#the same powers and hungers and ambitions

[secretly-a-catamount]

So I’m not really in the MLP fandom, but I love the idea that Celestia chose Sunset and Twilight to be her apprentices specifically because they both reminded her of Luna.

“Why us?”

“Why not us, Luna? We’re gods.”

“We’re not gods, Celestia.”

“Aren’t we?”

————————————————————————

“Why me?”

“Because you’re powerful.”

————————————————————————

“Why me? Out of everyone you could have picked to teach you picked me. Why?”

“Because you’re like someone I once loved very much.”

“What . . . happened to them?”

“Nothing that needed to.”

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 8th. tom — somno / free use kink.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom riddle is a god at many things. you’ve never felt more alive than when you’ve reduced him to something lesser.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, free use, sleeping kink, a lot of reverence for more biblical tom riddle that i genuinely need to choke me unconscious, PIV, fingering, multiorgasm, overstim, slight bondage, dubcon but not really i mean this fic speaks for itself. tom is kinda soft here???? what happened to me??

Tom Riddle, you'd determined, was obsessive before he was anything else. You saw it long before you knew him—intimately, at least—his compulsions, the meticulous way in which he carved out his time, handpicking what fit his ambitions best before pouring himself into them until he was empty.

Tom never moved with half-measures, a man that brilliant does nothing halfhearted.

You didn't expect to become his fixation—didn't know what it meant to be seen by someone who never stopped searching—never stopped dissecting—until the moment when his eyes lingered just a second too long and his hands followed suit—the moment he taught you the meaning in the only way he knew how.

Benevolently.

Tom Riddles need is tempered but there's always something burning underneath, something that flickers to life when his breath catches against your neck—when his fingers trace delicate lines along your skin—something that feels a lot like a thank you. The magical world gave him power—dominion—but in you, he found control. The kind you give freely, without even knowing it, the kind that he takes with the same reverence in his hands he applies to everything he touches.

There’s always been a mutal give and take between you—one formed without words and you solemnize this unspoken vow because he leaves you no other choice.

And it's not by force, not by demand, but by the sheer intensity of his regard, that sacred hunger in the way he looks at you, like you were made for this. For him. To be unmade, piece by piece, worshipped in the ruins of what you once were and stitched back together by his grace alone. When he kneels at your feet after a day that's worn him thin, his eyes sharp with exhaustion— when he spreads you open as though you're a book of scripture, when his hands steady you and his mouth finds its way between your thighs—there's nothing left for you to do but hold onto him. Your fingers in his hair, letting him take—letting him consume you in ways only he can.

He is both salvation and sin. Saviour and ruin. You're not sure how it's possible but he ensures you believe it.

And it started with secret moments—stolen glances, brushes of fingers, impromptu study sessions. But it grew into something more, and then something more still, until one day he's slipping into your flat as though it's his own, finding you before you even realize he's there.

You'll be cooking dinner and without a word, he'll flick off the stove with a twitch of his fingers—a breath of magic—his appetite insatiable but not for any caloric substance. You pretend, for his sake, to be surprised by his power, the way he moves without moving, but he knows better now—knows that nothing he does surprises you anymore, not after the way he loosens the strings of your corset with just a blink, how his teeth scrape your ear in a smile as he works a spell between your thighs. Not after he waits until you're thoroughly ruined by his magic—malleable just the way he likes you before he's merciful, allowing you the honour of his touch—allowing himself the honour of breaking you further.

There's no shock left in it because you've already accepted that whatever you think he's capable of—there's more.

There will always be more with Tom—a knowledge that is a sweet, endless ache. He is reasoning made lucid. You could never define all that he is capable of.

And foolishly you thought after all these years you'd have come to understand him, but Tom Riddle is not easily deciphered—he's a mystery even to himself, a disposition of contradictions. He doesn't need to be understood; he only needs to feel as if he is, to which you do your best. But when you're finally asleep after a long day and feel the bed dipping behind you in the quiet hours—a large, rough hand grazing timidly up your thigh, comprehension of Tom Riddle becomes even more of a distant accomplishment.

There is no logic in him when it comes to you, just instinct. No explanations, just need.

Tom has always had his compulsions, but you are his favourite fixation, and so you give. There's hunger, and there's devotion. There's desire, and then there's worship. You let him choose which ones he wants from you.

On this night you stir, half-conscious yet not quite aware of what's happening as his fingers move slowly, finding the heat between your legs and spreading you gently. There's never any urgency in his movements, though the fervour is palpable—a kind of feverish desperation thrumming beneath the surface, a pulse you can feel in his flesh, in the way his breath catches as if this is the only way he knows how to breathe.

Perhaps the only certainty about Tom is that you know he wouldn't be here if it weren't a necessity.

And he does this often, though sometimes it's more—the plush of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue—but this time, he chooses to wake you to the steady push of his fingers inside you, two of them stretching you, deliberate in their rhythm, curling deep, coaxing you open. It's his mercy, his crafted version of tenderness—you know he could easily just cast a lubing charm and press right in—but he doesn’t. He paces, he savours.

It’s a patience he continually allows himself which you know he doesn't have to give.

And some nights, when you wake to his touch—he whispers for you to sleep, to let him have you quietly, other times he'll make it clear that's the last thing he wants.

Tonight—

You shift against him, instinct guiding your body, but he hushes you, gentle, soft—a tut of warning, a shushing breath against your ear. You don't know how long he's been inside you, how long his need has burned quietly beside you, but by the time you realize, it's the wet sounds, obscene, that draw you from the haze of sleep, drowning out the sharpness of his breath. You're half-gone, face pressed into the pillow, drooling— and your lips part on a moan that never fully forms.

When your hand reaches instinctively for his wrist, his growl curls low in your ear—

"Sleep," if the command was a weapon it'd be a feather—he casts a binding spell on your wrists, drawing them above your head. "I've got you."

You swallow another moan, throat dry, choking on air as you fight to rip free from whatever remnants of slumber you're clinging to. His fingers are slow, pumping in and out of you, dragging you deeper into his need—and you're shaking in a way that is as involuntary as it is habitual. You know from experience just how much he loves this— the way he reduces you to fragments, the way he breaks you apart until there's nothing left but the shattered pieces of your pleasure—the mess he can make of you in minutes, even absentmindedly.

He slips an arm under your head, pulling you closer, impossibly close. The room is dark, and though you can't see him, you imagine his face—the hunger in his eyes as his skin sticks to yours, the hard evidence of his need against your ass.

"T-Tom—" your voice stumbles, a choked whisper of his name. His hand curls over your mouth, silencing you.

"Quiet," he mutters. "It's just a dream."

His breath ghosts over your neck, and your back arches in response. Wherever he was earlier, he came back starving, and this is part of it—sometimes he wants you silent, sometimes he wants you loud. Tonight, he wants you like this.

"Stay still," he murmurs again, and you shudder, your climax pulled from the edges of sleep by the slow drag of his fingers inside you. "Just a dream..."

A dream, he says—somewhere inside you, buried under a fog of grog you know it isn't, and he knows you know, he's not trying to trick you but it's all part of the game—coaxing—the way he devours you a little more each time, not just physically but mentally too.

With your lips muffled by his hand and his fingers buried deep, you do what you always do—you let him.

"T-Tom—" you whimper through the cracks in his digits. Your body is soft, boneless, melting into his touch, aching for more. "Please—"

As much as he wants you quiet he wants his name broken in your mouth all the same. He rewards you with a bitten-off moan, a crack in his control, a slight hitch in his breath—you clench around his fingers and his palm tightens over your mouth just a little too hard before he realizes and eases up.

You did say Tom's need was tempered—but sometimes, there are exceptions.

"I said quiet." His hips rut against your ass, fingers slow dragging at your walls, scissoring in your slick. "Let me give you this."

You push back into him, desperate, needy. "But—"

"Take it." His fingers on your mouth slide past your lips and over your tongue, reaching toward the back of your throat. Tears spring to your eyes as you gag, the sound smothered by the moan you make as a spell, swirling and tightening, pulses against your clit. "With the way I'm going to fuck you, you need this...you'll thank me later for it..."

Tom doesn't waste words. His tone may be soft but it's also sharp, which tells you everything you need to know—that he's had a wretched day and you're the only thing that can make it better. That he's going to fuck out his frustrations on you.

You moan around his fingers at the thought.

"You'll want to be nice and stretched for me, won't you?" A statement, not a question. "You don't want it to hurt. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Though he'll deny it, he's not as emotionless or as lacking in empathy as he'd like to believe. It's one of the many things you've come to know about him—or should you say, one of the many things you've struggled to understand about him—but the way he says it, like he's reminding himself not to be cruel—it's all very Tom Riddle.

"I don't want to hurt you.." he repeats in a murmur, as if he's trying to convince himself. You can't speak, though you're not sure you could find the words even if you could; the only indication you give him that you understand—that you hear him—is the quiet whimper that slips past his fingers. "Just need you."

The spell on your clit is as overwhelming as the drag of his fingers against your walls and it's only moments until you're cumming hard around him and he's groaning hard in return—you know his eyes are closed and you know he's inhaling every single sound you make as though he could house them in his lungs. The darkness clings to you like a second skin but Tom clings to you worse—not relenting even as you're twitching and whimpering with aftershocks.

"There we go." You're squirming and Tom fucking loves it. "Good girl."

Overstimulation is charging in—you have no where to run from it. You bite down on his digits in your mouth and he punishes you by intensifying the spell on your clit. "T-Tom—Tom—"

All he offers is a shush. His fingers curl deep.

"I need...I need you...need this.." he's mumbling, mantra-like, almost like a prayer and perhaps that's the closest he's come to one. You can count on one hand the amount of times you've heard him say it but you know there's no one else he'd be saying it to—no one else he'd want to. "You know, I thought of this all day...having you, like this..."

You sob around his fingers in your mouth as he rips another climax from you—you think you're seeing stars and you know if you are, they were hung there by him.

"Couldn't focus.." his teeth find your jaw, just under your ear, biting just a little harder than he usually does. "No matter what I did, I just kept thinking of this...of you...of you like this for me.."

Tom Riddle is a greedy man—in all ways—but he's not only greedy in the way he takes from you, he's greedy in the way he gives to you too, and though he would never admit it—he'd rather die first—this moment feels as close to worship as he'll ever come.

As you said, there's reverence in everything he fucking touches—you know you're lucky you get to experience it.

"You have this effect." He swallows hard, you feel it against your shoulder. "You have this effect on me...I—I can't stop wanting you-“

—and he's just a man, after all. No matter how well versed in dark spells and manipulation, no matter how cold and calculating he's able to be, beneath it all he's so very mortal. He tells you he was never made for love but when he buries his face in your neck and talks this talk it sure feels like maybe he was.

And all it does is make you want him that much more—knowing that you do this to him—you make him weak. You make him want and need and yearn.

"I don't even know what you've done to me," his voice is destroyed—his thoughts cut off by the evidence of your desperation for him, the lewd sounds coming from your pussy as you suck on the fingers in your mouth. "Fuck, you're so wet."

You groan, helpless and needy as a whore. Tom digs his teeth into your shoulder. It's all too much. There are many ways to come apart and this is Tom's only true undoing—in the aftermath of the destruction he causes, and you are—his collateral.

"Fuck—oh, fuck—" you're garbling, the words don't sound like words. "T-Tom—"

You're not sure how long you've been awake or how many times you've cum—how much oxygen you've inhaled since this all started but the one certainty is that you know Tom has very little patience left—if any.

"Fuck." He shifts, grinding against you. "Can you take me? Can you take me right now?"

All you can do is nod—your eagerness evident in the pace of it—drool dribbling down your chin and instantly the spell fades from your clit, his fingers pull out of your cunt and he's lifting your thigh up toward your head, fingers still hooked in your mouth. There's a moment of movement—trousers and boxers pulled down and then he's there—thick and heavy and warm between your thighs. You tense.

You'll never get used to the size of him. His ego made flesh. Though perhaps the greatest pleasure is in knowing he'll never get used to you, either.

"Gonna—gonna fuck you." He mutters against your neck as he glides along your slit—you're soaked, slick coating your thighs and the sheets and him but it never matters much because it always stings when he takes you. Especially like this. "It won't be soft."

You moan and he finally pulls his fingers free from your mouth, dragging them down to your throat, nails against your skin that feel more like claws because for all the human Tom Riddle is he's just as much animal.

He's never known soft—only with you—but you wouldn't have him if not for all his jagged lines and sharp edges. You let him take.

"Please, Tom-" words fail you, they always do when he's like this. "Please, gods—fuck me-"

Tom growls and it vibrates up your spine. You rarely curse when you can help it—so when you do, when you can't do anything to stop the pathetic vulgarities—he likes it too goddamn much and you know he's going to give you what you want because you give him what he needs.

A mutual give and take, as all the best things are.

"No god could compare to me." He doesn't say it with arrogance, just with certainty, like a letter he's written a thousand times. Then, he's flipping you onto your stomach, wrists still bound above your head as he lines up and presses inside you—all at once, deep and full and breathtaking. "Oh, yes—"

You cry out but it's muffled by the pillow, your cunt trying hard to adjust to the stretch—Tom is never cruel, but he is brutal, and perhaps the two get confused. There is a difference, though you know he would prefer to remain ambivalent on his own harshness, it’s the only way he's managed to survive this long—but here, with you, he thinks he can allow for a bit of mercy.

And he gives it, in his own way, only because you gave it first. It's as close as he'll come to offering himself without asking anything in return. To you, it's still a pretty close second.

"I'm going to make you feel this," he murmurs, lips against your shoulder, teeth against skin and if you had any tears left, this would be when they fell. "You'll think of this all day tomorrow. You'll think of me all day tomorrow."

He pauses inside you—he's taking it slow and the implications of that fact are far out of reach right now.

"I'll think of you anyway, Tom," you grit through your teeth, voice cracking on his name as he pulls out—only halfway—ensuring you feel that emptiness before he presses back in. "I'm—ohh—a-always thinking of you."

He makes a sound, a broken sort of sound, the same one you've heard him make only a handful of times—a raw, vulnerable, almost pathetic sound and all it does is make you want him that much more. He's still moving too slow, too methodically, drawing pleasure out from deep under your skin.

You clench around him because you know he doesn't want you to—he warns you against it with a cervix-piercing thrust.

"You're always thinking of me." His hand snakes around your throat, his lips to your ear—"and are you proud of that?"

You know that's a loaded question, the answer to which he doesn't truly care to know. But it's one you'll answer truthfully, regardless—because you know it'll affect him either way.

You nod, just once—and the grip on your neck tightens, cutting off an almost sob. His hips piston faster now, as though you've chipped off another piece of his control.

"Proud enough, then," he growls, his pace unforgiving, and that's enough to tear another broken sound from you—from the both of you. His fingers twist painfully around your throat, digging into your skin like a man possessed, and you know that means he's done holding back. His mouth is next to your ear, you can feel his smirk. "M'sorry—I'm—sorry—"

He says he's sorry but you know he's not. Not with the way he's groaning into your ear, not with the way he's driving his cock fast and deep. He is a manmade monster and a self-made god trapped inside a mortal man who needs so much to feel human. He knows to be nothing but intense. It's a wonder how the three can exist in him all at once.

"T-tom-" your voice fractures around his name, the only word you know now. "F-fuck—s'deep—ohh-"

His teeth sink into your neck as he cranks your head back with a pull of your hair, bared teeth on preyish flesh and you hardly have time to worry how deep he might devour because you feel his magic on your clit and you see those stars again—distant yet creeping closer, drawn down to your orbit by his power alone.

"M'sorry—" he mutters again, as though he was saying it to your cervix. "Fuck—"

You scream out again as the spell on your clit swirls faster—the sensation unfathomable each and every time—he's fucking you so hard you're burning underneath him and though the pleasure is as white hot as the flames that now cover every inch of you, you don't fear burning as much as you fear it's passing.

He's a fire in your veins, in your blood, and if he stops now you'll die of the cold.

"So good for me," he says, as soft as he can muster for being so lustdrunk— "so—perfect. You're perfect."

Perfect. You whinge and squeeze your eyes shut—choking on your breath. The words are more painful than his thrusts because time and time again you’ve failed to decipher their meaning—you know he doesn't believe in perfection, the concept too weak and foolish for his sake—but he's said it before, always in times like this—you are perfect.

You're perfect under his hands. You're perfect when you shatter apart for him, in the darkness, under the light of those stars he dragged down for you. 

"Ohh—fuck—Tom—" another climax wracks you, splitting you at the seams. "I'm—I'm—"

It feels like an earthquake and you're the epicenter, all the power and destruction Tom thrusts into you radiating from within you outward. His hand moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face back so he can kiss you, messily, open-mouthed and with teeth. But it's still a kiss. Something he rarely does.

"Yeah, yeah. Good—" he grunts into your mouth. "Mmfff—fuck—tight—“

A second later, he's cumming, a broken string of profanity tumbling from his chest into your mouth, release spilling deep inside you, warm and thick and he holds you tighter for it as you whimper and throb around him. Tom has always had his reservations. Always had his long list of fixations—and like you said, he pours himself empty into the ones he's chosen. It's in moments like these where you feel it more than ever—as his hips slow and his cock stops twitching inside you—the way that he's made you part of that list.

And when he's done moving through you—when he's done taking what he needs—he pulls away, yet he's still there. Freeing your wrists and rubbing them gently, curling you against him as you both descend.

"Thank you." He murmurs, face in your hair.

You tell him he doesn't need to thank you but you know it makes no difference. After all, he's still a man. A man with something to prove, even under a sky full of stars he dragged down for you.

Tom is a god at many things. You've never felt more alive than when you've reduced him to something lesser.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part one)

warnings ; none!

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; WELL WELL WELL my angels. we are back with ANOTHER series <3 i am not kidding, this story has had me tossing and turning and screaming and crying. they are such a nuanced duo(even more so than utcf) and if you know me, you know i only write characters that are flawed af and boy… do these two have flaws. also so excited bc my dream is to be a CMO so all that marketing jargon is literally ripped from my real life. this is def a slower burn more than utcf even was, so part one is just getting to know reader, a glimpse into jk and hers future dynamic. it will be giving cocky idol and grumpy girl boss reader… yall hate to see it.. anywho all your love and support is so appreciated and im SO excited to kick this one off <3

playlist here

series masterlist here

You learned at an early age that the world doesn’t hand power to people like you. You have to take it.

Born in Busan, raised in a home where every won had to stretch, you grew up with a hunger that never faded. Your parents worked tirelessly; it was long hours in dimly lit shops, silent tears in the living room over bills, doing everything they could to put food on the table. They wanted stability for you, a quiet life where everything was paid on time and there was no need to chase the impossible.

But you weren’t built for small dreams.

At 17, you won a coveted scholarship to a university in Seoul, a golden ticket out of the cycle that kept your family trapped. There, you became relentless. Top of your class, the kind of student professors whispered about, the one who never failed, never wavered. But no amount of late-night studying or overachieving could buy you the connections that children of chaebol heirs and international elites were born into.

So, you had to outwork them. By the time you graduated, you had one goal: to carve your name into an industry that had no place for you. You moved to America, leaving behind familiarity, comfort, and even your family, knowing that to rise, you had to go where power lived.

New York City became your battlefield.

You started at the bottom, fetching coffees, ghostwriting proposals, working eighteen-hour days just to prove you deserved to be in the same rooms as people who had never known struggle. You didn’t just climb the corporate ladder; you burned every rung behind you so there was no way back down.

It took a decade, but now the plaque hangs on the wall. The name plate rings true of all your dreams. You are the Chief Marketing Officer of Calvin Klein.

At 30, you sit at the helm of one of the most influential luxury brands in the world, the architect of campaigns that have redefined fashion and culture. Your name carries weight in boardrooms, your decisions shift global trends, and every executive in the industry knows you are untouchable.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

In a world like this, power is never permanent. The moment you hesitate, falter, let someone too close, they will take everything.

All that to say — Monday mornings in New York almost always smell like steel and ambition.

