#the vivid colors the expressiveness of the face the movement of the hair-- | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luckyroll3 · 3 days ago

Text

The Art of Seduction

My Masterlist

Summary: Hyunjin is a passionate artist who likes to be kept. He encounters Evelyn Moore, the socialite known for ‘sponsoring’ hot, young talent. Drawn to his talent and undeniable allure, Evelyn offers him a lucrative arrangement—her financial support in exchange for his companionship. Hyunjin accepts but refuses to be fully owned, turning their dynamic into a game of power, seduction, and control.

Hyunjin x Original Character (f); Hyunjin x Original Character (m); Hyunjin x Jeongin; Smut

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 16,685

A/N: Second of my two Hyunjin birthday fics. This is the dirty one. (The cute one can be found here.) Enjoy!

Also, this is in the same universe as my other story Chef's Kiss (Evelyn Moore is the owner of Saffron and Thyme).

The gallery hummed with the quiet murmur of conversation, the clinking of champagne flutes, the soft shuffle of designer heels against polished marble. Evelyn Moore had been to countless events like this—lavish showcases where the elite mingled, pretending to understand the art they purchased more for status than appreciation.

Evelyn stepped into the gallery, and the room shifted, drawn into her orbit. Her hair was swept into a dark halo, her skin luminous under the soft lighting. Hyunjin watched as she paused, her gaze arrested by the portrait that dominated the far wall. The painting had stopped her in her tracks. He felt a thrill as her lips parted, and he wondered if she was aware of the eyes following her every move, or if she cared.

The painting was a clash of vivid strokes and raw emotion, an abstract portrait, undeniably sensual that seemed to pulse with life. It was the first thing anyone saw when they entered the gallery, but it was more than just its size that commanded attention. Deep strokes of crimson and black melded into the suggestion of a body, the barest hint of parted lips, a hand pressed against unseen skin. It wasn’t just art. It was desire captured in motion.

Evelyn moved closer, drawn in by the chaos of color and texture. Her expression was one of intrigue, and she tilted her head, studying the way the lines seemed to twist and turn in on themselves, almost like they were moving. Hyunjin had poured himself into the piece, and seeing her captivated by it sent a jolt of satisfaction through him. He imagined the way it must look through her eyes—untamed yet controlled, beautiful yet unsettling.

He approached her, his movements fluid and unhurried. His voice, smooth and laced with amusement, interrupted her thoughts. “You like it?”

Evelyn turned, her dark eyes meeting his. She blinked, a flicker of surprise passing over her features as she took him in.

Hyunjin Hwang was stunning—long, wavy, ink-dark hair tied loosely at the nape, sharp cheekbones, and full lips curled into a smirk that suggested he knew exactly what effect he had on people. He was young, mid-twenties, with an effortless confidence that most men twice his age could only pretend to possess.

Hyunjin was used to that reaction, the way people often paused, recalibrating when faced with his striking appearance. He let it hang in the air between them, a moment of silent recognition, before speaking.

“I do,” Evelyn said, lifting her glass to her lips.

"It's always interesting to see which pieces draw people in," Hyunjin said, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Her gaze lingered on him, and he saw the spark of curiosity there, mingling with something more. "It's stunning," she replied, her voice smooth and cultured. "And completely unlike anything I've seen before."

Hyunjin took a step closer, letting the proximity build a subtle tension. "I'm glad it caught your eye."

Evelyn's lips curved, an elegant arc that spoke of amusement and interest. She leaned in and peered at the label to the right of the canvas to read the artist’s name. "Hyunjin Hwang," she said, the name rolling off her tongue with a familiarity that suggested she'd done her homework. She eyed him. "Your reputation precedes you."

He gave a small, playful shrug, as if to say he couldn't help it. "I could say the same, Evelyn Moore."

Her laugh was soft, a mere suggestion of sound. "I suppose that's true." She glanced back at the painting, then at him. "It's yours, then."

"Every last stroke," Hyunjin confirmed, watching her reaction carefully. She was everything he'd expected—poised, confident, and utterly unflappable. But there was a gleam in her eyes now, a new interest sparked by the realization that the artist was as captivating as the art.

“It’s… provocative. And absolutely stunning. Though I imagine that’s exactly what you expected to hear.”

Hyunjin chuckled, tilting his head as he studied her with an intensity that sent a slow heat curling through her stomach. “Not necessarily. People either love my work or think it’s indulgent nonsense.” His gaze flickered back to the painting. “I paint what I feel. If that resonates, then great.” He looked at her again, this time with something unreadable in his expression. “I take it you like the way I feel.”

Evelyn arched a brow. Bold. She liked that.

Evelyn's eyes darted between him and the canvas. "The raw emotion," she said finally. "It's... visceral. Primal. Like looking at the essence of desire made tangible."

Hyunjin felt a thrill run through him at her words. Most people saw only the technical skill, the composition. But she got it, the core of what he was trying to convey.

"That's exactly what I was going for," he said softly. "Stripping away pretense, exposing the animal beneath the clothes and manners."

Their eyes met and held. Hyunjin could practically feel the electricity crackling between them.

Evelyn broke the silence first. "You're very talented, Mr. Hwang. And..." her gaze raked over him again, unabashedly hungry this time. "Clearly your own best model."

Hyunjin laughed, low and throaty. "I do enjoy... exploring the human form. In all its variations."

He let the silence stretch, comfortable and charged.

Before she could respond, another voice chimed in, breaking the moment.

“Hyunjin, are you flirting with a potential buyer again?”

A young man—shorter, bright-eyed, with tousled dirty blond hair—grinned as he joined them. Jeongin moved with an easy grace, his slight frame clad in a mix of thrifted designer and streetwear. A beanie perched on his head, contrasting with the sharpness of his wire-rimmed glasses. His energy was playful, easy. He nudged Hyunjin with his elbow.

“Evelyn Moore, meet my best friend and the real troublemaker of this gallery,” Hyunjin introduced, rolling his eyes. “Jeongin Yang.”

Evelyn extended a hand, offering Jeongin a knowing smile. “Charming to meet you. Are you really the troublemaker?”

Jeongin shook her hand, his grip firm yet teasing. “Only in the best way.” He gestured toward a collection of framed photographs behind him. “I specialize in capturing the world through my lens. Less paint, more light.”

“He’s a phenomenal photographer,” Hyunjin cooed. “I think you’d really like his stuff.”

Evelyn arched a brow, her interest clearly piqued by the newcomer. "Photographer, huh?"

Jeongin cast a quick glance at Hyunjin, a silent acknowledgment of his friend's promotional efforts. "Guilty as charged," he said, his tone dry and playful. "But don't hold it against me."

Evelyn laughed, the sound fuller this time, and Hyunjin could see the way she assessed Jeongin as her gaze swept over him—sharp and quick, taking in his understated artistic style and the quiet ambition beneath. She was intrigued, and he knew she wouldn't resist taking a closer look at what Jeongin had to offer.

"Jeongin here is incredibly talented," Hyunjin said, placing a hand on the small of Jeongin's back. He savored the familiar warmth and he knew Jeongin secretly liked it when Hyunjin touched him like this. "His work captures the raw, unfiltered essence of his subjects. It's really quite remarkable."

Jeongin quirked an eyebrow. "Don't oversell it, Jinnie. I just point and click."

Hyunjin laughed, the sound rich and musical. "Ever the humble artist."

"If this one’s talking up your work," Evelyn said, her gaze flicking between the two of them, "then I'm curious."

"Then we should show you. Come." Hyunjin replied, grabbing her hand firmly to lead her deeper into the gallery. “I think you'll be impressed, Evelyn.” He walked with purpose, Jeongin and Evelyn flanking him, the three of them an eclectic trio that turned heads as they passed.

Evelyn walked over to the wall, taking in Jeongin’s work—striking black-and-white images with a raw, almost voyeuristic intimacy. She wasn’t sure she would have bought one before, but something about Hyunjin’s lingering gaze on her made her want to indulge them both.

They stopped in front of a large-format black and white photograph, its composition striking and evocative. It depicted a nude figure, their face obscured, curled in on themselves as if in pain or ecstasy. The play of light and shadow emphasized every curve and plane. Jeongin's eye for detail was evident in the way the image seemed to tell a story, layers of meaning and emotion captured in a single frame. Evelyn stood in silence, absorbing the piece with the same intensity she'd shown for Hyunjin's work.

"Exquisite, isn't it?" Hyunjin murmured in her ear, his eyes on Evelyn's face to gauge her reaction.

She stepped closer, drinking in the details. "It's beautiful," she said finally, and Hyunjin saw the way Jeongin's face lit up, pleased and a little surprised by the praise. "Evocative. There's an undercurrent of vulnerability, yet also strength. Quite compelling."

"Thank you," Jeongin replied, his voice sincere and a touch shy. "It's called 'Duality'," he said quietly. "An exploration of the masks we wear and the truths we hide."

Evelyn's lips curved into a slow smile. "How much?"

Hyunjin blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected her to be so direct. But then, Evelyn Moore, from what he had heard, was a woman who knew what she wanted.

"It's not actually for sa—" Jeongin began, but Hyunjin cut him off with a subtle squeeze to his arm.

"I'm sure we could work something out," Hyunjin said smoothly. "Jeongin's work is in high demand, but for the right collector..." He trailed off suggestively.

Evelyn's eyes gleamed. "Name your price."

Hyunjin could practically see the wheels turning in her head. This wasn't just about the photograph – it was a power play. Evelyn's choice was deliberate, a move to endear herself to him, to curry favor with him by supporting his friend, investing in his friend's success. Clever. It was a gesture that showed her understanding of the dynamics at play, and he found himself even more drawn to her because of it.

He grinned, then named an obscene amount, more than triple what the piece was actually worth, knowing that Jeongin would undervalue himself. Evelyn didn't even blink.

"Done," she said, reaching into her clutch for her checkbook. "I look forward to hanging it in my penthouse. Perhaps you could both come by sometime to see how I've displayed it."

The invitation hung in the air, laden with possibility. Hyunjin felt a thrill of anticipation curl in his gut.

"We'd be delighted," he purred, his gaze locked with Evelyn's. The sexual tension between them was palpable. He felt Jeongin nudge him, a wordless thank you.

"I'll have my assistant handle the details," she said, already moving toward the next exhibit.

“Thank you Ms. Moore. This was truly unexpected,” Jeongin said.

“Please call me Evelyn, darling. And exceptional work always deserves to be recognized and appreciated.”

Jeongin nodded uncomfortably, not as great at receiving compliments as Hyunjin was. "If you'll excuse me, I need to inform the gallery owner of the sale."

As he walked away, Hyunjin turned his full attention back to Evelyn. "Now, where were we?" he murmured, stepping closer. Her perfume enveloped him – jasmine and sandalwood with an undertone of raw, animal musk. It made his mouth water.

Evelyn's lips parted slightly. "I believe you were about to tell me more about your... artistic process." She glanced at him with a knowing look.

Hyunjin grinned, the promise of future meetings hanging in the air like the scent of expensive perfume. She was everything he wanted and more—a challenge, a patron, and possibly something else entirely.

The game was on.

As they walked through the gallery slowly, they discussed the art, each giving their interpretations and opinions. An hour passed easily.

A waiter walked by, refilling their champagne.

Hyunjin's eyes locked with Evelyn's as she leaned in close, her perfume intoxicating.

"I simply must have you paint my portrait," she purred, trailing a finger down his arm.

Her invitation dripped with promise. Hyunjin felt a familiar thrill, knowing exactly what game she was playing. He'd danced this dance before.

"I'd be honored," he replied with a coy smile. "Though I typically bring my assistant to help with setup."

It wasn't entirely a lie — Jeongin often did assist him. But Hyunjin also wanted his friend there, wanted him to reap some of the benefits, especially as it seemed she might like Jeongin too.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Of course, darling. Whatever makes you comfortable. I’ll send more details tomorrow.”

As Evelyn sauntered away to mingle, Hyunjin turned to look for Jeongin.

****

The invitation was handwritten on thick, creamy paper, and the address alone spoke volumes. Hyunjin traced the embossed letters with a fingertip, feeling the weight of the proposition. A private commission, it said, though he knew better than to think that was all it would be. Evelyn was testing him, seeing if he would play her game, and he felt the familiar thrill of anticipation mixed with the itch of rebellion.

He tossed the card onto the table where Jeongin sat hunched over his laptop, editing a batch of photos.

"Looks like I'm being summoned," Hyunjin said, watching for his friend's reaction.

Jeongin pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, glancing at the card. "Big surprise," he replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You going?"

Hyunjin shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Thinking about it. Want to come with?"

Jeongin snorted. "To watch you and the cougar circle each other like horny lions? Hard pass."

"Come on, I need you there," Hyunjin pleaded as he walked over to Jeongin and sat across his lap dramatically.

It was an honest offer, one Jeongin knew came from a place of genuine friendship and loyalty. But they both understood the unspoken dynamics, the undercurrents of Hyunjin's world that Jeongin genuinely wanted no parts of. Would he accept the charity and share in the spoils? Sure. But he wasn’t interested in being part of the ‘package’ being purchased.

"That's sweet, Jinnie," Jeongin said, a teasing lilt to his voice. “We both know what she wants from you," he continued with a wry smile. "And it's not my awkward ass third-wheeling. Go enjoy yourself, you idiot. I think you can handle the big bad sugar mama on your own."

“But I want you there,” Hyunjin whined as he nuzzled his nose into Jeongin’s neck and kissed it softly. Jeongin didn’t react, fully aware of the games Hyunjin liked to play. When he didn’t get the response he wanted, Hyunjin sighed dramatically. "Fine, abandon me to the wolves," he said with a pout.

"Please, you love being the sexy prey," Jeongin teased.

Hyunjin threw his head back and laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained. "Suit yourself. But if I come back with a new Porsche, don’t expect a ride."

Jeongin rolled his eyes as he pushed Hyunjin off his lap, though Hyunjin saw the affection there, the encouragement beneath the sarcasm. "Go get that bread, sugar baby. Enjoy the fancy penthouse and the fancy lady," Jeongin said, turning back to his screen. "Just don't let her chew you up and spit you out."

Hyunjin knew it was a joke, but the words stayed with him as he made his way to Evelyn's address the following day. The building was a tower of glass and steel, a monument to wealth and power. He rode the elevator to the top floor, the numbers climbing higher and higher until they finally stopped with a soft chime. The doors opened, and he stepped into another world.

Evelyn's penthouse was a study in opulence, all sleek lines and minimalist elegance. The view stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling beneath like a playground for the rich and powerful. Hyunjin took it in with an artist's eye, appreciating the way it all seemed designed to impress and intimidate. But he wouldn't be intimidated. Not by Evelyn, and not by the luxury that surrounded her.

"Hyunjin," she greeted him, appearing from the depths of the apartment with a glass of wine in hand. She wore a long silk robe, black, that clung to her curves, understated yet devastatingly effective. "I'm glad you came."

He gave her a lazy smile, letting his gaze linger on her before taking the offered drink. "Hi Evelyn. Your home is... breathtaking," he said, his eyes roving over her body. “And I was curious."

"About the commission," she said, her tone making it clear that she knew that wasn't all he was curious about.

"Among other things," Hyunjin replied as he licked his lips.

Effortlessly, she led him to a nook by the window overlooking the cityscape. "We'll start here," she said, gesturing to a plush chaise. "You may begin anytime."

He found a spot where the light was good, and as Evelyn settled onto the chaise, he set his bag down and pulled out a sketchpad. Evelyn looked poised and perfect, as if she'd been born in that very position.

He began to sketch, his pencil moving in quick, assured strokes. The act of drawing her was intimate, an observation that went beyond skin deep, and he could feel the tension in the air, a live wire of possibility.

As he worked, Hyunjin was acutely aware of Evelyn's gaze on him. He could feel the electricity crackling between them, just like at the gallery. His heart raced, but he focused on his sketch, capturing every detail of her alluring form as he traced slow lines across his sketchpad.

"So, Hyunjin," Evelyn purred, breaking the silence. "Tell me, how do you like the city so far? You’ve been here, what? Six months?"

He didn't look up. "Closer to a year. It's... intense. But I like it."

"I bet," she said, her voice dripping with innuendo. "I heard you're quite the sensation. 'Untamed Hwang' they call you."

Hyunjin smirked. "You've done your research."

"Well, it pays to know the talent," she purred. They slipped into an easy silence again.

Hyunjin continued to sketch. He had been at this for nearly an hour, capturing her in ways she wasn’t used to being seen.

“You keep looking at me like that,” she murmured, “but I don’t think you’re seeing me at all.”

Evelyn crossed one leg over the other, her silk robe parting just enough to reveal smooth skin. His eyes flickered toward the movement, his hand stilling against the paper.

Hyunjin smirked. “Maybe I’m seeing more of you than you realize.”

"Is this how you usually work?" Evelyn asked, watching him with those sharp, knowing eyes.

Hyunjin looked up from the paper, meeting her gaze. "Depends on the subject," he said, letting the words hang suggestively between them.

She smiled, a slow curve that spoke of satisfaction and something more. "And how long does a portrait like this usually take?"

"That depends too," Hyunjin answered, his voice low and full of meaning. "On how much time you're willing to give me."

Evelyn laughed, a throaty, genuine sound that filled the space around them. "I see," she said, clearly enjoying the game. "Speaking of which, I have an... proposition for you."

Sensing where this was going, Hyunjin's heart raced faster. He pretended to concentrate on his sketching, but his cock twitched with interest.

"Oh?" he said casually.

She leaned forward slightly, allowing the tops of her bosom to peak out from the robe. “I want to make you an offer.”

Hyunjin finally set the sketchpad aside, resting an elbow on his knee as he regarded her. “An offer?”

"Yes, Hyunjin, I want you," Evelyn purred, her voice husky with desire. "As my exclusive artist, and... more."

Hyunjin smiled wickedly. "And more?" he asked playfully as he raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, you know what I mean," she said, her eyes darkening. "I’ll support your career,” Evelyn said, voice measured. “Help you get the exposure you deserve. In exchange…” She let the implication hang between them.

