was about rivalry. Y/N could feel the heat of Harry’s gaze on her, a weight that was hard to ignore.

“So, tell me,” she said, turning the tables. “What’s it like being the big bad boss now? Enjoying the power trip?”

Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened slightly. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Too many people to keep in line, too many responsibilities.”

Y/N arched an eyebrow, leaning closer to him. “Having second thoughts?”

He shook his head. “Not a chance. Just stating the facts.”

Y/N leaned even closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Admit it, Styles. You love the control.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh. You have no idea” he smirked. “I bet you enjoy it too”

She laughed, the sound almost lost in the thumping music. “Oh, I don’t need power to make an impression. I can do that just fine without it.”

Harry’s smile widened, a hint of admiration in his gaze. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”

Y/N tilted her head, her eyes locked on his. “How are you keeping everyone in line?”

Harry shrugged, his expression nonchalant. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“Care to share any of those tricks?” she teased, her fingers lightly brushing against his arm.

He chuckled, the sound low and intimate. “why would I give away my secrets to the enemy?”

“Maybe because the enemy is more fun than you expected,” she shot back, her eyes dancing with mischief.

Harry’s gaze softened, the intensity between them growing. “Then I’d rather show you and tell you”.

Harry grabbed Y/N’s hand. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through her, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she followed him as he navigated through the dense crowd, leading her toward the back of the club where the bathrooms were located.

The music grew slightly muffled as they moved away from the main floor. Harry glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression unreadable, but his grip on her hand was firm and urgent. They reached the bathroom, and without hesitation, he pushed the door open and dragged her inside.

The fluorescent lights flickered slightly, casting an unflattering glow over the white tiles. The hum of the club was still audible but muted, providing a strange, almost surreal backdrop. Before Y/N could react, he pushed her into one of the stalls and followed, locking the door behind them. The cramped space forced them into close proximity, their breaths mingling in the confined air.

“What the hell, Harry?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart...

[gurokiitty]

how about a crazy ex girlfriend! reader and Strade🔪🩸 I really like your writing its really good!

a/n: i wasn't sure what flavour of crazy you were hoping for, so i went with the classic 'break into your house and hold you at gunpoint to express her love' kinda crazy. hope you enjoy!

THIS LOVE

{ strade x f! reader }

word count: 1.5k

warnings/tags: DUBCON to consent, implied stalking, obsessive behaviour, gun use, nonconsensual bondage, threats of violence, some gaslighting, self-injury (cutting and stabbing), bloodplay, woundfucking.

The moon casts an eerie glow over Strade's house as you approach, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and dread. The gun tucked into your waistband feels heavy, but it’s a necessary weight.

It's been months since you last saw him, since he cast you aside because of your jealousy and the scenes you caused. But tonight, you will make him see reason. Tonight, you will make him understand that you belong together. Your love is a storm, wild and consuming, and nothing will stand in its way.

The lock clicks open under your deft fingers, and you slip inside, the familiar scent of his home washing over you. As you move through the darkened hallway like a spectre, your fingers trail along the walls, absorbing the essence of the place where he lives—where he breathes. Every step deeper into his sanctuary feels like a step closer to your destiny.

Your eyes are drawn to the living room, where you can almost feel his warmth, his musk lingering in the air. Bathed in glittering moonlight, Strade lies passed out on the couch, an empty bottle at his feet. His chest rises and falls with the rhythm of deep, alcohol-induced sleep, a scene so deceptively peaceful it almost makes you hesitate.

Almost.

You retrieve zip ties from your bag, your hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You move silently, slipping the ties around his wrists and tightening them until they bite into his skin. He stirs slightly and then wakes, thrashing and confused like an ensnared boar. His eyes dart wildly before settling on you, widening in shock. “Was zum Teufel…?”

“Strade, my love,” you whisper, pressing the gun to his temple, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. “Don’t move. I have a gun.”

His eyes flash with a dangerous glint, muscles tensing as he tests the restraints. “W-What the hell are you doing here?” he growls, his rough voice trembling slightly.

You smile as dread floods his features. It's as if a shell crumbles before you, revealing the soft, vulnerable creature within. The expression on Strade's scarred face assures you that you are in control—you have the power to sway him your way.

“I’ve seen them,” you say, your finger hovering over the trigger. “All the... the sluts you bring home."

You've watched from the shadows, seeing people come but never leave, witnessing his hand itch down their backs as they drunkenly stumble in. Some are hardly conscious, their heads lolling as he carries them inside. The images gnaw painfully at your heart as your digit glides over the steel pad, just itching to press down.

"It makes me so angry... So jealous. I'd decorate this couch with your brains if I didn't love you so much..." Your voice is laced with desperation, your brows furrowed and pout immanent. It was an expression as familiar to him as one of fear, but it frightened rather than thrilled him.

“You’re insane, you have no clue what you see,” he spits, struggling against the zip ties.

“No, I'm in love with you, Strade,” you insist, tears blurring your vision. “I came here to show you don’t need anyone else. Just me. Only me. I can make you change your mind—make you remember the love we shared..."

You're on him in an instant, leaning in to smash your lips into his, the kiss sloppy and desperate. He tries to pull away, but you hold him in place, the gun digging into his temple. You straddle his hips and fumble with the waistband of his pants, pulling them just enough to expose his manhood.

You grind your clothed body against him, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Yet, he remains unresponsive, his eyes cold and narrow. The realization cuts deep, and you stop midway, staring down at him with a mix of anger and despair. Memories flood your mind—how he used to grip your throat just a little too tight, how he’d smile when you cried out in pain, how his eyes would light up at the sight of your scars and bruises. He had always seemed to enjoy getting off on your suffering, pushing you to the edge, revelling in your pain.

“Y-You need to see me bleed, don't you? See me in pain?” you ask, your voice tinged with urgency. “That's what it takes to get you off, isn't it?”

Before he can reply, you slide off him and scurry to the kitchen, tucking the gun back into its holster. The knife drawer opens with a metallic clink, and you rummage through, frustration mounting as you find only dull blades, their edges worn from neglect. Your fingers finally close around a steak knife, the one sharp exception among the rest. Its pointed edge gleams under the dim light, forged for gliding effortlessly through meat of all kinds; a weapon used for dining rather than violence. You grip the handle, feeling its weight, the promise of pain and power thrumming through your fingers.

With the knife in hand, you return to the living room and straddle Strade’s thighs once more. He relaxes slightly, his expression softening with a mixture of curiosity and caution. You can feel his gaze following your every movement as you push your shirt up, exposing your stomach to the cool air.

Slowly, you trace the knife down your abdomen, the sharp edge grazing your skin just enough to draw a thin, blooming line. His eyes darken, his interest piqued despite his earlier defiance.

“You always did like to see me bleed, didn’t you?” you murmur, the knife trailing lower. His eyes remain fixed on the blade, and you can see the flicker of something primal in his gaze. He bites his lip as if trying to stifle a response, but his cock bobs in approval.

You smirk, feeling a sense of satisfaction at his reaction. “Then watch closely,” you whisper, reaching for him with your free hand. You press the knife a bit harder, small droplets of blood forming where the tip bites into your skin. Leaning forward, you glide your torso against him, the fresh wound skimming the length of his shaft and coating it in a cherry-red sheen. You can feel him slowly hardening in your hand, slick with blood and arousal.

"You know, I'd cut my heart out for you if it would make you happy," you huff, a small smile playing on your lips as you lean back on your heels. "But then, how would I get to see your handsome face when I present it to you?"

Strade's brows raise in amusement as you continue to toy with the knife. "You can see my face now, Liebling," he murmurs, his voice dripping with sadistic delight. "So, go on then. Bleed more for me. Go deeper."

Without hesitation, the blade pierces your flesh again, and a small cry escapes your lips. You push the knife deeper into your abdomen, feeling a hot, searing ache radiate through your body. Blood wells up, spilling over your fingers as you pull the knife away and let it clatter to the floor.

With a grimace, you push your own fingers into the gash, feeling the warmth of your essence coat your skin. The pain is blinding, but you don't stop. You want him to see, to understand the lengths you’ll go to for him. Your fingers move inside the wound, exploring the torn flesh, and you gasp again, your breath coming in ragged bursts.

A curious smile tugs at the corners of Strade's mouth, and you can feel his erection twitch in your bloodied hand, responding to the perverse tableau before him.

"D-Do you see?" you gasp, your voice trembling. "I bleed for you."

You then lean forward and guide the head of his cock into the open wound, pressing it against the jagged flesh. Pain and ecstasy blur as you stroke the base, feeling the hot throb of his arousal against your anatomy. His hips jerk forward, pushing deeper into the wound, and you yelp, your head falling forward as your hair cascades over your sweat-slick face.

"Haah.. F-Feel... Feel me..." you stammer, your voice breaking with the intensity of the moment. Your hands move with frantic urgency, stroking his length and smearing your blood over him.

The world narrows to the point of pain where his cock and your wound meet, a singular focus of raw, consuming sensation. Every thrust sends waves of agony through you, yet a familiar pressure builds in your core.

You sob his name, your voice a weak, broken plea. "Strade… I… I love you…"

With one final, savage thrust, he shudders, his climax tearing through him. You feel the hot flood of his cum seeping through your tissues, the sensation overwhelming, yet so rewarding. As the intensity peaks, your vision blurs and your body succumbs. You collapse on top of him, darkness closing in as you bask in the aftermath of your union, skin against skin.