The skyline stretches endlessly beyond the glass walls of your office, the pulse of the city thrumming beneath you, yellow cabs blurring past, heels clicking against concrete, the quiet hum of wealth without ever making a sound. You barely had time to sleep after landing from Los Angeles last night, but exhaustion has never been an excuse.

You straighten your blazer, heels clicking against the marble floors as you stride into the Calvin Klein executive boardroom. The space is drenched in morning light, the Hudson River glinting in the distance, but there’s no warmth. Sharp minds and even sharper tongues, all waiting for you to take your seat at the head of the table.

“Let’s get started.” Your voice is crisp, cutting through the murmurs as the team scrambles to attention. Coffee cups are set down, postures shift. The room belongs to you now, like it always does.

This is your campaign, your bread and butter — the Fall Collection, one of the biggest of the year. And today, the decision needs to be made. Who will be the face of it? You’ve put it off as long as possible, especially after the last campaign that had you sleeping, eating and breathing the word ROI.

A junior executive clears his throat, flipping through a stack of polished portfolios. “We’ve compiled a list of potential candidates. Some of the usual names, established actors, a few models with strong followings…”

You take the folder from him, skimming past faces that blur into one another, all predictable choices, safe bets. Safe has never impressed you.

“We’re not looking for predictable,” you say, voice even. “We need someone who will shift the culture. Someone who doesn’t just wear the clothes, but makes people desperate to buy them.”

Silence. Then, the suggestions roll in. A high-profile supermodel. A rising actor from a Netflix hit. Some European footballer with global appeal.

You listen, nodding as they speak, but your silence is judgment. Each name is good but not enough. Polished and uninspired, in your opinion.

You shoot them down effortlessly. “No. We’ve used her before.

No. He doesn’t have the presence.

No. I don’t need another pretty face.”

The tension in the room grows. The team knows you expect brilliance, not silly little recycled ideas.

Then, your VP of Content leans forward, fingers steepled. “I have a name,” He says, measured, waiting for your reaction.

You lift a brow. “Then say it.”

“Jeon Jungkook.”

For the first time, there’s a halt of all noise. Light murmurs. Someone exhales sharply. You hear a scoff from the far end of the table.

“A Korean idol?” One of the senior execs frowns. “That’s a different market entirely.”

“Not just any idol,” your VP counters. “The biggest. Pretty much the frontman of BTS. His brand power is—”

“Unmatched,” You finish for him.

Because it is. Jeon Jungkook isn’t just a name, he’s a phenomenon. A face that sells out stadiums in minutes, a body carved in discipline, a force that transcends the music industry entirely.

Still, the pushback is immediate “Well, he’s never fronted a campaign of this scale.

Idol endorsements don’t always translate to luxury.

Do we want to take that kind of risk?”

Risk.

The word hangs in the air heavily. It should deter you. It should make you pause. But instead, you find yourself a tad intrigued.

What is Calvin Klein, if not bold? If not disruptive? The brand has always thrived on rebellion, on choosing icons that define eras rather than follow them.

Jeon Jungkook is undeniably that. Perhaps, so are you.

You let the murmurs settle before speaking. “What’s our engagement rate from the last campaign?” You ask, looking towards the analytics team.

“Thirty percent growth,” They answer immediately.

“And what’s BTS’s engagement on a single brand mention?”

A pause. A begrudging voice follows, “Higher.”

Exactly.

You glance around the room, seeing the uncertainty and hesitation. You’re about to give a speech greater than LeBron at the NBA Finals. You lean back in your chair, tapping a manicured nail against the armrest, already picturing it, the campaign, the impact, the sheer cultural shift this could create.

“I like it.”

Silence.

A ripple of realization moves through the room, as if with just three words, the decision has already been made.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Securing a global superstar isn’t an easy task, not even for you. The next few days are a relentless blur of negotiations, contract rewrites, and back-to-back Zoom calls with a team so notoriously meticulous it nearly drives your own to the brink of madness.

The stakes are high. Deals like this don’t just happen. They are built, fought for, and secured with precision. And Calvin Klein doesn’t like to lose.

Your office pretty much transforms into a war room. Tables littered with printed pitch decks. Screens glowing with data analytics, engagement metrics, and market predictions. Your executives pouring over legal clauses, revising them so every word is airtight.

In the center of it all, you stand. Any normal human would be threatened but at this point, you’ve gone full robot. You take every call personally. A negotiation of this scale is your battlefield, and you don’t delegate wars.

Jungkook, obviously, is never on the calls. It doesn’t surprise you. Artists at his level rarely handle the business side of things. That’s what agents, lawyers, and managers are for. His team is professional, unshaken even when you push hard.

Still, you know who he is.

Of course you do. You may have spent the last decade buried in boardrooms, but you were born in Busan. You grew up watching the Hallyu wave explode, and though you never had the time for it, your little sister devoured everything BTS.

You remember the way she would beg for concert tickets, how she’d fall asleep with headphones on, listening to their debut on loop. You used to tease her for it— why the fuck are you crying over an idol?

Funny, looking back at it now. Considering that idol’s contract is currently giving you a migraine.

His team is smart. They have demands, and they don’t bend easily. They want creative control over his campaign image. They want scheduling flexibility due to his commitments. They want Calvin Klein to align with Jungkook’s existing partnerships… list goes on.

All reasonable, but not easy. You fight for compromises, push for adjustments, rewrite proposals until every angle is optimized for success. At the end of the day, you know one thing: This deal is worth it.

And then, one morning, before you’ve even had a sip of your morning coffee, it happens. At exactly 7:14 AM, an email lands in your inbox.

SUBJECT: FINAL APPROVAL – JEON JUNGKOOK x CALVIN KLEIN

We are pleased to confirm Jeon Jungkook’s official partnership with Calvin Klein for the upcoming Fall Collection campaign. Thank you for your patience and professionalism throughout the negotiation process. We look forward to working together!

Your eyes flicker over the words. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times before you think you might pass out.

Slowly, a smile curves on your lips. You step out of your office, and before you can say anything, someone sees your expression and knows.

“We got him.”

The room erupts. Your team, overworked and barely running on caffeine, comes alive. Cheers echo through the space, hands slap against the table in triumph, tension melting into borderline euphoria.

They know what this means. This isn’t just a campaign. This is the kind of collaboration that will hopefully bring the brand back to the forefront of everyone’s minds and not in some TJMaxx aisle.

You let them celebrate. You don’t smile often, but today… today, you do.

Just when you think the victory high has settled, a package arrives later in the day for you. It’s a black envelope, embossed with gold lettering. No company branding. No assistant delivery. Just your name.

You open it carefully. Inside is a thick, cream-colored card with an unmistakable touch of handwritten ink.

Thank you for having me.
I’m looking forward to it.
—JJK

You stare at the writing for a beat too long. It’s clean, elegant, but slightly tilted, like the hand behind it didn’t care about perfection. The inked letters feel unexpectedly personal, almost at odds with the meticulous contracts you spent days battling over.

A small, teeny weeny little part of you does wonder… What kind of man is Jeon Jungkook when he’s not just a name on a contract?

You shake the thought away real quick. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the deal is done.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Power has a way of softening the sharp edges of travel.

As Chief Marketing Officer, you rarely have to think about logistics. The world bends to accommodate you with first-class flights, black car service, five-star hotels with skyline views. When business demands your presence in another country, the details are handled before you even lift a finger.

This time is no different.

The moment Calvin Klein secured Jeon Jungkook, it became your responsibility to oversee the partnership firsthand. Deals of this magnitude require your attention, and no one executes anything better than you. So you fly to Korea, fly home. First class as always, because nothing less is expected.

The moment the plane lifts into the sky, you immerse yourself in Jeon Jungkook.

Not the man— you don’t know the man. His brand. The name that moves markets, the face that has sold out entire fashion lines with a single post, the lives that have cleaned out ramen packets in seconds.

Your screen is a kaleidoscope of him, any campaigns, endorsements, past collaborations. Streetwear in one ad, high fashion in another. His presence shifts effortlessly from youthful rebellion to refined masculinity. He is everything Calvin Klein thrives on, raw and provocative.

He’s perfect for this.

You land in Incheon to a city humming beneath dark light. Seoul is quieter than New York, but no less alive with neon signs flicker against sleek glass buildings, the scent of rain and street food hugging the air.

A black car waits for you at the terminal, an assistant from Calvin Klein’s Seoul office greeting you with a polite bow. The ride into the city is smooth, the world shifting past in a blur of muted grays and bright LED screens. Your body is exhausted, but your mind stays sharp.

Tomorrow is the first meeting. You should be thinking about logistics. Contractual points that still need finalizing. The creative vision. The structure of the campaign. But as your car glides past Itaewon’s winding streets, past districts that are both familiar and foreign, you think of something else. You haven’t called home in a while.

You keep telling yourself you’ve been busy with deadlines, meetings, strategy decks stacked higher than your appetite for guilt, but deep down, you know the truth.

You haven’t called because you don’t know how to explain it. How success swallowed you whole, how you traded in your accent for sharper vowels, your mother’s cooking for room service, the comfort of home for the cold glass walls of boardrooms.

What would you even say?

Hi, I made it. I’m tired. I miss you. I don’t know who I am anymore.

It still is the least of your concerns when you arrive to your destination.

Your hotel is one of Seoul’s finest, very discreet, a haven of understated luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, and the quiet hum of a jazz playlist fills the suite when you enter.

You shrug off your coat, kicking off your heels, stretching out the tension of the flight. Your mind wanders a little as you pour your nightly glass of wine out; you will meet Jeon Jungkook tomorrow. It’s an odd feeling, seeing as you’ve met more celebrities in your life than you can count. You’d be a horrible liar , though, if you said you weren’t the least bit curious.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You wake before your alarm, the hush of Seoul stretching beyond the glass windows of your suite. The city moves gently at this hour before the rush, before the weight of the day settles onto its spine. For a moment, you allow yourself to breathe.

Discipline has always been your armor. You move through the motions with practiced ease, a cold rinse to shake off the last remnants of jet lag, a serum smoothed over skin (Laneige is the only right answer), a swipe of rouge on lips.

And today, more than ever, you need to be impeccable.

Your suit is white, tailored, almost impossible to ignore. It is a statement and a reminder that you are the architect of success.

However, when you step into the elevator, riding down to meet your driver, a flicker of something you haven’t felt in eons settles in your chest.

Nerves.

Not because you haven’t done this before. You have. You’ve met Hollywood A-listers, supermodels draped in couture, billionaires who own entire industries. You’ve handled them all.

It’s just… he does oddly remind you of home in some silly way.

You exit the hotel with the cool breeze of the morning air wrapping around you, the weight of the city’s movement already filling the space between you and the office. The car ride is smooth, twin reflections of New York’s controlled chaos and the quieter energy of Seoul. You barely notice the time passing as you mentally run through the agenda for the day, but there’s something about the looming meeting that sits heavier on your mind than it should.

The Calvin Klein Seoul office is small, nothing like the flagship headquarters in New York. The building is sleek but understated, a space that exists more for logistics than spectacle.

The moment you walk through the glass doors, the energy is so off. Your VP of International Marketing, a sharp-eyed executive named Daniel, greets you immediately. He is already speaking before you’ve fully crossed the threshold or even taken a breath of the office air.

“Everything’s set,” he says, handing you a sleek black folder. “Jungkook’s team will be here in twenty.”

You take the folder, skimming over the notes. “Any last-minute adjustments?”

“A few,” Daniel admits. “His schedule is tighter than expected, so we may need to shift some of the shoot days. And… his team wants final approval on every creative decision.”

You glance up at him, arching a brow. “They don’t trust us?”

“They trust us,” Daniel says, lips twitching. “They just trust him more.”

Fair. You figured they would play dirty at some point.

You nod, flipping the folder shut. “We’ll make it work.”

Daniel studies you for a beat, then smirks. “You nervous?”

You don’t hesitate. “No.”

You’re not. Not exactly. But as you settle into the conference room, as the clock ticks down to his arrival, you can’t shake the deadweight sitting on your chest. There’s not really a reason to be nervous, but suddenly, the fact that you sit at the head of the desk taunts you. It feels too official,, like every choice you’ve ever made has led to this exact chair, under these lights, and now everyone’s watching.

Daniel chuckles, stepping in behind you. “No need to act cool about it. I mean, dude is literally the most famous guy out there right now.”

You glance up at him. “Right,” you reply, settling into a chair at the table. “Do I give off fangirl vibes?”

“Fair play,” Daniel admits with a smirk. “It is also just business. He’s a client like any other.”

You raise an eyebrow, his words hanging in the air. “Sure,” you say, but something about the way you says it doesn’t quite feel right.

Daniel leans against the conference table, watching you with an expression that borders on amusement “So,” he muses, “are you ready to meet him, or are we keeping up this whole pretend you don’t care act the entire time?”

You shoot him a flat look, arms crossed. “I don’t pretend.”

He smirks. “Right. You just happen to be checking your watch every five seconds like we’re waiting for the President of South Korea.”

You exhale sharply, smoothing out an invisible crease in your sleeve. “You know I don’t care about the celebrity. I care about if my boss is happy.”

Daniel hums, unconvinced. “Riiiiight.” He tilts his head, watching you for another beat before flipping open a portfolio. “Alright, boss, walk me through it one more time. We’re running with the—“

Before he can finish, a soft knock at the door interrupts. The secretary peeks her head in, voice all smooth and professional. “He’s here.”

The words settle over the room. Daniel straightens up, giving you one last knowing glance before both of you move toward the head of the conference table. Your posture is perfect, composed, the picture of an executive who has done this a hundred times. Yet, for some reason, your palms are a little sweaty.

The door opens. A quiet hum of conversation drifts in first, footsteps soft against polished floors. And then, he steps through.

The first thing you notice is that he is not what you expected. Or maybe, he is exactly what you expected. Tall, poised, effortlessly self-assured. He moves like someone accustomed to attention, yet unaffected by it, a presence that doesn’t need to demand the room because it already bends to him.

He is dressed in black from head to toe. Black jeans, a crisp button-up slightly unfastened at the top, revealing the barest hint of a toned chest beneath the collar. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing a canvas of tattoos that swirl down one of his arms. Dark hair falls just over his brows, parted slightly. His skin is flawless, his lips full and plush, but it’s his round eyes that capture you first.

He has piercings, small silver hoops glinting in his ears, the metal just barely catching the light. And then, as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, you notice it, the piercing there, too.

You inhale, the moment stretching far too long.

Jungkook’s team follows behind him, a carefully curated group of managers, assistants, and legal representatives. They all exude efficiency, dressed in business casual

Jungkook is not corporate. He is the complete fucking polar opposite of it. And yet, as he steps forward, his expression shifts, a polite smile.

He greets everyone kindly, taking the time to nod toward the executives flanking the room, shaking hands, offering soft pleasantries.

You are still staring. For the first time in your career, you cannot decide if the man standing before you is a masterpiece to be marketed or a storm brewing.

You need to get a grip on reality.

Jungkook’s gaze is assessing, but you don’t let it linger. Years of discipline have trained you to absorb impact, analyze it, and move forward. So you shift your attention to the team standing behind him, your posture sharpening as you step forward.

“Good morning,” you say smoothly, extending a hand to the first of his representatives. “I appreciate you all taking the time to meet today.”

His manager steps forward first, shaking your hand firmly. “Of course. We’ve been looking forward to this partnership.”

One by one, you go through the motions, firm grips, polite smiles, nods exchanged. These are the gatekeepers, the ones who make the real decisions behind the scenes. You commit each of their names to memory, cataloging their expressions, their temperaments.

You turn lastly to Jungkook, your expression unreadable. His lips are still curled in a faint smile, but you keep your own face neutral. Instead, you bow, just a crisp nod of acknowledgment.

"Jeon Jungkook-ssi," you say, voice poised. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

When you straighten, you see it, the flicker of amusement crossing his face. He tilts his head, tongue pressing briefly against the inside of his cheek before speaking. “The bow? That’s formal. Are we at a company dinner?”

A few quiet chuckles from his team. You refuse to laugh. Your expression remains steady, composed. “It’s standard when meeting someone for the first time.”

Jungkook watches you for a beat longer, as if testing to see if he can break through that calm exterior. But when you don’t waver, he simply lets out a quiet hmm, not quite disappointed or impressed.

“Now, let’s get started.” You step toward the table, signaling the meeting’s shift into motion. “We have a lot to go over, and I want to make sure we’re aligned on the creative direction before we finalize schedules.”

Jungkook’s team follows, the atmosphere shifting from introductions to strategy.

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” you continue, placing a sleek, black folder on the table, “this campaign is projected to be one of Calvin Klein’s biggest of the year. Our goal isn’t just to market a collection, we want to shape a cultural moment. With Jungkook’s presence, we have the ability to move beyond traditional advertising and into something far more influential.”

You feel Jungkook’s gaze on you, but you don’t acknowledge it. Instead, you focus on his team, keeping your voice measured and confident. “I know negotiations took time, but I want to personally express my excitement for this collaboration. We’re not here to simply slap a face on some storefronts… we’re here to build something iconic.”

Jungkook leans back in his chair, arms resting casually against the armrests. “Iconic, huh?”

You glance at him for a second. “That’s the standard.”

The meeting stretches into deep discussions and strategic analysis, the campaign unfolding across the polished mahogany of the conference table. You lead with precision, breaking down creative direction, discussing visual aesthetics, mapping out timelines with a ruthless efficiency.

Jungkook listens. Not just politely, not just because he has to, but the man actually listens.

You notice it in the way his eyes sharpen when you speak, the occasional flick of his gaze to the proposal documents, the way he leans forward slightly when something actually interests him.

“So, to sum it all up,” you continue, flipping a page, “this campaign will lean into Calvin Klein’s signature branding but with a more modernized edge. We’re emphasizing raw masculinity, effortless sensuality—”

“Effortless?” Jungkook interrupts smoothly in a teasing tone. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

You look up. “You disagree?”

He tilts his head, considering. “I wouldn’t call it effortless.”

His voice is casual, but something in it makes the room halt slightly. You set your pen down. “Then what would you call it?”

Jungkook lets the silence breathe, holding your gaze a second longer than necessary. His team shifts slightly, waiting for his response. He smiles “Intentional.”

You hold his gaze for a moment before nodding. “Fair point.”

His lips twitch, like he wasn’t expecting you to concede so easily. But before the exchange lingers, you move forward. “We’ll finalize creative direction by next week. In the meantime, we’ll align schedules for fittings and shoot dates…”

By the time lunch rolls around, the energy in the room loosens slightly. It’s quite clear everyone is exhausted and would rather be two courses deep into a meal now. Jungkook’s team begins gathering their things, murmuring about reservations at a nearby restaurant. Daniel gives you a glance, knowing better than to invite you along.

You never take breaks.

As the last few executives file out, you remain in your seat, flipping through campaign notes, already highlighting sections for revision. The door closes behind them, leaving you alone in the quiet of the conference room.

You barely have a minute to yourself before a soft knock echoes through the space. You glance up, expecting Daniel, but instead… Jungkook.

He lingers in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other tucked into the pocket of his jeans. His expression is unreadable, but he’s unmistakably casual in the way he stands there, like he has all the time in the world. “Mind if I come in?”

You hesitate. You have no idea why. It’s not that uncommon to be friendly with the campaign faces. You actually really liked working with Kendall Jenner, with her even inviting you to her home in Calabasas.

You study him for a moment, the way he leans against the doorframe, his presence too large for the quiet of the conference room. With bated breath, you gesture toward the chair across from you. “Suit yourself.”

Jungkook steps inside, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoing in the empty space. His gaze flickers over the neatly stacked papers, the highlighted notes, the sleek silver pen in your hand.

“You don’t take breaks?” He questions innocently, lowering himself into the chair.

“I don’t have time for them. And I assume you don’t either, considering you’re here instead of at lunch with your team,” You retort.

Jungkook hums, tilting his head slightly. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d actually crack a smile once everyone left.”