Hyunjin exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You think you can buy me?”

“No,” Evelyn said. “I think we can both get what we want. You'd have everything you could ever want. Fame, fortune, a life of luxury. All I ask is your... companionship."

Hyunjin's mind raced with the possibilities. His cock, however, was already making the decision for him. "I'll think about it," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. But both of them knew it was already a done deal.

"Then perhaps we should discuss the terms."

"The terms," Hyunjin echoed, leaning back and crossing his arms, as if to say he wasn't afraid of what was coming next.

"You must know I don't just collect art," Evelyn said, her eyes never leaving his face. "I collect artists too."

Hyunjin didn't flinch, didn't look away. "I had a feeling."

"And yet you're here."

He let a small, enigmatic smile play on his lips. "I like to know what I'm getting into."

"Do you?" Evelyn asked, a challenge in her voice. "Or do you just like getting into things?"

He laughed, the sound rich and confident. "Both."

She uncrossed her legs, leaning forward with an intensity that matched his own. "I want you, Hyunjin. In every sense of the word."

The words were blunt, raw, and exactly what he'd expected. He admired her for not sugarcoating it, for being as direct and unapologetic as he was. "And what does that look like?" he asked, playing along, savoring the dance of power and desire.

"It looks like this," Evelyn said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a check. She held it out to him, a silent dare, a test of how far he was willing to go.

Hyunjin took it, glancing at the number and feeling a jolt of something electric. His lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. Ten thousand dollars. Enough to fund his art for two months. Enough to remind him of exactly what this was—a transaction, an arrangement, a game he was more than willing to play.

“Ten thousand dollars?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “That’s all I’m worth to you?”

Evelyn met his gaze, unflinching. “It’s just a starting bid. I’m offering you a monthly stipend, a bungalow that I’ll rent for you, dedicated wall space in the gallery I co-own, and I’ll sponsor your own exhibition. I’ll also introduce you to the most influential people in the art world and lots of potential buyers.” Her words dripped with the promise of fortune and fame. “In return, I want you… whenever I want you.”

Hyunjin feigned surprise, but his cock strained against his pants, betraying his interest. Then Hyunjin chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m flattered, Evelyn.” A beat of silence.

"I told you what I want. What would you want from me?" Evelyn asked, her voice softer now, as if she already knew the answer.

He folded the check carefully, slipping it into his back pocket with a grace that was all his own. "I want to be kept… and full creative control over my art. Plain and simple," Hyunjin said, meeting her gaze with a mix of challenge and acceptance. “You should know something before we do this,” he said, voice low as he reached out, fingers tracing the bare skin of her thigh. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Evelyn nodded, her expression one of approval and something else—something that suggested she was looking forward to the struggle of trying to tame him. Her breath hitched slightly at his touch, but she didn’t break. “Then let’s not pretend this is anything more than what it is. Does that work for you?”

“That works for me,” Hyunjin whispered.

"Then we have a deal."

Hyunjin studied her, dark eyes gleaming with something almost dangerous. Then, without another word, he closed the space between them, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that was all heat and defiance.

Their arrangement had begun.

Evelyn's skin was soft and warm under his fingers, her robe a whisper as he slid it from her shoulders, revealing her smooth skin. She moved against him, all fluid grace and practiced elegance, but he could feel the urgency beneath it, the way she was as hungry for him as he was for her. Her lips found his neck, her breath hot and quick, and he let out a low sound that was almost a growl.

With deliberate slowness, Hyunjin’s shirt was peeled away, landing softly on the floor, while Evelyn’s hands roamed greedily over the defined planes of his chest and the sculpted hardness of his stomach. Her fingers deftly worked at the buttons of his jeans until she pulled them down in one fluid, determined motion. Then she turned to his briefs, designer, the signature Greek Key pattern of Versace etched along the band. Her eyes lit up at the sight of his cock straining against the fabric, and she swiftly freed it with a confident smile.

Rising with a commanding energy, she gently pushed him back onto the chaise, straddling him with a confidence that was as arousing as it was unsurprising. She positioned the tip of Hyunjin’s throbbing cock at her entrance.

"You're fucking beautiful," she breathed, her voice raw and trembling as she slid herself down his dick, sighing as he entered her. Hyunjin felt a surge of satisfaction at the awe in her words and the feeling of her moist warmth encasing him.

Hyunjin flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him, and she gasped, the sound turning into a laugh that was pure delight. "I know," he replied, his mouth on hers, swallowing her words before they could form. He started to thrust into her slowly.

He took his time, teasing her, letting his hands roam over her body, learning every inch of her. Her skin tasted like salt and expensive perfume, and she arched into him, demanding more, always more. He obliged, his touch firm and sure, until she was trembling beneath him, her composure slipping, her control unraveling.

"Hyunjin," she breathed, a plea and a command, and he knew exactly what she wanted.

He shifted, pulling her up so she was on top of him again, her hair falling around them like a dark curtain as she rode him. Her nails raked down his chest, and he hissed, the sting mingling with the pleasure in a way that made him dizzy.

Evelyn ground against him, a rhythm that was slow and torturous, and he grabbed her hips to set a faster pace. She moaned, the sound raw and uninhibited, and he reveled in the knowledge that he was the one making her come undone.

"Fuck," she gasped, and he couldn't tell if it was a curse or a demand or both.

He rolled them over again. He removed himself from her, then flipped her over, pushing her onto her stomach, her cheek pressed against the soft velvet fabric of the chaise, her pale ass jutting upward—a plump, quivering peach glistening with sweat. She looked back at him, her eyes dark with want, and he felt the last threads of restraint snap.

"Don't stop," she said, and he didn't. He hiked her ass up higher in the air and plunged his dick back into her sopping hole with a single, vicious thrust, balls-deep, her tight walls clamping down like a greedy fist. He set a rapid rhythm then slapped her ass hard enough to leave a crimson handprint blooming across her flesh, leaving no doubt about who was now in charge. She gasped but eagerly pushed back against him.

“Fuck… fuck! You take it like a goddamn pornstar,” he snarled, fingers digging bruises into her hips as he pistoned into her, the obscene slap-slap-slap of their bodies echoing off the penthouse walls. He moved inside her, deep and hard, pulling her back to meet every thrust. She cried out, a sound that was equal parts surrender and triumph, and he wondered if she'd ever been fucked like this, if anyone had ever dared to take her the way he was taking her now.

“This is what you wanted, right? Wanted me to wreck this pretty little pussy?” Each word dripped with malice, his breath scalding her ear as he fucked her harder, deeper, the head of his cock grinding against her cervix. She babbled nonsense, drool pooling on the chaise, her orgasm already coiling tight—he could feel it, the way her cunt tensed and fluttered around him, milking him like a bitch in heat.

He whispered in her ear again, his words hot and rough. "Cum for me, Evelyn," he whispered in a singsong voice. He peppered the back of her neck with gentle kisses, then bit into the soft skin.

She shattered, a broken, beautiful thing beneath him. He continued to fuck her roughly through her orgasm. As he felt himself getting closer too, he leaned down to whisper again. “I’m about to cum, baby. Is it okay to cum inside you or should I pull out?”

“Fill me up, beautiful,” she said in between moans. “I’m not a fucking co-ed.” Hyunjin smirked and followed her instructions. As he tumbled over the edge, the world blurred, the city lights spinning, everything reduced to the pure, unrelenting pleasure of the moment. He withdrew then collapsed alongside her.

They lay tangled together, the air cooling around them, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Evelyn turned her head, her lips curving into a satisfied, wicked smile. "I knew you'd be worth it."

Hyunjin laughed, a soft, sated sound. "You have no idea."

She shifted, propping up her chin on her fist. "And you?" she asked, her tone teasing and curious. "Was it worth it to you?"

"Ask me in the morning," Hyunjin said, pulling her back to him, already feeling the stirrings of desire.

The penthouse was quiet around them, the city a distant hum, the lights a soft glow. They didn't need words to understand what they had—a game, a partnership, a beautiful, reckless thing that was theirs to shape and define. Hyunjin closed his eyes, the scent of Evelyn and sex and triumph filling his senses, and let himself drift into a contented, unburdened sleep.

****

Hyunjin stepped out of the limousine, the cameras flashing like a summer storm, and felt the rush of attention soak through him. Evelyn was already on the sidewalk, her arm reaching for his, a perfectly sculpted smile on her lips. They made a striking pair—her in a backless crimson dress that turned heads and Hyunjin in a sleek black suit that clung to his long, lean frame. The photographers couldn't get enough, their shouts a chaotic symphony as they made their way toward the grand entrance.

The ballroom stretched before them like a lavish painting, all gold and ivory with chandeliers dripping crystal. Laughter and conversation mingled in the air, a well-bred hum that underscored the evening's elegance. Hyunjin soaked in the scene, his eyes flitting from the towering floral arrangements to the waitstaff gliding through the crowd with trays of champagne. The guests were a parade of high society, each more opulently dressed than the last, their jewels catching the light in dazzling bursts. This was Evelyn's world, and he wore it like a second skin.

Jeongin was already there, looking both out of place and right at home in one of Hyunjin's designer suits. It hung on him a bit loose, the charcoal gray contrasting with his delicate features and wire-rimmed glasses. Where Hyunjin was polished and poised, Jeongin was all understated cool, the thrifted tie and limited edition sneakers adding a rebellious touch to the formal affair. But he fit, slipping through the crowd with an easy grace, his quiet ambition evident in every sidelong glance at the art adorning the walls.

Hyunjin wasted no time diving into the sea of guests, Evelyn's arm still looped through his as they navigated the room. His charisma was electric, drawing people to him in waves. He flirted shamelessly, each smile and laugh a challenge to Evelyn's control. She introduced him to patrons and collectors, but it was Hyunjin who left them dazzled, his dark eyes and teasing words lingering long after they moved on. He knew she was watching, her poise a thin veneer over the jealousy he could feel simmering beneath.

Jeongin rejoined them after making his own rounds, and Hyunjin's attention shifted, the air between them crackling with a familiar energy. Their glances were quick and charged, a private conversation that needed no words. A brush of fingers as Jeongin passed him a drink, a shared smirk at something Evelyn said—each moment a spark that fanned the flames of Evelyn's unease.

She had always wondered about the two of them, wondered if there was something more between them beyond being roommates. Jeongin seemed enamored with Hyunjin, but then again, wasn't everyone? The man was otherworldly. But it was the way Hyunjin looked back at certain times, like he wanted to swallow the young man whole. Whether they had something in the past, or in the more recent future, she wasn't sure.

What she was sure about was that Hyunjin was flirting hard with everything in the room that had a pulse, and even harder with the rich ones. She maintained her composure, but her sharp, cutting remarks grew more frequent, thinly veiled barbs that betrayed her growing frustration.

The room buzzed around them, but Hyunjin was the center of gravity. His art was gaining recognition, and with it, whispers of independence that Evelyn couldn't ignore. She watched as he moved through the crowd, her carefully constructed world shifting with each flirtatious exchange he had. Hyunjin could feel the balance tipping, his own desires suddenly within reach, and he reveled in it.

After watching him whisper seductively into the ear of the Mayor's wife, causing her to giggle while his hand grazed her lower back, Evelyn pulled him aside, her smile as tight as the grip on his arm. They found a quiet corner, the noise of the gala a distant echo.

"You're quite the sensation tonight," she said, her voice smooth but laced with something darker.

Hyunjin leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "You sound surprised," he replied, the challenge in his tone unmistakable.

She met his gaze, her dark eyes piercing and unyielding. "You should be careful not to spread yourself too thin, Jinnie. Some people don't like to share."

He laughed, a soft, dismissive sound. "You never seemed to mind before."

Her composure wavered, just for a moment, and he saw the flicker of something raw beneath.

But she recovered quickly, her expression turning cool and calculating. "Don't get too comfortable," she warned, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I made you, and I can just as easily unmake you."

Hyunjin smirked, unperturbed by her threats. "We'll see about that." Hyunjin knew his art spoke for itself, with or without a financial backer. And if Evelyn didn’t want to give him money any more, Hyunjin had already identified several others who would.

They rejoined the party, the tension between them a live wire that sparked with every glance and touch. Hyunjin felt the power shifting, his growing recognition, albeit thanks to Evelyn, giving him a leverage he could use. Evelyn was still the queen of this world, but he was no longer content to be just another toy. The thought of wielding his own power thrilled him.

****

Evelyn's heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she approached the bungalow, her stride purposeful and her mind set on one thing. The night air was cool, a stark contrast to the heat simmering beneath her polished exterior. She hadn't planned on coming here tonight, but after her third dirty martini, she felt that familiar pulse between her legs. Also, the sight of Hyunjin flirting his way through the gala the previous weekend had unsettled something deep within her. This visit was a reminder, a calculated move to reassert her place in his life.

She knocked three times on the door and waited. After a minute passed, she depressed the handle and pushed the antique door open. Her name was on the lease, so she had every right to enter. The bungalow was quiet inside, the only sound the distant hum of the city behind her.

“Hello?” she called out as she stepped into the structure. She took a quick peek outside to confirm that she had seen Hyunjin’s Jeep Wrangler Hybrid outside. It was there, along with another car. She shut the front door and walked to Hyunjin’s room. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorknob, then pushed inside.

The scene that greeted her was not what she expected. The air reeked of sweat and spilled lube. Hyunjin was in bed, his long hair disheveled, a dark tangle against white sheets, his body entwined with another man's. Charles Blackwood, the wealthy CEO in his early 60s she had introduced him to a few months ago, was on his knees, mouth opened wide in pleasure as Hyunjin fucked him slowly from behind. Charles’ fat, hairy ass clenched around Hyunjin’s cock like a greedy fucking vice, the CEO’s meaty thighs trembling as Hyunjin’s pelvis cracked against them with the wet slap of skin on skin.

Hyunjin’s black hair clung to his neck in damp ropes, his lean torso glistening under the bedroom’s gold-hued lights as he gripped Charles’ hips tightly. The old man’s face mashed into the silk sheets, spit pooling under his slack mouth as Hyunjin’s thick, veined dick stretched him open—inch by relentless inch—with the kind of rough patience that had Charles mewling like a teenager losing his virginity. Charles’ pink, wrinkled hole fluttered around Hyunjin’s shaft, sucking him deeper as he ground his hips in slow circles, savoring the tight, quivering heat. Hyunjin’s smirk was a razor blade as he watched spit string from Charles’ lips to the rumpled linens.

When Evelyn’s gasp of shock cut through the room, Charles looked up in alarm, his distinguished face flushing with surprise and something close to shame.

Evelyn stood frozen, her eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief. The air was thick with sex and betrayal, and for a moment, all she could do was stare, watching as Hyunjin’s balls slapped against Charles’ taint. Then the anger came, hot and consuming, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

"So this is what you meant by networking, Jinnie?" Her voice trembled, but her gaze lingered on the sweat dripping down Hyunjin’s abs, the way Charles’ hole glistened around his base.

Hyunjin glanced over his shoulder, finally noticing her, utterly unruffled with his cock still buried to the hilt in Charles’ quivering ass, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he met Evelyn’s wide-eyed stare. Evelyn’s designer blouse clung to her heaving tits, lips painted the same furious red as her cheeks. He’d always loved how her nostrils flared when she was pissed—like a thoroughbred about to bolt.

"Didn't know you were stopping by, Ev. Can you come back later?" He hadn’t stopped, his hips rolling in a lazy, obscene grind that made Charles whimper. Hyunjin ran his fingers through Charles’ thinning hair tenderly, before tugging his head back to expose his flushed throat. “Mr. Blackwood here’s been very generous with his… connections.” He leaned down to kiss Charles’ neck gently.

Charles shifted uncomfortably, his bravado crumbling under Evelyn's fierce gaze. He disentangled himself from Hyunjin, mumbling an apology as he rolled off the bed to gather his clothes. Evelyn's eyes burned with fury, but she turned on her heel and left, the bedroom door slamming behind her with a finality that shook the walls.

Hyunjin watched her go, then turned back to Charles, hoping to salvage the encounter. “You don’t have to run, daddy,” he cooed as he reached out to grasp Charles’ hand and brought it to his mouth.

But the interruption had soured the mood. Charles, already dressing, yanked his hand away, his fingers fumbling with buttons and cufflinks. "That was... unexpected," he said, his voice strained.

"Don't worry about it," Hyunjin replied, stretching lazily. "She'll get over it."

Charles managed a weak smile, but the earlier heat was gone, replaced by a nervous energy that made him seem smaller somehow. “This is for you,” he said as he placed a shiny black gift bag on the dresser. “Hopefully it’s the one you wanted. If not, call my assistant and he can replace it easily. I'll call you this weekend, doll," he promised. "Maybe we can continue then, uninterrupted. In private."

Hyunjin nodded, hiding his disappointment behind a casual shrug. "Sure thing, Chuck."

Charles leaned down and kissed Hyunjin on the lips, then left in a hurry, his footsteps echoing down the hall as he headed to the front door. Hyunjin watched Charles pull the door closed behind him, the gift bag a consolation prize that only half satisfied.

He knew Charles would be back; they always came back. But it was Evelyn he was thinking about, her anger and the threat it posed to his carefully balanced world.

Evelyn sat in her car, the engine off and her mind racing. She hadn't expected this, hadn't thought Hyunjin would be so brazen. But the sight of him with Charles had stoked a fire in her, a need to reassert control before it slipped entirely from her grasp.

She saw Charles leave, his exit a cold reminder of her own humiliation, and something in her snapped. Without another thought, she marched back to the bungalow, her heels stabbing the ground with renewed purpose.

Hyunjin was sprawled on the bed staring at the ceiling, naked, the sheet barely covering his crotch as he palmed his dick lazily, when she burst back in. Her entrance was a storm of anger and elegance, the door swinging shut with a force that rattled the windows.

"You have some nerve," she spat, her voice trembling with barely contained rage.

He sat up slowly, unfazed by her fury. "You said you wanted me to make connections," he replied, his tone light but edged with defiance.

"Not like this," she shot back, her eyes flashing. "Do you have any idea what you're risking?"