[ihrtlino]

“Nazar.” ---------------------------------------

(ie. Captured my interest.)

pairing: Desi dancer y/n x poetry lover Minho.

synopsis: How could Minhos eyes never leave her? she just seemed to capture anyone’s attention.

word count: 839 words, 4871 characters.

—————————————————————————————————————

🪕 🪷

Minho hadn’t meant to look.

He would have walked by, the dusty tattered book of handwritten poetry being his main interest. Despite being uninterested in the topic of romance, it sparked emotion in his soul.

His feline eyes had seemed engrossed in the faded but coarse letters - although his ears caught on to the faint tunes and crowd, whistling and chattering excitedly in the distance.

Putting his book aside, he seemed to allow his body to drag him to the location of interest.

Women and men adorned in lavish style, gems and various adornments decorating their silk and lace blouses and skirts as they excitedly gaze ahead, chattering amongst themselves. Typical higher class attitude, Which Minho despised.

The money, power and rich attitude. They had it all. Their hearts just didn’t reflect the same generosity.

The space seemed to be a rather chipped although grand architectural space, stone seats acquired for those to be seated. Small lamps and lit eathern diya’s sparkle along the dim walls. It seemed quite full, The most properly lit space - the large stage covered by red flooring and empty for now. The stage’s backdrops are lavish black curtains, made of net and roped with fancier lighting.

The event seems to just be starting, Minho too enamoured to refuse a seat.

Musicians sit by the corner of the stage, microphones near their instruments for audible hearing in the crowded audience - a burly man and rather hefty woman quite heavily drowned in richest clothing they can afford, seeming to be the singers of the evening.

Minhos heart races in his chest, round eyes having to absorb the chilling but exquisite energy in this event. He’d never felt this way before, especially having always been engrossed in books or staying away from crowds. Now he was too fascinated to leave, not unless he saw the main event.

Finding a seat in the midst of the crowd, he squeezes himself between. Body buzzing with curiosity and anticipation burning in his veins, he’s never felt such emotion for an event.

Admist the murmurs of the crowd, the jingles of heavy anklets and chimes of the oxidised jewellery silences the crowd. Minho tenses as the stage light dims, almost falling dark.

A silhouette seems to glitter in the dark, the white light enunciating her bodily curves - reflecting off her chest and graceful arms as she takes position.

Her outfit, the embodiment of the swan feathers and gleaming of white - her figure so delicate but full of energy that is controlled until she begins to move.

Her face, covered by the lacey fabric adorned with glitter - sparkles along with the makeup that highlights her features. The jewellery, probably costing dimes a dozen blind the audience, signifying the amount of elegance and beauty of the woman present before the audience.

The tune begins to flood people’s ears, and Oh, is Minho taken aback.

She’s beyond breathtaking - an angel which no one can dream of having. He’s beyond words, beyond the poetry that remains in his heart.

He feels like his book has come to life, hypnotising him into a trance that he can’t refuse even if he wished to.

His whole body burns for more, unable to move an inch in his seat as his pupils follow even the slightest movement this dancer has graced everyone’s presence with.

Her body seems to tell a story - writhing, battling against invisible obstacles and melting against the melody which cascades her form.

Her eyes, so raw of emotion glittering under the lights as they portray it all within flashes - love, betrayal, power. It sweeps Minho of his feet.

he’s mesmerised.

The powerful duo of the singers voices boom into the audiences ears, leaving them desiring for more as the silence speaks much louder than ever.

She spins, writhes on the floor, her body flowing freely as a river - her dress following her movements, ornaments tuning to the music and her body hypnotised.

The audience is left stunned in silence, as their widened pupils watch.

Soon, the song seems to die down - the singers voices dulling overtime as the song ends.

The dancers movements soften, the beautiful female who’d captured almost 2500 people’s attention has her chest heave up and down as she seemed so drunk in the song.

Taking her final position, she gazes away from the crowd - breath shallow.

The audience can’t even seem to move a muscle, too overwhelmed to even react - until someone enthusiastically whistles, erupting the crowd into a standing eruption and loud cheers.

The female dancer gasps under her breath in shock, slowly standing up and bowing politely.

Minho, whose breathing is so laboured, palms sweaty and mind a mess - jumps up and claps the loudest he can, eyes never leaving hers.

That is when your eyes meet.

Hers.

And his.

Round feline eyes capturing hers.

It’s You, the female he’s so mesmerized with.

“Jisse uski nazar hati hi nahi.”

(through which his eyesight never left.)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

just a small Drabble that I was very interested to write. Hope you enjoyed it :)

Tags: @weird-bookworm @dandelions-143 @calypsohan

(let me know if you’d like to be tagged!)

[technically-a-kiwi]

I humbly request some core information I must know before I start drawing the cosmic chars for the next 2-9 days

just so I don’t mischaracterize any of them cuz then I would cry and I cry glitter mixed with acid

hum… core info you say ? 🤔

it’s a little hard, there’s no wrong or right way to go with them

in general the cast is a mix of chaos, silliness, otherworldly and MESSED UP. If you keep that in mind you’re already off to a good start

for each character tho hum…

well for starters, C Pep is just regular Peppino really x), stressed out and very impulsive in his emotions and actions. The major difference is that he has a much bigger knowledge about pretty much everything, basically you can bet that if you’re looking for something, he knows what you’re talking about and can give you precise details about it. Oh and of course, he’s basically like a sun here, any strong emotion will make him shift and go up in flames, everything in him is flames, he's just a big ball of flames.

For C Noise, again, it's just The Noise, chaotic, over the top, witty, and INSANE, but with the host attribute very exaggerated, passive agressif with every sentence and not taking his guests too seriously, often destabilizing them for a good laugh. He barely has a moral compass, willing to do anything for a good scoop, for a good program, create a kaiju fight in the middle of a city ? Let's go ! Change the color of the sky just to record people's reaction? Roll the cameras. All there is to know is he's basically a chaos god who records his mischief, always a smile on his face, he loves to mess with people, even with his fellow cosmic entities (to Peppino's displeasure) .

C Noisette is still Noisette, kind, bubbly, head in the clouds. She loves to talk, basically being a chatterbox, a little annoying if you're not into long conversations. She'll talk to anybody but C Noise, why ? Nobody knows, she'll always make the " >:( " face when she sees him, and promptly leaves, even if she's in the middle of a conversation.

C Pepperman is kind of the same as Pepperman, the self absorbed artist, marginal and very peculiar. He just DESPISE Peppino for holding the power of creation, either gaslighting or acting passive agressif toward him. Other than that he just acts like THE scholar of art, always bragging about his work, how his powers allow him to do what is impossible for mortals or talking about random art stuff (like composition, the meaning of colors...) and if you dare think he's annoying, you can bet he'll give you a lecture... Or turn you into a pepper... It depends...

C Vigilante is kind of different, he's just a very chill cheeseslime living in the country side of a cheese village, being the tired old man on the swinging chair, telling stories to younger cheeseslimes about the cosmic realm, legendary creatures, he takes care of his little farm, just living life you know. Although he's VERY paranoid about the cast coming over one day, he's convinced that they want to destroy him or his world, he's chill... But with a hint of stress...

The Ticket booth is very... Strange... It's actions are very aleatory, but it's fairly tamed. What he wants the most is for people to have a ticket, if you don't have a ticket, it won't bother to talk to you, if you want a ticket maybe he'll address you. If it considers you as some kind of threat (scammer, stealer, someone trying to kill a possible clients) that's when he unravels the horrors

C Pizzahead is kind of like Pizzahead, he's wiser than his classic counterpart, keeping the silliness for the stage only, but that doesn't stop him from cracking a joke or two here, a little prank there, he found the right amount of balance to be loved and unravel pure silliness. He's REALLY chaotic on stage (dangerous too...), but kind of a funny clown outside of the stage.

C Mr Stick is not much like og Mr Stick, he's stern, concentrated on his book, not caring much about stuff around him, he's not as interested in money as his counterpart, but he does love collecting more riches "hey, you're gonna use that 5 dollars ?" You see ? He's almost constantly the nose down his book, keeping track of everything and anything, you can ask him about the state of a random graph and he'll tell you ! When he's not counting or keeping track of stuff, he's building some random object, like an automatic spoon or paint thinner brush...

This took some time to write down oh my... I fear it's a little too much for being just the core, but I hope this will help you

[sluttyten]

UNHOLY - Chapter Twenty (Finale)

full masterlist || UNHOLY chapter index

summary: you're finally back with your boyfriends, but there are introductions that still need to be made, and a few final loose ends to wrap up.

length: 6,472 words

<-previous 

“This is nerve-wracking,” Ten mumbles under his breath, tugging at his collar. 

Yuta shushes him quickly. 

Mark silently appraises your two demon boyfriends, tucking his hands into his pockets, though you think it must just be to hide his nervous hand-fidgeting. 

“Which part has you the most nervous?” WinWin asks from just behind you. “Meeting your girlfriend’s father for the first time, or meeting him here?”

The five of you are standing in Hell. A nice little meeting room in the palace that looks out over a glowing view of Hell stretching out below. You’re trying your best to ignore the billowing heat that rolls in through the open balcony, but the black stone chair you’re seated on doesn’t help with your comfort level either. 