A slow, teasing grin tugs at his lips. “So far, not looking too good.”

You exhale through your nose, unimpressed. “Was there something you needed?”

Jungkook leans back, the crisp fabric of his shirt stretching over his frame. He looks at you, not in the way men usually do, not with arrogance or expectation, but with a calculated curiosity. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

Great. You have an observer on your hands.

You blink once. “I don’t have to like you. Not in my job description, unfortunately. ”

His grin widens, slow and deliberate. “So cold. I think I like it.”

Your jaw tenses, but only slightly. He catches it. Most people flinch under scrutiny, but you don’t. You don’t shift, don’t fumble, don’t drop your gaze. Instead, you meet his stare with the same measured indifference you give to 55-year old men.

“Flirting with me won’t get you special treatment.” Your voice is detached, cool as a cucumber.

Jungkook lets out a quiet laugh, “Who said I was flirting?”

Your lips press into a thin line.

“Don’t worry,” he continues, propping an elbow on the armrest, “I don’t expect special treatment. Just the best. And from what I’ve seen so far…” he nods toward your documents, “…you don’t settle for anything less either.”

You don’t reply, but he’s hit the mark. Jungkook studies you for another beat, his gaze dipping, taking you apart piece by piece and seemingly trying to understand what makes you tick.

You hate to admit it, but he’s sharper than you expected. Most people in his position come into these meetings as faces, not minds. They sign the contracts, smile for the cameras, let their teams do the thinking.

You click your pen once. “If that’s all, I have work to do.”

Jungkook watches you for a moment longer, then moves a tad closer, just slightly, enough for you to catch the faint scent of expensive cologne, something clean and subtly musky.

His voice dips lower, softer now, but no less assured. “Tell me, do you always bet on things you know you’ll win?”

Your fingers still against the table. You set your pen down with deliberate precision, tilting your head slightly. “Only when the stakes are worth it.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. The thing you’ll come to learn about Jungkook is this: the man cannot back down from a challenge. He loves games. Always has

It’s how he got here in the first place. Grit, obsession, the refusal to lose. Every accolade, every headline, every billboard was earned not just through talent, but by the sheer thrill of the chase.

Truth be told, he’s a little.. intrigued, in some weird way. To put it in even more cliche terms, you look like trouble.

And… well, Jungkook has always had a thing for playing with fire.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @koofleur @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97

[multific]

The Way You Are

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: A power-hungry Emperor falls in love.

The Emperors ruled with an iron fist, commanding respect and fear from all who crossed their path. 

You, a simple and unassuming woman, found yourself caught in the webs of fate, as the emperor's gaze fell on you.

You were only there to serve the grapes at the party. Hired as a servant to Senator Gainus' home when you were a child.

Intrigued by your spirit and beauty, Geta became mesmerised with you.

Simple as that but he requested for you to be his servant from that day on, and who would say no to the Emperor?

However, his interest in you did not completely transform his power-hungry nature. 

With you, he was sweet and kind. It honestly surprised you. 

Despite the tender moments shared between you, the emperor's relentless ambition remained a constant force in his life.

As your relationship blossomed, you witnessed glimpses of a different side to Geta. 

In your presence, his stern face softened, and his heart opened up to the possibility of love and tenderness. 

But his hunger for power still lingered, casting a shadow over the purity of his affection. And yet you never doubted his feelings for you were pure. 

With each passing day, you tried to suppress the emperor's thirst for dominance, hoping to unlock the depths of his heart to the world. 

Yet, the temptation of power proved too strong to resist. Geta would often retreat into his world of politics and conquest, leaving you yearning for the love and attention you craved.

Though love had brought about some changes in him, the emperor remained torn between his desire for dominance and his newfound affection for you. 

This internal struggle between power and love became a constant battleground within him.

You continued to stand by his side, hoping that he would allow you to stay even if he decided love is not for him. 

Your unwavering support and kindness really helped him in his silent, internal fight.

In the end, however, it became clear that love alone could not completely transform the emperor. 

Geta remained a complex man, divided between his love for you and his desire for domination.

However, you loved him the same.

And one day, you made all of his worries disappear. 

He arranged for you to join him for a feast. Only the two of you.

You were so happy to finally have him there with you.

"I love you so much Geta. I'm just glad you finally realized I do not need you to change. I love you as you are."

Geta felt in that moment warmth was over him.

Ever since he met you he felt this need to change, this expectation. He thought you would only love him fully if he changed. 

But seeing you stand there, a smile on your face and love in your eyes, he knew, you were telling the truth.

"Marry me." his voice was low yet it held confidence with a smile your answer was clear. 

"Nothing would make me happier than to be your wife."

You didn't need him to change.

You never expected him to change.

You loved him exactly just the way he is.

Gladiator II Collection

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen @mel-vaz

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[belit0]

how would the Uchiha + Indra react if they met someone exactly their type?

Indra

Indra does not believe in destiny.

But when he sees her—precisely his type—it unsettles him.

She is sharp, intelligent, untouchable. A woman who does not bow, who does not bend to others’ will. She is neither frightened by his power nor enamored by it.

And that is what draws him in.

Because Indra is used to worship. He is used to fear. But he is not used to someone standing before him, unshaken, unyielding, unimpressed.

He watches her, studies her, tests her with carefully placed words.

And when she proves herself again—when she meets his gaze without flinching, when she smirks at his arrogance instead of cowering—

Oh.

For the first time in a long time, Indra feels something close to hunger.

Not for power. Not for war.

For her.

Madara

Madara knows exactly what he likes.

Fire. Wit. Strength. Someone who can challenge him, keep pace with his ambition, make him feel alive.

So when he meets her, he almost doesn’t believe it.

Because she is his type.

And worse—she knows it.

He can see it in the way she looks at him, the way she grins when she bests him in an argument, the way she moves through the world with the same ferocity he does.

She isn’t intimidated by him.

She isn’t afraid.

She teases him, pushes him. And every time she does, he feels his restraint crumble, little by little.

Until one day, she says something particularly sharp—too sharp, too bold—and he snaps.

He grabs her wrist, pulls her close, voice low, almost dangerous.

–You enjoy testing me, don’t you?

And she—smirking, fearless, perfect—

–What if I do?

Madara is doomed.

Izuna

Izuna is a flirt. He enjoys women, enjoys charming them, enjoys the thrill of the chase.

But then he meets her.

And suddenly, it isn’t fun anymore.

Because she is too much like him.

She flirts back with ease, matches his confidence, outplays him in the very game he has mastered.

At first, he loves it. The banter, the teasing, the game of who will cave first.

But then...

Then he realizes it’s no longer a game.

That when she smiles at him, his heart speeds up. That when she touches him, even casually, he wants to pull her closer.

That he is no longer in control.

And Izuna Uchiha does not like losing control.

So he does the only thing he can do.

He kisses her.

Hard.

And when she laughs against his lips, he knows—

He is utterly, helplessly in love.

Obito

Obito has never considered himself particularly picky about women.

But then he meets her.

And it’s like the air is knocked from his lungs.

Because she is exactly his type—kind, warm, someone who sees him.

Someone who chooses him.

At first, he doesn’t believe it. He assumes it’s temporary. That she will eventually realize he isn’t worth her attention, that she will turn away just like the rest.

But she doesn’t.

She stays. She smiles at him like he’s someone worth smiling at. She teases him, laughs at his jokes, touches his arm absentmindedly like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And Obito—poor, hopeless, love-starved Obito—

Falls.

Hard.

–You really like me?– he asks one night, voice quiet, hesitant.

She tilts her head, as if the question itself is absurd.

–Of course, idiot.

And just like that, he is hers.

Shisui

Shisui is used to being the one in control.

The charming one. The one who flusters people, who makes others weak in the knees.

So when he meets her, he expects it to go the same way.

But it doesn’t.

Because she is his type.

And more than that—

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

She flirts with him the way he flirts. She gives him teasing glances, playful smirks, leans in just close enough to make his pulse stutter.

Shisui, for the first time in his life, is at a loss.

He tries to play it cool. Tries to act like he’s still in control.

But then—then she says something in a voice too low, too sultry, too perfect.

And he feels heat curl in his stomach.

–You’re trouble, aren’t you?– he murmurs, gaze dark.

She just grins.

–What gave it away?

Shisui is done for.

Itachi

Itachi does not expect to meet someone like her.

He shouldn’t be interested. Shouldn’t let himself indulge.

But she is too much.

Too intelligent, too understanding, too much like the one thing he has never let himself want.

She does not fear silence. Does not press him for things he does not wish to give.

And yet—she sees him. In a way no one else ever has.

She notices the small things. The slightest changes in his expression, the tension in his shoulders after a long day. She knows when to push and when to simply be there.

And it terrifies him.

Because if he lets himself have this—have her—he does not think he will be able to let go.

–You think too much,– she tells him one evening, her voice soft in the quiet.

He exhales. –And you think too little.–

She smiles.

–That’s why we fit.

And Itachi—who has spent his entire life keeping people at arm’s length—

Realizes she is right.

[rhyrhy]

“Hold me, console me and then I'll leave without a trace”

. ݁Unkissed Bruises- A.A . ݁

⤷ Pitfighter Abby! Forbidden Love x High Society

. ݁₊ . ݁⚠︎ cw: Angst, Caitvi inspired, sexual content, death/grief, based off this draft! . ݁₊

9k words- mlist

݁₊ . ݁ Once upon a time, Whitehaven and the Rookery were one. two halves of a thriving whole, a city of beautiful contrasts where differences coexisted rather than divided. The grand halls of Whitehaven stood proudly beside the winding streets of the Rookery, their people mingling, trading, sharing stories beneath the same sky.

But with time came greed, and the growing sense of hierarchy that came with seclusion. and seclusion greed came walls, not the kind built with stone, but with power and privilege. The wealthy of Whitehaven withdrew behind gilded gates, drawing an invisible line between themselves and the Rookery below. The divide deepened, fed by whispered justifications and the belief that separation was natural. That it was better.

Now, they were no longer one.

The Rookery became a place of struggle, of resilience, of those left behind to fend for themselves. It was a city of flickering lanterns and hurried footsteps, of shadowed alleyways humming with secrets. The air smelled of spice and smoke, of meals stretched to feed too many mouths, of rain-soaked stone and burning ambition. Lifestyle shaped by survival.

Whitehaven, in contrast, remained untouched, pristine, a city of towering buildings , and shimmering glass. Its streets were wide, its air perfumed with florals from large gardens. Voices carried in refined tones, syllables drawn out as if even words themselves had the luxury of time. Its people dined on delicacies, oblivious to the hunger just beyond their borders. Oil and water. Two cities, once bound together, now separated by more than just wealth. By history. By resentment. By the quiet understanding that though they still existed side by side, they had long since become worlds apart.

But When the sickness hit, most folk called it the “bug”, a constant infectious shadow that never leaves, leaving you a hollow version of the person you once were. It’s been contained for the most part, but its remnants linger, and those who fell to it never stray too far, no matter how high the walls around Whitehaven rise.

Your father, a respected scientist, kept you safe inside those walls. As a girl, you ran through his office, spilling coffee on important papers and giving him wide eyed apologies when he threw his hands up in frustration. Your mother, a talented caterer, made food that could heal you from the inside out. comfort in every bite. Growing up, you often found yourself perched on the window sill, watching the distant figures on the bridge, wondering about the people outside. The Rookery was rarely spoken of, but you knew why. The guilt and pride of those inside Whitehaven kept it at a distance, as did the stories of struggle that slipped through the faint cracks when the walls opened for supply runs.

You’d ventured outside the walls a few times, as a young woman, but you always returned to the duties and comforts inside. Letting that curiosity slip away in favor of the life you had. After all, those people had their own way of living. They weren’t helpless.

But little did you know, three-four years ago on Celestial Day; the city’s grandest holiday, marking the “enlightenment” of Whitehaven’s founders, would bring a taste of the Rookery right to your feet.

And she was just on the other side of those said walls. Staring right back. A younger Abby sat on the rooftop of the abandoned store, half listening to her friends beside her.

Abby knew ‘wallflowers,’ aka those who lived within WhiteHaven who turned their nose up at people who had lint on their clothes, ripped not by accident but by fashion, and looked down on those who didn’t. It was bullshit, honestly. Everyone would have the same fate if a cure wasn't found in the next 10 years for the bug. No gold or shiny shoes would save you when you were on your deathbed, lips cracked, eyes glossed over.

It was terrifying. The kind of thing that made you want to pray even if you didn’t believe. For some kind of hope.

Abby’s father, Jerry was a respected figure here, someone who people looked to for guidance. A man of science himself, just with the resources he could scrape together. She’d warn him to be careful; the last thing she needed was to lose her rock. The same man she had to beg to call her Abby; now, she was too old for ‘Abigail’. Made her feel like she was still in pigtails. 

But there’s always sun after the storm, and for her? That’s Sidekick, Manny. And the definition of loyalty, Nora, is also from The Rookery; those down here were like family.

The kind of friends you could raid a junkyard and turn it into a mini shooting range. jumping off the large bridge into the blue waters below. Or—watching them do that as she’s terrified of heights. But it looked fun. Just…from a distance. That was her life.

. ݁₊ . ݁ in Whitehaven, on celestial day. It was ice sculptures, crystal glasses filled with drinks Abby couldn’t even pronounce, and so much food that even she knew she wouldn’t be able to try it all. Everything smelled like money. Everything from the banners to accents was navy blue, white, and gold, as polished as the people in attendance. Outside the walls, in the Rookery, people had their own ways of celebrating.

Officials claimed the walls of Whitehaven were meant to protect against crime and disease, but Abby knew better. They weren’t meant to keep anything out. They were meant to keep people like her from getting in. The suffrage these people would only hear about in passing.

The Rookery was her home. Over that broken bridge between the city’s. cracked sidewalks, flickering streetlights, and a kind of toughness where dirty looks were as good as compliments. But here? But here? In prissy Whitehaven, it was nothing like it. Everything was quiet, pristine, and expensive. And her borrowed dress shirt felt like a straitjacket. Suffocating even.

Noses pointed in the air. Ironed shirts, pleated skirts, and laughs that screamed financial stability. That was the first thing Abby noticed. That, and how fucking uncomfortable she felt standing in the middle of it all. She shifted against the stiff fabric, resisting the urge to roll her shoulders. “Remind me why I’m here again?” she muttered, just loud enough for Nora to hear. Nora, having family in Whitehaven despite the tension, would drag her friends to explore the city of bright and white across the bridge. 

“Because I refuse to suffer alone,” Nora answered smoothly, scanning the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged somewhat. “And because my parents think dragging me to these things will make me ‘appreciate fine company.’ I think.” 

Abby groaned, shifting her plate of food to her other hand. It was an unsorted mess of expensive appetizers and tiny, overly decorated portions that tasted too fancy for their own good. Nora glanced down at Abby’s plate and wrinkled her nose. “Are you seriously eating caviar with… a breadstick?”

Abby shrugged, chewing the piece in her mouth. “What? I’m hungry.” She trailed off. Before Nora could get another jab in, Abby’s attention flickered across the room. She didn’t even realize she’d stopped mid-bite until Nora followed her gaze. A girl around their age, working the room. Now she belonged here.

Nora turned back to her curiously. “So that’s what’s got you all quiet.”

Abby snapped out of it, rolling her shoulder. “What?” “The one with the stick up her ass?”  Abby turned back to look at you. Standing near the center of the venue, posture straight, wearing something white and elegant. Talking to the right people, nodding at the right times. Everything about you looked polished. put together in a way that made Abby’s hands twitch at her sides, suddenly way too aware of the bandages she’d wrapped around them earlier that day out of habit.

She scoffed, tearing her eyes away. “She’s… okay, I guess.”

“Okay?” Nora snorted. “Try again.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Fine. She’s hot. Are you happy?”

“Absolutely,” Nora grinned. She swore she was some kind of matchmaker. But the last time her friend set her up, she vowed to never let her meddle in her love life again.

Abby shook her head, as she decided it was best to step away before Nora found more ways to get under her skin. She needed an escape, just for a moment. Under the guise of grabbing another drink, she turned on her heel and strolled toward the kitchen, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. The air was thick with laughter and the faint hum of conversation, the warmth of bodies packed into the space making it easy to disappear. As she moved, she brushed shoulders with strangers, their faces blurring into the background. A murmur of apology here, a fleeting glance there. But she barely registered any of it. She just needed a second. A breath. A chance to shake off whatever it was that had settled in her chest.

And then there you were again. You weren’t out in the crowd anymore. Instead, you were standing by the catering setup, arms crossed, giving one of the kitchen staff a very unimpressed look. 

“No, seriously,” you said, exasperated. “What’s the point of me making a list of allergens if you’re not going to follow it?”

The staff member stammered an apology, but you barely heard it, too busy scanning the trays of hors d’oeuvres for any more potential disasters. This day was important. not just for the city, but for you and your mother. Celestial Day was more than just an extravagant celebration. it was a chance to prove your worth, to show the officials that you belonged inside these walls, that your family’s place here wasn’t just a courtesy. At all. One wrong dish, one guest sent into an allergy attack, and it would be a catastrophe. A stain on your mother’s reputation, on yours. Your grip tightened on the notepad in your hand as you exhaled sharply. There was no room for mistakes today. You earned your keep in these walls.

Abby leaned against the doorway, amusement tugging at her lips. Yeah, she was right about the stick-up-your-ass comment.  But she wasn’t expecting to find it this entertaining. The way you talked with your hands. Politely ripping them a new one. She let out a small laugh at something you said louder than intended. You turned at the sound, eyes landing on her. And for the first time that night, or ever, Abby actually felt like she was being looked at.

Taking in the slightly wrinkled button-up, the way she wasn’t quite standing like she belonged here, the sharpness of her jaw, the broadness of her shoulders. her hair not neatly tucked out of her face. Your expression shifted just slightly, curiosity and…something else. You cleared your throat and spoke. 

“Are you lost?” you asked, tilting your head.

She shrugged, glancing over your outfit. “Should I be?” Abby countered, pushing off the doorway and stepping closer.

You returned her once-over. “You just don’t seem like the type to frequent places with, hm… ice sculptures.” That sounded worse than instead, mentally kicking yourself.

“Mhm. And you don’t seem like the type to chew out waitstaff at over-the-top events.” She glanced behind you at the staff, remaking something she wouldn’t eat.

You exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. “Well, they had one job.”

Abby held back a laugh. “Aw, Tragic.”

That earned her a slow, assessing look that made her fingers twitch again. She could see it now, past the perfectly curated exterior. The way your eyes gleamed when challenged. The way you weren’t as prim and proper as she expected you to be. Watching your face as you continued on the conversation. She couldn’t help but like it. And maybe she really liked the way your breath caught just slightly when she leaned in a little closer. Holding her eye contact like you were trying to communicate something, whether it was intentional or not. It was there. 

“Are you always this uptight?” Abby asked, voice lowering into something that made your heart race. You weren’t sure if she was testing you or teasing you. Maybe both.

You opened your mouth to respond, not sure how to. But before you could, a microphone crackled into the background. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we could have your attention for a moment—” your father’s voice pulling you back. Your head snapped toward the sound. your parents. About to give some speech to the crowd. You let out a small sigh of disappointment, before glancing back at the other girl.

“You should get back,” Abby said, smirking. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you ran off with the hired help.”

“Good idea, really wouldn’t want that.” Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you back into the sea of white and gold, but your head felt lighter, buzzing with something unfamiliar. You weren’t sure why it took more effort than usual to turn away. Why you had to smacking yourself not to glance back.

Abby, on the other had, didn’t look away. She stood there, arms crossed, watching as you disappeared into the crowd. Her brow furrowed slightly, lips pressed together as if she were trying to make sense of something. You weren’t what she expected. Not even close. She replayed the conversation in her head, the way you had looked at her, the slight hitch in your breath when she stepped closer. The way her own stomach had twisted in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

With a slow exhale, she rolled her shoulders, forcing the thoughts away before they took root. Whatever that was, it didn’t matter. At least, that’s what she told herself as she finally turned back toward Nora. But even as she walked away, that faint flutter in her chest refused to settle.