Hyunjin stood, baring his full body as he crossed the room with the lazy grace of a cat. "I'm not risking anything," he said, his voice low and calm. He stopped at the dresser and peaked into the gift bag. Charles had bought him a top of line DSLR camera. It wasn’t actually for him; it was for Jeongin, but Charles didn’t need to know that. He removed the box from the bag and set it on the dresser. "You're the one who showed up unannounced."

Evelyn's composure cracked, her control slipping like sand through her fingers. "I thought I made myself clear, Hyunjin. You're mine, exclusively. You're playing a dangerous game, and it's going to blow up in your face."

He laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that cut through her anger like a knife. He looked up from the bag and locked eyes with her. "That's not the arrangement we have, darling. You're not my mother, Ev. And you certainly don't get to tell me who I can and can't fuck."

The words hung between them, raw and brutal. Evelyn's hands were trembling, her carefully constructed facade crumbling under the weight of his defiance. She had never lost control like this with one of her toys, never let anyone push her so far. But Hyunjin was different, and she hated him for it.

"If you think I won't walk away from this, you're wrong," she warned, her voice a deadly whisper. "There are lots of other men who would love to be in your position and happy to play by the rules. I'll pull my funding for your show, take back this bungalow, stop everything. Don't test me."

Hyunjin held her gaze, unflinching and unrepentant. "You won't," he said simply, the certainty in his voice infuriating and unshakeable as he walked to Evelyn. "You like me too much,” he said teasingly as he grabbed her hand and intertwined his fingers in hers. “I fuck you too well. I can fuck you now if you want. That’s why you came here, right?" He pulled her body close to his and hiked up her skirt, his fingers rubbing along the crotch of her silk panties. He smirked when he found the fabric soaked and gave her a look that loudly said, I knew it.

Evelyn turned away, disgusted, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she pulled her hand away from his, and shoved his other hand away from between her legs before storming out. The front door slammed behind her, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. Hyunjin stood alone, the camera box gleaming on the dresser, the uncertainty of his future looming large.

But he was sure she would calm down, sure she would come back.

They always came back.

Hyunjin flung open the door to Jeongin's room, the camera clutched in one hand and frustration clinging to him like a second skin. He found Jeongin hunched over his laptop, headphones perched on his head, oblivious to the storm that had brewed in the next room.

Hyunjin dropped onto the bed with dramatic flair, the springs protesting under his weight, and watched as Jeongin pushed the headphones off, curiosity and concern mingling in his gaze.

Jeongin’s eyes moved across Hyunjin’s body, taking in his bare chest and chiseled abs, as well as the way the black sweatpants hugged his thighs.

"What happened? Your daddy couldn’t keep it up?" Jeongin asked, his voice laced with the dry wit that always made Hyunjin smile.

Hyunjin tossed the box onto the bed between them, the plastic-covered package catching the light. "Evelyn," he said, the single word heavy with meaning. "She caught me fucking Charles and lost her mind."

Jeongin's eyes widened, a mix of amusement and disbelief. "I thought she liked to share."

"Apparently not when it's with her friends," Hyunjin replied, propping himself up on one elbow. "She threatened to pull my show and take back the bungalow. Can you believe that?"

Jeongin's expression shifted, a flicker of something serious passing over his features. If Evelyn took back the bungalow, they would be out on the streets. "You should take her seriously, Jinnie. If she follows through, we're fucking screwed."

Hyunjin waved a dismissive hand, confidence oozing from every pore. "She won't. She just needs to cool off."

Jeongin shook his head, skepticism etched into every line of his face. "I don't know, Hyunjin. She's not like the others. She could actually do it."

Hyunjin reached for the camera box, turning it over in his hands with practiced ease. "I'm not worried," he said, flashing a grin that was equal parts charm and defiance. "I'll make sure it doesn't come to that."

The certainty in his voice did little to ease Jeongin's concern, but he let it drop, his attention shifting to the gift Hyunjin had brought. "Is that for me?" he asked, his tone a careful mix of gratitude and hesitation.

Hyunjin nodded, tossing the box to him. "Chuck left it behind when he ran out with his tail between his legs. I requested it for you. I figured you'd put it to better use."

Jeongin opened the box and removed the camera. He studied it, his fingers tracing its contours with something close to reverence. "You didn't have to, you know. You don't need to gift me things. You don’t need to buy me."

"Who says I'm trying to buy you?" Hyunjin teased, watching Jeongin's reaction with keen interest. "Maybe I just like giving you gifts."

Jeongin's lips curved into a reluctant smile, but there was a shadow behind it, a lingering doubt that Hyunjin knew all too well. "I'd still be your friend even if you never gave me anything," Jeongin said, his voice softer now, more vulnerable.

Hyunjin moved closer, the bed shifting under his weight, the distance between them shrinking to nothing. "What if I want more than that?" he asked, his eyes locking onto Jeongin's with an intensity that left no room for misunderstanding.

Jeongin hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "You don't mean that," he said finally, though the conviction in his voice wavered. “You never want more than that.”

Hyunjin leaned in, his breath warm against Jeongin's skin. "I do," he insisted, the sincerity in his tone cutting through Jeongin's defenses. "I've always liked you more than a friend, Innie. You know that."

Their fingers brushed, and they felt a spark that jolted them. Hyunjin's lips found Jeongin's, the kiss a mix of tenderness and urgency that left them both breathless.

Jeongin melted against him, all hesitation dissolving in the heat of the moment. He hated when Hyunjin did this, when he played with him. But he could never fucking resist, despite how hard he tried.

"You know what I want, don't you?" Hyunjin whispered, his hands sliding under Jeongin's shirt, fingers tracing the smooth planes of his chest.

Jeongin nodded, his glasses askew and his heart pounding. "You're just using me to finish what you started with Charles," he said, the accusation half-hearted and tinged with desire.

"Is that a problem?" Hyunjin asked, his voice a seductive purr as he pushed Jeongin back onto the bed, pinning him beneath his weight. He kissed the tip of Jeongin’s nose before carefully removing his friend’s glasses and setting them on the bedside table.

Jeongin shook his head, the last of his resistance crumbling. "No," he admitted, his voice barely more than a breath. "Not for me."

Jeongin had been in love with Hyunjin since the first day they met in art school, and had only fallen deeper once they became friends. The relationship they had outside of their friendship was one borne of need and desire. Hyunjin had indulged Jeongin when Jeongin first confessed his feelings, kissing him and fucking him passionately. But the next morning, Hyunjin made it clear that although he adored Jeongin as a friend, he had no interest in being tied to a relationship. So they stayed friends and fucked occasionally.

Hyunjin grinned, a wicked, knowing smile that spoke volumes. "Good," he said, claiming Jeongin's mouth again with a hunger that bordered on desperation.

Their clothes came off in a tangle of limbs and fabric, Hyunjin's urgency matched by Jeongin's eager compliance. Hyunjin kissed his way down Jeongin's body, leaving a trail of heat in his wake, his lips and tongue exploring every inch of skin. He latched onto one of Jeongin’s nipples with a wet, sloppy suck, teeth scraping the tender bud. Jeongin gasped and writhed beneath him, the sounds spilling from his lips raw and unguarded.

Hyunjin's hands were everywhere, stroking and teasing, coaxing Jeongin to the brink and then pulling back, savoring the power he held over him. "You like this, don't you?" Hyunjin taunted, his voice a low, sultry drawl as he wrapped a hand around Jeongin's cock, pumping it with slow, deliberate strokes. His other hand found its way to Jeongin’s ass. After giving it a firm squeeze, he inserted a finger in Jeongin’s anus, moving it slowly in and out.

Jeongin moaned, his body arching into Hyunjin's touch. "Yes," he confessed, the word a plea and a surrender all at once. "Fuck, Hyunjin, yes." Hyunjin inserted a second finger, repeating the motions before he slipped in a third.

Hyunjin took his time, reveling in the way Jeongin fell apart under his touch, the way he responded to every caress and command. He wanted to prolong it, to drag it out until Jeongin was begging for release, but his own need was a relentless ache that demanded satisfaction.

He reached for the nightstand, retrieving a small bottle of lube, the motions practiced and efficient. Jeongin watched with hooded eyes, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as Hyunjin squeezed the lube onto his own cock, slicking it with quick, eager strokes.

Hyunjin positioned himself between Jeongin's legs, hoisting them on his broad shoulders, the angle deep and intimate. "Tell me you want it," Hyunjin commanded, his voice a rough whisper as he teased Jeongin's entrance with the tip of his cock.

"I want it," Jeongin gasped, his fingers digging into Hyunjin's arms, his need laid bare and unashamed. "I want you, Jinnie, please."

The first thrust was vicious—no mercy, no slow burn—the sensation overwhelming and electric, a perfect, dizzying slide that left them both breathless. Jeongin cried out, the sound ripped from his throat as Hyunjin fucked him with deep, measured thrusts, each one more forceful than the last.

The room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, of ragged breaths and muffled curses, the air heavy with the scent of sex and sweat. Hyunjin lost himself in it, the intensity of the moment consuming him, the pleasure building to a fever pitch that threatened to unravel him completely.

Jeongin's body trembled beneath him, every muscle taut and quivering, his moans a symphony of need and ecstasy. "I'm close," Jeongin warned, his voice breaking on the words, his hand moving to his own cock to match the rhythm of Hyunjin's thrusts.

"Do it," Hyunjin urged, his voice tight with restraint, the effort of holding back written in every line of his body. "Cum for me, Innie."

Jeongin's release hit him like a tidal wave, his body convulsing with the force of it, his hot and slick ejaculate spurting between them and landing on his stomach. The sight and feel of it pushed Hyunjin over the edge, his own climax crashing through him in a white-hot rush that left him reeling.

They collapsed together, limbs tangled and breaths mingling, the aftermath a haze of warmth and satisfaction. Hyunjin pulled out carefully and settled beside Jeongin, their skin sticking where it touched, a comfortable intimacy that spoke of long familiarity.

Jeongin turned to him, eyes bright and lips curving into a soft, contented smile. "You got what you wanted," he said, the words teasing but without malice. “Like always.” Hyunjin was one of those people who always failed upwards. He lived a charmed life where most of his wants and needs were met.

Hyunjin kissed him again, slow and languid, the urgency of before replaced by something deeper, more enduring. "Not yet," he murmured against Jeongin's mouth, his tone playful and possessive. "I’ll want it again."

Jeongin laughed, the sound low and rich, a promise and a challenge all at once. They had all night, and Hyunjin intended to use every second.

****

Hyunjin stood in the middle of his studio, his eyes flickering between the recently finished pieces that leaned against the walls. He held his phone with a tight grip, the kind that betrayed the tension simmering just beneath his skin. The voice on the other end was blunt, leaving no room for misinterpretation: there was a hold placed on the check for the caterer.

Chef Chris' words were clear and unrelenting, a splash of cold water against Hyunjin's senses. "You need to handle this, Jinnie. We can't proceed without the deposit, and the event's just around the corner."

Hyunjin felt his heart skip, then thud heavily in his chest. "Are you sure? It must be a mistake." But even as he spoke, he knew the truth. Evelyn was playing her games. She had warned him what would happen, but he hadn’t taken her seriously.

Chris' tone was impatient but kind, the clatter of a busy kitchen echoing behind him. "I knaur you're good for it,” he said in his Australian accent, “but the manager won’t let me schedule staff and allocate resources for the event without the deposit secured. Just talk to Evelyn,” his voice knowing. “She’ll probably sort it out for you. But if this isn't resolved soon, we'll have to pull out."

Panic bubbled up, hot and unwelcome. Hyunjin imagined the gala night, the empty space where the catering should be, the whispers about his reliability. He tried to steady his voice, but a tremor slipped through. "I'll fix it. Don't worry."

The call ended with Chris' firm reminder: "Two days, Hyunjin. No more."

Hyunjin stared at his phone, the screen dark and accusing. He was teetering on the edge of something disastrous. Evelyn's support was as unpredictable as it was essential, and the possibility that she might be pulling away sent a cold wave of fear through him. His reputation, the art show, everything he'd built over the past few months—teetering because of a cancelled check.

He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands in frustration. He had to act fast, had to stay in control, even as it slipped through his fingers like sand. He couldn't afford to lose this chance, not when everything was at stake.

He opened his email to find the invoice for Saffron and Thyme. The deposit was $1800. He could probably cover about a quarter of it easily from his own account, but the remaining $1300, he’d need help with. It wasn’t a large amount, so he was sure he could find someone else to cover it.

****

The bar was buzzing with energy, a low hum of conversations and clinking cups. Hyunjin sat across from DJ J. One, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the table. J. One was cool and relaxed, but his words were a punch to Hyunjin's gut: the payment hadn't gone through.

Hyunjin forced a smile, trying to match the DJ's easy going demeanor. "It's just a glitch," he said, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. "I'll sort it out right away."

J. One shrugged, his eyes hidden behind dark shades that reflected Hyunjin's tense expression. "I get it, man. These things happen. But I gotta protect my business too, you know?"

Hyunjin felt the familiar heat of panic rising. It coiled in his chest, spreading like wildfire. He needed this event to be perfect, and Evelyn's games were threatening to burn it all down.

"Three days," J. One said, leaning back in his chair with the kind of confidence Hyunjin envied. "After that, I have to move to one of the events on my waitlist, then I’ll be booked solid for the next two months."

The deadline loomed, a ticking clock that echoed in Hyunjin's mind. He swallowed hard, nodding as if he still had control, as if he wasn't about to freak the fuck out. "You'll have it J.," he promised, the words more desperate than convincing. “Just don’t do anything drastic.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, J. One's casual tone in stark contrast to the storm brewing inside Hyunjin. Every second felt like an eternity, a reminder of how precarious his situation had become.

As Hyunjin left the bar, the noise of the crowd faded, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He now had $3000 he needed to find, and that was assuming Evelyn hadn’t cancelled the payments to other things, like the gallery space. The walls were closing in, the pressure mounting with every heartbeat. He had to fix this, had to find a way to salvage the art show and his reputation. But with Evelyn pulling the strings, even his confidence felt like it was slipping away.

****

The studio felt smaller than usual, the walls closing in as Hyunjin paced back and forth. His mind was a whirlwind, thoughts crashing into each other with a force that left him breathless. He couldn't believe how quickly everything was unraveling.

The canvases seemed to mock him, reminders of the art show that was slipping through his fingers. He couldn't escape the reality that Evelyn was pulling the strings, her influence a double-edged sword that threatened to cut him down just as easily as it had lifted him up.

Deadlines loomed, each tick of the clock a taunt. He imagined the show without the DJ, without the catering, the whispers about his failure spreading like wildfire. It was a nightmare, one he couldn't wake up from.

Pride warred with desperation, a bitter struggle that left him feeling raw and exposed. He wanted to assert his freedoms while also being kept, so as to not be fully at the mercy of someone else's whims. That’s what he had negotiated with Evelyn. But it seemed those two things were at odds with one another, and only one would win out.

He stopped pacing, the sudden stillness a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. He knew he needed Jeongin, needed the support and perspective only his best friend could offer. It was a hard pill to swallow, but the only way to keep from choking on his own pride.

Hyunjin took a deep breath, determination settling over him like a second skin. The art show, his reputation, everything he cared about depended on fixing this.

Hyunjin found Jeongin in the kitchen, the soft glow of the overhead light casting long shadows on the walls. A simple dinner was spread out on the table, and Jeongin was already digging in, dressed in a thrifted sweater that hung off one shoulder. He looked up, a crooked smile on his lips, as Hyunjin sat down with a sigh.

"You're home early," Jeongin said, pushing a plate toward him. "Finally get tired of pretending to be a tortured artist?"

Hyunjin managed a weak laugh, though his mind was still a storm of worry. "Something like that," he said, picking at his food. The kitchen felt warm and familiar, a safe haven from the chaos outside. He knew he could lay it all out here, no pretense, no need for masks.

Jeongin raised an eyebrow, sensing the tension that clung to Hyunjin like a second skin. "What's up? You look like someone kicked your favorite puppy."

Hyunjin took a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a rush. "The checks for the catering and the DJ's payment didn't go through. Evelyn's pulling her support, and the show's going to be a disaster if I don't fix it."

Jeongin listened, his expression a mix of concern and amusement. "Wow," he said, leaning back in his chair. "You really know how to fuck things up, don't you?"

Despite himself, Hyunjin chuckled. It was a hollow sound, but it felt good to laugh, even if just for a moment. "I'm serious, Innie. This is bad."

Jeongin nodded, his eyes sharp behind his glasses. "I know. But we'll figure it out. We always do."

The certainty in Jeongin's voice was like a balm, soothing the raw edges of Hyunjin's panic.

“Can you use your savings?” Jeongin asked.

“What savings?”

Jeongin set his fork down and stared at Hyunjin. “Jin, you can’t be serious. You’ve been getting a $5000 stipend for the past 7 months, plus the $10k check. Where’d it all go?”

Hyunjin sighed. “What’s the point of having money if you don’t spend it?”

Jeongin chuckled. “You shouldn’t be spending all of it, dummy. Exactly for this reason.” He thought for a second. “I can probably kick in a thousand, but that’s it. I have to save to have my pieces framed next month.”

Hyunjin felt a wave of gratitude, mixed with the familiar guilt of dragging Jeongin into his mess. "Thanks. It doesn’t help me cover everything, but it helps.” He forked a piece of grilled chicken into his mouth and chewed slowly. “I can't lose this show, Jeongin. Not after everything."

Jeongin smirked, the kind that said he was about to say something that would either make Hyunjin laugh or throw something at him. "Well, you could always sell your body. Oh wait, you're already doing that."

Hyunjin threw a piece of bread at him, a smile tugging at his lips. "You're an asshole."

Jeongin caught the bread, taking a bite. "But seriously, have you tried talking to Charles? He's been throwing money at you like it's going out of style."

Hyunjin considered it, the idea both tempting and infuriating. He hated feeling like he had to beg. But Jeongin was right; Charles was an option, a way out. He was already giving Hyunjin gifts and cash every week. It wouldn’t be a big deal for Charles to cover the additional $1500-1600 he would need. That was a drop in the bucket. Charles could cover the entire thing easily.