WinWin’s hands rest on the back of your chair. He hasn’t taken a seat or relaxed even a little bit since you left your apartment this morning for the trip down here. 

All four of them have been on edge since the letter arrived at your apartment three days ago. In pure black paper so dark that the sheet seemed to absorb all the light that touched it, a handwritten letter was scribed to you in a glittering golden perfect, flowing font. 

Dearest Cousin, the invitation began. 

Terror followed your eyes tracing those words; terror that you were about to be called to stand for your crimes, that Ten and Yuta were about to be pulled back down to Hell for their escape and complicity in your assassination of their tyrant. 

Instead, your fears were quickly assuaged. 

The new King of Hell was simply inviting you and your companions to attend a summit he was hosting. Newly crowned in his reign, Kun was taking matters of diplomacy into his own hands. He was tired of Hell being shut away below the surface world and looked down upon. 

Now, here you sit with Ten and Mark fidgeting on your left. Yuta sits like a statue beside you; you’re not even certain he’s breathing. WinWin stands firm at your back, refusing to let his guard down. 

All four of them cautioned you against accepting the invitation. They all feared a trap, the repercussions that your mind had also first jumped to when you saw the letter. There had been a lack of detail, a certain vagueness to the invitation from Kun, but it held enough to entice you into accepting. Still, all of your boyfriends were worried, and that worry only grew for Ten and Yuta when your father reached out to let you know that he’d received an invitation as well, and he was curious what your thoughts were. 

Ever since your successful rescue of Yuta and Ten, Ira had kept in steady contact with you. 

You’d gone to visit him the day after your return from Hell, temporarily parting with your boyfriends (to their reluctance), but you wanted to see Ira alone. You’d been surprised when you swam through the waters of his private sea, surfacing to the sunlight and the sight of your father splashing into the shallows to meet you. Ira had grasped you beneath the armpits, hauling you out of the water and into a tight embrace. He’d cried, berated you, hugged you again, told you he was proud of your bravery and angry with you and so beyond happy to see that you were alive. 

You’d stayed there on the beach talking for hours, recounting your journey to Hell and through it, the ways you’d used your powers to free your boyfriends from the Queen’s dungeon, the escape through Hell, the run-in with the Princes and the Queen that had ended in her ultimate demise. Ira had been fascinated by your flaming sword and the death of Hell’s Queen of the Night at last. 

You were a little surprised to find that most of his gathered heist crew had left the island nearly the same day as you. Once they all realized that you’d gone, and figured out where you’d likely left to, they’d gone. Now the sirens still sang their hunting melodies down in the cove. And Renjun was still there on the island, though not alone. 

After ascending the stairs from the pebble beach up to the lighthouse, you heard peals of laughter coming from the porch of the house, and as you approached, there was the sight of Renjun sitting in a wooden porch swing between Minnie and Haechan. 

“Have you got any room in your apartment in the city for them?” Ira asked you beneath his breath. “Your cousin, Renjun, is always welcome here. And this is Minnie’s home as well, down in the sea. But that vampire.” He shakes his head disapprovingly, but you can see the curve of amusement teasing at your father’s lips as he says, “He’s troublesome. The three of them together…. Chaos.”

You ate a meal with Ira, Renjun, Haechan, and Minnie before leaving. And ever since that day, Ira had kept in regular contact with you.

But Ten and Yuta had yet to meet him. 

Naturally, this summit of Kun’s in Hell was to be their first introduction. 

When the doors of the meeting room bang open, you jump in your seat. Mark hisses. Ten actually leaps to his feet. 

Kun, the crowned King of Hell, sweeps into the room, followed by his train of brothers. Behind him is your father. 

Kun takes his seat at the end of the table opposite you  so he’s framed by the pulsing orange glow of Hell at his back. The demon Princes fill in the seats at that end of the table. Ira scans the room with his dark gaze, offering you a soft smile, sharing nods of familiarity with Mark and WinWin, and finally his gaze lands on Yuta and Ten. 

Beneath the table, Yuta’s hand finds yours on your thigh. His pinky overlaps yours, curling your smallest fingers together. Ten finally ceases his fidgeting, growing very still like prey under the watchful eye of a predator. 

“So this is them,” Ira says, lowering himself into an empty seat around the middle of the table’s length. “The lovers who broke the rules for you.”

“Sir.” Yuta jolts to his feet, bowing slightly and extending his hand to your father just a few empty seats away. “Sir, I’m Yuta.”

Ten’s chair scrapes across the floor as he rises to lean across the table to greet your father and introduce himself too. He’s just reached his hand out when the door of the meeting room bangs open again. Ten drops back into his seat in surprise while your father leaps to his feet.

The wizened figure of the High Watcher hobbles into the room, flanked on either side by silver-robed Soldier Watchers. 

For a moment, your heart stills in your chest. What are they here for? To reclaim you and your boyfriends, to take you all to trial?

Ira remains on his feet, hands clenched into fists and pressed white-knuckled against the tabletop. His eyes blaze with fury and you catch a dim glow of a golden halo surrounding his head. He follows with his eyes every move made by the High Watcher and the two soldiers until they take their seats across from him at the midway point of the table.

Kun smiles calmly from his seat, his fingers steepled together in front of him. Two of his brothers – Chenle and YangYang – are whispering to each other. Xiaojun looks bored, chin propped on his hand as he gazes longingly out towards the hellscape beyond the balcony. Of the Princes, only Hendery pays any attention, looking intrigued by the new additions to the table. 

“My friends,” Kun begins, “I’m so glad you’ve come today.”

The High Watcher’s silvery eyes trace every face lining the table before finally resting on the new King of Hell. His face crumples into a scowl. “You made promises, boy. That’s why we’re here.”

Promises? Did Kun mislead you when he let you, Yuta, and Ten run free from Hell? Has he truly betrayed all of you to the Watchers, called all of you and your father too just to be handed over?

Kun’s eyes narrow. “I’m not my mother, High Watcher. I keep my promises. I mean what I say and say what I mean. I’ve asked you all to this summit so we can all achieve peace. First, my takeover from my mother’s reign was possibly less than ideal. My brothers agree that it was necessary, although they don’t entirely approve of the method. My plans are to free all of demonkind; I wish to create laws to maintain order, but give my people the freedom to live here, in Hell City aboveground, or even among mortals. However, how can I claim to give demonkind freedom when two of them stand accused of failure to appear at a set trial date, as well as accused of escaping prison. 

“And then there’s my dear cousin,” Kun says, gesturing towards you. “Half-demon, yes, but still considered under demonkind. The Watchers would accuse you of aiding and abetting the unlawful escape of Ten and Yuta, though admittedly they’re rather lacking in evidence for the initial jailbreak since that was carried out by my mother. They seem to think that you aiding their escape from my mother’s imprisonment also counts.”

“That’s bullshit,” Yuta hisses, glaring at the High Watcher. “We’ve said it before, but all of the charges you hold against us are bullshit.”

Kun waves a hand, and Yuta falls silent. 

“I agree, Yuta. That’s why I’ve called this summit. I think that it’s time that we abolish the treaty created between The Queen of the Night, the High Watcher, and your departed mother, cousin.” His gaze meets yours. “You deserve freedom to live where you want, to learn what you want, to come into your powers and just simply live your life without the constant fear that either the Watchers or demons will come after you because of a stupid contract that was drawn up before you were ever truly aware of the world around you. I move to unbind the ridiculous peace accord centered around her life.”

Your end of the table immediately erupts in complaint.

“Unbind it? Won’t that still put her in danger?” Your father barks above the noise.

Kun, again, raises a hand. The table falls silent. 

“Of course, a new peace accord will be written and put in place following the abolition.” Kun looks at the High Watcher. “I desire a long reign of peace, a partnership between the justice systems of the Watchers and the demons of Hell. That begins with decriminalizing the actions of my cousin and her lovers. I would also like to formally pardon them for any injuries, harm, or deaths that may have occurred during their departure from Hell a few weeks ago.”

The High Watcher’s lip curls. “You would undo all this, boy?

Kun smirks and leans forward. “You may call me King. Not boy. And yes, I will undo all of this. It was fucking stupid in the first place. Life is constantly evolving. New lives are created, new species and new combinations and new innovations. When we discover something new, do we destroy it out of fear for what it could become? No. The Watchers sought to end my cousin before her life could truly begin. My mother wanted to take that unknown power and harness it for herself. My aunt simply wanted to protect the life of her newborn daughter. That is what the peace accord was drawn up for. 

“But times have changed, the world has continued spinning and growing and developing, and with it so have we – the demons, the Watchers, every culture in the supernatural world – yet still this contract remains between us. You can’t stop her from being who she is; no law is going to change who she is or what she can do, it is innately a part of her, as inevitable as rain. If we want peace, it’s vital we create a new peace – one that protects all those that are given life through the union of two different types of supernaturals. They deserve the same freedoms and liberties as any of the rest of us.”

You sit silently at your end of the table, listening to your cousin ardently defend you. You think for a moment after Kun concludes his stated argument that the High Watcher is going to disagree and leave.

The High Watcher folds his frail, wrinkled hands together at the edge of the table. He stares down at his hands in contemplative silence for seconds that stretch into minutes. Prince Xiaojun coughs into his fist after a couple minutes of the odd silence, and you notice him hiding his amused smile into the curve of his fist. To your left, Mark huffs out a small laugh as well, curling a hand over his mouth as he exchanges a mirthful look with the demon Prince down the table. 