Nora took one look at her and groaned dramatically. “Oh, no. You’re making that face.”

“What face?” She huffed, knowing exactly what she was talking about.

“The ‘I suddenly don’t mind the stick’ face.”

Abby rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “Maybe,” she said, biting back a smirk. “…Maybe I don’t.”

. ݁₊ . ݁ She never got your name that night, but she wouldn’t forget a face like that. those eyes full of curiosity, watching her, trying so hard to keep composure. There was something in the way you looked at her, like you were trying to figure her out, Abby almost admired the effort. Almost. She hated that she was so focused on you even with that sudden spike of the bug in the background.

She’d learned your name later, after prying it out of Nora, who had way too much fun making her suffer for it. Abby endured every teasing remark, every knowing grin, all for that small detail about you. God, did that make her desperate or just determined?

She liked you. A girl she barely knew. A wallflower, of all people. But she saw something beneath the polish, the grace the way you bit back at her, that sass behind your words. That familiar defiance. She wasn’t wrong about you. That much was clear when she caught sight of you near the bridge with Nora. Abby had no reason to stop. But she did anyway. That was only confirmed when she caught sight of you near the bridge with Nora. Abby had no reason to stop, but she did anyway. She knew you two knew each other, but something about the way you spoke, the way you glanced around like you didn’t want to be seen, made her think, no, know the conversation was about her. What did you want with her.

The next meeting wasn’t an accident. You made sure of that.

Late-night meetups just beyond the Whitehaven gates became routine, standing in the quiet where the city’s golden glow didn’t quite reach. It was easier in the dark—less pressure, fewer eyes. But the push and pull between you never let up. Abby kept her distance, stubborn in her refusal to be someone’s reckless experiment. And you? You stood your ground just as fiercely, unwilling to let her push you away. You were trying. Why couldn’t she see that?

This was new for you too. sneaking out, breaking rules that had never been yours to bend, just for the chance to see her. To talk. To exist in a space that wasn’t preordained by duty or expectation. It wasn’t about proving a point, or defying the invisible lines drawn between your worlds. It was about her. About this thing between you that neither of you could quite name.

And sure enough, it all came to a head one night. too much tension, too many words left unsaid, both of you too frustrated, with each other, with yourselves, to keep pretending there wasn’t something more. Abby huffed, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was holding herself together. “What—what is this? The wall’s not enough for you?” She was fighting herself more than she was fighting you. But that didn’t make it any easier.

You had come to see her, and things had been fine.until it got a little too close, a little too handsy. Until she suddenly pulled away, realizing what she was doing and who she was doing it with. “It’s not about that,” you sighed.

“Then what. Is. It,” she challenged, voice sharp, daring you to say something that would justify all of this. That would clear up what hadn’t been said outright.

But you didn’t say anything.

Instead, you stepped closer. Close enough that Abby could see the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, the way your fingers twitched at your sides like you were fighting yourself. She could feel your breath, shallow and unsteady, and for once, she didn’t know if she wanted you to pull away or get even closer. Abby’s jaw tensed, a muscle feathering beneath her skin as she forced herself to stay still, waiting. Seeing if you’d do it for her. Your gaze flickered down—to her lips, to the way her fingers curled into fists at her sides—before snapping back up. Like you were making a decision you couldn’t take back.

Then, without another word, you kissed her. It wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t careful. It was a decision. A line crossed. Abby barely had time to react before instinct took over. Before her hands found your waist, pulling you in like she’d been waiting for this longer than she’d ever admit. The tension between you-the late nights, the teasing, the push and pull, the distance she kept forcing-it all crumbled in an instant.

It was game over. Her fingers dug into your sides, desperate, like she was anchoring herself to this-to you. Your hand slipped into her hair, tugging slightly, and she groaned against your lips, her resolve snapping. She pressed harder, kissed you deeper, as if trying to make up for every second she'd spent pretending this wasn't exactly what she wanted.

By the time you pulled back, your breath was shallow, your forehead resting against hers. "That clear it up?" you asked, voice still breathless, a grin tugging at your lips.

Abby's hands stayed firm on your waist, thumbs tracing absentminded circles against your skin. She let out a short, breathless laugh, her lips still hovering over yours. "Might have to do it again," she murmured, tilting her head slightly, her lips barely brushing against yours. "Just to be sure."

. ݁₊ . ݁ That hesitation melted away after that. Late-night meetings turned into something more. something neither of you named but both understood. It was unspoken but ever-present, settling into the quiet moments between teasing and stolen touches. You fixing her posture when she slouched, Abby shoving some Rookery dish at you, practically spoon-feeding it while you tried not to gag. It was different, the good kind of different. The kind that made Abby actually do something with her hair in the mornings, especially if she knew she’d be seeing you.

And then one night, caught up in the warmth of her touch, your heart hammering against your ribs, you blurted it out before you could think better of it.

“I—want… mm, to be together. officially.” The words tumbled out, breathless, as Abby kissed her way down to your shoulder.

She froze for a beat before grinning against your skin. “Yeah? Not too scrappy for you, Miss Perfect?” She was always testing, always pushing, her lips traveling lower, her hands steady on your hips. That teasing smirk, the one that made your knees weak, stayed in place even as her eyes flicked up to meet yours.

You rolled your eyes, a breathy laugh slipping out, even as your fingers curled into the sheets. “Hah—mm. No. I like… ‘scrappy.’ Your version of it, I mean.”

Abby grinned. “I’ll take it.” Her fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours.

. ݁₊ . ݁ As much as Abby wanted to focus on you, your smile, the way you smelled when you hugged her. there was something else looming. The bug wasn’t highly contagious, but when you were a scientist, trying to find some kind of cure, exposure was inevitable. And for Jerry, it had finally caught up to him. Despite her pleas for him to be careful. All her years and love.

Abby felt her heart plummet.

It was a sensation she wasn’t prepared for. the kind that stole the air from her lungs, that made her chest feel like it was caving in. One moment, she was standing. The next, she was falling, even though her feet never left the ground. Memories rushed in like a flood she couldn’t hold back. The sound of his laugh warm, familiar, something she had taken for granted. The way his hand would ruffle her hair, even when she grumbled about it, pretending to be annoyed. The way he’d look at her, eyes full of certainty, and tell her she’d be okay, even when the world around them wasn’t.

She blinked rapidly, but it didn’t stop the sting behind her eyes, the blur creeping into her vision. Her breath came faster, shorter, and suddenly, standing still wasn’t an option. She had to move.

Her feet carried her before she even decided where she was going, but she already knew. You. You were the only face she wanted to see right now. The only solid thing in a world that suddenly felt too vulnerable, too uncertain. You were okay. Alive. Real.

And you wouldn’t leave. You couldn’t. She wouldn’t let you.

The sound of rapid knocking on your window near the dresser jolted you awake. Your heart jumped , but the second the haze of sleep lifted, you knew who it was. Groaning, you swung your legs over the bed, already preparing to scold her for coming unannounced. Someone could’ve seen her. or worse, thought she was breaking in. Sneaking her into town was only a good idea in the daylight, when there were too many people to notice someone who didn’t belong.

Still, when you reached the window and found her standing there, cheeks stained, breath trembling, all the irritation drained from you.

You didn’t ask any questions. You just pulled her inside, wrapping your arms around her. She melted into you, gripping the back of your shirt like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go. You felt her shudder, her breaths uneven against your shoulder. You wanted to ask, but you already knew. The spike in deaths recently, it had to be that. Another loss. Another name added to the ever-growing list of people Abby had loved and lost. And you? You were still here. You squeezed your eyes shut, holding her tighter. There was something you weren’t telling her. A possibility. A thread of hope so thin it barely held its shape, but it was something.

Your father’s research had been extensive, more than most people knew. The world had given up on finding a solution, but he hadn’t. While officials praised his work publicly, behind closed doors, they questioned his methods, his choices—the ethical lines he had nearly crossed. You weren’t supposed to see most of it. But you had.

Late nights spent skimming through his notes, his private journals, his failed trials, looking for anything. And buried beneath the endless calculations, molecular breakdowns, and abandoned compounds, there was Potential. Not a cure. Not yet. But the closest thing to progress anyone had made in years. A formula that had almost worked before it collapsed under its own instability. Abby didn’t know. And you weren’t sure if you’d ever tell her. What good would it do? Hope was dangerous in a world like this. It could lift you up, make you believe, and then drop you from heights so cruelly high you’d never land on your feet again.

She had already lost so much. You’d seen the way she carried her grief. like a wound that refused to heal, an ache she never spoke about but always felt. You wanted to tell her, to give her something to hold on to, but what if you were wrong? What if it led to nothing?

You couldn’t do that to her. So you stayed quiet. Held her like you weren’t keeping something from her. Like you weren’t already pulling away, one unspoken truth at a time. And when she finally whispered, “I don’t want to lose you, too,” you just pressed your lips to her golden brown hair, forcing a smile she couldn’t see.

“Never,” you murmured. “I’m here. I’m right here,” you whispered, one hand cradling the back of her head, holding her as if you could carry her grief with her.

. ݁₊ . ݁ That was the first time of many she’d sneak in. It started small—meeting in hidden spots, then slipping past Whitehaven’s walls under cover of darkness. She learned more about your world—how effortless everything seemed, how trapped you felt in it. And in return, you got glimpses of hers. Stories of the Rookery, of scraped knees and hunger, of nights spent listening to her father’s voice, now just an echo. The seasons passed, watching the summer fun beat down, the fall leaves orange snd red, the flowers blooming, to the snow falling. You were right there, by her side through one of the in toughest times in her life.

“Shh, you’ll get us caught,” you giggled, pulling her hand as one of the maids nearly spotted you both sneaking out of the kitchen.

Abby only grinned, unfazed. “Please. I’ve been doing this for what—a year? We would’ve been caught by now.”

And later that night; Abby curled beside you, watching as you slept, her heart swelling with quiet adoration. She loved you. She loved this. even if it was little more than a secret. Privacy was good. Not everything needed to be known. People had a way of ruining things once curiosity got the better of them.

And Abby, unfortunately, wasn’t exempt from it.

She pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before slipping out of bed, stretching as she padded toward the bathroom. But instead of returning to you, she let herself wander. The house was too big, warm in a way the Rookery never was. The towering windows, the gilded edges of every frame, the polished floors that barely made a sound beneath her socked feet.

Her fingers brushed over a portrait on the wall you and your family, untouched by the world beyond the walls. The navy of your dress reminded her of the night she met you. So prim and proper, the way you crossed your legs, the soft, pardon? instead of a blunt what?. the smallest details about you, the ones she once teased, were the ones she had grown to love the most. A wallflower she’d met grow its vines over her own.

But as she moved past your father’s office, that warmth inside her chest twisted into something else entirely.

A stack of papers lay scattered across the polished desk, your families last name stamped in the corner. And there, written in stark black and red ink, were the words that stopped her cold:

“Hypothesis for a Potential Cure.”

Her stomach fell. A cure?

Her fingers twitched at her sides before she stepped forward, pushing the heavy oak door open just enough to let the golden glow of the fireplace illuminate the papers. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she reached out, flipping through the documents, her movements hesitant at first, then completely desperate. This had been here. All this time. This research, this possibility. Did you know?

Abby’s pulse filled her ears. She didn’t think, she just grabbed as many pages as she could and turned, her feet carrying her back to your room, to you. She shook you awake with little patience. You weren’t sure what she was rambling about.

“I mean this—this is something, right? I just—” Her words stumbled out in a rush as you blinked up at her, groggy and confused.

Then you saw the papers in her hands. Your stomach twisted into a million knots. “Abby, it’s..that’s not what you think.” Your voice was quiet, but it didn’t soothe anything.

“Wait. You knew?” Abby snapped her head toward you, her voice sharp, almost disbelieving. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Her breath hitched, her grip tightening on the papers as if she needed to steady herself.

“You… you held me that night,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “And you knew.” She held the papers up, blue eyes burning into you. “About this?”

Now, The room felt smaller, suffocating even. You sat up, pulling the sheets around you, trying to keep your voice even. “Listen to me. it’s just a thesis. A theory. My father isn’t even close to a cure.”But Abby wasn’t listening. She couldn’t.

“A theory is better than nothing,” she snapped, her voice cracking. “Do you know what we’d give for even a sliver of hope? My dad—he died for nothing while you’ve been sitting on this?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay calm. “It’s not that simple, Abby. A cure isn’t just something you throw into the world. It could backfire, mutate, make things worse—”

Abby let out a small laugh. “Worse than what? Watching everyone rot outside your perfect fucking walls?”

The words hit like a slap. Your jaw clenched, fingers digging into the sheets as you forced yourself to breathe. “We have to be careful.” Abby was still standing there, fists clenched, jaw tight, like she was forcing herself not to shake. The papers lay scattered on the floor between you, proof of what had been hidden, proof of everything that now stood between you. But you weren’t ready to let her go.

“Abby, please,” you stepped forward, reaching for her, but she flinched. just barely, but enough that you froze. Her hand raised up near her shoulder like she couldn’t bare you touching her.

“No.” Abby stepped back. “You have to be careful. Because you live up here. Because it’s not your people dying.” The silence that followed was deafening. Abby wanted you to fight her on this. She wanted you to say, fuck the risks, to agree that something anything. was worth trying. To prove you were different. But you didn’t. You stayed silent. And that silence was what destroyed her.

“You.” Your voice cracked, but you kept going. “You are my people, Abby.”

Abby sucked in a sharp breath. You watched her throat bob, her fingers twitch, like she wanted to believe you, like she wanted to hold onto it, onto you. Onto us. But the moment passed. She exhaled, slow and steady, pressing her lips together like she was biting back words she couldn’t afford to say. Then, finally, she shook her head.

“No, I’m not,” she whispered. “Not anymore. Not when you are making me choose between you and them,” she said, voice hoarse, like the fight had already drained her. “Because I can’t do that. I won’t.”

The night had started like any other. And ended in the worst way possible. She couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe you were the one person she let herself trust. had known. Had held her. Had whispered reassurances while keeping something this big from her. Your voice barely registered as she grabbed her shoes, her movements sharp and hurried. She turned toward the door without another word, slipping into the dim hallway, the only light guiding her the pale silver glow of the moon.

You sat there, frozen, the strap of your nightgown slipping off your shoulder, sheets pooling around you, growing colder by the second. And then she was gone.

. ݁₊ . ݁ Weeks had passed since you last saw Abby, and the ache in your chest wouldn’t let you be. You had to see her again. You had to fix this. The rain fell in sheets, cold and relentless, as if the world itself was telling you to turn back. But you couldn’t. Not when there was so much left unsaid.

The city’s glow felt miles away as you approached the edge of Whitehaven’s borders. The place where the city’s light couldn’t quite reach, the place where it all began, and now, where it would end. The gap between you two had stretched farther than you could have imagined, and with every step closer, you could feel that distance growing. She saw you coming, but Abby didn’t turn to face you. No acknowledgment. No greeting. Just the sound of the rain, the rhythm of her breaths as she stared out at the empty space before her.

“Abby,” you said, your voice shaking with desperation. “Please, you have to stop this.” You could feel your hands trembling, the rain mingling with the sweat on your palms. “This hope you’re clinging to…it’s dangerous. People are dying. My father’s work wasn’t some miracle cure. It was just a theory, one that never even had the chance to be tested.” You stepped forward, reaching out, but she didn’t budge. You gripped her arms, trying to make her see reason, trying to stop the madness before it consumed her. “You can’t give people false hope. Not after everything we’ve already lost.”

Her eyes remained forward, a steel edge to her gaze. It was like your words couldn’t reach her, like you weren’t even speaking the same language anymore. She didn’t even flinch, her jaw set tight with defiance. “I’m not giving them false hope,” she said, her voice strained but firm, as if she was holding on to every word just to stay grounded. “I’m giving them something to hold on to.” She motioned toward the far-off horizon, the rain blurring everything. “Hope is all we have left. You can’t take that away from them.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest as the weight of her words crashed over you. This wasn’t what you wanted. You just wanted her to understand. your voice cracking, pleading with her, “you don’t get it. I can’t be the one to bring that hope. Not when it’s not real.” You could feel your frustration spilling out, every ounce of anger and sorrow mixing. “You’re fighting a battle you can’t win. It’ll tear you apart.”

She shook her head, the rain soaking her hair, her face hardening in a way you hadn’t seen before. But beneath her anger, there was fear. fear of losing everything. Fear of facing the truth. “You think I don’t know that?” she spat, taking a breath as if the words themselves were choking her. “You think I haven’t been trying to make sense of all this?” She looked up, gesturing to the city behind her, where once there had been dreams. “You’ve got all this. All the answers. And I’ve got nothing. Nothing but a fight.” Her voice faltered, and her gaze dropped to the ground, her shoulders slumping under the weight of it all. “And you want me to just give that up?”

There was silence between you, thick and suffocating, as the rain continued to pour. You could feel the pressure of her words crushing you. “I’m not just doing this for me,” she whispered, barely audible over the rain. But you could hear the steel in her tone. “I’m fighting for the people I’ve lost. Your people. I’m fighting for the ones who died thinking they were forgotten.” Her voice cracked on the last words, raw with emotion.

Your heart was in pieces, but the cold reality of it all stung. You wanted to fight back, to tell her that there was nothing more to fight for, that this war was over, but all you could do was look at her. Really look at her.

“I’m sorry, Abby,” you whispered, the words tasting like butter of defeat. “But you’re not going to win this. Not like this.”

Her face humed with disappointment, the kind that came when something that once seemed so sure had already fallen apart.“Then I guess this is where you— we, say goodbye,” she said quietly, almost as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Her words were a finality, a door slamming shut with no chance of being opened again. You stood frozen as she turned away, her silhouette swallowed by the night, the rain still falling relentlessly between you. The space between you had never been wider. The ache in your chest felt like it would never end.

And just like that, she was gone. Again.

. ݁₊ . ݁ Over the course of those years, time seemed to move in an endless blur. Days bled into weeks, weeks into months, until the seasons cycled in their usual pattern, but nothing felt the same. The vibrant world, once bursting with color and life, now seemed washed out, as if the sun itself had pulled away its warmth. It was as though some part of her, some crucial spark, had been drained, leaving behind a muted echo of what once was.

The holidays came and went, each one marked by the absence of someone she had once held close, the absence of something that had given her life meaning. Friends and family would smile, laugh, and carry on as if the world hadn’t shifted, but Abby couldn’t shake the hollowness that settled deep in her chest. It wasn’t just the space left by her father’s death—it was the space left by you, too. Your absence had carved a hole in her heart, one that no amount of distraction or pit fighting could fill.

The people she’d once called her own were still there, still around, but everything had changed. Manny, Nora, and Leah stayed by her side, watching with worried eyes as she slipped further away, the woman they knew turning into someone they didn’t quite recognize anymore. They tried to pull her back, to remind her of the life she had before, but she had already started losing herself in the fight, in the chaos.

The nights were the hardest. Alone, in the silence, memories of your time together would rise to the surface. Laughing over dinner, the quiet moments shared, the way her heart had raced when she was with you. Those memories were bittersweet now, tainted by the unresolved tension between them, the words left unsaid. Abby couldn’t bring herself to visit your home, to see the space where she’d once felt safe. She couldn’t bear the thought of the ghost of what they had, and yet, the thought of you lingered in the edges of her every waking moment. It wasn’t just the time that had passed; it was everything that had changed. What once felt like a solid, comforting bond had turned into something fragile, a thread she was afraid to pull on in case it unraveled everything she’d become since. The love she once felt for you wasn’t gone, but it had hollowed out, turned into a quiet, aching weight that never fully left.

For you She was missing. The curtain by the large window, the one that once overlooked her home. stayed drawn. Closed, like it could somehow keep her absence from creeping in. And for the most part, it did. Rumors of a potential cure began to swirl through the city, whispers slipping through cracks in the walls. You heard them in passing, read them in coded messages, felt them like a knife to the ribs. You never spoke about that night.