"I might have to," Hyunjin admitted, the words tasting bitter. "I wanted to do this without any extra strings, you know?"

Jeongin reached across the table, his hand warm on Hyunjin's arm. "You'll get there, Jinnie. You're too stubborn not to."

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the weight on Hyunjin's shoulders felt a little lighter. Jeongin's faith in him was unwavering, a lifeline he desperately needed. He squeezed Jeongin's hand, feeling a renewed sense of determination.

"Thanks," Hyunjin said, his voice softer now, less burdened. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Jeongin shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Crash and burn, probably."

Hyunjin laughed, a real, genuine sound this time. The fear and frustration were still there, but they felt more manageable now, less like a noose around his neck. He had a plan, a way forward, and he wasn't alone in this fight.

As they cleared the table, Hyunjin felt the beginnings of hope stirring inside him. He would face the challenge, would find a way to make this work. With Jeongin by his side, anything seemed possible.

****

Hyunjin stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt with a practiced hand. He knew how to play this game, knew exactly what Charles wanted and how to give it to him. The key was in the details: a hint of skin, a teasing smile, the promise of something just out of reach.

He slipped into a designer jacket, one of many gifts from men like Charles who wanted to dress him up like a doll and parade him around like a prize. It was a role Hyunjin knew well, one he excelled at. He took a deep breath, his reflection staring back with a mix of confidence and calculation.

This was a gamble, but one he was willing to take. He needed Charles' support, needed the funds to keep the art show from crashing down around him. He hated how easily he fell back into this routine, but desperation left little room for pride.

The meeting was set in a lavish hotel suite, the kind of place where Charles conducted his business and his affairs. Hyunjin arrived with purpose, his every step a calculated part of the performance. He knew the effect he had on Charles, knew how to use it to his advantage.

Charles was already there sitting on the couch, a glass of scotch in hand, his eyes lighting up as Hyunjin entered. "Jinnie," he said, a mix of surprise and pleasure in his voice. "I didn't expect to see you so soon."

Hyunjin gave him a slow smile, one that promised everything and nothing all at once. "I was thinking about you. I thought we could have a little fun before dinner," he said, letting his jacket slip off his shoulders, revealing the fitted shirt underneath.

Charles' gaze was hungry, his composure slipping as he drank in the sight of Hyunjin. It was almost too easy, the way the older man fell apart at the seams with just a look, a touch, a whispered word. "I like the sound of that," Charles said, setting his glass down with a shaky hand.

Hyunjin moved in close, closing the distance between them and capturing Charles’ lips in a deep kiss. He felt the man melt against him like wax, every touch a calculated step in a dance they both knew so well. Hyunjin kissed down Charles’ body, trailing his lips over his chin, his neck, the hollow of his throat. He felt Charles’ pulse quicken beneath his mouth, a steady beat that thrummed with anticipation and desire. He reached Charles’ collarbone, biting it gently as he unbuttoned the older man’s shirt with torturous slowness. Hyunjin knew how to work Charles, how to play him like an instrument finely tuned to his touch. The heat between them was electric, a charge that built with every passing second.

The shirt fell open, and Hyunjin let his mouth wander over Charles’ chest, each kiss a tantalizing promise. Charles groaned, his composure slipping as he gave in to Hyunjin’s seduction. Hyunjin’s kisses moved lower, down Charles’ stomach, until he was on his knees, nuzzling his nose against the growing bulge in Charles’ pants. He made quick work of the belt, unbuckling it with deft fingers before unbuttoning the slacks and pulling them down.

He looked up at Charles with a warm smile, one that was both innocent and wicked. Hyunjin shoved his hand into Charles’ underwear, pulling the waistband down and freeing Charles’ eager dick. A second later, the tip was being teased by Hyunjin’s tongue before the full shaft was engulfed by his mouth. Charles' chest heaved as he watched Hyunjin lower his mouth onto his throbbing erection.

Hyunjin sucked on Charles’ cock, taking him in deep, the rhythmic sound filling the air. Charles’ moans filled the room as Hyunjin bobbed up and down on his shaft, a powerful sound that fueled Hyunjin’s movements. The gentle graze of Hyunjin's tongue along the underside of Charles’ shaft heightened his arousal to unbearable levels. His hands found their way into Hyunjin’s soft, silky hair, tightening his fingers around the strands with a possessive grip.

Hyunjin knew how to keep Charles on the edge, how to make sure he came back for more. Every sight and sound was calculated, every touch a precise move in a game they both played so well.

As he tightened his plush lips around Charles’ cock, he used one hand to pump and twist around his dick, and the other to caress the man’s balls in his palm, massaging gently.

Suddenly, Hyunjin pulled back, eyes shining with mischief as he gazed up at Charles expectantly. Before Charles could respond, he felt a warm mouth close around the head of his dick once again — but this time it was different; there was an urgent demand in each lustful suckle that left Charles panting for air. Hyunjin's tongue swirled around the sensitive tip, tracing every vein and ridge until Charles thought he might lose control altogether. It was an exquisite torture that only this boy could provide. His hips bucked involuntarily against the sensation, seeking more from this tantalizing treat. Charles’ fingertips dug into Hyunjin's scalp, pulling gently as he held onto whatever semblance of sanity remained within reach.

Hyunjin worked him, feeling Charles’ stiffen before he exploded in Hyunjin’s mouth. Hyunjin eagerly swallowed every last drop. He smirked against Charles’ skin before he pulled away and licked his lips slowly, leaving Charles gasping for air.

“Tell me,” Hyunjin said, his voice a husky whisper as he rested his chin on Charles’ thigh. “Why do you always taste so good, daddy?”

Charles tried to collect himself, but failed. “I love when you call me that, doll,” he managed to choke out, his eyes glazed over with lust.

“I can call you that all the time,” Hyunjin purred as he stood and dropped his own pants to the floor, exposing his hard cock to Charles before climbing onto the couch beside him. He noted how Charles' eyes were glued to his dick.

He straddled Charles, letting his bare ass rub against the other man’s cock. Hyunjin slid up and down it slowly, enjoying the sensation he was getting from the friction. Charles’ ragged sighs indicated that he was loving it too.

Charles grabbed Hyunjin’s hips with an insistent grip, pulling him closer as he guided Hyunjin’s grinding at an increasingly faster pace. He was already hard again, and Hyunjin could feel Charles’ cock pressing insistently against his skin. Hyunjin let himself be led, his movements matching Charles’ growing urgency. He watched Charles’ face, the older man completely lost to the sensation, until Hyunjin brought his lips down for a deep kiss that left both of them breathless.

Hyunjin pulled away. "Turn over," he said, instructing Charles to roll on to his stomach. As Charles settled into the new position on the couch, Hyunjin spit into his palm, and used the saliva to lubricate his dick. Then he positioned himself behind Charles, and eased his cock into the whimpering man, thrusting slowly, just the way he knew Charles liked it.

Hyunjin loved the way Charles fell apart, the way each thrust of his hips turned the older man into a quivering mess. He kept his pace steady and deliberate, savoring the sounds of Charles’ muffled groans as he buried his face in a throw pillow. Hyunjin pulled out almost completely then pushed back in, hitting that perfect spot that made Charles shake and buck against him.

He picked up speed, Charles’ ass swallowing him deeper and deeper with each thrust. The sensation was maddening, and Hyunjin could feel an intense pressure building up inside of him. He reached around to stroke Charles’ stiff cock in time with his thrusts.

Charles was reduced to a series of ragged moans, each one more desperate than the last. This was what Hyunjin had been waiting for.

He leaned down, draping his body over Charles’ back. "I need a favor, daddy," he whispered, his voice soft and intimate, like a secret meant only for Charles' ears.

Charles swallowed hard, the flush of desire painting his cheeks. "Anything," he said, the word tumbling out in between moans before he could stop it.

Hyunjin pressed closer, feeling the heat of Charles's body, the rapid thud of his heart as he increased the force of his thrusts. "My show," Hyunjin said, letting his lips brush against Charles's ear. "I need your help."

The tension was electric, the chemistry between them a living, breathing thing. Hyunjin could feel Charles's resolve crumbling, could see the conflict in his eyes as he wrestled with his desires and the risks they carried.

“How much,” Charles’ finally managed.

“Only $3k, daddy,” Hyunjin said, followed by a soft kiss to the man’s neck.

Charles opened his mouth to say something, but only a groan escaped. Hyunjin smiled.

Charles gripped the armrest tightly as he fought to contain his cries of pleasure mixed with pain. The sensation was unlike anything else; it consumed him completely – body and soul. His skin tingled from the contact as Hyunjin's hips snapped against him in rhythm, driving in deeper than ever before.

Hyunjin felt himself getting closer and closer to release, pushing into Charles harder as he neared the edge. When he finally came, it was with an animalistic grunt that filled the room.

His cum shot deep into Charles while he jerked off the other man’s cock furiously, working it until Charles came a second time in thick spurts over Hyunjin’s hand.

They collapsed together on the couch, both panting heavily as they recovered. Charles turned to look at Hyunjin, his expression one of blissful satisfaction.

“Fuck,” he said breathlessly, still trying to catch his breath.

Hyunjin chuckled softly and kissed him on the lips before standing up and disappearing into the bathroom. When he returned with a warm washcloth, he found Charles sprawled out across the couch with a lazy smile on his face.

“You’re amazing,” Charles murmured contentedly as Hyunjin wiped him clean with gentle strokes of the cloth.

Hyunjin grinned down at him. “Right back at you,” he said before dropping the dirty washcloth to the floor and curling up beside him again.

They lay there quietly for a moment, tangled together in post-coital bliss.

But eventually, Hyunjin broke the silence. “So…” he started hesitantly. “The show?”

“You know, Catherine won’t like this,” Charles said, his voice thick with longing and fear.

Hyunjin pulled back slightly, just enough to leave Charles wanting more. "She doesn't have to know," he said, the words a gentle push, a nudge over the edge.

Charles hesitated, the briefest flicker of doubt crossing his features before Hyunjin silenced it with a kiss, deep and consuming. When they finally broke apart, Charles was breathless, the last of his resistance gone.

"I'll take care of it, doll," Charles said, the promise heavy with the weight of his need.

Hyunjin smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips. “Thank you, daddy. You always know how to make me happy.” He felt a rush of victory, of triumph, but it was tempered with the knowledge of how precarious this all was. He had what he needed, but he knew better than to trust it completely.

****

Charles knew he was fucked the moment his wife stormed into his office, her eyes blazing with accusation as she held her phone up with an email from their money manager. The veneer of control he'd clung to slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. Catherine's voice was sharp and unyielding, cutting through his defenses with ruthless precision.

"How much did you promise this time?" she demanded, the question more of an accusation than a query. Her presence was formidable, a force that left Charles scrambling for footing.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He was a man used to having his way, but Catherine was one of the few who could bring him to heel with a look, a word, a reminder of the power she held over him.

"You know I don’t mind your dalliances, sweetheart. They were part of the agreements we made before getting married all those years ago. But you can't keep throwing money at your toys," she continued, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Especially not this one. Evelyn's already claimed him and you know how petty she can get."

The mention of Evelyn sent a chill through Charles, a reminder of how precarious his situation was. Evelyn's influence was vast, her ability to make or break him all too real.

“Did you know she called me to tell me how she walked in on the two of you, as if I didn’t already know. But you have to be careful with her. She’s the type to gossip and flaunt accusations. And we don’t want that. Unless… you’re finally ready to come out to everyone. That’s perfectly okay too,” she said gently.

The thought terrified Charles. Although society was different now from when he was a young man, many in his world and business, and certainly in his own family, looked down on queerness. He’d been very lucky that Catherine, who his family had pushed him to marry (just as hers had encouraged the same) due to family connections, was happy to enter into a lavender marriage. Both of them got to do their own thing, the only requirement being discretion. Charles had been reckless, caught up in the thrill of Hyunjin, and now he was paying the price.

Charles shook his head slowly. He did not want to come out, but he was happy to know Catherine would support him if he did.

Catherine leaned in, her eyes narrowing. "Then pull out now. Don’t give him any more money. And if you want to continue fucking him, both of you will need to be a bit more discrete…"

The threat hung heavy in the air, a promise of consequences he couldn't afford to ignore. Charles felt the familiar pull of his desires, the way they clashed violently with the reality of his life. During his 62 years of life, he had always been a man torn between what he wanted and what he could have, and it left him weak and cornered.

He knew what he had to do, even as it twisted like a knife in his gut. He reached for his phone, the act of dialing Hyunjin's number a painful admission of defeat.

Hyunjin answered on the second ring, his voice bright with the expectation of good news. "Charles," he said, the name like a caress.

Charles's heart sank, the weight of his cowardice settling over him like a shroud. "I can't do it, Jinnie," he said, the words thick with regret. "Catherine found out. And Evelyn's putting the screws to me. I can't risk it."

There was a moment of silence on the line, a stillness that felt like the calm before a storm. When Hyunjin finally spoke, his voice was colder, more distant. "So that's it? You cave, and I'm just supposed to deal with the fallout?"

Charles closed his eyes, the sting of Hyunjin's words cutting deep. "I'm sorry, doll," he said, knowing it wasn't enough, knowing it never would be.

Hyunjin hung up without another word, leaving Charles alone with his failure and the echo of a life he couldn't quite grasp.

On the other end of the line, Hyunjin stared at his phone, his mind a tangle of anger and desperation. Charles had been his ace, his way out of this mess, and now it was gone, snatched away by the very forces he thought he could manipulate.

Evelyn's hand in this was undeniable, her power play both infuriating and grudgingly impressive. She was a master of the game, and Hyunjin hated how thoroughly she'd outmaneuvered him.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to think, to plan, to find a way through this. The art show was slipping further from his grasp, but he wasn't ready to give up, not when everything was at stake.

There was only one option left, one path that left a bitter taste in his mouth but promised the salvation he needed. He had to go back to Evelyn, had to swallow his pride and face the woman who held all the cards.

Hyunjin squared his shoulders, determination mingling with desperation. He would do what he had to.

****

Hyunjin stared at his reflection, the mirror a silent judge of the desperation etched across his features. His pride felt like a distant memory, swallowed whole by the gnawing need to salvage what he could from the wreckage of his plans. He knew what he had to do, even if it left him raw and exposed.

The thought of going back to Evelyn was both a lifeline and a humiliation. He'd sworn he wouldn't crawl back, wouldn't play the part of the restrained kept boy begging for scraps. But the art show was slipping away, and with it, everything he'd worked for. Desperation left little room for ego.

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture both nervous and resolute. He had to approach this carefully, had to play his cards with the precision of a gambler betting it all on a single hand. Evelyn was unpredictable, petty and he couldn't afford to piss her off more.

Dressing for the encounter was an exercise in strategy. He chose a shirt that clung to his frame, a pair of pants that left just enough to the imagination. It was a balance of elegance and seduction, a look that said he was willing to play the game but on his own terms.

Hyunjin felt the weight of the decision settle over him, heavy and inescapable. He needed Evelyn's money, needed it more than he cared to admit. The thought of apologizing, of using his charm to win her back, was both infuriating and necessary.

He took a deep breath, the resolve in his chest mingling with a fear he couldn't quite shake. This was his last chance, his final play before the whole thing came crashing down. He couldn't afford to fail.

The elevator ride to Evelyn's penthouse was an eternity, each second a reminder of what was at stake. The doors opened with a soft chime, revealing the luxurious space beyond. It was a world of opulence and power, a stark contrast to the vulnerability that gnawed at him.

Hyunjin stepped inside, his heart a drumbeat of determination and dread. He was ready to face Evelyn, ready to swallow his pride and do what he must. The art show, his reputation, everything hung in the balance. He wouldn't leave without a fight.

Evelyn was there, a vision of elegance and control, her presence filling the room with a confidence that left him breathless. He hesitated for the briefest moment, the enormity of what he was about to do settling over him like a shroud.

"Evelyn," he said, his voice a mix of determination and vulnerability, a careful balance of defiance and submission.

She turned to him, a slow, deliberate movement that spoke volumes. Her eyes were sharp, taking in every detail with the precision of a predator assessing its prey. "Jinnie," she replied, the name a playful taunt. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."

Hyunjin swallowed, the weight of her gaze heavy on his shoulders. "How could I when I need your help," he said, cutting to the chase. There was no room for pretense, not when everything hung in the balance.

Evelyn smiled, a languid curve of her lips that promised nothing and everything all at once. "Oh, I know," she said, her tone as smooth as silk. "Charles was very apologetic when he told me you were in a bind."

The words were a calculated blow, and Hyunjin felt the sting of them like a physical thing. He took a step closer, letting his desperation show just enough to be enticing. "I can make it up to you," he said, his voice low and filled with promise.

She considered him, her expression unreadable, her composure unshaken. "And how would you do that, Jinnie?" she asked, the question both a challenge and an invitation.

Hyunjin's heart raced, the tension between them a living, breathing thing. He was used to being the one in control, but with Evelyn, it was always a dangerous dance. He could feel her power, the way it wrapped around him like a noose, and he was both terrified and exhilarated by it.

He reached for her, his fingers brushing against her arm, a tentative gesture that spoke of submission and need. "Let me show you," he said, the words a plea and a demand.

Evelyn's eyes sparkled with amusement, a cat toying with the mouse that dared enter its domain. "I don't know," she said, pulling back slightly, leaving him grasping at air. "Maybe I should let you sweat a little longer."

The possibility of rejection hung heavy in the air, a reminder of how precarious his situation was. Hyunjin felt his pride twist, felt the familiar burn of humiliation, but he couldn't afford to walk away, not now, not when he was so close.

He stepped closer again, his movements a study in vulnerability and allure. "Please, Evelyn," he said, the words tasting bitter and sweet all at once.

She let him come to her this time, let him close the distance until he was within reach. Her touch was sudden, a firm grip on his chin that forced him to meet her gaze. "You think you're clever," she said, her voice low and filled with the kind of confidence that left no room for doubt. "But you forget who is really in charge here."