Another few moments of the strange silence pass, restlessness growing around the room.

Finally, Ira breaks the silence. The feet of his chair grate jarringly loud against the floor. “Make a decision!” He drops a fist down on the table, and you’re not sure if his white-knuckled clench eased at all since the High Watcher first entered the room. “Brother, this is my daughter. My daughter! All of this accord you signed years ago looks silly now, doesn’t it? Because she’s just a girl with the powers of a Watcher, just a girl with demon powers. She can create, and she can destroy. But she’s sweet and good and full of so much love, that I don’t think we’ve got to worry about her. She’s my daughter, brother. Just erase the old damn accord and create this new one with the new King of Hell.”

The silver-robed soldiers shift uncomfortably behind the High Watcher as he lifts his milky gaze from his hands. He stares at your father. 

“You know I met her once. Your demon, Ira. Before the accord, before you and her created your daughter.” The High Watcher blinks slowly. “I can see why you liked her. She was outspoken and smart, unafraid to make her voice stand out even in the face of adversity.” He laughs, then says, “I recall one meeting had between myself and her father when he was King of Hell. She burst in the room, demanding a seat at the table because if she was going to be forced to be Queen, then she at least wanted a say in — and I quote — what the old fucks were deciding.”

You laugh, quickly smothering the sound with the back of your hand. That does sound like your mother. She rarely cursed, but when she did, she made it count. And she’d always been a big advocate for equal rights. 

Ira nods, and although he’s trying to appear perfectly serious, his lips twitch into a brief smile. 

“I know the world changes. I’ve been here to see it all. And I must admit that maybe this change isn’t as fraught with disaster as we first imagined it might be.” And now the High Watcher addresses you, “Your mother was a force to be reckoned with, full of power, set to inherit the throne of Hell. Your father is one of the most powerful Watchers beneath myself. I’m sure you can imagine how that combination might create some fear, yes? Especially since both of them were forced into their roles, vocal about not wanting to be in charge, and somewhat ousted by their communities. I believe we Watchers as well as the Queen of the Night and much of demonkind feared retribution if your parents were to train you to use the full extent of your power to seek vengeance.

“But from what I know of you, what I saw while you were under my care, the stories I’ve gathered of you in the time since you escaped the House, I’ve come to realize, as your father and your cousin have just pointed out, that you aren’t the danger we assumed you would be.” The Watcher smiles. “You could be, as evidenced by the jailbreak of your boyfriends and the death of the Queen. But the difference lies in knowing that you have the power and knowing that you don’t want to use it for evil.

“I agree, King Kun.” The High Watcher declares, now turning his attention to the demon king. “I will agree to a new law built to protect not only this lovely young woman, but all people of supernatural origin. And I suppose, in the process of all this, we may as well exonerate the two demons.”

Beneath the table, Yuta tightly clasps your hand. Ten turns to you with a bright grin. Winwin sighs with relief, leaning back in his chair. Mark lets out a quiet whoop of glee that draws a laugh from a couple of the Princes of Hell. 

Yuta leans closer, pressing his head against yours, he excitedly whispers, “We’re free! All of us!”

An intense feeling of relief and happiness washes over you, and that sensation only intensifies over the next couple of hours as you sit there with the High Watcher, the King of Hell, and your father to write out this new law of the supernatural, just the four of you there in the room for its creation. 

Seeing the official document on the table before you, watching as each of them sign their names, that gives you the biggest rush of excitement and relief of all. 

Your father, with a simple wave of his hand, creates two duplicates of the original document. He passes one to Kun, one to the High Watcher, and the third he hands to you. 

“Why me?” You question, warily accepting the paper. 

You understand each of the other two having a copy. They reign over their people, so having a hard copy of the policy makes sense. But you?

“The people of Hell City, all of the supernatural community that resides on Earth without necessarily coming in direct contact with the Watchers or with the King of Hell deserve to know their freedoms are now protected wholly too.” Ira nods at the document. “I know that there’s not technically a governing body or a government building in Hell City, but from what I understand, Mark is a pretty powerful guy. He can spread the word. And it’s important for you to have a copy of it.”

You carefully roll the document into a tight scroll. With a twitch of your fingers, you create a secure tube to slip the paper into. There’s a strap on the tube, and you slip it onto your shoulder once you’ve got the new peace accord safely inside the tube. 

The High Watcher rises slowly from his seat. “The Watchers will spread news of our new peace and law, as well.”

Kun doesn’t move from his seat. Instead he leans back and kicks his feet up on the table. “This is just the first of many changes I’m hoping to implement here in Hell. Cousin, I will hold my demons to the letter of the law, don’t you worry about anything.”

You’re not worried. Strangely. You trust all of them to keep their word. 

The High Watcher hobbles towards the door. You watch his gnarled fingers twist the knob, and no sooner has he opened the door than his guards are there to flank him, escorting him quickly out of sight. 

“Daughter,” Ira speaks low, keeping his words just between you and him, “I would like to invite you and your lovers to the island. To allow a proper introduction between myself, Ten, and Yuta.”

You nod. “I think they might like that. Both of them have been pretty nervous about meeting you, actually. So, please, do your best to not scare them.”

Ira smiles, his eyes glow with a surprisingly mischievous light. “I welcome them with open arms.” He leans in, kissing your forehead. You feel a warm glow radiate from the spot his lips meet your skin, the sensation trickling through you. “There, now you can visit any time you like. Any body of water will act as a portal for you. See you shortly, I’ve got to get back and make certain your cousin and his friends haven’t destroyed the place while I’ve been gone.”

And then your father disappears out the doorway too, leaving you alone with Kun.

Finally, he pushes away from the table, his feet hit the floor. 

“You’ve got a cousin through him?” Kun asks, coming around the table to stand at your side. 

“Renjun. Half-elf, half-Watcher.” You take a step towards the door. “So this new law will benefit him too, luckily. The Watchers kept him under their thumb for most of his life, so now he’ll have the same promise of freedom as I do.”

Kun nods, letting a gentle smile leak through his otherwise solemn facade. “I hope you truly enjoy your freedom, cousin. Please, visit Hell whenever you like. I can already tell that you would probably like it here. Half of your boyfriends are from here, and if I was reading the room right earlier, I believe my brothers like your boyfriends. As a matter of fact, I think we may find them all together. Would you like me to show you the way?”

Part of you had expected for your boyfriends to linger protectively outside the door of the meeting room once they’d been kicked out, but as you follow Kun from the room, you find the corridor empty. 

You let the King lead the way. 

On your previous visit, you hadn’t had much of an opportunity to explore the palace, only the throne room, the dungeon, the secret tunnels, the baths, and the Queen’s chambers. But Kun guides you along the scenic route. You climb and descend elaborate staircases — one of which spirals around a chandelier that you swear is alive as it seems to change shape and color and, maybe it’s your imagination, but you could swear that it sings a soft, slow song — passing by courtyards that remind you of those you’d seen in the House of the Watchers. There’s a vast dining hall, a smaller dining hall, a ball room that’s larger than your kind can comprehend upon your glance inside. 

Eventually, Kun leads the way down a corridor to a room that you can only describe as a Man Cave. It’s not quite the same as the man caves that you’re familiar with — large flatscreen TVs, maybe video game consoles, posters of sports cars or half-naked models — no, this space has rich, decadent furnishings and walls that are heavily detailed wood-working. There’s a blazing fire, smoke curling in the air, shimmering light off decanters of amber liquid. There are games scattered around the room — a dart board that appears to have crossbow bolts sticking out of it; something that looks like a foosball table though, you swear that little figure are wiggling; there’s a wall decorated with gaudy looking weaponry along with a chalkboard that seems to be a scoreboard for the brothers. 

“Here they are,” Kun announces, stepping into the room. “Boyfriends and my brothers.”

Mark and Xiaojun and Chenle are laughing together at a pool table on one side of the room. WinWin and Hendery are apparently debating something in front of the fire. Yuta and Ten are speaking with YangYang, but all three of them break off from speaking as soon as you enter the room. 

Ten holds out his hand to you, and you quickly go to his side, grasping his hand and tucking yourself against his side. 

“How did it go?” Yuta asks. 

“As well as I could have hoped.” You feel the tube resting against your other side. “Ira thinks that Mark is a big enough personality in Hell City that he can help get the word around. He also would like the five of us to come visit so he can properly meet you two.”

WinWin drifts over, leaving a frowning Prince in front of the fire. “Back to the island?”

“Just for a little visit,” you say, “and then we can go right back home.”

Yuta smiles. “I’m ready for that part.” 

You roll your eyes. “Ira isn’t bad at all. And he says the two of you are welcomed with open arms. He’s promised he’s not going to try to scare you or intimidate you.”

King Kun snorts from behind you. “He didn’t actually promise that, though. He just said they’re welcome.”

Ten hisses something in the demonic tongue that makes Kun’s eyes flash. 

Yuta reaches over and hits Ten on the arm. “He’s the King now, at least try to show a little respect.” But you look at Ten just in time to see him make a face, and you know that he has no intention of being respectful, which considering the stories he’s told you since your reunion about his time with the Prince Kun, it seems like they’ve always had a good camaraderie, an easy friendship. 