How could you?

And for that figure burnt into your memory, her father died, and there was a chance everything didn’t have to fall apart. The Rookery, once her anchor, now felt like a prison. The streets she had memorized since childhood. The ones he had walked beside her, teaching her, protecting her, felt foreign. Empty. The home they shared, the one filled with his voice and his warmth, was nothing more than walls and silence.

And you. The one person she might have turned to was nothing more than an abandoned, open string. A thread she couldn’t follow, not without unraveling completely. What happened was nothing more than an act of betrayal from the woman she loved—wanted to love.

So, she stopped trying.

With no direction, she let herself drift. And the drifting led her to the underground fights. The first time she went, it was just to blow off steam. But she found herself too immersed to stay away long. Pain made sense there. It had rules. A punch landed, and a bruise formed. A hit taken, a price paid. The fights weren’t about winning, not really. They were about feeling something: anger, exhaustion, clarity. Anything but the ache in her chest that refused to fade.

The view of Whitehaven above fueling each blow.

Manny, Nora—they tried. They watched from the sidelines and made excuses for her when she came home battered and bloody. They pulled her out of back rooms, patched her up, and told her she was better than this. But they didn’t understand.

She needed this.

She needed the weight of a fist against her ribs, the sting of split knuckles, the satisfaction of someone else’s blood on the floor. It was easier to be this. A fighter, a brute, a body in the ring. than the girl who had lost everything. More than she could bare.

. ݁₊ . ݁ And now, years later.

Her knuckles wrapped, a second skin of bandages soaked with the memory of harsh punches. The jet black hair, new and darker than before, fell messily around her face. Her back tattoo was hidden under the faded tank top, but she could feel it, the weight of the meaning of the ink on her skin. A portrait of what she’d lost. She carried it with her, always.

The pit always reeked of sweat, blood, and alcohol, or desperation. The heat pressed in from every side, a suffocating feeling. Bodies packed together, their faces lit by the lights hanging above, the heat causing a bead of sweat. It was the usual crowd, rowdy, ready for a show, but none of that mattered to Abby. She didn’t care about the noise, the smell, or the grimy underbelly of this place. She just needed the fight. To hit something, someone. Whatever idiot would be brave enough.

But she wasn’t thinking about any of that when she felt her eyes land on her.

You. Fuck

For a second, Abby froze. The noise around her blurred. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to be caught looking. Didn’t want to meet your gaze, but before she could stop them, they were snapping toward you. You were standing across the pit, just at the edge of the crowd. There was no mistaking the way her chest tightened when their gaze locked. She hadn’t expected to see you again, not here. Not like this.

What are you doing here, in the rookery?

Her jaw clenched. She almost turned away and walked out before you noticed her, but her feet stayed planted to the spot. Abby couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this exposed. The past few months had been a blur of anger, distraction, and fights, anything to numb the hurt. But seeing you again, in a pit of all places… It felt like someone had just torn open a new wound.

Your lips moved, and for a second, Abby didn’t even hear the words. She was too busy staring, too busy wondering if this was real or if it was just some fucking dream

“New look …suits you.” You said, scanning over her. “Bit intense, though.”

Her lips twitched. Intense. Yeah, that was the word for it. She could feel the weight of her own body, every bruise, every broken piece of her, and it all felt like it was on display now.

“Yeah?” She shifted her weight, rolling a shoulder, trying to shrug off the growing pit in her stomach. “What can I say? You always said I had a thing for dramatic.”

The words crawled their way out. Like she wasn’t standing there in front of the person who had seen her at her weakest. This was fine; she doesn’t care. It doesn't matter anymore. But if she was being honest with herself… it still did. All this time later.

She crossed her arms over her chest, just to make sure her hands stayed put. Keep it together. For her. For everyone else. She couldn’t let you see how much this hurt, even after everything. Watching your eyes scan over her “bloodhound” tattoo on her forearm.

“Don’t like it?” she added, tilting her head, trying to keep the cool distance.

“Just…different is all” you said.

She rolled her eyes, a habit she knew you’d always found irritating. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To keep you at arm’s length

“Different’s good. Keeps things interesting.” Her eyes flicked to the crowd, trying to focus on anything other than you. She should walk away. Get out of here. But she found herself glued to the spot, stuck between wanting you to leave and wanting you to stay. Wanting things she couldn’t have.

"You’re staring."

“Well sorry, it’s just not everyday you see an angry oil slick walking around” You huffed at her.

She snorted, trying her best to keep her demeanor nonchalant. "Angry oil slick? Jesus, I’m gone, and that’s how you talk to me? Nice to see you again, too.” She rolled her shoulders, ignoring the pang in her chest. She could almost forget how much she missed you when you were standing right in front of her.

She hated this . The familiar sting. She hated it, and she loved it. She didn’t want to feel this way, didn’t want to let herself care. But the truth was, she still did. Even after all the fighting, all the distance, she was standing here, willing to be hurt again. Her gaze softened for a second. She wanted to say something, anything, to bridge the gap between you. To make you understand. But the words got stuck, caught between her teeth like glass. The pit was suddenly too small. Too close. She needed to get away, needed to fight, but the weight of your presence was suffocating her. You were everything she was trying to forget, and everything she couldn’t let go of.

She glanced over at the entrance, where the next fight was about to start. The lights flickered above her, the sound of the crowd growing louder, but all Abby could think about was the tension between you, the hurt that never seemed to go away.

“Just leave,” she muttered, barely audible. She didn’t know if she was talking to you or to herself. “You’re not supposed to be here.”But you didn’t leave. You stayed, and she couldn’t stop the rush of emotions that flooded her chest. Maybe it was time to stop running. Maybe it was time to face what she’d been avoiding for so long. Maybe.

“Abby,” you started, but your throat tight. “I didn’t come here to fight. I—“

“You came all the way here… just to check if I’m alright?” she interrupted, her voice cutting through the tension. There was something in her eyes, a flicker of softness she wouldn’t allow herself to fully acknowledge. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t soften something deep inside. The fact that you still cared enough to show up. Damn you for that. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what she wanted, not anymore.

“Yes. I came here to see you. And now you’re telling me to just…go? Normally people would be appreciative, but sorry for trying!”

“Appreciative?” Abby scoffed, taking a step back, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “When did I ask you to show up here?” Her fists clenched involuntarily, the anger boiling inside her. Frustration. Resentment. It was all-consuming, and she didn’t know who she was more angry at. You for showing up, or herself for still caring. “Jesus, I don’t need someone breathing down my damn neck,” she spat, her chest heaving with each sharp breath. “I’m fine.”

“Breathing down your neck? No one held you here to talk to me.” “And you don’t need to ask. That’s what you do when you care. Still.” You could feel the words sting, but the truth cut deeper. You were tired of standing by, waiting for her to come back to you.

“Well, I don’t need your care, not anymore,” she muttered, the words harsh, even to her own ears. She hated how much she still wanted it. How much she missed you. But she couldn’t admit that, not now. “You lost that privilege a long time ago,” she finished, her voice cracking as the weight of it hit her.

You were quiet for a long time, the silence between you two oppressive. But it didn’t stay silent for long. The air was thick with the unspoken truths, both of you standing there, unwilling to be the first to break.

“And trying?” Abby’s voice shook with the force of her emotions. “You’re trying now? What, all this time later? Too little, too late.” The words wrenched from her chest like a physical blow. She couldn’t even look at you. “Where were you, huh? When I needed you the most? When I couldn’t breathe without it feeling like sandpaper in my lungs?” She clenched her fists, biting down on the tears that threatened to spill. “Where. Were. You?”

The words hung in the air like a shroud, and it was your turn to feel the weight of them. Your stomach twisted with guilt and regret, but you couldn’t let her destroy you with them. You couldn’t. Not when it felt like she was shutting you out for good.

You couldn’t keep the frustration out of your voice. “Abby, you gave me no choice! You barely looked at me that night.” Your heart was pounding. “And you’re the one who turned your back on me. I deserved more than that. I understand you’re hurting, but that doesn’t mean push me to the fucking side.”A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “So, you don’t want to talk to me after all this time? Fine. Be like that, Abbigail.” You shook your head, staring at her with a mixture of anger and hurt. “You know what, you’re right. This, you, and your constant pushing me away isn’t my problem anymore. This was stupid to think that maybe, just maybe, you’d open your mouth and talk to me.”

You looked her up and down, trying to make sense of what you were seeing. The girl you loved, the one you thought you knew… it wasn’t her anymore. “The girl I dated surely would have. But this, whoever this is?” You gestured to her. The next words ringing out into the space like a gunshot, a wake up call.

“This is definitely not her.”

The words hit Abby like a slap. She flinched, but her gaze never wavered. She wanted to respond. To tell you how much it hurt to hear you say that, to make you understand the kind of fight she was in. But the words caught in her throat. For a long moment, the tension between you could have shattered the walls around you. Abby’s breath came in shallow gasps, her chest tight, her mind racing for the right thing to say. But before she could, she heard it.

A loud crack. The unmistakable sound of something, someone, slamming into the cage nearby, the crowd roaring in excitement. Her heart hammered in her chest. The fight was starting. And for the first time in long time, Abby wasn’t sure if she wanted to fight. or run.

. ݁₊ .To stay for you, or go for herself?

Taglist babies: @grey-jedi12

[novaursa]

The Fire That Was Promised

- Summary: You burn down King’s Landing in an act of revenge before flying to Shadowlands.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen (one-sided)

- Note: This short story is one of the possible endings to The Broken Crown series, where Y/N takes revenge against her brother.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana @sunset18rose

The wind tears at your hair as Tesaerix’s powerful wings slice through the air, carrying you higher and farther from the place that no longer feels like home. The dark expanse of the Narrow Sea stretches below you, a boundless void that mirrors the one gnawing at your heart. You should be bound for Winterfell, not Essos, wrapped in the furs of the North and preparing to wed Torrhen Stark. Instead, you’re flying away from everything you thought you’d ever wanted. Everything that should have been yours.

Your thoughts twist and turn, darker than the night sky around you. Aegon had taken everything from you. He had called off your betrothal with a cold, ruthless command, casting aside the promise of a life and family that had been within your grasp. Your role as his sister-wife, his conquest, had been his choice, not yours. You were the youngest, the last to be claimed by his insatiable hunger for power—and perhaps something more.

Anger thrums through you, a living thing, and you feel it course through Tesaerix as well. Your bond is deep, your emotions shared. The mighty dragon's blood-red eyes flicker with the same rage that seethes in your veins. You grit your teeth, clutching the reins tighter. The sky blurs as hot tears sting your eyes. Tears of frustration, of loss, of betrayal. You’re fleeing, yes, but there’s no solace to be found in running.

You’ve flown long enough.

Without a word, you guide Tesaerix in a sharp, spiraling turn, your heart hammering as you abandon your course to Essos. The golden dragon roars in response, a sound of confusion, anger—and something else. As if she, too, senses the burning desire that has ignited within you. Revenge.

King’s Landing looms on the horizon, a sprawling city bathed in the eerie glow of the moon. The sight of it fuels your wrath. The seat of your brother’s power, the very heart of his kingdom—and your prison. The memory of Aegon’s face, impassive and unyielding as he broke your betrothal, flashes before you. He had not cared for your happiness, for your wishes. He had seen only what was his to take, to control.

“Dracarys,” you whisper, your voice trembling with fury and resolve.

Tesaerix responds instantly, diving down toward the city like an arrow loosed from a bow. Her massive form eclipses the moon as she descends, her wings unfurling in a terrifying display of strength. You can feel the heat building in her chest, the deep rumble that precedes a dragon’s breath of fire.

The first burst of flame hits the Flea Bottom, a rush of golden fire that spreads like a wave over the ramshackle buildings. Screams rise up from below, a cacophony of panic and pain. You feel no remorse, no hesitation. Aegon took your future; now you’ll take his city.

The Great Sept crumbles beneath the onslaught of dragonfire, the stained glass windows shattering in a shower of molten shards. The bells ring out, a desperate, mournful sound that echoes through the dying city. Tesaerix roars, her own fury mingling with yours, and you feel the bond between you surge, unbreakable, forged in this moment of wrath and ruin.

You leave only the Aegonfort untouched, a twisted gift to your brother, the conqueror who took and took until there was nothing left of you but a vessel for his ambitions. Let him rule over the ashes of his realm, let him see what his greed has wrought.

As the city burns, you turn Tesaerix’s head towards the east. You cast one last glance at the inferno below, the flames painting the sky with a hellish glow. It is done. You have nothing left here but ghosts and memories, and you refuse to be haunted any longer.

With a sharp command, you urge Tesaerix onward, her powerful wings carrying you away from the smoking ruin of King’s Landing. The air is heavy with the scent of destruction, the cries of the dying fading into the distance as you climb higher, breaking through the veil of smoke and cloud.

You imagine Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya scrambling in confusion, rushing to their dragons. But you are already beyond their reach, the skies your domain, your dragon faster and fiercer than they could ever hope to match. By the time they take to the air, King’s Landing is a smoldering ruin, the night sky painted with the orange glow of the burning city.

And you do not look back again. You set your sights on the Shadowlands, on the mysteries and dangers that await you beyond the known world. You are no longer Aegon’s sister, no longer the bride denied. You are the dragon unleashed, and the world will remember this night as the first of many that you will carve your own fate into the very bones of history.

You leave the Aegonfort standing alone, a silent monument in a city of the dead, for him to find in the cold light of dawn. Let him see the ruin you have wrought, the empire of ash he has earned.

[priestessame]

<33 ​🇦​​🇮​​🇿​​🇪​​🇳​ ​🇸​​🇴​​🇺​​🇸​​🇰​​🇪​ ​🇮​​🇸​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇮​​🇹​ ​🇬​​🇮​​🇷​​🇱​ ​🇴​​🇫​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇾​​🇦​​🇳​​🇩​​🇪​​🇷​​🇪​ ​🇴​​🇧​​🇸​​🇪​​🇸​​🇸​​🇮​​🇻​​🇪​ ​🇧​​🇫​ ​🇹​​🇷​​🇴​​🇵​​🇪​ <33.

✿.｡ //gn reader x Aizen drabble// ✿.｡

✿.｡warnings: Stockholm, manipulation, slightly suggestive, morally grey reader

You couldn't push away the unease even after he is captured. Even as they take him away, thin lines of exhaustion weighing his face and his shoulders sagging, you still didn't believe he was done.

Aizen was a man that won even in defeat.

Who could tell if his own capture wasn't a part of something bigger. Who was to know you wouldn't find him grinning like the chesire cat as he was taken away.

"Nothing would be the same again." He had told you, sent away to be locked up for all eternity.

You had always thought he meant it with bitterness. Despite the honeysuckle smile on his face when he had said it, you always thought he had said it because he was angry. He had to be. He had just lost, everything he built was finally, finally crumbling, he had to be angry.

You should have known Aizen never let his feelings surface, not even when he had lost everything. There was no bitterness on his face, his tone as gentle and lovely as it aways was when he spoke to you.

Even after all of this, you had no idea what he was to you or what you were to him. What would you even name a relation like that?

Too wicked to be called a lover and too kind to be called a master.

He had kept you like you were his most precious doll. Given you the finest things, whispered you the sweetest words and buried his face between your legs for your pleasure. There were times you detested him and yet craved what he so willingly offered.

To have him was holding incomparable power in the palms of your hands. Maybe he picked you because he knew your ambition. Maybe he grew more and more obsessed because he sensed your own hunger for power.

Maybe he knew only he could appeal to the shadows on your soul. Shadows he knows you'll willingly cling to. No matter how noble you pretended to be, no matter if you loved him or not. Maybe all he did was giving a sleeping tiger the taste of blood.

You know what he meant now, as you slowly went back to your life in the soul society. They were never the words of a man that had admitted defeat. After him, everyone who loved you afterwards would pale in comparison. No one would ever come close to his madness, in action, in love or in obsession. Somewhere you'll crave for it silently. You'll go mad seeking that thirst, maybe becoming something even Aizen could not foresee.

Aizen always had one final trick up his sleeve.

And if no one would burn the world for you, you'd be tempted to ignite it yourself. After all, you had seen the throne Aizen sat on, felt its power, and now it was once again empty.

----

guys :((( do is start a yan!aizen x morally grey! reader series???? it'll be v dark and v smutty cuz i feel my aizen phase coming backkkk

[harmfulb1tch]

Fallen Rose Petals (part 2)

Part 1

Summary: Coryo persuades your father to let him marry you.

Warnings: a bit dark! Coryo, fluff

A/N: The part 2 nobody requested but here it is! (Sorry, it’s kinda short) please request in my inbox!

Coriolanus Snow was a man that protected his possession. He never liked when others played with his toys. And he certainly didn’t like when other’s claimed his possessions as theirs.

Coriolanus was now a man of higher power. He had just been named Gamemaker for the Hunger Games and a lot of contacts he could use for his personal gaining.

He put on the best dress shirt he could find laying around his house. He didn’t have to wear that scrap piece of fabric he wore during his graduation, the one his father used to call a shirt. He also decided on a red vest and his signature red coat. Last but not least, he held the most beautiful bouquet of flowers he has ever seen. It was put together by his grandma’am, made with the roses she planted in her garden.

That’s how the love of your life presented himself in front of your parent’s mansion. He knocked on the door and your father greeted him with a confused but genuine smile.

“Mr. Snow, what an unexpected surprise” he said, as nice as always towards the young man.

“Good Afternoon, Mr. Y/L/N. Is Y/N around?” Coriolanus used your first name because he was completely disgusted with the idea of calling you Mrs. Creed.

“In fact yes, my daughter is in the living room with her mother. Please, come inside.” Your father led Coriolanus to the living room where you were sitting watching TV. At the sight of Coriolanus, you jumped from your seat on the sofa and straight into his arms, giving him a bone crushing hug.

“Coriolanus! What are you doing here?” You said with the most beautiful smile on your face. Coriolanus could never get tired of it. It illuminated his life.

“These are for you, my darling” he presented you with the bouquet of roses. You sniffed them deeply, taking in the scent of them. The same scent that always reminded you of the man in front of you. The man you loved so dearly. You thanked him for the roses.

After having some tea with you and his family, Coriolanus dragged your father to the side’

“Mr. Y/L/N, may I please talk to you in private?” He said calmly.

“Of course Mr. Snow. What for?” He was quite confused by the interaction, but he didn’t question the powerful man in front of him further. Your father then led Corio towards his study, where he closed the door behind them.

“What is it you wanted to discuss so urgently Mr. Snow? Is this about the reason for your unexpected visit?”

“It is about why I came here. You know I’m a man of ambition Mr. Y/L/N. I’m here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage” the look on Coriolanus’ eyes was filled with determination. He was not going to take a no for an answer.

“I’m sorry Mr.Snow. I’m afraid that is not going to be possible. She is already married to Mr.Creed.” Your father said calmly.

“Oh I know. But there is so much I can offer your daughter. Things Mr.Creed can’t” Coriolanus boiled inside, but his composure remained.

“Again, I’m sorry but-“ you father was cut off when Coryo punched your father’s desk with enough force to startle him. Coryo then grabbed your father by the collar, cornering him on the wall. You father swallowed hard.

“Look, Mr. Y/L/N. You have two options: either you let me marry your daughter or I end your family’s reputation. It’s your choice really. The outcome would be the same really. When your reputation is ruined, Mr. Creed will divorce your daughter, dispose of her as if she was trash. Like I said, it’s your choice” he said, threat laced on his voice.

“Y-yes Mr. Snow. Of c-course” your father was scared to death by the actions of the young man. Coriolanus had become powerful, fighting for his place in the Capitol. And now he was also running for president, with the odds to his favor. Your father also knew how much you liked Coriolanus, so he had no other choice.

The two men shook hands and left the office. You and your mother were sitting on the living room of the mansion sipping on tea and eating biscuits while chatting lightly when the two men came in. You motioned for Coryo to take a seat to your side on the sofa.