Hyunjin's breath caught, the air between them charged with a tension that bordered on electric. He was teetering on the edge, the thrill of it a heady mix of fear and desire.

Then she kissed him, and everything else fell away.

It was rough, consuming, a claiming of territory that left him breathless and wanting. Evelyn's hands were everywhere, pulling him closer, tearing at the careful facade he'd built around himself. She pushed him back against the wall, her movements decisive and unyielding, leaving no doubt as to who was in control.

Hyunjin surrendered, his body responding with a need that eclipsed his pride, his desperation, everything but the moment and the woman who held him in her thrall. Buttons popped as she tore his shirt open. Her painted nails—blood red and filed to a sharp point—dug into the meat of his shoulders, her lips trailing fire across his neck, his chest, marking him as hers in ways that went beyond the physical.

She was relentless, a force of nature that swept over him with the power of a storm. Hyunjin had been with her before, knew the intensity of her desires, but this was different. This was raw, unfiltered, a reminder that she held all the cards and wasn't afraid to play them. And it made his cock throb like a goddamn heart trapped in his zipper.

“Don’t move,” she said as she stepped back, untying the belt of her wrap dress and letting it flutter to the ground. Her tits strained against the sheer black lace of her bra, nipples like bullet points begging to be bitten.

He gasped as she pushed him to the floor, her body a commanding presence above him, around him, everywhere at once. The carpet was soft beneath him, a cruel contrast to the roughness of her touch, the fierceness of her demands. She pinned him to the carpet as she straddled his hips, her soaked cunt already grinding against the tented fabric of his slacks. “You’re mine,” she snarled.

Evelyn’s teeth grazed Hyunjin’s collarbone hard enough to bruise. Her hand fisted his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat, and he groaned—half pain, half prayer—as her free hand clawed at his belt. The leather slithered loose, and then her fingers were inside his boxers, cold and cruel, wrapping around his cock like a vise. She pulled it out.

“Look at this pathetic fucking dick,” she sneered, jerking him roughly, her thumb smearing pre-cum over his swollen tip. “Dripping for me already? You really are a desperate little slut, aren’t you?”

Hyunjin’s hips bucked, but she slammed her knee between his legs, pinning him flat. “Uh-uh,” she purred, leaning close enough that her breath fogged his lips. “You don’t get to move until I say so.” Her tongue flicked his earlobe, then her teeth closed around it, biting down until he whimpered. “Good boys who want to be taken care of stay still.”

He obeyed, trembling, as she stood and peeled off her panties, the fabric damp and clinging to her thighs. She draped them over his face, and he inhaled sharply, drunk on the tang of her sweat, the heady reek of her pussy soaked into the cotton.

“Breathe it in,” she ordered, her voice dropping to a growl as she positioned herself above him, her cunt hovering inches from his mouth. “Lick. Now.”

Hyunjin’s tongue lashed out, greedy and sloppy, lapping at her swollen lips, tracing the fat, throbbing clit that jutted from her folds like a fucking command button. She tasted like salt and sin, and he moaned into her, his nose buried in her trimmed curls as she ground against his face, suffocating him in her heat.

“Harder,” she demanded, her thighs clamping around his skull as she fucked his mouth, her juices slicking his chin, dripping down his neck. “You think this is for you? This is for me.” She brought her hands to breasts and massaged them before removing her bra and tossing it over her shoulder.

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, just let her use his tongue like a toy, his cock aching, neglected, leaking onto his stomach. When she finally pulled away, his face was glazed, his lips swollen, and she laughed—a low, filthy sound—as she smeared her wetness across his face. “Painted by my cunt,” she muttered. “How fitting.”

Then her weight shifted, and he felt her hot breath on his dick a second before her mouth engulfed him, sucking him deep into her throat with a wet, gagging slurp. His back arched off the floor, a broken shout tearing from his lungs as her tongue swirled under his shaft, her fingers digging into his balls, squeezing like she wanted to pop them.

“F-fuck, Ev—please—”

She pulled off with an obscene pop, her lips glistening. “Please what?” she taunted, her hand pumping him roughly, her thumb pressing punishing circles into his slit. “You wanna cum? Beg. Tell me what a worthless fuck toy you are. Tell me you’ll die if I don’t let you splatter all over my tits.”

Hyunjin’s vision blurred, his thighs shaking. “I’m—I’m your worthless fuck toy,” he choked, his voice ragged. “Please, Ev, let me cum—please, I need it—”

She climbed back up his body, her soaked cunt hovering over his cock, and he felt her heat radiating against him, a taunt. “You’ll cum when I’m done with you, slut,” she hissed, and then she sank down, taking him inch by excruciating inch, her tight, dripping walls clenching around him like a fist. “Fuck,” she gasped, her composure slipping for just a second, her nails raking his chest as she bottomed out, his balls pressed flush against her ass. “Look at you—finally useful for something other than spending my money.”

Evelyn’s hips rolled, slow and cruel, her inner muscles milking him as she rode him with the precision of a fucking metronome. Over. And over. And over. Hyunjin’s hands scrabbled at her waist, desperate to grip, to thrust, but she slapped them away.

“Did I say you could touch?” she snapped, her pace quickening, her tits bouncing as she slammed down harder, the wet slap of skin echoing off the walls. “You’re just a dick tonight, baby. My pretty little dick.”

Evelyn fucked him with a precision and passion that left him undone, each movement a testament to her dominance, her control, her absolute refusal to let him forget who he belonged to. Hyunjin's world narrowed to the rhythm of their bodies, the relentless drive of her hips, the shattering intensity of it all. He arched into her, the last vestiges of resistance burning away in the heat of their collision.

Hyunjin sobbed, his orgasm coiling tight but she leaned forward, her mouth hovering over his, her breath hot. “Don’t you fucking dare,” she warned, her cunt clenching viciously around him. “You cum when I say. Not a second sooner.”

Her hand slid between them, her fingers rubbing furious circles on her clit, her moans sharpening to a scream as her own climax ripped through her. Hyunjin felt her pulsing around him, her juices gushing, and then she collapsed against his chest, her teeth sinking into his shoulder as she shuddered.

“Now,” she panted, her voice wrecked, her hips stuttering. “Now you can cum.”

He exploded with a guttural roar, his cum shooting deep inside her, his vision whiting out as she kept riding him, wringing every last drop until he was hollowed out, gasping, her name a broken chant on his lips.

When it was over, he lay there panting, spent, his skin a map of red marks and sweat. Evelyn patted his cheek like he was a dog. “Good boy,” she murmured, smirking as she stood, her thighs streaked with their mess as their collective fluids dripped out of her, her expression one of triumph and satisfaction. She looked down at him, his body still a trembling wreck on the floor. Her eyes were filled with the kind of confidence that left no room for doubt or rebellion.

"Remember this, Jinnie," she said, her voice a soft, dangerous caress. "You may be pretty with a big dick, but I'm the one with the power here. I own your dick. And if you want to fuck other people, you need my permission first. Understand?"

Hyunjin nodded, his pride bruised but intact, his desire for her burning brighter than ever.

“Get out,” she said as she turned to walk away.

Hyunjin sat up. “But Evelyn…,” he whined

She lifted her hand, cutting him off. “I’ll take care of the deposits tonight,” she said over her shoulder as she disappeared down the hallway.

Hyunjin sighed. He'd secured her support, but it had come at a cost, one that left him feeling both exhilarated and subdued.

As he dressed, his hands still trembling from the intensity of it all, Hyunjin couldn't help but smile. The art show was back on track, and though Evelyn had claimed victory tonight, the game was far from over.

****

The gallery was alive with energy, a vibrant pulse that mirrored the rapid beat of Hyunjin's heart. People moved like currents through the space, stopping to admire the paintings that lined the walls. It was a spectacle, a triumph, and Hyunjin stood at the center of it all, basking in the glow of his success.

His work was the star of the evening, the raw intensity of each piece drawing the kind of attention he had only dreamed of. The fear and desperation of the past week faded into the background, replaced by a sense of pride and relief that left him breathless.

Hyunjin moved through the crowd, the chatter of voices a comforting hum around him. He caught sight of Jeongin, a crooked smile on his lips as he chatted with a group of art critics.

Charles was there too, his presence more subdued, a shadow of the man who had once promised the world. He gave Hyunjin a nod, a silent acknowledgment of what they'd shared and lost, a reminder that Evelyn's reach extended far beyond what Hyunjin had imagined.

And Evelyn—Evelyn was everywhere. Her influence was palpable, a guiding hand that had turned potential disaster into undeniable success. She mingled with the guests, her poise and confidence a stark contrast to the turmoil Hyunjin had felt only days before.

Hyunjin's heart skipped as he watched her, the memory of their last encounter a vivid, lingering presence. She was a force, one he couldn't quite control, one he was drawn to with a mixture of longing and defiance.

He shook hands with collectors and patrons, his charm effortless, the recognition and praise flowing as freely as the champagne. It was everything he'd wanted, everything he'd feared he'd lose, and it left him feeling both elated and restless.

Jeongin found him, a glass in hand, his eyes bright with excitement. "You did it," he said, the words simple but filled with the kind of warmth that only Jeongin could give.

Hyunjin grinned, pulling Jeongin into a quick, fierce hug. "We did it," he said, knowing he wouldn't be here without Jeongin's support, without the friendship that had steadied him when everything else was in flux.

They stood together, watching the crowd, the moment a shared victory that tasted all the sweeter for the struggle it had taken to get there.

Evelyn approached, her presence as commanding as ever, a reminder of the debt Hyunjin owed her, both in the gallery and beyond. She gave him a look, one that spoke of triumph and challenge, of a game still in play.

"Congratulations, Jinnie," she said, her voice smooth and knowing. "I heard 8 of your pieces were sold. It seems you pulled it off after all."

Hyunjin met her gaze, the spark between them as electrifying as ever. "Couldn't have done it without you," he replied, the words both a truth and a reminder that he was still in the game, still ready to push back.

Evelyn smiled, the kind of smile that left no doubt as to who was in control. "I know," she said, her confidence as unshakeable as it was alluring.

Hyunjin watched her walk away, his mind a whirlwind of ambition and desire. The art show was a triumph, but it was only the beginning. The power struggle with Evelyn was far from over, and the uncertainty of it all left him both anxious and exhilarated.

He turned back to the crowd, to the life and energy that filled the gallery, a reminder of what he'd achieved and what still lay ahead. The future was a question mark, a tantalizing possibility that beckoned with the promise of more challenges, more victories, more of everything he craved.

Hyunjin took a deep breath, letting the triumph of the night settle over him like a second skin. He was a rising star, a force to be reckoned with, and he wasn't done yet.

#stray kids fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids #skz #skz fanfiction #skz fanfic #skz smut #stray kids smut #hyunjin #hyunjin fanfic #hyunjin imagines #hyunjin smut #IN fanfic #IN imagines #IN smut #Jeongin fanfic #Jeongin imagines #Jeongin smut

29 notes · View notes

poutysprouty · 22 days ago

Text

THE CURSE AND THE CROWN

014. Eye of the Storm

pairing: Sukuna x Fem!Reader wc: 2.3k warnings: none really a/n: When I tell y'all that the AO3 curse has been rocking my shit lately I swear to God I am being so serious. Sorry it's been so long!!

◄ previous part || masterlist || next part ►

The library was silent, anticipation pressing down on everyone seated around the grand wooden table like it was a thick smoke filling their lungs. Flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the towering bookshelves, their presence lending an air of quiet gravity to the room.

The musty scent of parchment and aged wood filled the space, but it did little to ease the tension hanging in the air. Everyone was waiting, watching as Gojo leaned forward, his fingers laced together atop the table.

"The palace was attacked by curses again while you were gone.”

The words echoed in the chamber, seemingly reverberating in the stunned quiet that followed. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows, seemingly frozen in the stunned silence that followed. Around the heavy oak table, faces drained of color as the implications sank in.

Nobara was the first to react. Her hands slammed against the polished wood with enough force to make the nearby candlesticks rattle. "What do you mean?" Her voice cracked with disbelief and frustration. "I thought the Artifact was the cause of the attacks! We took it with us!”

Gojo remained unnaturally still in his high-backed chair. His fingers were steepled beneath his chin as he regarded them all with those piercing blue eyes. "That's what we thought too," he said softly. "But it seems that we were wrong.”

He went on to describe the attack in brief but vivid detail—how the curses had swarmed the palace walls, their malevolent energy suffocating the air, and how the defenders had fought valiantly to repel them.

He shifted slightly, his robes rustling in the quiet room. "The attack came without warning, much like the others. But this time... One of the bastards nearly took my head off.” He smirked slightly, as if he was amused by the curse’s audacity. His gaze drifted to Geto, who stood near one of the towering windows, and something softened in his expression. “Luckily, someone decided to be my knight in shining armor.”

Geto scoffed but didn’t deny it, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Someone had to make sure your reckless ass didn’t get killed.”

The room seemed to exhale collectively. Nobara’s fists clenched, her frustration evident, while Megumi’s brow furrowed in thought. Ynara, seated at the far end of the table, listened intently, her eyes narrowing as she processed the information. Her mind raced, piecing together fragments of recent events, searching for patterns that might explain more about what was going on.

“The point is,” Gojo continued, returning his attention to the group, “these attacks clearly aren’t tied to the Artifact.”

"We've been doing some digging," Geto interjected, his voice seemingly edged with steel. "Gojo and I spent days tracking patterns and speaking with servants. And what we found..." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "Well, it's not good news. We have reason to believe that someone has been orchestrating everything from the beginning-–the Artifact's appearance, the curse attacks, all of it.”

Gojo gave a firm nod in agreement. “There are too many inconsistencies in the curse activity around the area,” he explained, his sharp eyes glinting with intrigue. “The patterns don’t add up—their movements are erratic, their appearances seemingly random. But what stands out the most…” He paused, his voice lowering slightly, drawing everyone’s attention.

“There have been sudden, concentrated spikes in cursed energy right before each attack,” he continued, his brows furrowing. “Not gradual build-ups, not lingering traces—just these sharp, unnatural surges, as if someone is summoning them. Or worse… controlling them.”

“We still don’t know who is doing this,” Geto said, his tone growing darker, “But we do know one thing for certain: this wasn’t random. None of it was, not since the beginning. Someone has been planning this.”

Ynara sat still, listening intently, her mind racing. Everything was deliberate. There was a careful precision to the chaos they had been thrown into. She kicked herself inwardly for not realizing it sooner. Her thoughts turned inward, piecing together the fragments of knowledge she had collected along the way. And then, a voice—one that had haunted her ever since she’d first heard it—rose in her memory.

“Even within the walls of your precious castle, you’re not safe. Those closest to you may be the ones who want to watch you fall the most.”

Toji’s words rang in her ears like a distant warning bell, a prelude to something far worse. A cold sensation settled in her stomach as realization dawned.

“Gojo,” she said quietly, her voice cutting through the silence.

She lifted her gaze to meet his from across the table, her voice quiet but unwavering. “I think I know something that might be important.”

All eyes turned to her, the weight of expectation heavy in the room.

“Right before Toji died, after the attack,” she began, her hands tightening into fists against her lap, “he gave me a warning. He told me that even within the castle, I wouldn’t be safe. That the people closest to me… might be the ones who want me to fall the most.”

Her words seemed to echo in the vast space, bouncing off the leather-bound books and settling like a shroud over the group. Gojo and Geto exchanged a glance, years of partnership allowing them to communicate volumes in that single look.

“That’s a hell of a warning,” Megumi cut in, his brows furrowed.

“And you believe him?” Nobara asked, her voice edged with skepticism, though there was no denying the unease in her tone.

Ynara hesitated for only a moment. “I don’t know if I trust him, but I don’t think he was lying. And now, with everything that’s happening… it makes sense, doesn’t it?” She exhaled sharply. “It’s obvious that someone is behind this. Someone close enough to the palace to keep orchestrating these attacks, even without the Artifact in play.”

The room seemed to grow colder as the implications of their conversation settled over the group like a suffocating fog. Geto broke the silence, his voice low and measured. “A traitor,” he murmured, giving voice to the thought that had been lingering unspoken in the air—a thought no one had wanted to acknowledge. His dark eyes flickered toward Ynara, then back to the others, his expression grim. “Someone with intimate knowledge of the palace, its defenses, and…” He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid, but the meaning was clear. The unspoken words hung heavily in the room: and Ynara herself.

Gojo leaned back against his chair. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes narrowed as he processed Geto’s words. “Then that’s the most concerning part of all this,” he admitted, voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of unease. “The attacks and the Artifact? Yeah, sure, those are bad. But a traitor in our midst? Someone who knows exactly how to exploit our weaknesses, who’s making damn sure that everything lines up the way they want it to?” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the group. “Who knows what else they know? What other secrets they’ve uncovered?”

The gravity of his words sank in, and the room fell silent once more. The idea of a traitor among them was a bitter pill to swallow, one that left a sour taste in everyone’s mouth. Trust was their foundation, the glue that held them together in the face of unimaginable dangers. But now, that foundation was cracking, and the uncertainty was almost unbearable.

Nanami leaned against the edge of the table, his arms crossed as he spoke. “Toji doesn’t work for free, that much I know about him,” he said, his tone measured. “Someone paid him to come after us. I don’t think that it’d be a stretch to think whoever hired him is behind the recent attacks on the palace, too. The target isn’t just the palace or the Artifact. It’s you, Ynara. Someone wants you out of the picture.”

Ynara could feel the weight of their words settle heavily on her shoulders. Her mind raced, memories of recent events flashing before her eyes—the ambushes, the curses, the near-constant threats to her life.

It all made sense now, and yet the realization brought no comfort. If anything, it only deepened the ache in her chest. She had always known that her position made her a target, but to think that someone close to her, someone she trusted, could be behind it all… it was almost too much to bear.

As the silence stretched on, Sukuna, who had been leaning against a bookshelf nearby, finally spoke up. His voice was low and gruff, but his words carried an unexpected clarity. “If you’re looking for answers, start with the people closest to you,” he said, his crimson eyes locking onto Ynara’s. “Figure out who stands to gain the most from your death. Power leaves trails, and whoever wants you dead is after something specific. It’s not that complicated.”