It’s hard to pull Mark away from the demon princes. He definitely seems to get along well with them, and you have a feeling that you’ll have to take Kun up on his offer of you coming to visit Hell whenever you like. Eventually, though, you do pull him away from his game with Chenle and Xiaojun, and after you thank Kun repeatedly for putting this summit together, you and your boyfriends finally take your leave. 

Ten and Yuta lead the way to the strange obsidian forest that surrounds the pool you’d first meant to escape through. You walk with Ten, a little behind the others, clutching his arm and knotting your fingers through his nervously as you walk closer and closer to that clearing where you took the Queen of the Night’s life. 

Up ahead of you, you can hear Yuta talking quietly with Mark and WinWin. 

As you enter the clearing where everything changed, you do your best not to look at the spot where it happened. But it’s almost impossible to miss. 

“Woah,” Ten gasps, gawking at the spot where you burned the Queen’s body. 

Frosty, crystalline spurs have risen from the glassy black obsidian soil, coiling as they grow higher, growing together almost as if they’re building themselves into the image of a full-skirt, tapering towards a waist. 

“That’s fucking strange,” Ten comments, wrapping his free arm around your waist and hauling you a little faster towards the pond across the clearing. “I’ll make sure to send word to Kun that he needs to get the gardeners to come trim down that growth.”

“Come on!” Yuta calls from the edge of the pond. 

You’re glad to see that the black water has filled back on after it evaporated to prevent your escape last time. 

“I don’t like that,” Yuta says with a jerk of his head back towards the spot the Queen fell. “Let’s hurry up and leave.”

“Everyone hold on. I feel like we probably need to be connected for Ira’s key-spell or whatever he gave me to work.” You hold tightly to Ten’s hand, but you offer your other hand to WinWin, who greedily takes it. Mark takes Ten’s other hand, Yuta takes WinWin’s, and together you step into the pond. 

It swallows you whole, and you feel it bubbling against your skin like you’ve stepped into a vat of carbonation, but instead of rising, the bubbles are sinking you down into the blacker than black depths. 

And then the spot Ira kissed on your forehead tingles, and a light blooms before, a flash of brightness than has you squeezing WinWin and Ten’s hands, it has you squinting against the light. 

Your face breaks the surface. You taste salt on your lips as you pull in a breath. You hear the crashing rush of waves running through the pebbles on the shore. Winwin gasps for breath to your left. 

“Shit, that was easy!” Mark laughs. You hear splashing, and blink stinging saltwater out of your eyes in time to see him doing a clean breaststroke towards shore. He calls back over his shoulder. “Hardly any swimming compared to the last few times.”

WinWin lets go of your hand and sets off after Mark, cutting through the water a little less gracefully. 

Yuta and Ten both tread water beside you. “Ready?” You ask, looking between them. Yuta nods with a brave face, and then he decides to swim for shore. 

Ten swallows nervously, staring ahead at the shore, at the intimidating cliffside. You laugh, kicking lightly at Ten beneath the water. “He’s just my father, Ten. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“That’s not it.” Ten shakes his head. “I’ve seen this place before. That light. When we were in her dungeon and I tried to reach out to you. I saw this place.” He’s staring up at the lighthouse with what you now realize to be awe. 

Mark and WinWin arrive on shore, dragging themselves from the water with laughter. Mark’s quickly up and climbing the stairs. 

Ten continues to tread water. “I didn’t think it worked. Not really. But you were here. I saw you here. She’d blocked our powers to such an extent that I really didn’t think it was possible.”

“I think we were meant to be, Ten. The five of us have a connection that goes deeper than any I’ve ever had before.” You start to move through the water towards shore. “I think we’re soulmates, and nothing your Queen tried to do could cut off the power of that connection.”

“Hey!” Ten calls out after you, and you catch the sound of him slicing through the water behind you. But he can’t catch up; you’re a faster swimmer, and you beat him to shore. 

Mark has already reached the top of the stairs, and WinWin is helping Yuta up them. 

Ten, soaking wet and grinning, slops onto shore just seconds behind you. He throws himself against your back, arms around your waist as he smacks a kiss to your cheek. 

“Listen, I’ve told you once before, and I’ll tell you again,” Ten says, “but that demon, she wasn’t my Queen. She ceased holding that title for me the moment I met you. She wasn’t my Queen, so please, don’t refer to anyone like that except yourself.”

You laugh. “So I should expect to hear you call me ‘my Queen’ now?”

“Maybe.” Ten breathes out his laughter against your neck. “For now, though, we should head up there and meet your dad.”

Ira is waiting on the front porch of the house as you and Ten reach the top of the cliff stair. He’s just sitting on the porch swing, drinking in the view of the ocean in the distance and sea birds swirling in the sunlight. 

Ten’s hand nervously twists in yours. 

“Sir, I’m Ten.” Ten bows his head respectfully towards your father, which he then follows up with extending his hand for Ira to shake. 

Ira glances at you, and then he looks at Ten. You watch the way his gaze falls on Ten’s visible demon marks on his arm, how Ira looks up into Ten’s eyes which have become the cat-like slits they do when his facade slips. 

“Welcome, Ten.” Ira clasps his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. And not just from her.” He inclines his head towards you, still shaking Ten’s hand. Or maybe Ten is still shaking Ira’s. “Mark and WinWin had a lot of good to tell me about you.”

Ten offers a smile. You squeeze his hand that’s still clasped in yours. 

“Come inside. Everyone’s already at the table.” Ira releases Ten’s hand, and he leads the way inside, saying backwards over his shoulder, “I should warn you that the meal we’re about to have was made by Renjun, Haechan, and Minnie. They ventured through the portal for the ingredients, so I can’t claim any of the credit or take any of the blame for how it’s turned out.”

As soon as you’re inside the lighthouse, you can hear the noise coming from the kitchen — a mess of voices, clanging dishes, the hissing and sizzling sounds of cooking being done. 

Mark is standing beside Haechan at the fireplace, laughing with him. Yuta helps Renjun carry food onto the table. Minnie, with her silvery blonde hair is filling drinks around the table, and she looks up when you walk in to flash you with a sharp-toothed smile. 

Ira settles at the head of the table, WinWin takes the seat at Ira’s right hand. Ten takes his left  

Everyone fills in around him, weighing the table down with the amount of food the trio prepared. You sit between WinWin and Yuta. Mark sits across from you, and beneath the table he nudges his foot against yours, then hooks it around your ankle. 

Renjun takes the seat opposite your father, but he doesn’t let that — or the fact that Minnie, Haechan, and Mark sit in the way — stop him from pulling Ten into conversation. 

You smile, looking around at these people who you’ve come to regard as your family, as close friends. 

You watch as your father engages Yuta and WinWin in conversation. You feel a beam of warmth fill your chest as you watch Minnie lean into Renjun’s space, watch Haechan pout and pull her hand until she sits a little closer to him. 

Everyone is happy. 

Everything feels settled and complete and so good. 

A cool autumn breeze whirls the crisp orange leaves through the air. 

It’s evening, with sunlight breaking through the low clouds to lay golden rays through the branches of the trees, casting the side of the building in a reddish-amber light. The willow branches flutter in the wind, but you stay on your path, leading the way through the cemetery. 

This was Mark’s idea. Or he’s at least the first one that brought it up to you. 

Earlier this morning you’d been in bed, rejoicing in the coolness of Mark’s skin due to the unnaturally hot day in Hell City, when he’d said, “Do we ever get to introduce ourselves to your mom and human dad?”

The question had caught you off-guard. 

You sat up and looked down at him. Mark raised a hand to play with your hair where it fell loosely over your shoulders. 

“I know they’ve passed away, of course. But still,” he says softly, raising his gaze to yours. “We could all go together to see the place you laid them to rest. To say hi.”

Maybe you’d spent the next few minutes crying about his sweet offer because yes, of course, you would be glad to take your boyfriends to see the graves of your parents. 

Technically, Yuta and Ten had already been there, had already made an introduction of a sort at your parents' graves. Although that hadn’t been a great first impression in all likelihood. 

When all five of you were gathered together a few hours later, you’d made the suggestion, and now here you are. 

You haven’t been back here since… well, since Yuta let you come back after that first little stint in Hell City, which now, knowing everything you do, seems like such a bad idea. 

And now, as you bring your boyfriends along the path to the back of the cemetery, you feel a weight settling in your chest. It’s been so long since you’ve actually been here to pay your respects to their graves and go catch them up on your life. A lot has changed. 

WinWin places a hand on your back when you stumble. “Are you okay?” He asks.

You nod, blinking away the sudden tears that have risen to your eyes. “It’s just been a while since I’ve come by to talk to them, to pray.” A choked out laugh layered with a sob leaves you. “So much has changed.”

WinWin laces his fingers with yours. “We’re here for you.”

“We can come here once a year, twice a year, however often you like.” Yuta says from your other side. “Hell, I’d be fine with living here. It may take some adjusting, but I think I could really like it here.” 

Ten scrunches his nose in mild disgust, and you laugh, right there along with him. You loved it here, but now you know what the supernatural world is like, and you enjoy it there much more. Plus, your boyfriends don’t have to hide anything about themselves in Hell City. 

Your parents' graves sit clean of debris just off the path in the back. The little stone vase at each headstone has nothing but wilted, brittle flowers that rattle in the breeze, showing you just how long it’s been since your last visit. 