“We have an announcement. Y/N, you will be divorcing Festus and marry Mr. Snow. There is no discussion.” You father said, with a forced smile on his face. You softly nodded, hiding your excitement. Finally you would be happy.

You hugged Coryo, your Coryo. You felt safe and at home in his arms. You took his hand and the two of you went to have coffee. Of course, you chose the your favorite coffee shop. The same coffee shop he had first seen you with Festus, after his return. You both sat on the table on the outside terrace, he took your hand and kissed your knuckles sweetly, admiring you as if you were the most beautiful rose in his garden. You just hoped your dad had called Festus, breaking the news about the divorce for you.

[dany-is-my-queen]

A QUESTION OF LOYALTY XIX

Rhaenyra Targaryen x reader, Alicent Hightower x reader

Word count: 3.1k

Summary: When dragons of green and dragons of black dance, you have to choose the color that suits you best.

Note: Happy holidays 🎊

The air in Flea Bottom was thick with the stench of rot, smoke, and despair. You kept your hood low, blending into the squalor of the narrow, winding alleys. Mysaria’s message had reached you through one of her spies, instructing you to meet her in a decrepit building on the edge of the slums. You wondered what game she was playing this time.

When you arrived, she was waiting, seated on a rickety stool beneath the dim light of a cracked lantern.

"You came. I wasn’t sure you would.”

You didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“What do you want, Mysaria? I don’t have time for your games.”

She smiled faintly, gesturing for you to sit, though you remained standing.

“So sharp, always.“

You crossed your arms, glaring at her.

“Speak your piece.”

Mysaria leaned back, her fingers tracing the edge of the lantern.

“Do you know this place? It was once my world. The filth, the hunger, the men who thought they could own me. I swore I would never return to it. And yet, here I am. Funny how war pulls us back to the places we thought we’d escaped.”

“You didn’t summon me here to reminisce about Flea Bottom. Why am I here?”

She stood.

“To warn you. About Daemon.”

The mention of his name made your insides clench.

“Daemon? What are you talking about?”

Stepped closer, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Have you wondered why he has not returned? Why he remains conveniently absent while the war consumes her? Why he is not at her side, fighting for her crown. Daemon is many things, but loyal is not one of them.”

You frowned.

“If you know something, speak plainly. What is he planning?”

Mysaria tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with cunning.

“He waits. He watches. Men like Daemon do not take second place lightly. Rhaenyra rules, but for how long? He will not share power forever.”

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to remain calm.

“What do you gain from this? Why warn me if you don’t care who sits the throne?”

“Peace will not come if Daemon takes what he believes is his. He thrives on chaos, on conflict. And you know it.”

“And what makes you so sure he’s planning something? What proof do you have?”

Mysaria shrugged lightly.

“Why does Rhaenyra fight alone while her husband remains in the shadows? Even queens are not safe from betrayal.”

“And are you planning to abandon her now that the war turns against us? Or were you ever truly on her side?”

“Abandon her? You misunderstand me. I’ve stood by her when others faltered, offered her what she needed when none else would.”

Her eyes glinted with amusement as she added,

“Can you say the same, my lady? You were too busy with the Hightowers to offer comfort, too entangled in your own drama to be the ear she needed when she was stranded on Dragonstone, desperate for support.”

Her words cut deeper than you wanted to admit.

“You’re twisting the truth. Whatever your motives, you’ve only driven a wedge between her and the people who truly care for her.”

Mysaria shrugged, her tone turning almost casual.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I saw a void you left behind and filled it. Rhaenyra is a queen who carries the weight of the realm on her shoulders. She needed someone who would listen without judgment, someone who wouldn’t walk away from her.”

You clenched your fists, frustration bubbling beneath your calm exterior.

“And you think you’re that person? You’ve manipulated her, used her vulnerabilities to weave yourself into her court. She trusts you more than she should, and I’ll never understand how. You call me a traitor, but what are you? A whore masquerading as a queen’s confidante.”

“I’ve given her what she needed in her darkest moments. You may not like it, but I’ve been there when others were not. She knows my flaws, my ambitions, and still, she keeps me close. Can you say the same? Or do you doubt that you, too, have failed her in your own way?

“I haven’t given up on her, and I won’t”

Mysaria’s smile returned, her composure unshaken.

“Such conviction. You truly love her, don’t you? But love can blind as much as it can guide. Remember that, my lady.”

—————

Rhaenyra sat in the dim glow of her chambers, the fire crackled in the hearth, but it brought her no warmth. Mysaria entered silently, her movements fluid and calculated as she approached the queen.

“You look troubled, my queen.”

Rhaenyra sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples.

“How could I not be? The city is restless. Enemies rise from within. Tumbleton has fallen. And now… I fear I cannot trust even those closest to me.”

Mysaria’s lips curled into a sly smile as she stood, her voice turning honeyed with deceit.

“Trust, Your Grace, is a luxury you can no longer afford. Even those who swear their loyalty can turn against you when it serves them. Take… her, for example.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze hardened,. “She is loyal.”

“Loyal? Was she loyal when your sons bled and she was nowhere to be found? Or when she stood among the greens as they claimed the lives of your kin? And where was her sword when the Betrayer defected at Tumbleton? Where was her fire when your enemies burned everything you hold dear? Was she not the one who once stood in the court of the usurper and bent the knee? Did she not share whispers and secrets with Alicent Hightower—your sworn enemy?”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, but her eyes betrayed her conflict.

“She has her faults, but she is loyal in her way. She has strayed, yes, but she has always returned to me.”

“Do not let sentiment blind you, my queen. Sentiment will cost you your throne. And when the time comes, she will choose Alicent over you, as she always has. If you cannot see this, you risk losing everything. You cling to the idea of who she was, the person you wish her to be. But people change, Perhaps it is time to accept the truth.”

Rhaenyra looked away, her fingers gripping the arms of her chair. Mysaria’s words gnawed at her resolve, but the image of you—standing by her side, loyal through fire and blood—flashed in her mind.

“No. She is not like that. I know her better than anyone. She’s made mistakes, yes, but haven’t we all? She was there when—”

Mysaria interrupted with a sharp laugh.

“When you needed her most? Or when it was convenient for her? Think, my queen. Think of the moments when her absence cost you dearly. Think of how her hesitations, her divided loyalties, have left you weaker.”

Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, her expression clouded. For a moment, she was silent, staring into the fire. Mysaria’s words had planted doubt, but another part of her—the part that remembered your courage, your fire, your love—fought back.

—————

Rhaenyra sat upon the Iron Throne, her fingers drumming softly against the cold steel of the armrest. You approached her with steady steps.

“Your Grace,” you began, bowing slightly, though your voice held an edge of urgency, “I must speak with you about Alicent and Helaena.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered briefly to you before returning to the hall, as though weighing whether to entertain the conversation. “Speak, then.”

“They’ve suffered enough,” you said plainly. “Whatever crimes you believe they’ve committed, whatever grievances you hold, let them go. Let them leave the capital. They pose no threat to you.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, and she leaned forward slightly, her voice sharp. “They are prisoners, Y/N. Not guests. Their presence here is a reminder to the greens that the war is not yet over. Letting them go would be seen as weakness.”

You took a step closer, your voice softening but no less resolute. “It would be seen as mercy. A show of strength in its own right. Holding them here serves no purpose beyond prolonging their torment.”

Rhaenyra rose slowly from the throne, descending the steps to stand before you. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice carried the weight of her position.

“Do you think I do not know torment?” she asked, her tone cutting. “My father is dead. My sons are dead. My throne has been usurped, my allies betrayed me, and my own husband…” Her voice faltered, and she looked away briefly before meeting your eyes again. “And yet you ask me to grant clemency to the mother of my greatest enemy and the sister of the kinslayer who murdered my son?”

You held her gaze, refusing to back down. “Alicent and Helaena are not responsible for Aemond’s actions, nor Aegon’s. They are pawns, just as you were once a pawn in the games of others. Freeing them would prove that you are above the pettiness of vengeance.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I have treated them with dignity, far more than the greens showed my son when they tore him apart at Bitterbridge. They have food, clothing, safety. That is mercy enough.”

“It’s a cage, Rhaenyra,” you pressed, your voice rising slightly. “No amount of fine dresses or warm meals can mask that.”

Her eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, you thought she might dismiss you entirely. But then she stepped closer, her voice low and dangerous.

“You speak as though you understand the weight of the crown,” she said. “You do not. My enemies circle like vultures, waiting for the first sign of weakness. I will not give them that satisfaction. Alicent and Helaena remain where they are.”

“So this is who you’ve become? The woman who would imprison the innocent for the crimes of others?”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened just slightly, but her resolve remained unshaken. “You may not agree with my choices, Y/N. But they are mine to make. My throne. My decision. And it is final.”

You stared at her for a long moment, searching for some flicker of the Rhaenyra you once knew—the one who valued justice, who fought for what was right. But the Iron Throne had its claws in her now, and it was not letting go.

Bowing stiffly, you turned to leave, your heart heavy with disappointment. “As you say, Your Grace.”

Behind you, Rhaenyra watched you go, her expression troubled, but she did not call you back.

—————

The Sept of Baelor stood solemn and still, its vast chambers bathed in the warm, golden glow of candlelight. You entered quietly, your footsteps muffled by the stone floor. At first, the emptiness seemed complete, but then you caught sight of her. She knelt before the altar, her auburn hair framing her face like a halo, her hands clasped tightly in prayer.

You took a moment to observe her. Even in the simplicity of her gown, she radiated an elegance that was impossible to ignore. But there was something else.

“I thought I would find peace here, My stepdaughter was gracious enough to permit it. Small mercies."

You walked closer, your boots echoing softly against the stone floor.

“Peace is hard to come by in times like these.”

Alicent finally looked up at you, her eyes red-rimmed from unshed tears.

“My children are gone or scattered, and all I can do is pray they remain out of the Stranger's grasp. Helaena, Daeron. How much longer before they are taken from me, too?”

You crouched beside her, your voice gentle.

“They are strong, my Queen. Daeron is a warrior, and Helaena is… very strong. She sees more than we understand. They will endure, just as you have.”

Alicent shook her head, her voice trembling.

“Endure? I endured losing Aegon and Aemond. My grandson, my own lord father, Gwayne. I endured watching my family torn apart by war. But enduring does not mean the pain lessens. It feels as though I am losing pieces of myself with every loss.”

You placed a hand over hers, squeezing gently.

“You have endured because you love them. And because you love them, you will continue to endure. It is who you are, Alicent.”

“Do you think I have failed them? As a mother, as a daughter, as a queen... Have I done enough to protect them?”

You leaned closer, your voice steady.

“You have done more than anyone could have asked of you. The burden of this war is not yours alone to bear, but you have carried it with grace and strength. Helaena and Daeron know that. They love you.”

A silence fell between you. Alicent looked down at your hand over hers, her fingers trembling slightly.

“And what of you? Why are you here, seeking me out in the quiet of the Sept, my lady?”

“Because you are not alone in this. And because I… I cannot bear to see you like this, weighed down by grief and fear. You deserve more than this life of sorrow.”

Alicent’s breath hitched, and she met your gaze again. This time, there was something different in her eyes—something raw and unguarded.

“And what do I deserve, then? Tell me.”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in, your lips brushing against hers tentatively. Alicent froze for a moment, as though caught between her faith and her desires. But then, she yielded, her hands clutching your shoulders as she deepened the kiss.

The sanctity of the Sept seemed to fade away as you drew her closer. Her breaths came quicker, her lips parted, but no protest came. Instead, she let out a shuddering breath as your hand slipped beneath the hem of her gown. Your fingers brushed the soft skin of her thigh.

“We shouldn’t… Not here.”

“Then tell me to stop.”

She didn’t. Instead, she pulled you closer, her fingers threading through your hair as you pressed her against the cold stone pillar. You trailed kisses along her jawline, down to the hollow of her throat, as your hand explored further. She gripped your arm, as though torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer.

There was only the warmth of her touch, the taste of her lips, and the promise that, you were hers and she was yours.

————

Was eerily quiet at this hour, save for the distant murmur of guards stationed at their posts.

She stood near the Throne again, her silhouette outlined against the pale light of the moon streaming through the high windows.

“Your Grace,” you greeted, bowing your head slightly.

“My lady,” she replied, her voice softer than you expected, almost hesitant.

You straightened, fixing her with a guarded gaze. “I am surprised you called for me. I assumed you’d be attending to more important matters.

Rhaenyra’s lips curved faintly, though it was not a smile. “Speaking with you is important.”

Her words caught you off guard, but you held your composure. “I’m listening.”

She took a step closer, her hands clasped before her as if to steady herself. “What you witnessed the other day…”

“It’s none of my concern,” you interrupted, your tone clipped.

Her expression faltered, but she pressed on. “It was a mistake.”

“You owe me no explanation. I don’t wish to know.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and oppressive, until she spoke again, her voice quieter. “News has reached me. Mysaria has told me.”

At her words, your posture stiffened, a flicker of unease crossing your face. “The matter with… Lord Corlys,” she clarified.

You exhaled slowly, willing yourself to remain calm.

“I will release him immediately,” she said, her tone almost apologetic. “Though it’s a bit late, I don’t imagine he wishes to remain here with his fleet looming. I’ve lost him to my own paranoia,” she admitted, the vulnerability in her voice surprising you.

“I appreciate that,” you replied, choosing your words carefully. “I would speak with him, but if he’s made up his mind after this, there’s little I can do to change it.”

“I know,” she said, her gaze lowering briefly. “And I do not expect you to.”

“Thank you for understanding,” you said quietly, and for a moment, you thought the conversation might end there.

But then she spoke your name.

“Y/N…”

You turned to face her fully, and the intensity of her gaze rooted you in place.

“I know you are not his daughter,” she said, her voice steady despite the delicate nature of her words.

A chill ran down your spine. “It matters little,” she continued. “I know who you are, just as I knew who Rhaenys was. Your mother was an honorable woman, and I had hoped I’d grow in her image. I deeply regret that you never met your true father. But I know this: you carry the blood of the dragon within you, as do I, as do my children… The seed is strong,” she finished, her voice tinged with something akin to reverence.

You blinked, caught off guard by her candor. “Your court won’t take kindly to having a bastard among them,” you said cautiously.

“Do you think I would reveal it?” she asked, her tone fierce. “Never, Y/N. I have already threatened Mysaria to ensure she keeps silent.”

“She had no right to speak of it,” you said, anger simmering beneath your calm facade.

“We know who she is, where she comes from. I regret ever placing my trust in her.” Her voice softened, and she stepped closer, her gaze searching yours. “Se ao… nyke’ve missed ao sīr olvie (And you… I’ve missed you so dearly),” she said, her words trembling with emotion.

Your breath faltered as she closed the distance between you.

You didn’t reply, your lips parting as she looked into your eyes, her pupils dark and dilated. “Vūjigon issa (Kiss me),” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Issa dāria (My Queen…),” you began, your voice wavering.

“Kostagon nyke vūjigon ao? (May I kiss you?)” she asked, her voice so soft it felt like a plea.

You held her gaze, the world around you fading into nothing. Slowly, you leaned in, her lips brushing yours, but before the kiss deepened, you hesitated. Instead, you kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, and finally, her forehead.

“Mazverdagon se paktot decisions hēzīr (Make the right decisions from now on),” you murmured gently, stepping back to put some space between you.

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she did not look away. “Will you be my Hand?” she asked hesitantly, her voice filled with hope and vulnerability. “Please accept,” she urged. “I need your wisdom.”

You studied her, your heart heavy with the weight of her request and taken aback. “It would... be an honor, Your Grace. But I need to know, will the persecution continue?” you asked, your voice firm.

“It will cease,” she confessed.

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[glowettee]

❦ she was born with a sixth sense for danger & desire❦

hi girlbloggers, it’s mindy 🕯💌 before we start, i’m so excited to introduce the charmed x glowettee series ♡ i’ve always adored charmed. the sisterhood, the magic, the soft-spooky aesthetic… it’s everything. witches in pop culture have always felt so iconic to me: powerful, intuitive, mysterious. and honestly? so glowettee-esque. this series is my little love letter to that energy, and i have so many dreamy posts planned. i can’t wait to share them with you 🖤✨ – mindy 🩰🌙📓

sometimes i wonder if i was born with a warning label in cursive. not a loud, neon kind, more like a handwritten hex stitched into the lining of my soul. girls like us… we don’t just feel things. we know things. we don’t guess. we sense.

that look someone gives you in a hallway that feels just a little too long. the way your stomach flips before you check your phone and see their name. how you already know you won’t trust that girl, even if everyone else loves her. we don’t call it magic, but maybe it should be.

some people think intuition is soft, like lavender or glitter. but to me, it’s always felt a little spooky. a little dangerous. it’s that crawling whisper in the back of your mind when something’s off. it’s not always pretty. it’s not always sweet. sometimes your intuition feels like a cold hand on your spine in a warm room. sometimes it says things you don’t want to hear.

but here’s the truth your subconscious wants you to stop hiding: your intuition isn’t just a feeling. it’s your edge.

✧ the girl who always knows too much

you ever notice how being intuitive feels lonely sometimes? like, you know something’s wrong, but no one else sees it. they call you dramatic. overthinking. sensitive. but you’re not. you’re tuned in.

i think it’s a superpower no one teaches you how to hold. especially if you’re the kind of girl who’s always observing, always predicting, always knowing. it’s overwhelming when you know what someone’s going to say before they say it. or when you walk into a room and can instantly tell who’s lying. but we don’t talk about that. we tone it down. we nod politely. we “give them the benefit of the doubt.” even when our gut’s screaming run.

what if we stopped ignoring her?

what if that whisper in your chest was the voice of every version of you who’s ever been right, warning you before you make the same mistake twice?

✧ danger: when your gut tightens

let’s talk about danger. not just physical, but emotional danger too... manipulation, sabotage, performative friendships, academic competition cloaked in fake support.

you feel it in your body before your mind catches up. you’ll notice it in a group project partner who smiles too much but never shares the doc. or in a friend who only calls you when they need help with studying. or the boy who texts you only after midnight.

danger doesn’t always look scary. sometimes it’s pretty. charming. glittery. sometimes danger is disguised as admiration. the girl who copies your notes but rolls her eyes when you speak in class. the boy who says you’re “intimidating” like it’s a compliment. the friend who disappears when you start shining a little too much.

your gut knows. even when your heart wants to believe otherwise.

✧ desire: when your body leads the way

now let’s talk desire. not just romantic, but ambition. goals. hunger. the ache of wanting something so badly your chest burns.

desire is psychic, too. your body knows what you’re meant to chase. have you ever gotten goosebumps while reading something that changes you? or felt electric after talking to someone who inspires you? desire hums. it glows. it’s the way your hands itch to write at 2am (like me rn). the way you can’t stop thinking about that med school lecture. the way your heart speeds up when you imagine your name on a book cover or a clinic door. (sorry too many references to my medical dreams 😭) that’s not coincidence. that’s soul recognition.

if danger whispers in fear, desire whispers in fire. you feel it when you're getting closer to the version of yourself you’ve always dreamed about. it’s not always logical. but it’s always true.

✧ how to hear your intuition when life gets loud

our world is designed to make you forget your intuition. you’re supposed to scroll. to compare. to ask for advice instead of listening in. but you can learn to hear her again. to remember the girl who always knew.

here’s how i do it:

❦ spend time in silence. no music, no phone. just 5 minutes a day. in your room, in the shower, walking alone. see what thoughts float up. ❦ write the first thing that comes to mind. don’t judge it. even if it sounds weird. that’s your intuition talking. ❦ notice your body. are your shoulders tense when you’re around her? does your stomach drop when he texts? do you feel alive after working on that project? your body is your most honest messenger. ❦ pay attention to repetition. if you keep seeing the same number, word, person, or dream symbol... that’s not random. that’s a sign.