Ynara blinked, caught off guard by the directness of his advice. She stared at him, her surprise evident. “That’s… surprisingly decent advice from you,” she remarked, her voice tinged with both amusement and disbelief.

Sukuna's response was characteristically gruff, his shoulders tensing as he rolled his eyes. "Don't get used to it," he muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "I'm just telling you the truth. Do with it what you will.”

Despite his gruff demeanor, Ynara couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude. Something softened in Ynara's expression as she crossed the room toward him. The sound of her boots against the wooden floor echoed in the quiet chamber as she approached. She wasn’t entirely sure why she did it—perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was an impulse born from gratitude. Either way, before anyone could react, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to Sukuna's cheek.

The effect was immediate and extraordinary. Sukuna, the feared King of Curses, froze like a statue. A faint blush crept across his usually stern features, and for perhaps the first time in his long existence, he appeared genuinely flustered.

Across the room, Megumi's jaw dropped slightly, while Yuji and Nobara exchanged wide-eyed glances. Nanami closed his eyes, Choso looked away, and Gojo and Geto smirked and exchanged another wordless glance with each other.

Ynara pulled away, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips as she met Sukuna’s stunned gaze. “Thanks,” she said simply, her tone light, but her eyes carrying something deeper before she turned on her heel and walked away.

The warmth of the moment faded as her mind shifted back into a place of strategy. She had too much at stake to dwell on whatever had just passed between them. There was a traitor among her allies, and she needed to find them before they struck again. As she exited the library, the soft smile she had worn moments ago faded into determination, her focus narrowing like a blade.

The heavy library doors closed behind her with a quiet thud, leaving behind a room full of stunned faces and one very confused King of Curses, who was still trying to process what had just happened.

Sukuna remained where he was, unmoving. His mind, normally sharp and ruthless, lingered on the ghost of her touch. A flicker of something unfamiliar twisted in his chest. He scowled, forcing the feeling away, trying to ignore it.

Across the room, a mischievous grin stretched across Gojo’s face, his bright blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, well,” he drawled, tilting his head at Sukuna. “Looks like someone’s getting a little too comfortable with the princess.”

Sukuna snapped out of his thoughts instantly, shooting Gojo a murderous glare. “Shut up,” he growled. “You’re imagining things.”

Gojo chuckled, undeterred. “Oh, am I?” he teased, propping his chin on his hand. “Because to me, that looked an awful lot like a kiss. On the cheek, no less. How very sweet of her. You sure you’re just ‘tolerating’ her?”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his pride bristling at the implication. “Don’t be stupid,” he growled, turning his back to Gojo in an attempt to hide the faint flush that still lingered on his face. “You think I’d let some royal brat get under my skin?”

But Gojo wasn’t about to let it go. His voice was light, almost sing-song, as he added, “Sure, Sukuna. Sure. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you start feeling something more for her.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, brushing off Gojo’s words with a dismissive wave of his hand. He wasn’t about to admit to anyone, not even himself, that he already had started feeling something more. “I’m not some lovesick fool,” he muttered, though it was almost like he was trying to convince himself moreso than anybody else.

Sukuna turned his back, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he stalked toward the exit. But even as he left the library, even as he put distance between himself and the others, the feeling wouldn’t leave him.

That simple kiss—so light, so fleeting—had left a mark far deeper than it should have.

As he exited the room, the others exchanged glances, the tension in the air palpable. Nobara raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed as she muttered, “What was that about?”

Yuji scratched the back of his head, looking equally confused. “I don’t know, but… it felt like there was something going on there.”

"They’re so in love," Gojo drawled, a shit-eating grin stretching across his face, his tone dripping with amusement. His words barely had time to settle before—thwack—Geto’s palm landed firmly on the back of his head.

Gojo let out an exaggerated yelp, recoiling as he clutched the sore spot, his lower lip jutting out in a theatrical pout. "Ow! What was that for?" he whined, rubbing the offended area as if he’d been grievously injured.

Geto simply shook his head, unimpressed. "For running that loud mouth of yours," he muttered, though there was no real heat behind his words.

Still grinning, Gojo tilted his head toward him. "What? I’m not wrong, am I?"

◄ previous part || masterlist || next part ►

tag list: @after-laughter-come-tears @tequilya @alexatiu @sylussss7 @pelicanpizza

all dividers made by me @/poutysprouty. please do NOT use.

#ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna x oc #sukuna x original character #ryomen sukuna x oc #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x you #jjk ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x you #ryomen sukuna angst #ryomen sukuna smut #jjk #ryomen sukuna x reader series #sukuna jjk #jjk sukuna #sukuna

30 notes · View notes

gypsophiliaz · 1 year ago

Text

“ douceur „

quanxi x fem florist | barista reader.

multiple part series. first part thats just pretty fluffy and romancey!! first time writing and actually publishing it so ermm leave tips ig idk. ik the pacing is weird but its bc i like to write in detail.

feminine reader x quanxi, includes romance. >:3 smut in later chapters or wtv.

disclaimer ; I've never written like romance before so forgive me lol. I write with extreme detail too so it probably gonna be the SLOWEST burn ever. also she smokes weed cuz ion fuck wit that cig shit lmfao

CHAPTER I

being a florist in tokyo isn't anything you thought you'd be finding yourself doing. though, being drawn to the sweet and naturey smell of flowers wouldn't suprise anyone who had known you before. head over heels constantly in love with all kinds of plants and flowers, from spider lilies to hydrangea, peony and flower arrangements in themselves.

. . .

you'd adjust your grip on the box cutter in your dominant hand, the vivid pink color of it mixing with the warm lighting above you, the blade swiftly and sharply cutting through the protruding thorns of the white roses, the remaining water inside would drip slightly onto the paper below the bouqet would find itself sitting inside of momentarily. a smell similar of freshly cut grass would fill your senses, and the cozy and comforting feel of the floristry – cafe place that you had recently assigned yourself to.

the smell of coffee, tea, and the baby's breath that sat to the right of you would fill the air, a rainy day with cars ever–so making light noises as their wheels splash and sputter inside of the puddles left by the rain. the annoying ding of the door would fill your ears once more, and like clock–work the all too familiar words would spill out of your mouth.

“ Welcome to Yrlissa's Flowery, How may I be of assistance? ”

as your eyes lazily drifted off the commissed bouqet that laid on the counter infront of you, your eyes would laid upon a tall lady, with a muscular yet slim figure. wispy bangs and a lacey eyepatch concealing her right eye. the rest of her thin hair contained by a black hairtie— who the hell visits a flower shop in a full black suit? Is she going to a fucking funeral ?

NOT professional thoughts. get it together!!!

the lady would approach the counter, with an almost monochromatic expression. not one emotion would appear on her face, and no body language out of the ordinary. her movements would seem almost perfected calculated, almost uncanny even, but as she grew closer the smell of the the roses and baby's breath would be replaced with the smell of marijuana.

the footsteps would come to a halt uncomfortably close to you, or maybe it would seem that way since shes near the height of a basketball player and you couldn't be any closer to a smurf, and also leaning over flowers with posture far from the best in the world– a few seconds of silence commence, the ladies eyes piercing above to read the sign. her lips parting to finally speak.

“A small espresso will do, please.”

“ would you like sugar or cream? ”

“ Surprise me. ”

the click of the box cutters blade retracting back into itself, and the clack of its placement onto the counter would follow her sentence. with your feet tapping to the cups behind you, and your body language obviously showing your nervousness, you'd swiftly grab it and draw back over to the counter near the woman.

tipping over the jug of geyser water just measuring to the line that marks a half liter. the sound of the water filling up would once again save you from extremely embarrassment from the pure awkwardness of the situation at hand.

. . . .

you'd stretch your hand over and weigh out 20 grams of coffee beans, pouring them into a small tin and placing them on the miniature scale. the lady bringing a stop to the awkward silence that filled the air.

“ I take it it's relaxing to work here hm? ”

“ It's nice on it's slow days, but then there's times like valentines day, and wedding season ykno? ”

“I'd imagine.”

as a few weeks passed, the lady swiftly became a regular. almost always coming in during your shift or being there before you clock in. a name you wrote on the coffee cup almost every shift, the type of name that rolls off your tongue sweet and slick, — quanxi. another day had arrived, opening the door to yrlissa's the bell would chime as you walked in, swiftly pittering to clock in, not missing quanxi sitting in the corner of the shop, as always.

she would stay for a few hours and make nice company on slow days, an often occurrence it would be to sit and speak with her while filling out the commissions for bouqets, and other kinds of assortments. it didn't take long to realize quanxi liked more to listen than to speak.

today was october 5th. the chill in the air sweeping into the store moments after the bell on the door would ring. it didn't take long for you to learn to brace yourself against the cold on the cue of the chime. completing the same ol' sequence you'd do everyday, steaming the milk and poking holes in the puck of espresso, yet this time for yourself to warm up on the cold day.

the thick fog outside would make seeing the people and events happening outside near impossible. pouring the milk, then espresso, a drizzle of caramel and whipped cream onntop, the perfect go—to drink. the cup would warm your hands, soothing you and bringing you into relaxation with the first sip, a small breath leaving your parted lips—

the all too familiar chime would fill your ears.

bruh.

quickly stepping behind the counter to at least shield your lower half. or.. 90% of ur body bc ur a fucking smurf. srry im writing this in my perspective im fucking 5'0. the chill would still expectedly hit your face and torso, sending a small shiver up your spine. gripping the cup of coffee just a bit tighter to warm your hands once again. fluttering your lashes and squinting to keep the ice cold air out of your eyes, you'd realize who'd walked in.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cold.” Quanxi would say, looking back and closing the door softly behind her as not to brush more cold air inside. this time she was wearing a brown turtle-neck under her coat and long black pants. she'd take a deep breath in and pull her other hand out of her pocket.

“you're fine don't worry. at least it's not another total stranger walking in, I think I'd rot inside having to make any more small talk today.” you'd set down your coffee to start her order, placing it beside the cash register and lean on the counter with the corner digging into your palms.

“Usual?”

“Mm.”

Quanxi would approach the table near the entrance of the work space, leaving about 3-5 feet in between the two of you as you started her order. It took her a few days in the beginning but she got what she wanted down pack. a shot of espresso, mixed softly into chocolate syrup followed by warm steamed milk and whipped cream. In other words, a Caffé Mocha. with some extra chocolate.

. . . should probably start that order

you'd started serving quanxi in the pretty white mugs boss lady told you not to use, simply to reduce dishes. but you didn't mind washing one or two for quanxi. You'd hear the clink of her keys being placed onto the table before she'd speak.

“How's work been treating you lately? ” Quanxi would say to you, looking at you completely still with a hand propped up under her chin, but still as nonchalant as usual. It was hard to believe she was genuinely interested sometimes.

pouring the chocolate into the bottom of the cup focusedly, to make it look as pretty and perfect as can be, you'd take a second before answering. “Horrible, Actually. This guy yesterday, came in and got mad at me because I forgot to put caramel on top of his frappe. He ended up throwing it on the floor, and of course I had to clean it. ”

Quanxi's eyes would follow the way you carefully made the coffee. The way you'd twirl the cup to make sure it was evenly distributed, and the way you'd add extra for her, even though she didn't ask for it. Nor did she really like how sweet it made the drink, but to her it was an act of kindness.

"Mm."

“Oh! and thennnn I had a lady come in here with her boyfriend and I guess I was a bit too friendly with her and she pulled me to the side and basically threatened me. I'm not one for wanting a guy in general. That was actually around a week ago and she came back a few days ago an—”

the glass pot to steam the milk in would fall to the ground instantly shattering. nothing but the thought of your boss chewing you out rushes into your mind. not only is it expensive to replace, it was definitely coming out of your paycheck. Quanxi wasted no time raising out of her chair and assisting you with cleanup even before you, yourself could process what had happened.

“thank you. god my boss is gonna make me pay for this. . . " you'd say squatting down and beginning to pick up the big chunks of glass first and placing them in your palm. “I'll get it, you might get cut. ” Quanxi would take the glass from out of your hand and continue to pick up where you left off.

"are you sure? I can just get a broom or something." you'd turn away for a second to grab the broom from the back, yet once you come back you find the glass all gone, not a single piece remaining on the floor and a note on the counter, sitting placed under two 10,000 yen notes. (around 140$)

the shock would spread across your face almost in an instant. what the absolute hell? picking up the notes, you'd take the time to read the note she'd left behind.

“𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓹𝓲𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓻. 𝓾𝓷𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓲𝓽 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓫𝓮, 𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓼𝓲𝓿𝓮.

𝓠𝓾𝓪𝓷𝔁𝓲 347-1782.”

✧─── ･｡ﾟ✧: * 🎀 .* :✧. ───✧

tired of there not being fuckin quanxi fics and smut bro. ik u stans r alive ACT LIKE IT!!!! 😡 k hope u enjoyed tho owo also im seriously fucking hoping this isn't ugly on pc bro.. idk but if ur reading fluff n shit on a pc u got balls cuz id cry if i got caught

#quanxi #quanxi smut #quanxi fluff #csm x reader #csm smut #csm fluff #quanxi x reader #wifey is back #quanxi csm #chainsawman

156 notes · View notes

god-has-entered-my-body · 10 months ago

Note

need mpind matty begging for attention from both george and girlie and just neither of them giving him any, getting him all dressed up like a pretty girl just to ignore him and leave him needy 🦈

thinking thoughts thoughts sooooooo many thoughts its a bit shit but heres a little snapshot of what that would look like x

There's a specific way the three of you sit whenever George comes over. If you're smoking/just talking, it's you and G on the sofa while Matty sits cross-legged on the coffee table.

This time, however, you're all getting ready to watch a film, Matty still in the other room while George rolls a spliff, lighting it for you. The smoke curls in the air as you take a drag, his hand on your thigh making your heart thrum against your ribs, his fingers long and rough against your bare skin.

You can hear Matty in the bathroom down the hall, humming to himself as various objects clatter around in the marble sink, the noise getting to be a bit annoying. Why is he putting on makeup to stay home? George rolls his eyes and points in his direction when you make eye contact, prompting you to nod in agreement.

The sink stops running abruptly as the door clicks open, Matty's footsteps audible against the hard floor as he walks through the house, stopping in front of the full length mirror for a few seconds to admire himself. The moment he comes into view, circling around the sofa to stand in front of you and George, you can feel air leave your lungs along with George's hand tensing on your thigh.

Matty smirks as you take him in in full. The light from the TV flickers behind him, painting his body in vivid colors as your eyes rake up and down his frame. Dark grey jeans hang low on his hips, so low, in fact, that his hip tattoo is completely visible, leaving barely anything to the imagination. His chest if clad in a too-small pink shirt, the sleeves long and tight on his arms.

"Starting without me?" Matty speaks, dragging his words out in that way he know drives you and George crazy, narrowing his eyes and George's heavy breathing. There's a small bit of space between you, and Matty makes himself comfortable, squeezing onto the sofa. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, his expression a bit depleted as neither of you react, focussing most of your attention to the movie playing in front of you.

Matty sighs dramatically, stretching his arms and arching his back, his shirt riding up his stomach. George makes brief eye contact with you, the slight shake of his head telling you all you need to know. Matty continues his little spiel, draping himself over the two of you, his head in your lap, his legs across George's, shifting and moving every few seconds under the guise of "getting more comfortable."

You can feel your core stir at the soft noises he makes whenever his arms stretch above his head, his curls tickling the inside of your thighs as you watch him watch the movie, avoiding his gaze whenever he turns to look at you.

George does the same, and you catch him sneaking glances whenever he gets the chance, his face dusted with a blush so prominent it'd be a miracle Matty didn't see it. The final straw is small, a simple movement that has George grabbing Matty's leg in a heartbeat, you own hands gripping his jaw as he yelps. Matty's leg moves one last time, purposefully grinding down onto George's crotch, making him groan at he friction.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" George asks, his voice deeps and hoarse, eyes piercing Matty's as the curly haired boy stays silent for a few heartbeats. "Nothing in particular."

Matty is lying through his teeth so obviously it's genuinely laughable, a teasing smile dancing on his lips as George stares at him, eyes darting from feature to feature. "Are you sure about that, baby? I didn't think you'd be one to lie to us."

You coo at him, your hands weaving through his brushed through hair as he looks up from your lap, eyes silently pleading, contradicting his own words. "Please, fuck-" he whines, throwing his head back as George's grip on his thigh tightens, keeping him in place.

"What do you want, Matthew? Got to use your words properly." The use of his full name never fails to turn him on, his cock twitching in his pretty blue panties as George's words reverberate through his whole body.

You brush your fingers along his jaw, gazing at him sweetly like you aren't envisioning him in dozens of compromising positions, all pretty and begging. “Touch me, fuck me– anything just please. I’ve even got myself all done up for you.” his voice cracks at the end of his sentence, a smirk pulling at the corners of George’s mouth.

“I need you so bad– Please darling, tell her how good i’ve been.” his hands grab George’s arm, still begging like his life depended on it. For him, it probably did.

“No.” Matty whines in response, his eyes widening as your answer processes in his head. He definitely wasn't expecting that. You can see the frustration as he cranes his neck to look at you, eyes glazed over and wet. “But-” Matty gets cut off by George’s hand hovering over his cock, the bulge in his jeans growing harder the more the two of you deny him, averting your attention from him.

Riled up and needy, Matty starts grinding up against George’s hand, panting and whimpering as pleasure licks up his spine, making him arch his back. It doesn't take long for the blonde to pull his hand away, leaving Matty gasping for air as your lips press a kiss to his temple, feeling how hot his face is.

“Please G, fuckk– please tell him, darling.” you shake your head again, leaving his fate in George’s hands as he finally speaks, his rough voice going straight between your legs. Seeing Matty this worked up isn't helping your situation as you squeeze your thighs together, Matty so focused on his own pleasure and release that he doesn't even notice.

“Stay still, behave and watch the movie.” George speaks, his tone oddly commanding so much so even you feel compelled to lie still, not moving a single inch. “G, please–”

“Shut up Matthew, this won't end well for you.” your breath hitches at the vague threat, and Matty ceases all movement.