You kneel before their graves, and with a wave of your hand you produce two bouquets. One of simple red roses for your dad’s grave. A mixture of red carnations and daylilies for your mother. 

The boys are all talking, taking turns to, you think, introduce themselves to the parents that raised you. You’re not really listening, too focused on holding back the tears the brim in your eyes, focusing on tracing away the dirt that has settled in the letters of your mother and dad’s names and the matching date of their deaths. 

Tears spill over, dripping warm down your cheeks into your lap. 

“Darling,” Ten crouches beside you, wiping at your tears with his thumbs. “Would you like some time alone with them?”

You nod. 

Your boyfriends leave you there by yourself, moving only up the path far enough to give you privacy, but still close enough they can see you. 

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” You clear your throat, brush away a leaf that’s caught on the knee of your pants. “I know the truth now. The whole truth, and I want you to know that I’m not mad, I love you both. I know why you didn’t tell me. But so much has changed since we last spoke.”

You kneel there until your knees ache, talking to your parents graves, spilling out your heart, laughing and crying, and filled with a great want of having them here with you to actually see them, to hold your mom’s hand, to have your dad wrap you in a warm hug like you’d experienced so many times in the past. 

And when you’re finished with your story, when all’s been said, you rise to your feet, you brush off the dirt, and you reunite with your lovers who are waiting for you in the shade of the willow tree. 

THE END

a/n: It's over 😭 of course this has been a long time coming! When I set out to write Unholy, I never imagined it would end up with a length of 248k words, like it was meant to be a Halloween drabble in the beginning 😂 and once I started posting this story on January 1, 2023 the story only continued to grow, like the word count actually doubled from the original draft up until this finale.

For anyone who's stuck with this fic, for those of you that have actually read it from start to finish, thank you so much! I've enjoyed creating this world and it's characters (even though they're obviously based off of the NCT members, I feel that they've almost taken on a life of their own), and I'm so glad that you've enjoyed it as well.

Thank you so much, and I hope to see you all again!

[loonarii]

Idolizing Imperfection: The Ancient Allusions of 'Midas Touch' - KISS OF LIFE (an essay)

I have missed writing kpop essays so much and after watching the new Kiss of Life MV, I couldn't resist doing a scene by scene (with some lyrics) breakdown of the allusions to ancient mythology - (there are lots of other modern references, especially to Britney Spears, but the ancient ones are what I will be focusing on here, believe me there is more than enough to talk about.) I don't have any official qualifications surrounding this field (yet), but I am studying classical civilization and roman literature for a qualification, and I have a long time obsession with Greek mythology especially. Obviously all of these are my interpretations, this is not a definite guide to what exactly the creative direction team at S2 Ent. were thinking about for this comeback, and if you think I missed something or have a different interpretation of one of the scenes, please let me know in the reblogs/comments.

Let’s begin with the title of the track, ‘Midas Touch’. It references the Greek myth of King Midas, who (according to Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’) after winning the favour of the god Dionysus, was granted any wish he desired. Midas chose the ability to make everything he touched turn into gold, a wish driven by greed. Midas revelled in his new found powers, but the problems arose when he realised that all food he touched would be turned to gold too - he had condemned himself to starve to death. The myth is essentially a cautionary tale about the effects of greed; Midas is a tragic hero that brought about his own suffering due to his hamartia (tragic flaw) - his blessing becomes his curse. Today, having a ‘midas touch’ means that everything you are involved with is successful, but the main association of Midas with greed still remains. In the context of the song, KOL are saying that a relationship with them, although destined to end in tragedy, would be worth it for the ‘gold’ they can bring - “위험할수록 재밌잖아” (“The more dangerous it is, the more fun it is”).  Midas may have died a tragic death, but his time alive was quite literally golden. Still, it feels slightly odd that KOL are associating themselves with someone so flawed - an idol should be the image of perfection, and in this way, the meaning of the song becomes quite subversive on a meta level. Keep this interpretation in the back of your mind, we will return to it later.

Within the music video itself, each of the four members are given solo scenes that I believe allude to different women of Greek mythology. Julie is first, depicted lying on a blush pink velvet heart with gold embellishments, shell and heart shaped boxes littered around her. The composition of the framing, as well as the beach imagery seems to allude to Boticelli’s ‘The Birth of Venus’, linking Julie with Aphrodite/Venus, the goddess of love. In Greek mythology, Aphrodite is seen as beautiful beyond compare, but is also often characterised as highly vain and self absorbed. After hearing that some Greeks had begun to worship the ludicrously beautiful mortal woman Psyche instead of her, (and also out of protection of her son Eros to whom Psyche was married), she sent Psyche on a series of impossible trials designed to kill her, so she could remain the most beautiful. Once again, KOL compare themselves to people in the ancient world who were famously flawed.

Natty is seen next, intertwined with glittering spider webs. This is perhaps a reference to the tale of Arachne, a mortal woman who was highly skilled at weaving. She boasted that her skills were greater than Athena herself, the goddess of handicraft (and many other things), and Athena transformed her into a spider as punishment for her hubris (excessive pride). Like the tale of King Midas, Arachne’s story also centres around a fatal flaw bringing your own downfall, and like Midas and Aphrodite, Arachne is not typically remembered fondly within Greek Mythology canon.

Perched on a half dress, half throne that resembles a peacock, Belle is seen next. Originally I wasn’t certain who was being referenced here, but after some research I believe it may be Hera, although if you have another interpretation here I would love to hear it. Hera, the goddess of marriage and fertility, queen of the gods, and wife to Zeus, is affiliated with peacocks as they are one of her sacred animals, and are said to pull her chariot like horses. Hera is also, like Aphrodite, a goddess often portrayed in a negative light in mythology, repeatedly characterised as jealous and spiteful. A famous example of this is when Hera sent two snakes to strangle Heracles/Hercules, the illegitimate son of her husband Zeus, out of spite and jealousy for the boy’s mortal mother. Whether Hera had a right to be annoyed at her husband’s repeated adultery is another discussion, but generally speaking, when Hera is in a myth, she is often the villain.

Finally, we see Haneul, perched upon a corinthian style column (we love a greek column) surrounded by severed heads on spikes, a clearly war ridden scene. This is the allusion I am the least confident about, but I think perhaps she is supposed to be Helen of Troy? Helen is famous for being the catalyst for the Trojan War (perhaps this is the war scene she sits within?), she is the ‘face that launched a thousand ships’. Depending on the source, Helen is either a victim, kidnapped by the Trojan prince Paris, or she was seduced and went willingly, abandoning her Greek husband King Menelaus. The second seems to be the accepted narrative among many Roman authors, with writers such as Martial (in Epigrams 1.62) portraying her as the polar opposite of Penelope, who was seen as the image of loyalty. As a result, Helen is commonly portrayed as disloyal and unfaithful, the opposite of what an ideal woman in the ancient world was supposed to act like.

In their group scenes, there is also SO MUCH Medusa imagery - with snakes crawling all over their faces and hissing at the camera, and half broken stone statues littered here and there. As I am sure you are probably aware, Medusa is very much a villain in the myths she is depicted in, and despite modern reevaluations of her story (that I agree with) portraying her as a victim, in the primary sources, she is essentially an evil monster for Perseus to destroy - her death marks Perseus’s ascension to hero status.

So why oh why are KOL comparing themselves to figures so flawed? In their previous releases, especially their first comeback with ‘Bad News’, the girls are depicted trying to fix injustices in society - they expose corruption in corporations, they combat casual misogyny and sexual harassment, and they call out bullying and abuse. In ‘Midas Touch’ I believe they continue their addressing of injustices and double standards, this time with a focus on the idol industry, their own stomping ground. In the kpop industry, idols are expected to be perfect in every way - beautiful, highly skilled, never controversial, and loyal to their fans. Should an idol fail to uphold these impossible standards, they are relentlessly punished, especially if the idol is a woman. Last month, Karina’s earnest apology to ‘fans’  for falling in love exposed how ludicrous the standards are to the world, and other idols like Sakura, Wonyoung, and Jennie, continue to get bullied on a daily basis for not meeting all of the bars the industry sets them. A kpop idol should be talented, but never show off, they should be beautiful and care about their looks but never be vain, confident but never egotistical, and driven by passion, not the desire for fame and money. It’s all fucking impossible, especially when what constitutes being called the second traits is utterly arbitrary and depends on how many people woke up on stan twitter and decided they didn’t like you that day. In ‘Midas Touch’ KOL calls this out by openly depicting themselves with the traits that kpop stans hate - Julie is Aphrodite, beautiful but vain, Natty is Arachne, talented but boastful, Belle is Hera, confident but jealous, Haneul is Helen, influential but disloyal, and they all are Midas, spurred on by greed instead of passion. They recognise that these accusations are unavoidable, and by reclaiming the imagery of these symbols of undesirable traits, they call out and reject the standards the idol industry places upon them. Like Medusa, they may be seen by many fans as a villain, a hurdle for their favourite groups that have more promotion and budget to overcome on their way to the top, but in actuality, they are victims of an industry desperate to mould them into products to be bought and sold. I’ve seen lots of discussion online about what KISS OF LIFE’s concept is, as it seems to vary every comeback, but after ‘Midas Touch’ I am led to believe that their concept is rebellion, against society, idol culture, and the things they deem as wrong in the world. Other groups have  done concepts similar in the past, such as LOONA in ‘Butterfly’ (you really thought I wasn’t going to bring them up at some point?? Are you new here??) but KOL is doing it explicitly, and consistently, and to me, that's very exciting. The kpop industry is ever changing, and with the foundations of the new 5th generation being established as we speak, perhaps KOL could cause it to change for the better. In summary, I am SO excited to see what they do next.