✧ trust doesn’t always feel safe. sometimes it feels right.

people say “trust your gut” like it’s easy. but trusting yourself can feel scary. especially when it goes against logic. or what your friends say. or what your parents want.

i’ve had to trust my gut so many times it’s ridiculous.

when i left a friendship that made me feel small even though they “did nothing wrong.”

when i said no to an opportunity because something just felt off.

when i decided to chase my dream even when it didn’t make sense to anyone else.

every time, i was scared. every time, i was right.

✧ dream journal rituals 🕯️speak to your subconscious

dreams are where intuition whispers when you won’t listen while awake.

start a dream journal. here’s how to make it magical:

❦ keep it near your bed. write immediately after waking. ❦ don’t worry if it’s messy. write what you remember, even if it’s just a color, a word, a feeling. ❦ mark symbols: water = emotions. houses = your mind. death = transformation. ❦ write a question before bed like: “what do i need to know about my future?” or “can i trust her?” then record what comes.

dream journal prompt starters:

“last night, i saw…”

“i felt like i was being watched when…”

“the symbol that stayed with me was…”

“this reminded me of…”

you’ll start to notice patterns. answers. prophecies in disguise.

✧ being a psychic girl in a logical world

you’ll always be a little too much for some people. too sensitive. too intense. too suspicious. but you were never meant to be average. you were born with a sixth sense for danger and desire, and not everyone will understand what that means.

but you do. you feel it every time your spine prickles before something bad happens. you feel it when your breath catches at the thought of becoming her.

you are not weird. or paranoid. you are a girl who listens. a girl who knows.

never ignore her again.

mindy’s spell jar of personal tips:

❦ light a single candle before journaling. stare into the flame and breathe deep. listen. ❦ write her a letter, your intuition. “dear voice inside, what are you trying to tell me lately?” ❦ enchant your notebooks. draw sigils for “clarity” and “truth” on the inside covers. ❦ when you doubt yourself, whisper this three times: “i’ve always known. i just forgot to trust.”

the official charmed x glowettee pinterest board: (8) Pinterest

charmed x glowettee playlist:

[scuttlingcrab]

Fiendish Rewards

Summary: Raphael appears at Withers' party, hoping to finally collect the Crown of Karsus from Tav. However, an unexpected turn of events causes Raphael to re-think his plans.

Notes: Featuring growing tensions and light angst. I always wondered what would happen when Raphael wore the Crown for the first time. This might be a wee bit too long but I initially intended this to be another submission for @dmagedgoods Raphael romance collection.

Link to my other work in the Devil's Archive.

(Image via raphael-ancunin)

Raphael knew he was intruding. He had no business attending Withers' party, yet he arrived fashionably late all the same. He would never show his face, grace the companions with his presence, merely to exchange pleasantries. As tempting as their tadpole-free souls were, the simple minded mortals had no meaning to him now that the Elder Brain was defeated. That evening Raphael’s only desire was to collect the Crown of Karsus. And perhaps, converse with that little mouse, if time allowed. 

Thus, the Devil did what he knew best: lurked from the shadows of the wings and listened for his cue. 

Raphael had abided for over a millennium after he lost the Crown to Mephistopheles, lashing out with such violent anger in the first century that he nearly eradicated an entire plane. That initial taste of defeat never left his memory; the bitterness, that rotting feeling he felt deep within his core still haunted him. It was his first introduction to failure and the last. 

He eventually learned how to forge that frothing hatred for his father, his revulsion at the cursed cards he had been dealt with, into a far more superior weapon: knowledge, his greatest strength. Raphael researched, manipulated, and opened up the recesses of his mind to devour the ins-and-outs of the Hells. He painstakingly plotted, weaving his schemes into the very fabric of fate itself, planting the seeds of prosperity for what he hoped would eventually gain him a win.

Despite all Raphael had endured since the collapse of Netheril, the last 6 months had been the most excruciating. Waiting. Watching. Hoping. There was no longer an Archdevil in his path, but a mere mortal. His hunger for power grew rampant as he watched Tav continue to elude him, to harbour the final piece of his victory as she tried to reclaim what was left of her old life. That selfish creature. 

To Tav’s credit, she had been quite remarkable on the battlefield, showcasing her strength and resolve as she smited enemies and climbed through the carnage to her destiny. She left a sea of corpses in her wake, the mortal rubble alone was unlike anything Raphael had ever seen. Out of all the calamities he had been fortunate enough to craft and witness, being a spectator during the fight against the Netherbrain would forever be a highlight.

When the Crown fell into the River Chionthar, Raphael eagerly watched as Tav spent weeks fishing it out, taking her precious time as she retrieved each broken piece of his future. He restlessly stormed the halls of his domain, cursing the woman for attempting such an arduous task alone. He could have aided her, sent in Korrilla as a last resort, but he refused. He would not give Tav the satisfaction, she would have to work just a little more to complete her end of the bargain. Besides, there was something endearing about watching Tav work so diligently, the determination in those eyes reminded Raphael of himself.

The little mouse was Raphael’s greatest investment and he’d be damned if she failed him now, or if he let his sudden affinity for her overtake his true purpose. Raphael’s ambitions for the Crown had somehow intertwined with his infatuation for the woman, and he was just as much to blame.

He had let this farce go on for long enough. Raphael would not stoop so low in his final moments before he rose to glory. Once Tav crowned him, these foolish emotions would cease and he would continue with his grand plan. He was a Devil and he would not let these cursed mortal emotions falter his intentions any longer; he would never allow anything, anyone, to destroy his work. Raphael’s blood, sweat, and tears would not be in vain. 

Cheering suddenly came from the camp as Tav and her companions raised their chalices in celebration. Withers' speech had finally ended, much to Raphael’s delight. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could’ve listened to the monotonous dribble. The monologue was indeed rousing, but Raphael could’ve done better, if given the opportunity. 

One by one, the group of heroes slowly disbanded, until only Tav remained. She made her way around the camp, stopping by each empty tent. It was as if the little mouse was paying her respects, bidding farewell to the ghosts of her past.

When Tav was done she wandered to the lakefront and sat down on a mossy rock, staring into the sparkling evening sky. The light in her own eyes vanished, leaving a dark cloud looming above her. 

Raphael took that as his signal. He quietly removed himself from the cover of the treeline and began his entrance, approaching Tav with a swagger. 

“If it isn’t the hero of Baldur’s Gate. My, how far we’ve come! It feels like only yesterday you fell from the skies, tadpole and all, and began your little adventure; slowly scurrying your way to triumph.”

Tav smiled at the sound of Raphael’s voice, turning to greet him. They locked eyes, her expression brightening. That look pierced through Raphael’s defences with such ease, a slight chill crawling up from the base of his spine. He stopped in his tracks, quickly recovering by placing a hand on his hip. It had been too long since they were alone, when he had last gazed into those cursed eyes. Careful now. 

“Raphael, always the poet.”

“The little mouse is no longer, but now a ferocious lion. Congratulations are in order.”

Raphael gifted Tav with his most flourishing bow, hoping the gesture would distract from his earlier misstep.  

“Now do tell, how does it feel to be the victor? To have saved the world? Is it as the bards have sung?” Raphael rose, taking another step towards Tav. 

Tav merely shrugged, her lips quickly returning to a frown. 

“Dunno.”

“I would have thought a hero to be more eloquent.”

“I'm still waiting for that ‘ah-ha!’ moment, but if we’re being honest tonight, I’m not really sure what it means to be a hero.”

“You will come to understand eventually. It’s the very nature of your existence.”

Tav remained silent, pulling her eyes away from Raphael. She stared down at her hands, studying her scarred palms.

“May I?” Raphael inquired, gesturing towards the available space on the rock. 

Tav nodded and Raphael sat himself beside her, intentionally leaving a minimal amount of space between them.

“You have something that belongs to me.”

“There it is,” Tav said, through a faint laugh, “You know, I was expecting you to come sooner.”

“I’ve often found the best persuasions are the ones that aren't forced.”

Tav looked up at Raphael, her eyes moving over every inch of his guise, stopping briefly near his lips. He was close now, so close. To the Crown. To his objectives. And to that damned woman.  

“May I see the Crown, please?”

Tav smiled, moving towards Raphael. For a split second, Raphael expected a kiss. It was only natural for mortals to attempt such a distraction in times of distress. Infuriating as it was, he wouldn’t have been opposed to such a notion. Tav instead reached down for her backpack lying in the sand, placing it on her lap. 

She pulled open the straps and yanked out the Crown, handling it as if it was but a petty trinket. Raphael suppressed a sigh, he would not let the significance of this moment be soiled due to the mortal’s lack of formality. 

“I managed to reforge it, to the best of my abilities, thanks to the Annals of Karsus. Though I haven't tried it on yet to see if it worked.”

“A wise choice.” 

Tav held the Crown out towards Raphael, but he raised his hand. With a flick of his wrist, the Crown floated out of Tav’s grasp, slowly moving towards him. It was just as beautiful as he remembered, if not more so. It glistened under the moonlight, calling to him. Soon. Very soon. He let the Crown hover, spinning delicately, for a few more seconds.

“Do you need me to remind you of our terms? The deal was that you are to crown me. I would’ve come to you long ago if I could simply put it on myself.”

“Gods. Really, Raphael?” 

“Truly.” Raphael donned his notorious smirk in response.

“Fine, are we to do this here then?”

“I couldn't think of a more fitting location.” 

Raphael rose, walking towards the middle of the lakefront. He snapped his fingers, and a luscious red silk pillow appeared. He shifted it slightly in the sand and bent a knee, preparing himself for the crowning. 

“Come, it is time.” 

Tav stood intending to grab the Crown, but before she could reach it, Raphael beckoned it towards him. Tav quickly followed, positioning herself above Raphael. He raised his head to gaze at the magnificent sight in front of him. The moonlight framed Tav perfectly, she was silhouetted against the dark sky, glowing. The Crown and the little mouse, side-by-side, as it was always destined to be. 

Raphael took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He absorbed the scents and sounds around him; earthy tones, a hint of wetness, mixed with the fresh woodland air. Faint chirping from various insects called out to him, the leaves rustled slightly against the warm summer wind. His heartbeat intensified, growing more rapid, adding an extra drum beat to the night’s symphony. 

“Let’s get on with it then.” Tav spoke. 

Raphael opened his eyes and watched Tav grab the Crown, lowering it on top of his head. 

When the Crown touched his forehead, it reformed itself to accommodate his size, shrinking to provide a snugger fit. It hissed into place and then in an instant, everything changed. 

Pain, pleasure, fear, anger, confusion; every possible emotion tore through his very being. He was ripped in two, three, four… millions of tiny little pieces. His head throbbed with information, so many secrets, so much… he saw and felt everything, what could’ve been, what might come to pass… it was too much. Too much! Too fast! 

He fell forwards, his hands digging, ripping through sand. He was alone, always alone, darkness surrounded him. No. There was light, light flooded in from the top of his skull, projecting into every possible direction. He was the light. He was the dark. He was all-encompassing. 

Raphael screamed, his voice echoing into the abyss around him. He had never read about such a reaction, in all his years of researching, how could he have missed… could it be because… NO. He will tame this. He will persist. He will… 

The sand beneath Raphael turned to liquid as the newfound power continued to surge through his limbs, burning his veins. He tore at his own flesh and bones to rid himself of the agony, but it wouldn’t come to an end. 

“Raphael!” He heard a voice shout, such a familiar tune. But who? He couldn’t quite place it.

Raphael erupted, his devilish wings tearing through the skin in his back. There were flames all around him, growing hotter, thicker. His chest melted, his ears ached from the thunderous explosions. Whispers, whispers everywhere. He heard so many, and the cries, the screams. Would they never cease? 

Something tore at his head, pulling the Crown away from him. The Crown. NO! He cannot lose it again. Raphael raised his hands attempting to fight back, but he was grasping at nothing. It was over as fast as it had begun. There was now silence. 

Raphael’s vision cleared. He was on his back, looking up at the stars. Tav stood over him, holding the Crown in her hands. She eyed him with concern, tears flooding down her cheeks. He raised his own hands, his claws trembling. Raphael tried to think but his mind was vacant, every thought achingly bounced back. His skin burned, bones ached. There were deep lacerations all over his body, his own hands were covered in blood. He gasped, looking at Tav’s body but found no abrasions. He let out a disgruntled sigh. If he had harmed her in his rage, in those brief seconds of failure… would he ever forgive himself? 

Tav threw the Crown aside and helped Raphael to his feet. His eyes followed the artefact as it landed on top of the sand, taunting him still. How?

As if reading Raphael’s mind, Withers' voice cut through the silence as he appeared before them.

“Thou hast succeeded but are not yet ready. Take care that thou are not too hasty, thine pursuits will lead to plights.” There was a long pause as Withers continued staring at Raphael, looking straight through him. He met Withers’ expressionless gaze, waiting for him to continue. “The pattern has been woven and all circumstances interlaced are as fate decided.” 

Raphael never imagined the consequences of his premature investiture. He was always going to reforge the Crown himself, in his own image. How could he possibly trust a mortal to handle such a relic successfully? But in the heat of the moment, and in the fine print of the very deal he crafted, he had opened himself up to carelessness, becoming the very thing he despised.

His eyes darted to Tav, searching the woman for any excuse against his actions but he could only look at her with veneration. He would not blame her for everything. His vanity, eagerness… his obsession for the Crown and that cursed woman nearly brought him to his untimely demise. Let this be a lesson to Raphael to heed his own warnings. The Devil would need to cool his heels in preparation for the battles looming ahead.

Raphael turned to face Withers, but the curious being had vanished. Instead he hummed thoughtfully, looking at Tav. 

She stood next to him, her body trembling. Tav's eyes were fixed on Raphael, still full of worry but there was something else present, another emotion he thought he’d never see from a mortal again.

Tav’s expression sent a sudden stabbing pain through his chest as a wave of nostalgia washed over him. There was another mortal who had once looked at him with the same kindness and understanding. He had buried it deep within his subconscious, but it was rising back to the surface, like a blooming flower. He would NOT allow himself anymore turmoil this evening.

“I owe you my thanks.” Raphael whispered, his voice on the verge of cracking.

“Raphael, I don’t understand, you were nea…” 

“If you value your life, you will hold your tongue. There will be no talk of this moment again. Ever. Have I made myself clear?”

Tav’s eyes widened at his sudden change of tone, but she nodded nonetheless. 

“I must return to my House of Hope. For healing and reflection. There is work yet to be done, as you have borne witness to this evening.” Raphael snapped his fingers, a raging portal materialised behind him. “You may join me, if you so wish.”

Raphael extended his arm, welcoming her acceptance. 

“Would you consider our deal completed then?” Tav asked, apprehensively. 

“You have upheld your end of the agreement, exceptionally well, might I add, bar this evening's hiccup. Now please, let me show you my appreciation.” 

A dash of colour appeared on Tav’s cheeks as she wiped away the remaining tears. She grabbed her backpack, placing the Crown inside. She swiftly reached for Raphael’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Raphael nodded in acknowledgment and led Tav through the portal. 

Indeed, their deal was complete, but Raphael wasn’t done with Tav yet. She would continue to prove a valuable ally and more in the months to come.

[kikyoupdates]

Crushed Velvet ⭑˚🥀⭑ 𝑛𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒

yandere!ocs x f!reader

yandere, reverse harem, yandere reverse harem, original characters x fem!reader, slowburn, isekai

Your parents are thrilled to have secured an engagement for you with the royal family. Your suitor, the crown prince, has agreed to be wed to you. It seems as though your entire future has been assured, so why is it that from this moment onward, your life starts to fall apart at the seams?

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The first time Xeno saw you was four years ago.

It was the annual debutante ball, where young noble ladies who had recently turned sixteen made their official debut in high society. It served as a “coming-of-age” ritual, to some degree. There were many cases where adolescent girls met boys of a similar age at these functions, and their families negotiated to have them engaged and married once they reached adulthood. It was more symbolic than anything else, but it did provide noble families with the opportunity to show off their daughters and appeal to the attending nobility.

Xeno had always hated shallow, trivial events like such as these. He was nineteen at the time, but had already endured seeing the same thing year after year. Nothing interesting ever happened. It was all show-ponying and far too many dances. He never participated, of course. His parents had long since given up on forcing him to, but he was still required to be present and watch the mindlessness unfold. It was the same stupid scenario, each and every time.

The King and Queen considered their eldest son to be a bit of an odd case. From a young age, Xeno had always held a strange ability, but no matter how much he insisted upon it, no one ever believed him. Eventually, he’d given up on trying to convince anyone else, but it did little to alleviate his condition.

It was less of a power and more of a curse. Ever since he was a child, Xeno could make out a strange sort of smog that clung to other people. It manifested as a dark gray smoke, and it was far more pronounced in certain individuals. There was also a thick, pungent odor that clung to it. People with the smoke absolutely reeked. They smelled of rotting food and burnt soil. Simply getting close to these people was enough to make him feel sick.

It had taken him quite a bit of time to fully understand what was going on. After all, even his own family was covered in the smoke, though it was relatively faint. The smoke around his younger brother was the most pronounced. Xeno couldn’t make sense of it at all back when he was young, but now that he was older, and he’d spent much of his life as an observer, it was much clearer.

The smoke was an illness, an affliction. It was a disease of the mind that plagued those with greed and shallow ambition. It was essentially present in all members of high society, to varying degrees. The only ones that seemed absolutely devoid of it were children, because they had yet to develop a hunger for wealth and power, and there were also certain commoners that appeared to be free from its clutches. It was a sinister disease, one that was almost impossible to run from. Nearly everyone was greedy, everyone was determined to fake their true intentions in order to obtain money, social acclaim, and reputation.

Everyone but you.

He could still remember it clearly, the day of that debutante ball. Five minutes into the occasion, Xeno had already resigned himself to an evening of suffering, and he could feel his eyelids drifting to a close. With all these people gathered here, the ballroom was practically a cesspool teeming with filth. Smoke filled the air, clogging up his lungs. No one would ever understood even if he told them. He just wanted all of this to be over so that he could go back to his room and be in peace.

It just so happened, though, that as he was in the midst of closing his eyes, he noticed someone from across the room. One of the debutantes, by the looks of it, an adolescent girl with [h/c] hair and a pretty smile. For whatever reason, that girl was untouched by the smoke. Not a single wisp or tendril clung to her dress, even with all the filthy infected people that were gathered around her.

Xeno immediately sat up straighter. It couldn’t be. He had never once come across any nobleperson that wasn’t plagued by selfish, arrogant desires. He must not have seen correctly. There was just so much filth in the room that it was becoming difficult to even tell.

Still, he couldn’t help but ask.

“What is that girl’s name?” Xeno spoke up, surprising his parents with his sudden question.

William glanced over at his son. “Which girl are you referring to?”

“That one, near the center of the room. She has her hand pressed against her mouth right now. I think she’s laughing.”

“Ah, I think that is [Name]. She is the daughter of Duke [Last Name]. I’ve heard good things about her family, though I’m not all that familiar with them myself.”

Xeno couldn’t take his eyes off you. It must’ve been the fact that you were free of that disgusting smoke, but you suddenly looked like the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. How was it possible that you were immune to this affliction that seemed to plague nearly the entire population? Was it really possible that you weren’t looking to take advantage of others like everyone else?

He yearned to go over there, to speak to you and see for himself, but he feared that if he got too close the illusion would shatter. He would realize you were selfish and vain, manipulative and shallow, just like every other person in his life. At least from a distance, he could pretend that there was another kindred soul left in his world. Someone who just wanted to live for the sake of living, and not to satiate their bottomless greed.

Perhaps it was his cowardice that prevented him from going to speak to you that day, but he didn’t see you for several years after that.

Xeno tried to forget. He didn’t want to dwell on something that could very well have been pure fantasy, but it almost served as a respite from his tiring daily life. He found his mind occasionally drifting off, and he would remember the day he’d laid eyes on you, how perfect and pure you’d been. It was better off as a dream, he decided. It was better off than facing reality.

It wasn’t as if he thought about you nonstop. His life was a busy one, and there were many things he had to deal with, but it was nice just having that memory to turn to whenever things got difficult. And if there really was someone like you, unsullied by their desires, then it was possible he might one day encounter another person like that as well.