Now, you’d love to say that George seemed as nonchalant as he tried to come across, but you knew Matty wasn't going to stop the moment he saw the bulge in his trousers, his cock straining against the fabric so hard it looked genuinely painful as he adjusted himself, silently praying Matty wouldn't say anything.

#my shoulder is on fire but the gatty grind never stops #the 1975 #matty healy #george daniel #mpind matty #mpind george #matty healy fanfiction #george daniel fanfiction #matty healy smut #george daniel smut #matty healy x reader #george daniel x reader #drive like i do #🦈 anon

43 notes · View notes

sassenach77yle · 5 months ago

Text

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 4 EPISODE 09 || THE BIRDS & THE BEES ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

The light outside was dazzling after the taproom’s gloom. Brianna blinked, eyes tearing at the shafts of sun that stabbed through the shifting greens of a screen of maples. Then a movement caught her eye, below the flickering leaves. He stood in the shade of the maples, half turned away from her, head bent in absorption. A tall man, long-legged, lean and graceful, with his shoulders broad under a white shirt. He wore a faded kilt in pale greens and browns, casually rucked up in front as he urinated against a tree. He finished and, letting the kilt fall, turned toward the post house. He saw her then, standing there staring at him, and tensed slightly, hands half curling. Then he saw past her men’s clothes, and the look of wary suspicion changed at once to surprise as he realized that she was a woman. There was no doubt in her mind, from the first glimpse. She was at once surprised and not surprised at all; he was not quite what she had imagined—he seemed smaller, only man-sized—but his face had the lines of her own; the long, straight nose and stubborn jaw, and the slanted cat-eyes, set in a frame of solid bone. He moved toward her out of the maples’ shadow, and the sun struck his hair with a spray of copper sparks. Half consciously she raised a hand and pushed a strand of hair back from her face, seeing from the corner of her eye the matching gleam of thick red-gold. “What d’ye want here, lassie?” he asked. Sharp, but not unkind. His voice was deeper than she had imagined; the Highland burr slight but distinct. “You,” she blurted. Her heart seemed to have wedged itself in her throat; she had trouble forcing any words past it. He was close enough that she caught the faint whiff of his sweat and the fresh smell of sawn wood; there was a golden scatter of sawdust caught in the rolled sleeves of his linen shirt. His eyes narrowed with amusement as he looked her up and down, taking in her costume. One reddish eyebrow rose, and he shook his head. “Sorry, lass,” he said, with a half-smile. “I’m a marrit man.” He made to pass by, and she made a small incoherent sound, putting out a hand to stop him, but not quite daring to touch his sleeve. He stopped and looked at her more closely. “No, I meant it; I’ve a wife at home, and home’s not far,” he said, evidently wishing to be courteous. “But—” He stopped, close enough now to take in the grubbiness of her clothes, the hole in the sleeve of her coat and the tattered ends of her stock.

“Och,” he said in a different tone, and reached for the small leather purse he wore tied at his waist. “Will ye be starved, then, lass? I’ve money, if you must eat.” She could scarcely breathe. His eyes were dark blue, soft with kindness. Her eyes fixed on the open collar of his shirt, where the curly hairs showed, bleached gold against his sunburnt skin. “Are you—you’re Jamie Fraser, aren’t you?” He glanced sharply at her face. “I am,” he said. The wariness had returned to his face; his eyes narrowed against the sun. He glanced quickly behind him, toward the tavern, but nothing stirred in the open doorway. He took a step closer to her. “Who asks?” he said softly. “Have you a message for me, lass?” She felt an absurd desire to laugh welling up in her throat. Did she have a message?

“My name is Brianna,” she said.

He frowned, uncertain, and something flickered in his eyes. He knew it! He’d heard the name and it meant something to him. She swallowed hard, feeling her cheeks blaze as though they’d been seared by a candle flame.

“I’m your daughter,” she said, her voice sounding choked to her own ears.

“Brianna.” He stood stock-still, not changing expression in the slightest. He had heard her, though; he went pale, and then a deep, painful red washed up his throat and into his face, sudden as a brushfire, matching her own vivid color. She felt a deep flash of joy at the sight, a rush through her midsection that echoed that blaze of blood, recognition of their fair-skinned kinship. Did it trouble him to blush so strongly? she wondered suddenly. Had he schooled his face to immobility, as she had learned to do, to mask that telltale surge? Her own face felt stiff, but she gave him a tentative smile. He blinked, and his eyes moved at last from her face, slowly taking in her appearance, and—with what seemed to her a new and horrified awareness—her height. “My God,” he croaked. “You’re huge.” Her own blush had subsided, but now came back with a vengeance. “And whose fault is that, do you think?” she snapped. She drew herself up straight and squared her shoulders, glaring. So close, at her full height, she could look him right in the eye, and did. He jerked back, and his face did change then, mask shattering in surprise. Without it, he looked younger; underneath were shock, surprise, and a dawning expression of half-painful eagerness. “Och, no, lassie!” he exclaimed. “I didna mean it that way, at all! It’s only—” He broke off, staring at her in fascination. His hand lifted, as though despite himself, and traced the air, outlining her cheek, her jaw and neck and shoulder, afraid to touch her directly. “It’s true?” he whispered. “It is you, Brianna?” He spoke her name with a queer accent—Breeanah—and she shivered at the sound. “It’s me,” she said, a little huskily. She made another attempt at a smile. “Can’t you tell?” His mouth was wide and full-lipped, but not like hers; wider, a bolder shape, that seemed to hide a smile in the corners of it, even in repose. It was twitching now, not certain what to do. “Aye,” he said. “Aye, I can.”

He did touch her then, his fingers drawing lightly down her face, brushing back the waves of ruddy hair from temple and ear, tracing the delicate line of her jaw. She shivered again, though his touch was noticeably warm; she could feel the heat of his palm against her cheek.

“I hadna thought of you as grown,” he said, letting his hand fall reluctantly away. “I saw the pictures, but still—I had ye in my mind somehow as a wee bairn always—as my babe. I never expected …”

His voice trailed off as he stared at her, the eyes like her own, deep blue and thick-lashed, wide in fascination. “Pictures,” she said, feeling breathless with happiness. “You’ve seen pictures of me? Mama found you, didn’t she? When you said you had a wife at home—”

“Claire,” he interrupted. The wide mouth had made its decision; it split into a smile that lit his eyes like the sun in the dancing tree leaves. He grabbed her arms, tight enough to startle her. “You’ll not have seen her, then? Christ, she’ll be mad wi’ joy!” The thought of her mother was overwhelming. Her face cracked, and the tears she had been holding back for days spilled down her cheeks in a flood of relief, half choking her as she laughed and cried together.

“Here, lassie, dinna weep!” he exclaimed in alarm. He let go of her arm and snatched a large, crumpled handkerchief from his sleeve. He patted tentatively at her cheeks, looking worried. “Dinna weep, a leannan, dinna be troubled,” he murmured. “It’s all right, m’ annsachd; it’s all right.”

“I’m all right; everything’s all right. I’m just—happy,” she said. She took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “What does that mean—a leannan? And the other thing you said?”

“You’ll not have the Gaelic, then?” he asked, and shook his head. “No, of course she wouldna have been taught,” he murmured, as though to himself. “I’ll learn,” she said firmly, giving her nose a last wipe.

“A leannan?” A slight smile reappeared on his face as he looked at her. “It means ‘darling,’ ” he said softly. “M’ annsachd—my blessing.”

41 JOURNEY’S END

#the frasers #outlander #outlander starz #outlander series #outlanderedit #jamie fraser #outlander fanart #samheughan #sophie skelton #brianna fraser #jamie & bree #outlander books #outlander book #outlander season 4 #outlander 4x09

19 notes · View notes

sunderingstars · 8 months ago

Text

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ EIDOLON ART AS FACETS OF CHARACTER ⌝

analysis masterlist

— fandom: honkai star rail

— type: analysis, general

— word count: 1.7k

— overview: (as of 2.3) an analysis of eidolons, their art, and what they convey in terms of character. goes pretty deep into march 7th as an example, so it can partially function as a march eidolon analysis as well. meant to be a companion piece to my eidolon name analysis & sampo eidolon analysis (as well as any other characters i do down the line!)

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

Honkai: Star Rail's eidolon art can be broken down into six sections:

— E1: A frame of the character facing away, often focused on their hair and back with facial features obscured.

— E2: A close-up frame of the character's left eye, often focused on their eye color and front-facing hair with the rest of their face obscured.

— E3: A frame of the character interacting with an important object to them, often focused on what their hands are doing (can also include parts of the face).

— E4: A frame of the character's upper body, often focused on their shoulders, neck, and face. No part of the face is obscured.

— E5: A frame focused on the character's chest, often obscuring the upper half of their face.

— E6: A frame of the character without clothes, head tilting down, usually showing the upper chest area or other body parts if curled.

The progression of clarity shown in the character's body language and revealing of facial features creates a visual effect of "coming closer" to them.

E1 shows none of their face, yet by the time we reach E6 we see not only their face, but their bare skin. We are quite literally seeing them at their most vulnerable, closing the distance physically, emotionally, and mentally between the player and the character.

What I find most striking about each eidolon is that they are consistent across every character; every E1 is the same pose, and so on and so forth. This leads me to believe that the poses and placement of eidolons serve a deeper meaning than just staying at a level of visual distance — namely, that they are meant to also convey similar facets of each character. As such, we can think of them as a baseline going forward, a constant benchmark structure we can use to compare characters to one another.

Let's take March 7th as an example:

— Her E1 (Memory of You) starts with her the furthest from us, facing away to create that narrative distance. The movement of her hair signals that she may be walking away; this is her at her most closed off. Taking from my "eidolon names as narratives" post, if we assume eidolons follow a narrative structure, then this would be reminiscent of her backstory, perhaps even her appearance to strangers or even her view of her past self as a stranger to her present. Either way, this is the "wall," the outer shell of her character. Conclusions: outer shell, backstory, appearance to strangers.

— Her E2 (Memory of It) immediately establishes her bubbly nature. The bright pinks and blues from her eye pop and create a burst of energy in the picture, while the large, white shine indicates a bright and youthful personality. We also get a better look at her vivid pink hair, which adds to the "bubbly girl" persona. This is our next look in, coming closer and getting a first impression of her true personality. I believe this may also be meant to represent the moment she woke up from the ice, as the "it" in "memory of it" may be referring to the ice itself. Conclusions: first impression, inciting incident, appearance to newcomers.

— Her E3 (Memory of Everything) further cements her cheerful disposition, as her smile and tilting head indicate an open and friendly figure. The important object she is fiddling with is an earring. While I have not been able to find any canonical significance for this earring in her lore or character details, my assumption would be that this is an item given to her by the Astral Express crew after awakening from the ice. As such, it not only implicates her interest in fashion, but a cherishing of the crew that is helping her build a new life for herself. I would say this also signals the point in her story where she is accepted by the crew; her memories are becoming filled with a new "everything" as the world opens up before her. Conclusions: important object, new life, appearance to acquaintances.

— Her E4 (Never Forfeit Again) shows her looking over her back while flashing a peace sign. (This is absolutely my favorite eidolon of hers, it's so cute and friendly!) As we (the viewer) are getting closer to her in space and time, she is accepting us in by smiling and making a gesture often associated with fun and excitement. Through this, she is showing us that not only is she excited to know us, but excited to see the world in general. "Never forfeit again" hints that this excitement may be because she doesn't want to give up or lose another life, so she is trying her best to make this new one vibrant and enjoyable. However, this is still not the core of her being; it is more authentic than before, but there is more to go. Conclusions: balance between both sides of vulnerability, present events, appearance to friends.

— Her E5 (Never Forget Again) shows her slightly looking past us, focused on her collar and shirt. She looks more dull here, muted, as if she is comfortable enough to look away while still facing us, putting her trust in the audience to be safe. The smile is still there, though it doesn't seem as exaggerated as before; instead it seems more casual, like we are having a day-to-day interaction. However, there is also something ominous about another part of her face being obscured — even though we are closer to her, there are still secrets she is keeping, some that not even she may be aware of. I believe this indicates the mystery of her character, that there are still things to be uncovered. After all, what does the other "half" of her look like? Conclusions: casual and comfortable, future mystery, appearance to close friends.

— Finally, her E6 (Just Like This, Always) shows her at her most physically, mentally, and emotionally vulnerable, curled around herself without any clothes on. My guess is that this is her core essence, meant to symbolize the pose of her body while trapped in ice. The way she hugs herself seems to indicate coldness (and therefore, an attempt to keep herself warm), while the curling of her legs conjures a feeling of trying to keep something in, to keep her memories from escaping. This is the "March" at the center of her, the pure, vulnerable soul of her being. Beyond the bubbly exterior is someone who is scared and freezing, trying desperately to make new memories and cling to them before they fade. "Just like this, always" is also a major indicator to this being her constant state, something that sticks with her from the past to the present to the future. Conclusions: pure vulnerability, core essence, appearance to only a select few special people.

So, here are my summarized conclusions for the "baseline" of eidolon art:

— E1: Outer shell, backstory, appearance to strangers.

— E2: First impression, inciting incident, appearance to newcomers.

— E3: Important object, new life, appearance to acquaintances.

— E4: Balance between both sides of vulnerability, present events, appearance to friends.

— E5: Casual and comfortable, future mystery, appearance to close friends.

— E6: Pure vulnerability, core essence, appearance to only a select few special people.

Before I give my final thoughts, let's do a quicker and shorter application of these concepts to another example, Gepard:

— E1 (Due Diligence): Symbolizes his backstory, the distance of working his way up through the ranks, and a strong, loyal silhouette for those who don't know him.

— E2 (Lingering Cold): Can be interpreted several ways, but I view the "inciting incident" to be several events in a trenchcoat, namely every past battle he fought under the Supreme Guardian, the "lingering cold" of war. Tired yet determined eyes at first glance. Most likely the view his soldiers have on the day-to-day.

— E3 (Never Surrender): The important object is the Silvermane Medal indicating his status as Captain (shows the importance he places on loyalty and leadership). His face is not shown; he values his service to Belobog more than his own feelings. New life as a Captain leading the charge, covers the span of time between the inciting incident and present. Despite losses and setbacks, he pushes forward.

— E4 (Faith Moves Mountains): Active and commanding, tracks events in the Belobog Trailblaze Mission where he has more interaction with his soldiers and the main cast. Faith in Cocolia is difficult to break down, then replaced by faith in Bronya. The Gepard his soldiers see up close on the battlefield; comrades-in-arms.

— E5 (Cold Iron Fist): Comfortable enough to look away, yet still on-guard. Even around close friends, his instincts lead him to always be alert. Eyes narrowed, scanning surroundings. Future uncertainty for the fate of Belobog.

— E6 (Unyielding Resolve): Almost hesitant body language; slight furrow to brow betraying difficulty being vulnerable. Only slightly turned away, as if still on guard; core essence is strength and loyalty.

Overall, while these are standard commonalities I've come across while looking at eidolons, I'm sure there are slight deviations between characters. After all, facets are bound to change slightly depending on the personality of the character. However, the common eidolon poses and analysis discussed here lead me to believe the facets shown in E1-E6 art have deeper meaning and connection to each character, tracking across time and space to reveal more and more about a character’s personality until finally arriving at the "core essence" of E6.

(Feel free to try applying this to other eidolons of your favorite characters — since I drew these conclusions from general commonalities across eidolon sets, they should be able to work with any given character (with slight deviations). I think it’s a fun brain exercise to get thinking about each character’s personality and story!)

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

જ⁀➴ and that's the end of my analysis! if you’ve read to the end, thank you for listening to my nerdy rambling! i’ll be posting an in-depth analysis of sampo’s eidolons soon, so if anyone is interested please keep a look out for that!

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

#⌞ ✎ sunder.writes ⌝#⌞ ༄ hsr ⌝#analysis #hsr #honkai star rail #honkai: star rail #hsr theory #honkai star rail theory #march 7th #gepard landau #hsr gepard

35 notes · View notes

mykoreanlove · 7 months ago

Text

I think he confessed 🤭

The soft hum of the gallery buzzed quietly in the background, the low murmurs of admiration blending into the echo of your footsteps on the polished marble floor. The air was thick with history, each painting on the walls telling tales of centuries past. Renaissance masterpieces adorned the walls, their vivid colors and intricate details pulling at your soul, but today, your gaze was fixed on something much more captivating.

Taemin stood in front of you, his silhouette bathed in the soft, golden glow of the museum’s lights. He hadn’t hesitated when you’d asked him to join you at the exhibit—art had always been a shared passion between you two, a silent thread that connected your hearts. As he stood there, facing the enormous painting on the wall, his back revealed a different kind of canvas—a masterpiece all his own.

His long, dark hair fell messily past his shoulders, tousled in an effortless way that only he could pull off. The strands caught the light here and there, creating fleeting shadows that danced across the crisp white shirt clinging to his broad back. His frame, sturdy and sure, filled the simple fabric, the wrinkled lines of the shirt seeming to form around him naturally, as if the clothes had been sculpted to his form. Olive-colored pants tapered down to his ankles, a perfect complement to the understated elegance he wore like second skin. His hands were loosely clasped behind him, a relaxed stance, yet there was something almost regal in the way he carried himself—he was completely absorbed, studying the art with a quiet intensity that made your heart skip.

You stood a few paces behind, captivated not by the art, but by the man who seemed to embody it. Your phone slipped easily from your pocket, your fingers moving instinctively to capture the moment. The camera shutter was silent, but your thoughts were loud with affection.

“Kind of ridiculous to be in a museum when I’m already dating art itself,” you murmured to yourself with a small, soft chuckle. A thought that felt both cheeky and true.

The sound of your voice, though barely above a whisper, stirred him. “Taem,” you called out, just a breath of his name, but it was all it took.