That honestly took a turn I wasn’t fully expecting at the end, but I hope you enjoyed regardless - I didn’t really talk about the actual song here, but I fucking loved it, and my full review will be part of my April monthly roundup - see previous installments on my masterlist. I encourage all of you to listen to ‘Midas Touch’ if you haven’t already, congratulations KISS OF LIFE for graduating nugudom, stream Birth by ARTMS, stan loona, and prepare for the loossemble comeback - lmk if you have any thoughts on my analysis or any other interpretations, or any topics you want me to write an essay on. cya next time ~ ari

[a-jynx]

living lies

hello, darlings! this is the official pt 2. of buried promise! please remember this is reincarnated!Astarion, so, there's only a bit of likeliness! <3

so, i saw some comments about reincarnation for elves! of course, i went to my DM friend for research, and let's just say the info he gave me... is Too much power!

without further ado, i hope you enjoy living lies!

No one tells you about the world before you’re casted into it - screaming, crying, and fighting for your little life. Believing that what you are fighting for was the safety being ripped away from your shaking, bloodied hands. 

No one warns you about the agony when you remember your past. The world you came from before. 

They never explain just how… Scary, this world could be for someone new. But you’re not new, are you?

"Again," you grumbled, wiping at the blood weeping from your brow. "Let me try again." Your sword shook in your grasp as your mentor rolled his eyes, his lips in a tight frown.

"I've drawn blood." He stated, matter-of-factly. "I've won, you've lost. We'll continue our lesson tomorrow morning." You grit your teeth, tightening your grip around the handle, digging your foot into the earth before rushing him. Swinging the blade down and to the side, he easily evaded before grasping the steel with a stern grip. Your eyes bugged, curling your lips together as you pulled and yanked, but the steel just bit into his skin. Tearing and oozing his blood.

"Now, we both bleed, we've both lost-"

"If we were truly fighting- battling - you would be dead before even touching the dirt beneath my boot." He hissed, yanking your weapon away before throwing it to the side. You swallowed thickly, watching as his blood pooled by his boots. The dirt absorbed it, swallowing the blood and becoming a thick puddle. Your eyes shot to the mangled cut dancing across his calloused palm, the stream of blood dribbled and dripped down his clenched fist. Your eyes drew up his arm, following the flowing tunic sleeve that had been decorated by the small splatter of crimson.

"Aster, I-"

"Shut it. I warned you about your anger during this type of things," he sighed, flexing his battered palm before a gentle blue haze sizzled through his blood and torn flesh, smoothed together and left a hint of a scar across his calloused skin. "It'll get you killed." His hazel eyes darkened while meeting your glazed over eyes. Inhaling deeply, you savored the last droplets of his blood being soiled by the dirt below. It mocked you for not guzzling his blood like a drunk man on ale.

"Control yourself, darling," he rolled his eyes, moving past you and grabbing the abandoned sword. "Bloodthirst only looks good on you in battle." He turned back to you, tossing the stained sword towards you as you cleared your throat, catching it against the blade. Piercing your lips, you tossed the sword up and stared at the dried blood. His scent lingered on the metal, your eyes fluttered before looking to Aster through your lashes, a hint of a smile on your lips.

"I happen to think it looks good on me all the time, day or night-" you clicked your tongue, following close to him. His dark hair shined with the sunlight, tussled around from your training. His amber eyes glittered from the gentle rays, softer than usual. "Maybe so, but it'll get you killed if you cannot control it." He licked his lips, settling into his tent as you followed in.

"I've controlled it thus far,"

"With midnight frolicking with blood staining your hands and lips like some form of... Delicacy." Aster's voice grumbled low as you rolled your eyes, falling into the plush pillows of his tent. You frowned, staring at the elf in front of you. His form relaxed as he grazed over the books in hand. He always had a knack for reading...

"Depending on who I've slaughtered," you paused, sucking at your teeth in sweet remembrance of the taste that used to dance on your tongue. It could've resembled that of tart cherry wine... "Sometimes their screams were sweeter." You flashed a vision smile as Aster rolled his eyes, licking at his thumb before turning to the next page. You tilted your head, rereading the title - Past of the Death Lord, Bhaal - your God. Your blood. Your father.

"Why must you take such an interest in him," you whispered, crawling towards the distracted elf. Worming your way into his lap, fingers caressing the books' spine with a small smile. "He's considered that of a messy God."

Aster peered at you over the books' edge, his brow quirked at you before sighing, closing the book with a grunt. His nimble fingers carded through your hair, scratching at your scalp as you released an almost purr like sound. You had found each other lost within the walls of Baulder's Gate. The streets had grown, more people have moved in and called the kingdom their home. You fall amongst them.

Fresh Bhaal spawn. Hands shaking with greed to dirty them with some pitiful man's blood - to write Bhaal's name in their crimson ink. You used to control your hunger - your need for their blood to be spilled in your father's name, but now within these gates, you believed anyone would fall by your hand. Until you met Aster. Working to heal those around your non-official home, those who were lost amongst the streets of Baulder's Gate. He had seen you as a challenge - an adventure - that begged to be had. Aster saw the bloodlust in your eyes and the shake in your hands, he had to make you something... Better. He already knew of the illness that wrapped around your neck, threatening to hang you.

"Hello, darling," his voice teetered between sultry and warmth. You turned to him, caution rolled over you as your eyes ghosted over his figure, studying him. "You seem to be lost... Little Bhaal." Your eyes widen a bit, but you couldn't stop the grin that split your lips.

"I cannot decide if you're stupid or brave," your words seemed to curl around his throat, licking at his stampeding pulse. "Either way, you're thickskulled to speak of Bhaal so... Little like." You bit, moving closer and pressing your hand against his chest with a cheeky smile. Flashing your sharpened teeth. "You test waters that are rarely tested."

"I'm always looking for... New challenges." Aster spoke into the space you shared. Your breaths mingled as you inhaled, eyes fluttering at the scent of blood filtering through his skin. "You really are thick for wanting to challenge a," your voice lowered, pressing up until your noses bumped one another. "Little Bhaal."

Aster couldn't fight back his smile, his hands rested against your ribs, it felt.. Right to hold you. Caress your flesh, and kiss away your last breathe. You had just met, but it felt like you had known each other for another lifetime...

Your feet dragged across the dirt whilst the sun beat against your sweaty skin. Aster had you travelling to find some rare artifact - a ring? You couldn't be bothered to remember. Looking around you felt a twist in your chest, pulling you to the left as Aster stared at the map in hand. "Aster, come," you waved him, his eyes filtered to you with creased brows, yet he moved towards you. "There's something this way." You snatched his hand and tugged him behind you. Knocking down branches and tugging out your sword to cut away the ever-growing vines. A spell.. A concealment spell. A powerful one at that.

"You swore no magic," you hissed as Aster stepped forward, frowning at the thick vines that wrapped around one another, reconnecting before solidifying once more. "Well, pardon me for believing this would be a non-magical quest." Aster rolled his eyes, reaching into his pack and pulling out the small journal he had... Borrowed.

Only those who carry the Ancunin Lover's embrace may enter their well-loved domain.

Ancunin Lover's embrace..? Was that a different artifact altogether? Was that their only key to gain the Sunlight Walker's ring?

"Shit," Aster's voice grumbled as you moved closer to him, wrapping an arm around his bicep as you peered at the journal before you. "This doesn't make any sense." He hissed, dragging his nails across the words as if the pressure would cause them to jump and quiver.

"Ancunin Lover's? Was that who protected this place?" You quipped, gently taking the journal as Aster stared at the wall ahead, frowning. "They were the lovers' that lived here - hints to why it says those who have their embrace may enter. Astarion and Tav Ancunin,"

"The heroes of Baulder's Gate..?" Your eyes grazed over the pages, their names jumped at you from the pages. Your winced at the sharp pain that shot through your mind, causing you to drop the book in fear. Aster turned to you, rushing to your side as you dropped to the dirt below. "Darling, what's wrong?" His voice became warped, filtering in a new voice. You withered in his grasp, your eyes shot open and stared at the elf above you but... His dark chestnut hair became a bright white. His amber-colored eyes now bright, ruby-colored. And his... Fangs peeked out as he stared down at you.

"My love, breathe, tell me what's wrong-"

"Hurts." Your voice was not your own. Your body pressed further into his, cringing at the pain rattling your head. He leaned forward, pressing gentle kisses across your throat, traveling up to your cheek and knocking his forehead against yours.

"Shhh," his voice lulled, your eyes fluttered at the gentle noise. "It'll pass, my darling-"

"Darling wake up!" Your eyes snapped open, meeting the amber eyes you've grown fond of over the years. His arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, carding through your hair. He shook against your figure. "By the Nine Hells, I thought you were dead!" He leaned back, staring into your eyes as you stared at him, agape.