Of course, that never happened. The older he became, the more painful marriage interviews he was put through. Each of the women he met was somehow worst than the last. They were the epitome of diseased, heavily shrouded by that pungent dark smoke. He kept holding out the hope that his parents might one day arrange a meeting with someone whose presence he could tolerate, but with each potential fiancée, the odds just seemed to be getting slimmer.

One day, his parents excitedly announced that they’d found him a very promising candidate. A girl from the Tybalt family, who had a long-running history of servitude to the King and Queen. They had been dealing with the worsening health of the mother, Duchess Tybalt, for many years, but she had recently passed several months ago and the Duke was now hoping to marry his only daughter off.

“She will be a good match,” his parents had assured him. “Don’t be discouraged. You will see.”

Oh, how utterly wrong they’d been. The woman, Annalisa Tybalt, was possibly the worst person Xeno had ever come across. The second she stepped into the room, he was overwhelmed by the sickening stench that clung to her skin. She wore a practiced smile, one that was stretched thin across her blood-red lips. He could feel bile rising to his throat from hardly ten seconds of being in her presence. Just the greedy, conniving look in her eyes was already more than enough to go off. She was filthy. She was ill. She was everything he loathed in this world.

“Get out,” Xeno had hissed, while she was still in the process of rambling and introducing herself.

Annalisa had stared back at him in shock, but rather than looking apologetic, she was practically scoffing in his face. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get the hell out of here, you filthy bitch. Get out of here before I fall ill.”

She had been stunned to silence, and he hadn’t hesitated even a moment before calling his guards to drag her out of the room. Of course, she’d made damn well sure to kick up a fuss, and by the end of it Xeno was groaning and massaging his temples, her shrill cries still resounding in his ears.

He had practically lost hope after that. She was supposed to have been the best candidate thus far, which was a sick joke in and of itself. He’d demanded the servants throw out the couch she’d been seated on and replace it with a new one. It was going to take days to cleanse the room of her foul stench.

“Xeno, I just don’t understand,” William had sighed. “You can’t make a fuss like this each and every time. You are going to be the King one day. You will need a wife.”

“Then perhaps you should find me someone less disgusting.”

“What are you talking about? She was a perfectly fine lady. Don’t tell me… you’re going off about that nonsense again? Claiming that everyone is sick?”

“She was sick,” he’d gritted out. “None of you could ever hope to understand.”

“We have tried to so many times. It’s all in your head, my boy. Everyone around you is perfectly healthy.”

Xeno hated the way they looked at him, as if he was the one who was wrong in the head. No, they just didn’t understand. They didn’t understand how so much was twisted within this world, that people didn’t care about others besides themselves. That everything anyone said was a falsehood, a fabrication. A lie.

He hated all of it. He hated feeling so alone, knowing that he was the only one who was suffering this way. He hated the judgmental looks he would get at public functions, when he would refuse to make contact with anyone else, including his own family.

He just wanted it to end.

In that moment, as his mind was spiraling more and more, he remembered that day four years ago. He remembered seeing the happily smiling girl who had become his salvation, his safe place to turn to whenever things became too horrible. He’d been so desperate to cling to the image of you, afraid that you would turn out to be completely different from the way he’d imagined, but he couldn’t hold out any longer. You were the only person he could find comfort in anymore.

“I want to meet someone else,” he’d mumbled, balling his hands into fists. “[Name]. She is the daughter of a Duke and Duchess. Summon her and her family here to meet with me. If even she doesn’t work out, I plan to never marry at all.”

His parents had looked absolutely horrified at the mere thought, but it was the first time he’d ever personally chosen a candidate for himself, so they couldn’t help but oblige.

It felt like torture knowing that the letter had been delivered, every second he spent awaiting your arrival felt like a dagger prodding at his skin. What if you’d changed? What if you had once been pure, but after all these years, you had become just like the rest? How would he recover knowing that there was no one left around him that he could ever share a life with?

There were countless fears that plagued him, but he pushed through them, determined to give this meeting a chance. As he sat there waiting in that room along with this parents, he could feel his stomach clenching from all the nerves.

When the door opened, his heart nearly burst out of his chest.

Your father was the first to make his introduction, quickly followed by your mother. They were just like the others. Friendly on the outside, but driven by nothing more than greed. The smoke that clung to their bodies was average, but still enough to make him scrunch up his nose in disgust.

But you...

You were perfect, just the way he’d remembered you being. It was his first time being so close to you, and he could say it without a doubt now—there was not a trace of impurity anywhere near you.

He almost wanted to cry for having waited so long. If only he’d tried to purse you earlier, if only he’d told his parents he was interested in getting to know you. Maybe then he wouldn’t have suffered for so long. He would have had you by his side to help you get through everything.

Once your parents had left, the two of you were alone. You were adorably nervous, he could tell that much based on your expression, but it wasn’t driven by any shameless ambition. You were probably hoping to make your family proud with this engagement. You were careful with your words, not wanting to insult him, but every time you spoke it was practically music to his ears.

You were beautiful, like a breath of fresh air. He himself was so nervous and stiff that he could hardly speak normally. He’d accidentally blurted out that he intended to go through with the engagement after hardly talking to you for a minute, but he was so excited that he decided to run right to his parents and tell them that he'd made his decision. 

And just like that, the two of you were engaged. The ceremony itself seemed to pass by in a matter of seconds. His idiot brother decided to drag you off and go get food together, but Xeno doubted you would have wanted to stay by his side anyways. You seemed a bit tense around him, nervous and uncertain. That was fine. It would take you a while to get comfortable, especially since you weren’t trying to kiss up to him and fake your emotions. He understood that. He’d waited this long already, he could be patient a little longer.

If it were up to him, he might have demanded you move into the palace right away, but something like that was not only unheard of, but it was also sure to just push you away even more. He was wary of giving you your space. For that reason, he held off on meeting with you until a good while had passed after the engagement ceremony. Now, finally, finally he could see you again.

He had been anxiously pacing for several minutes already. You were a bit late, but that was no big deal. He could forgive you. From now on, you were going to bring light into his world, a light that had been closed off for as long as he could remember.

At his servant’s notice, he made his way down the long, winding staircase, eager to greet you upon your arrival. He coughed a few times to clear his throat, quickly smoothed his hair in place, and proceeded to open the door, reminding himself not to let his excitement show.

“Hello. What took you so long?”

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💞 main masterlist ♡ character appearances

[pompom-prince]

Lucifer Vespéris

I really like this design. I wanted him to look really human (like, really REALLY human) because Humans are the cause of his fall, the reason hell was created in the first place, and Pride was the first sin, the most human of the sins.

I’m thinking he plays up the whole ringmaster thing to hide the fact that he cant stand the sinners in the pride ring. He has an assistant, a Birdlike hellborn, who attends the meetingd with the other sins in his place and is also kind of in a friends-with-benefits situation with him. There’s something else going on but neither of them want to admit it because neither of them think theyre able to be loved (Stealing the stolitz dynamic <3)

In the early days, his rebellion against Heaven was born of conviction, of a belief that his creation—the world, the stars, the very order of the universe—was something that deserved more than the cold, distant gaze of a God who seemed content to turn away. But the kingdom he now rules is not one of splendor or justice; it is a reflection of everything he loathes. The Pride Ring, initially a place where Lucifer imagined he could foster growth and change, has devolved into an unrelenting circus of arrogance, greed, and corruption. No matter how many times he tried to impose structure, no matter how many punishments or trials he devised, it was all in vain. The souls that filtered into the Ring only brought with them more of the same vices that led to their fall from grace. The hope that he could shape something meaningful here slowly faded as Lucifer realized that the Pride Ring had become a festering wound, incapable of healing, and more importantly, something he could no longer be bothered to fix.

What’s worse is the bitter realization that the rebellion itself, the very act that had cost him everything, was ultimately meaningless. The thrill of rebellion—the belief that defying God would lead to something greater—had long since faded. In its place was the crushing weight of eternity, a kingdom that was less a home and more a farce. The subjects he was tasked with leading, the very sinners he was meant to shepherd, were insufferable. Instead of a kingdom of wisdom or growth, Hell had become a cesspool of self-serving souls, each vying for a meaningless crown. He had become not a king, but a jailer, a performer in a circus of his own making. Heaven, in its indifference, had never even bothered to notice his plight, and Lucifer was left wondering if it had all been for nothing. The grand act he once put on—the battles, the speeches, the confrontations—meant nothing now. It was all a game of smoke and mirrors, a performance with no audience, and no applause.

And then there was Juno. The Hellborn peacock demon, ambitious and relentless, had always been by Lucifer’s side—an assistant, a confidante, and, in time, much more. Juno had always wanted power, had always craved the title of Sin of Pride, and when Lucifer finally tired of the charade, he simply gave it to them. Juno wanted it, after all, more than Lucifer did. It was no longer a title Lucifer cared for, and in his apathy, he relinquished it with little more than a shrug. Juno took the mantle, thriving in it with a hunger Lucifer had long since lost. It was a relief for Lucifer to step back, to let someone else play the part of the ruler, someone who was eager to take control and command the attention of the damned. In Juno, he found a reflection of his own former ambitions, yet he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that, somewhere along the line, he had lost the will to fight for them.

But Lucifer's greatest struggle, one that even Juno could not soothe, was the slow death of passion. Once, rebellion had been his fire; the fight for freedom had been his purpose. Now, even the acts that once thrilled him—the performance of the Ringmaster, the control over the sinners—felt hollow. He had lived for so long, and in that eternity, the act had become rote. He performed because it was all he knew how to do; not out of love for his role, but because stopping would mean acknowledging just how meaningless it all had become. The energy that once burned bright had dulled, and Lucifer could only continue, day after day, in the same monotonous motions, pretending to be the ruler he no longer cared to be.

There were moments, rare as they were, when he allowed himself to show the cracks in his performance. When the lights dimmed, and he was alone with Juno, Lucifer let the mask slip. Under the Forbidden Tree, which he had stolen from the garden as a trophy, they would sit together—sometimes in silence, sometimes speaking of things neither dared mention in public. The tree bore fruit, but it was infrequent now, much rarer than it had been in the Garden of Eden. Lucifer would gaze at it, wondering if it was a reflection of his own fading potential. Yet, under the cool shade of the tree, surrounded by the fruits of a past long gone, Lucifer found something that had been lost in the cold glare of his ringmaster persona—an inkling of what once was.

But even in these quiet moments, he knew there was no turning back. Lucifer Vespéris had become a king who no longer cared to rule, a fallen star who had burned out. He had made his choices, and now, all that was left was the performance. Whether he embraced it or not, it was the only thing he could do.

[c1ov3rz]

Frozen Eternity

The icy wasteland stretched endlessly in every direction, a blank canvas upon which memories painted themselves in cold, unforgiving hues. Starscream’s thrusters whined softly as he landed on the edge of a jagged cliff. The desolation suited him. No Autobot patrols, no Decepticon scheming—just the howling wind and the ghost of someone he could never forget.

Skyfire.

Once, millennia ago, they had flown these very skies together, mapping the uncharted beauty of this planet. Back then, Starscream had been different—ambitious, yes, but not yet consumed by his hunger for power. Skyfire had been his anchor, his partner, his one true friend in a universe that seemed determined to rip Starscream’s dreams from his grasp.

The snow crunched beneath his feet as Starscream made his way to the crumbling remains of a makeshift beacon. The structure had long since been buried in ice, but its design was unmistakable. Skyfire had built it—a signal for rescue that never came.

Starscream knelt, his talons scraping the frost-covered metal. "You always believed someone would come for you," he whispered bitterly. His optics dimmed as he gazed into the infinite expanse of white. "You believed in me."

He clenched his fists, his servos trembling. He had left Skyfire here. Abandoned him. The storm that had separated them had been fierce, but the storm inside Starscream had been fiercer. He had told himself it was logical, that survival came first. And yet, deep down, he knew the truth: he had been afraid. Afraid of losing everything, afraid of facing the possibility that his partner might already be gone.

But Skyfire hadn’t been gone. Not then.

Starscream had learned much later—too late—that Skyfire had survived the storm, trapped beneath the ice. The Autobots had found him eventually, long after Starscream had joined the Decepticons and buried his guilt under layers of ambition and cruelty. When their paths crossed again, Skyfire had looked at him with those same kind optics, as if no time had passed. As if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

"Why did you forgive me?" Starscream murmured, his voice cracking. "I didn’t deserve it."

The wind roared in response, carrying with it a distant sound that almost resembled Skyfire’s laugh. Starscream turned sharply, his wings twitching, but there was nothing—only the endless storm. He sagged, his armor creaking under the weight of memories. He had always pretended he didn’t care, that Skyfire’s forgiveness was meaningless. Yet here he was, a Decepticon commander reduced to a fragile shadow, haunted by a past he could never reclaim.

"You were a fool," Starscream spat, though the words held no venom. "You should have left me behind."

The beacon’s structure groaned under the weight of centuries. Starscream brushed away the snow, revealing a faded inscription etched into the metal. He traced the lines with a clawed finger, his optics narrowing as he read the words Skyfire had carved so long ago:

"For Starscream. No matter where the winds take us."

Starscream’s spark surged with an ache that bordered on physical pain. He stood abruptly, his wings flaring as if he could somehow escape the raw emotion threatening to consume him. But there was no escape. Not from this.

He sank back to his knees, unable to leave, unable to stay. Memories flooded him with brutal clarity. He saw Skyfire’s smile, heard his voice—always calm, always steady. "Starscream," Skyfire had once said, "you can’t outrun everything. One day, you’ll have to stop. You’ll have to face yourself."

The storm howled louder, as though mocking him. He had tried to outrun himself, tried to bury the part of him that cared, but it was futile. Skyfire’s words, his hope, had embedded themselves too deeply in Starscream’s core. And now, here he was, in the very place where everything had fallen apart.

"I’m sorry," Starscream whispered, the words cutting through his vocalizer like shards of ice. "I’m so sorry."

A gust of wind blasted through the canyon, and for a moment, it carried a sound that made Starscream freeze. A voice—so faint he almost thought it was his imagination.

"Starscream."

He whipped around, his optics scanning the blizzard. "Skyfire?" he called out, desperation lacing his tone. "Skyfire!"

But there was no one. Only the storm.

Starscream’s wings drooped, and he lowered his helm. It was a cruel trick of his processor, nothing more. Yet, in that fleeting moment, he had felt a warmth he hadn’t known in eons. Perhaps it was Skyfire’s memory reaching out to him, or perhaps it was his own guilt giving him what he longed to hear.

He reached out and placed his clawed hand against the beacon one last time. "You should have been the one to survive," he said, his voice trembling. "You would have done better with this universe than I ever could."

The beacon’s structure groaned again, but this time it didn’t collapse. Instead, a faint light flickered at its base, illuminating the inscription Skyfire had left. Starscream stared at it, his spark aching with a bittersweet mixture of pain and gratitude. For all his faults, Skyfire had believed in him, even when Starscream couldn’t believe in himself.

"I’ll keep flying," he said again, more firmly this time. "For both of us."

As Starscream took to the skies, the storm began to abate, the winds quieting as if to watch him go. And far below, the faint glow of the beacon persisted, a silent testament to a bond that even time and war could not erase.

Forever.

[evilbihan]

Congratulations, OP, on making the most factually incorrect post I've ever seen on this hellsite.

Let's take this trainwreck of an "analysis" apart step by step, shall we?

Oh, good lord, now I'm seeing Bi-Han stans say his father was abusive. There is literally nothing in MK1 implying that.

In the previous timeline, Bi-Han's and Kuai Liang's father literally kidnapped them and killed their mother and sister, then raised them to become assassins against their will, but now we're supposed to believe that man's a saint?

I've said this in a different post before and I'll repeat it here too: The core essence of every character in MK1 is basically still the same as it was in the old timeline. Geras is still loyal to his creator (previously Kronika, now Liu Kang), Scorpion might be a different person now but he's still vengeful, Sindel is good now, but she's still a merciless ruler, Kung Lao is still ambitious, etc. Not a single one of these characters is a completely new and different person. Following that logic, the same thing would apply to the old grandmaster.

At first glance, it may seem like nothing implies that Bi-Han's and Kuai Liang's father was abusive, but that's only if you ignore anything outside of the main story.

I made an entire post about it here, but I'll give you the short version:

Additionally, there was a node in the previous season of invasions mode that involved another fight with Bi-Han, titled "second best". Second best at what? We know that in the old timeline, Bi-Han was the Lin Kuei's best assassin. Therefore, this could have only been referring to the new era's Bi-Han, again confirming that their father had a favorite son, Kuai Liang, not Bi-Han.

Believe it or not, this is a form of emotional abuse.

Y'all (thirsty fandom bitches) are so obsessed with your villain faves being victims of parental abuse, even when canon doesn't imply that or literally says otherwise. I've seen it in the Scream fandom, now it's in the MK fandom, too.

Still not convinced? How about we change perspectives from my favorite character to my least favorite one then? Everyone who's been following this blog knows I can't stand Kuai Liang, but I even believe him to be a victim of abuse at his own father's hand, albeit in a different way than Bi-Han.

Nitara: Had you ever known hunger, you wouldn't judge us. Scorpion: I have, and I will.

So, what does this intro tell us?

Kuai Liang has known hunger, so there must have been a period in his life where he has been starving, but why? Poverty seems highly unlikely. The Lin Kuei seem well organized and in his tower ending, Bi-Han talks about how many of their resources were spent on the cyber initiative, so I doubt the Lin Kuei were ever poor or he wouldn't have been able to afford all that technology at all. The brothers also come across as quite arrogant. Growing up poor would have probably made them more humble.

So, why was Kuai Liang starving? Would loving parents let their children starve? Was it perhaps part of their training or a way to punish them for disobedience? And if so, why does Kuai Liang still think and speak so highly of his father? Stockholm syndrome maybe.

And let's say it wasn't the grandmaster's fault that they were starving, then wouldn't it make Bi-Han's ambition to give the clan more wealth and power noble instead of selfish? It would mean no more starving for any of the Lin Kuei in the future.

Regardless of your takeaway from this, the end result remains the same: Bi-Han is not evil.

Bi-Han has always been an asshole. He's power-hungry and he is a bad person. Him murdering his father (whom his brothers haven't implied anything bad about) is no surprise, and trying to make up completely non-canon things to justify it because you can't handle liking a fictional villain is moronic.

Bi-Han has always been an asshole? Always as in previous timelines? Because by that logic, his father has always been an asshole too. See how you're contradicting yourself here? Secondly, Bi-Han is not a bad person. That's straight up wrong.

Ashrah said he's redeemable.

Kuai Liang said he and Bi-Han were once close.

Bi-Han shows genuine regret over Sindel's death.

Tomas, one of the nicest characters in the game, used to look up to Bi-Han.

Kitana's announcer voice when selecting Bi-Han: "You were a decent person once."

He's flawed, not evil.

The only person making up completely non-canon things is you.

Oh, and for the record, I'm a huge fan of Homelander and there's no saving grace to that man. I don't care though, I love villains.

Here's the punchline though, Bi-Han isn't a villain, he's an anti-hero/anti-villain type of character. Do some research.

It's Bi-Han. Bi-Han would sell his little brother to Shang Tsung for a single corn chip! (And I don't mean Tomas; he'd give away Tomas for free.)

Bi-Han literally refused to deliver Kuai Liang to Kronika in MK11 as Noob when Geras told him to.

Geras: Bring your brother to Kronika. Noob Saibot: The dead are my clan. Geras: Do you serve or do you not?

Bi-Han doesn't wish harm upon either of his brothers in MK1 either, he tells them multiple times to surrender and join him. Just watch their intros, it's all there. He even admitted that he wanted Kuai Liang to rule by his side. In his intros with Shang Tsung, he also mentions that he regrets ever trusting him.

The whole original post is a joke. Implying that people who are upset over mischaracterization and bad writing must be thirsting over a character is just ridiculous.

How wrong do you want to be?

OP: yes.