"I saw him,"

"Saw who? Bhaal? Is your hunger becoming more-"

"No... No, I saw an elf? A vampiric elf? I'm not sure." Your voice stilled as Aster stared at you, his hands still tight around your shoulders. His brows creased as you slowly pushed up from the ground, his hands grabbing ahold of your outstretched hand and hip, his thumb brushing against your showing flesh. You walked together towards the wall of vines, some still squirming around and tightening as you approached. Your palm shook as it raised to the vines, Aster's palm resting on the back of your hand.

"Aeterna Amantes," the words left your lips before you knew what they meant. The vines halted and slowly peeled away, revealing an abandoned home. You sighed out a laugh as you walked in, tugging a bewildered Aster behind you.

The home creaked and groaned, shimmering vines curled and swayed across the old wood. Trees and wildflowers blew against the soft breeze, other than the vegetation taking control... The home looks intact. Taking your free hand, you brushed it against the soft wildflowers and tall grass, your bloodthirst seemed to dwindle... To burn away.

"Little Bhaal?" Aster murmured from behind you, one of his hands reached up, intertwining your fingers. Your eyes were glazed over, looking over the boards and cracks across the humble abode. Your heart clenched at the sight while your bottom lip trembled.

"Why... Why do I remember loving you?" Your voice shook, turning towards Aster as he frowned whilst shaking his head. "What?"

You face him, still holding each other close before swallowing thickly around the lump forming in your throat. Inhaling deeply, you looked back to the home with a look of sorrow. Pain. "This... Home. I remember it like we built this home yesterday. I remember building it alongside you, being in... In love. I was growing sick,"

"Darling, I... I don't know-"

"You have to feel it." You tightened your hand around his, your eyes watered as he stared into your eyes. His scarred palm reaching up and caressing your tear-stained cheek, his thumb rubbed the tears into your skin. You sighed into his skin, clenching your eyes shut as you saw another vision.

You see the white-haired elf, who you've marked up to be Astarion, laid out on a bed of silk. His fingertips grazing across your showing skin. Your own hands pet through his soft, white curls and tugs gently at the knots within his hair. Rain gently pelted the windows as you both breathed in one another's company. Astarion turned to face you, his eyes soft and glazed over. His fangs peaked out from his lips, showing a soft smile. "What is it, my Star?" Your voice whispered as he reached up, grabbing your hand that had messed with his hair. Pressing his lips against your knuckles, climbing further up your arm and brushing his lips against every inch of skin he could catch. Your giggles echoed, as he climbed up your body, pressing harder kisses against your throat, sucking gently.

"Star," your voice trembled with a moan as he smirked against your flesh, nipping gently at your scars. His bite mark. "Please." Your pleas fell to deaf ears as he sucked deeper hickeys against your skin before he loomed over you, caging you between his arms and the soft bed. Your heart pounded against your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, your fingers tangled into the hair at the base of his nape.

You jumped back to Aster, your body tossed to the ground as he held you close, cradling you into his chest. Sitting up, you pressed your hands to his chest, feeling heat roll into your cheeks as you stared at his widened eyes. "Astarion... Tav... Their memories, I can see them." You laughed with a shake, rolling off of his lap and quickly standing before running towards the house. Pressing your palm against the rotted wood, gasping as another vision shot across your mind.

Astarion crossed the yard with you held tight in his arms, tears were cascading down his cheeks while he walked. Darkness had swallowed you as you followed behind him, keeping close as you watched him stop by a cliff. Two holes dug; two gravestones prepared... No...

Falling back into your mind, you turned to Aster as he stood beside you, watching as you blinked with a smile. Grabbing his wrist, you tugged the Rogue behind you, running towards the cliff. Your feet slammed into the ground below, dirt kicking up as you ran. Sliding to a stop, you glanced around, more wildflowers bloomed around the cliffside.

"It's nearby, I know it is." You hissed, dropping his wrist as Aster stared as if you had grown two heads - perhaps three. "I can feel it, Aster!"

"What in the Hells are you talking about? You keep falling into these... Memories, as you call them, and come back with new ideas where we need to go! It's... Maddening to watch, to say the least." Aster scoffed, running a hand through his thick, chestnut-colored curls. His eyes shimmered, making you take a step closer. His amber-color glowed a soft... Red?

You reached up, grabbing his cheeks as he jumped, his cheeks and the tips of his ears heating up at the sudden touch. Dragging him closer, you tilted your head each way, studying his eyes as they shined in a soft ruby glow. Two colors seemed to dance in his irises. One for the present, one for the past. Licking your lips, you leaned close as your lips fell apart, barely touching his as a shaking breath left him.

"May I..?"

Aster swallowed thickly, another sigh leaving his parted lips. "Please." You pressed your rough lips against his. They moved in depth against one another, tasting each other. Lights swirled around the two of you as you wrapped your arms around his neck, his hands slithered down your hips, squeezing at the flesh there as you deeply groaned. You only pulled away at the burning in your lungs begged for air, your eyes fluttered open as Aster was already looking around. His eyes grew wide at the sight of Astarion sitting by the gravesite before you. He was grieving...

You pressed a finger to his lips as you both turned back to Astarion, watching as the sun rose and he removed his rings, shoving one into the dirt below and the other fell to the ground as his body became dust. Ashes.

You both gasped, falling away from each other, chests' heaving as Aster scrambled to his feet before his hand dove down, tugging you up with him. You both shoved through the tree limbs and vines hanging around the burial site. Skidding to a stop, you both leaned into each other, eyes wide and small smiles on your lips. The graves were still in... Prestine condition. No weathering, no tussled soil, no chips nor cracks within the homemade headstones.

"He... He buried Tav here, and then he-"

"Then, he died for them..." Aster's voice trembled, his fingers slowly inched towards yours, wrapping them together. "He had the Sunwalker's ring, and he gave up everything for them."

"They loved each other, Aster, I... And with the visions I saw, they treasured one another. I mean, he looked at them as if they had put the stars in the sky." You couldn't help but smile, slowly moving towards the graves. Settling beside the site, your fingers cradle the soft soil. Aster followed you, sitting beside where Astarion once stood.. The rings glistened in the soft sunlight. Aster sighed, his fingers gently tugging the Sunwalker's ring from the soil.

"Would... Would it be right for us to even take this?" He mumbled, studying the jewelry. The red gem glittered whilst the gold band shimmered with the incantation bestowed upon it. His skin shined from the small glow, you glanced towards him, a small smile on your lips. Aster looked at peace... Soft in the gentle sunlight. He himself looked gentle.

"Do you want it..? Or do we really need it?" Your voice was careful, glancing towards him as Aster sighed, rolling the ring between his slender fingers, before flicking it off of his thumb and catching it onto his other hand. He inhaled deeply, grabbing the ring again and pushing it into the earth, joining the other ring they had watched Astarion bury before them.

"We don't need it... And maybe, if we stay here," Aster's voice murmured, his eyes catching yours as you stared at one another. Breathing in the clear air, watching as Aster stood, holding out his hand to you. Curling your hands into his palm, you carefully stood, glancing to the burials below you. With a small smile, you reached down and plucked the wedding ring from Astarion's grave, holding it out to Aster.

"We could stay here... To protect the ring of course." You grinned as he smirked, nodding before reaching out, grasping the ring and carefully slipping it onto his ring finger. "Of course, we'll need to... Renovate the house though." He murmured, reaching up and tucking hair behind your pointed ear, grinning as he cupped your jaw.

"In a way... We're living lies, y'know?" You whisper, pressing your lips to his as he sighed, deepening the kiss easily. Your hands embedded themselves into his dark curls whilst his own hands rested against your hips, his thumbs rubbing against the showing skin. Your skin hummed as you replayed Astarion's movements from before.

"Maybe, but... I think we're living as their lies. We'll be living our truth." He whispered against your skin, pressing another sharp kiss to your jawline, his teeth nipping at your pulse. You meowled at the sensation, tilting your head back allowing his teeth to nip and his tongue to push against your pulse.

Aster and you chose to live through Astarion and Tav's lives. Using their last home, and memories to relive and help those who still needed it. You might've been living lies, but you were going to keep their buried promise.

[wellthebardsdead]

Lucy: *blinks awake and groans at first thinking the emperors summoned her back to the Astral, only to hear laughter so warm it feels like the morning sunlight* huh?… *sits up and blearily opens her eyes to see a realm of clouds and sunlight, Solars all curiously gathered around her, whispering to each other softly before backing off as a young man offers his hand* Lathander??

Lathander: *smiles and nods* hello, Lucy.

Lucy: *cautiously takes his hand and screams in fright as he lifts her up suddenly holding her like a baby to the sky* What-

Lathander: *laughs* yes, you’ll do nicely! *sets her back down and summons forth a pair of glittering wings belonging to a fallen solar* Zariel fell to the corruption of the hells… but there is still good within your heart. Asmodeus only has so much influence over you-

Lucy: *jumps watching as the wings disappear and absorb into her* wh-what the-?!

Lathander: Continue forth on your path. You have avenged my fallen worshippers, and I am aware you intend to save the daughter of the moon maiden. My power is at your command. Let it feed into you and turn your back on the fiend who first corrupted your form. Go now, wake.

Lucy: Wait a minute hold on just a moment- *shoots upright as she gasps for air, finding herself back in her tent*

Zhalk: *standing guard* my lady?… *peers into her tent seeing her sitting up and lifting her hair out of her face*

Lucy: …I’d really just like one night of uninterrupted rest.