He turned instantly, his movements graceful, almost as though he had been waiting for you to call him. His curious expression melted into something far softer, the corners of his lips lifting into a smile that seemed to belong only to you. It wasn’t just any smile—it was that particular smile, the one he gave when the world faded away and only you remained. A warmth spread across your chest, and without thinking, you raised your phone again, capturing that moment, too—Taemin, your Taemin, bathed in golden light, his eyes full of affection, looking at you like you were the only art in the room.

He closed the distance between you with a few quiet steps, his presence filling the space between you like gravity pulling you in. When he reached you, his hands found your face gently, his strong arms cradling your cheeks as though you were something precious, fragile. His fingers were warm against your skin, and the world seemed to slow.

Without a word, he leaned in, his full lips brushing yours in a kiss that held so much more than just the moment. It was filled with a deep, almost aching tenderness, the kind of kiss that spoke of unspoken promises and the weight of all the years to come. You kissed him back, your hands instinctively finding their place on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your fingertips. It was the kind of moment that felt both timeless and fleeting, like the world had paused just for the two of you, yet somehow it was slipping through your fingers too fast.

When he finally pulled away, just slightly, his forehead rested against yours. His breath, warm against your lips, mingled with yours in the small space between you.

“Love of my life,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but carrying the weight of a thousand emotions. It wasn’t just a declaration—it was a confession, a vow, something sacred wrapped up in four simple words.

Your lips curved into a smile, your eyes still closed, savoring the closeness. “Love of my life,” you echoed back, the words tasting sweet on your tongue.

For a moment, the world outside the two of you ceased to exist. The centuries-old paintings that had once demanded your attention were now forgotten, mere background to the living masterpiece in front of you. In this shared space, in the midst of art that had survived ages, it was the love between you and Taemin that felt eternal, a work in progress, unfinished but perfect in its imperfections.

You stayed like that for a moment longer, your fingers tracing gentle patterns against his chest, your heart beating in time with his. You didn’t need anything else—no grand gestures, no extravagant words. Just the two of you, in a quiet museum filled with history, creating your own.

✨✨✨

The art I’m talking about:

36 notes · View notes

00127am · 1 year ago

Text

SETLIST FOUR : give it up for viva la vida nine!

@ shangri-la as the lead singer of viva la vida nine, you have little interest in anything other than your band and stealing the attention of the crowd from any other competitors. until you watch rival lead singer of pantera, nakamoto yuta, preform. cocky, charismatic, cavalier nakamoto yuta. the same nakamoto yuta who you cannot stand (him and the way he makes your knees feel weak). after that, you're much more interested in stealing his attention (though you'd rather die than admit it).

THURSDAY, AMP 08:00PM

Ten nudges your shoulder, a cheshire grin plastered against his lips as he signs hello to you, tilting his head to get a better look at the scowl on your face. The delight he takes in his constant teasing is nearly palpable, visible in the soft squint of his eyes and the lopsided quirk of his dimples. His hair falls over his eyes in thin strands, blonde bangs long enough to skim the bridge of his nose. His roots are growing in, dark brown hair burning at his scalp and slipping underneath the brighter blonde that frames his face with a doting curve. Blue colored contacts blink back at you but they do little to mask the teasing lit in his eyes.

“You really kicking me out?” His voice is still muffled, even with his cherry lips pressed up against your ear (sure to leave a vivid mark of his lipstick) and you find yourself biting back the hint of a smile. He can sense it too and you feel his lips curve into a broader smile, hot breath sticking to the curves of your ear and forcing a movement in your earrings.

“Keep it up and maybe I will,” you try your best to sound annoyed but there's too much affection in your voice to mistake the statement as anything with veracity.

Your response makes your bandmate hum, a low, baritone sound that mixes in too closely with the tuning of Johnny’s bass guitar for you to differentiate them. His fingers momentarily intertwine with yours, giving you a quick squeeze, before he’s raising his hands. Ten’s always had pretty hands, long fingers coated in tarnished gold rings and fingernails painted a vibrant color that always matches your own in some way or another. And when he signs with those pretty hands, he’s fluid and elegant. He signs the way he dances, each motion seamlessly flowing into one another to the extent in which you’re unsure of where one starts and the other ends.

The way he signs Yuta’s name is clunky, unused and unpracticed. The signs are choppy, each syllable pronounced with a harsh movement of his hand. He didn’t have to sign it, you didn’t need any other indication that he was about to preform than the shift of the curtain and the whine of the mic. And unlike Ten’s signage of his name, Yuta is anything but clumsy and unappealing to the eye.

If you heard the words that Ten was speaking against your ear and signing in front of you, you didn’t acknowledge them. So utterly captivated with the rival lead singer just a few hundred feet away that everything else has faded out with the sharp ring in your ears and the blur of your peripheral. Everything but him.

“You sure you don’t like him?”

09:35PM

“What are you so focused on?”

Johnny’s voice is just short of amusement, volume fluctuating with the strum of a few here and there cords from the band currently on stage--hooking up their instruments with the familiar squeal and whine of feedback. The question is directed to the lead singer who’s currently comfortably relaxed against the back bar of the venue, elbows digging into the wood paneling and head tossed ever-so-slightly back. His lips are pulling into a smug look of satisfaction, an expression otherwise unnoticeable if not for the benefit of knowing Yuta for so many years. There’s a cigarette held in between slim fingers and metal rings, unlit and crumpled as the blonde unconsciously toys with it as if he has forgotten it’s there in the first place. Not many things can make Yuta forget about a smoke. Not many people. In fact, his bandmate struggles to think of just one.

And in classic, expected fashion: Yuta declines the privilege of a reply. But it doesn’t take long for Johnny to follow the line of his vision. Sliding over tousled hair and through crowds of groupies. Past the small security detail on the left and just before the barricade of the stage. Straight towards you. He grins, the full extent of his entertainment showing on his face as clear as day. Even though Yuta wasn’t looking, he could feel it. It’s enough to cause the smallest twitch in his eye as he readies himself for the inevitable, taunting comment.

“Oh, I see,” he nudges the blondes shoulder, “Lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine,”

If anything were to get his acknowledgement in this conversation, it would certainly be the topic of recognizing you. Or, misidentifying you. Yuta turns partially, brows set in a downward line and lips pulled into a pout. Expression scrunched and eyes narrowed as he finally dignifies Johnny with a response.

“What? No,”

Johnny returns Yuta’s puzzled countenance with one of his own, raising his brow as his tongue pushes against the bottom row of his teeth. He swallows, looking to his bandmate and then to you, and then Yuta, again, and then back to you. He blinks a few times before raising a thin hand, knuckles a soft red and veins catching on the dim orange hues of the bar. Johnny gestures in your direction, finger perfectly poised at the back of your head. “So you’re not staring at her,”

And Yuta follows like a moth to a flame, eyes slipping against the flesh of the older man’s finger, skimming his nail, before meeting the forty-five degree angle of your jaw. He looks longer than necessary, a few seconds of a lingering glance which Johnny notes with a miniscule upwards dart in the corner of his lips (one that if Yuta had noticed he would have returned with a scowl). The confusion of the situation allows for leeway in an honest admission, words slipping out without a single thought on the matter. A confession met without penance. “Yeah, I am,”

“Right. Yn. The lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine,”

“No,” Yuta’s fully turned now, shooting Johnny an incredulous look that matches his tone, “That’s my fan,”

The emphasis on ‘my’ doesn’t fall on deaf ears. Nor does the conscious (or unconscious) decision to use it. You’re not ours, not Pantera’s, but Yuta’s. And based on his tone, Yuta’s alone. Knowing you (or at least the stories about you), Johnny doesn’t think that would be a sentiment that you would find particularly endearing. He meets his bandmate’s gaze with an equally perplexed one, tone in disbelief and perhaps the slightest hint of vexation that is mellowed over by the amused lit to his words. “Your fan? Don’t tell me she’s the one who you’re all lovey dovey for,”

“I’m not lovey dovey,” it’s the wrong denial provided as Yuta waves him off lazily, rolling his eyes, “It’s just interest. Can’t I be interested in one of my fans?”

My. Again.

“Not when your supposed fan is the lead singer of our rival band,”

And with those words being said (for what feels like the millionth time), Johnny swears he can hear the slightest snap in Yuta’s patience, a sharp sound that’s as clear as the strings on his bass. “She’s not the lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine. I met her after our last gig, I watched her the whole set. I’m telling you she’s-”

“Yn of Viva La Vida Nine,”

Your voice is entangled with the audible whine of the mic on stage, pulling Yuta’s attention with a harsh tug and the whisk of his eyes back to the center of the bar. He turned so quickly, so urgently that Johnny swears he got whiplash. An idea that bubbles laughter in the back of his throat, a sound that Yuta has all but cut out. There’s no bandmate, there’s no cheering crowd, no clink of the bottles at the bar, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, but you.

Yuta Nakamoto considers himself to be a rather practical man. He’s never worshiped anything. Never fallen into the thinly veiled trap of complete and utter obsession. He’s not an addict, not someone who is constantly chasing the adrenaline of a high. He sticks to what’s in front of him, what he’s good at, what can make a crowd scream or earn him a few more bucks then the last song did. He has never faltered with any desire. Any compulsion. Craving. Yuta Nakamoto is a practical man through and through.

But, oh god, it’s taking all he has not to fall to his knees and worship you.

@ previous @ home @ next

🧾 © 00127am 2024

61 notes · View notes

kpoptarotastrology009 · 10 months ago

Note

Omg iris pleSs please please can u do a tarot reading for sunghoon from enhypen on what his ideal type is please???

Thank uuuuuuu👀💞

Enhypen's Sunghoon IDEAL TYPE

Personality: (XIII ° Death from mystic dreamer tarot , nine of rods from the ellis deck and the king of pentacles ) Sunghoon's ideal type is someone who’s all about transformation and growth, just like the XIII ° Death card. They’re resilient and adaptable, not afraid of change, and always ready to embrace new beginnings. This person is introspective and can let go of the past to make way for a brighter future. With the Nine of Rods in the mix, they’re a true fighter—persistent, determined, and always standing strong no matter the challenges. Add in the King of Pentacles' energy, and you’ve got someone grounded, responsible, and super reliable. They have a nurturing side, providing stability and support, making them the perfect mix of strength and tenderness. Sunghoon would be drawn to someone who embodies these qualities, creating a balanced and harmonious relationship.

Appearance : (ace of cups , six of pentacles and the high priestess )

Sunghoon's ideal type in terms of appearance, drawing from the Ace of Cups, Six of Pentacles, and The High Priestess, paints a vivid and enchanting picture. Imagine someone with a serene and ethereal beauty, their features soft and inviting. Their face is likely gentle, with expressive eyes that convey deep emotion and empathy, reminiscent of the overflowing love symbolized by the Ace of Cups. They might have a youthful and fresh appearance, with a complexion that seems to glow from within.

Their body would be well-proportioned and balanced, much like the Six of Pentacles suggests harmony and fairness. This person has a graceful and elegant demeanor, with movements that are fluid and poised. They might have a slender yet healthy build, with a presence that feels nurturing and comforting.

The High Priestess adds a layer of mystery and allure. Picture someone with a calm and enigmatic aura, possibly with dark, lustrous hair that adds to their mystique.

Style/fashion sense: (temperance ,page of wands ,the high priestess again wow )

Sunghoon's ideal style, inspired by Temperance, Page of Wands, and The High Priestess, is a captivating blend of casual chic with a hint of mystery and sophistication. This aesthetic combines comfort and style effortlessly, reflecting a relaxed yet fashionable approach to dressing.

Imagine someone who loves to mix and match different pieces, creating unique and stylish outfits that are both comfortable and trendy. They might opt for loose, flowing fabrics and soft colors that convey a sense of tranquility and ease, reminiscent of the Temperance card's harmonious nature.

Drawing inspiration from the Page of Wands, they infuse their wardrobe with a youthful and creative energy. They're not afraid to experiment with bold patterns, textures, and accessories, adding a playful and unexpected twist to their looks.

The High Priestess influence brings a touch of mystery and allure to their style. They gravitate towards elegant and timeless pieces that have a hint of mystique, such as flowy dresses, intricate patterns, and subtle jewelry. Their style is more about understated elegance than making loud statements, drawing people in with its subtle charm and sophistication.

i put it here because it came twice in the reading ( mythic tarot the high priestess)

#astrology observations #kpop tarot #tarot #free tarot reading #enhypen #sunghoon #tarot reading #kpopidol #kpop icons #free gaza #free palestine #astrology #astrology placements

39 notes · View notes

earthlybeam · 3 months ago

Text

🎄🎁Merry Christmas everyone🎉✨

✨🌻💛 𝓜𝓮𝓵𝓾𝓭𝓲𝓻 💛🌻✨

how would the elves react to this?

↓

Meludir Version below. (reader/you are his lover). Featuring what I wrote below is: Building a Snowman (With a Twist), Snowball Fight, Sledging Adventure, Snow Angel.

💛𝓜𝓮𝓵𝓾𝓭𝓲𝓻

Building a Snowman(With a Twist):

𑁍 The snow lay thick across the clearing, sparkling like crushed diamonds in the soft afternoon light. Meludir was kneeling beside the nearly completed snowman, his golden-brown hair catching the faint sunlight as he leaned forward, carefully smoothing out the middle section of the snow figure. His gloved hands moved with a quiet precision, his brow furrowed in concentration. “This has to be perfect,” he murmured, half to himself. His voice was soft, thoughtful, the kind of tone he used when completely immersed in something. “It’s not just any snowman—it’s our snowman.” You watched him fondly, amused by the intensity with which he approached even the simplest tasks. Meludir always took everything so seriously, even building a snowman. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, and a faint dusting of snow clung to his tunic, giving him an almost ethereal quality.

𑁍 He leaned back on his heels and glanced at you, his expression earnest. “Do you think it needs anything else?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his wide eyes full of curiosity. You pretended to consider, biting back a mischievous grin. “Hmm… something’s missing,” you said, reaching into the small satchel you’d brought. From it, you pulled the final piece—the carrot. “Oh!” Meludir’s face lit up, his expression bright and full of boyish excitement. “The nose!” He reached out for the carrot, but before he could take it, you leaned forward, your grin widening. Without a word, you stuck the carrot firmly into the lower snowball. Not where the nose was supposed to go—but somewhere much… lower.

𑁍 For a heartbeat, there was silence. Meludir froze, his outstretched hand hanging in the air. His mouth opened as if to say something, but no words came out. Slowly, his eyes widened, and a bright flush of red spread across his cheeks, so vivid it rivaled the color of the carrot. “Wh-what are you doing?!” he stammered, his voice rising in pitch as his gaze darted from the snowman to you. His hands flailed uselessly in the air as if he couldn’t decide whether to remove the carrot or cover his face in mortification. You couldn’t hold it in any longer. Laughter burst out of you, loud and uncontrollable, echoing through the clearing. Doubling over, you clutched your sides as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “Relax, Meludir,” you managed between fits of laughter. “It’s just a joke!”

𑁍 “A joke?!” he sputtered, his face still an alarming shade of red. He glanced around the clearing, his movements frantic, as though expecting Thranduil himself to emerge from the trees at any moment. “This is highly inappropriate!” he hissed. “What if someone sees this? They’ll think we’re… we’re…” “Creative?” you supplied, still grinning. Meludir groaned, burying his face in his gloved hands. “No, they’ll think we’re insane! Or indecent!” He peeked through his fingers, his mortification battling with the beginnings of a reluctant smile. “What if king Thranduil walked by?” You shrugged, smirking. “Then he’d probably be impressed with your attention to detail.”

𑁍 That did it. Despite himself, Meludir let out a soft laugh, his shoulders shaking as he tried to smother it. He shook his head, his long hair brushing against the snow as he muttered, “This is going to get me in trouble. I just know it.” Finally, he stood and took a step back to inspect the snowman, still shaking his head. His lips twitched, and then, to your delight, he broke into a full laugh, the sound bright and infectious. “Well,” he said, crossing his arms and regarding the snowman with mock seriousness, “it’s… anatomically accurate, at least.”

𑁍 “Exactly!” you said, slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. “We’re just honoring nature.” Meludir groaned again, but his laughter betrayed him. “You’re impossible,” he said, leaning into you slightly. You smiled, brushing a bit of snow from his hair. “You love it.” He glanced at you then, his eyes softening, his flushed cheeks still tinged with the faintest hint of pink. “I suppose I do,” he said quietly, his voice warm. Then, with a tenderness that caught you off guard, he leaned forward and nuzzled his cold nose gently against yours.

𑁍 “It’s a good thing I love you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Your breath caught at his words, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall away. The snowman, the cold, the laughter—it all faded, leaving only Meludir’s shy, radiant smile and the warmth of his affection. You grinned back at him, your heart full. “It’s a good thing I love you, too.” And as you stood there in the snow, arm in arm, the absurdity of the situation only made the moment that much sweeter. For all his embarrassment, you knew Meludir would treasure this memory—your snowman, your laughter, and most of all, you—for years to come.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Snowball Fight:

𑁍 The snow lay thick and glistening across the forest floor, the pale light of a winter sun filtering through the bare branches above. You and Meludir had been out since morning, your breath fogging in the cold air as you worked to pile snow for yet another snowman. His soft laughter had rung through the clearing earlier as he tried—and failed—to craft the perfect face for your last attempt, the carrot nose falling off every time he stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Maybe this one will actually look less terrifying,” he teased, scooping another handful of snow into the growing pile. His voice was warm and light, contrasting the chill that surrounded you. You grinned, already planning to tease him back when something cold and soft hit your back. You froze, feeling the icy dampness seep through your cloak. Slowly, you turned to find Meludir standing several paces away, snow clinging to his gloved fingers. His eyes widened in mock innocence, but the barely-suppressed smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

𑁍 “Meludir,” you said, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “Did you just throw a snowball at me?” His lips parted, and for a moment, he looked like a startled deer. Then, as though realizing escape was his only option, he bolted, giggling like a child caught stealing sweets. “It was an accident!” he called over his shoulder, his voice lilting with laughter. “An accident, huh?” you muttered, already scooping up a handful of snow. Packing it into a firm sphere, you took off after him, your boots crunching in the snow as you pursued the nimble elf. Meludir was fast—frustratingly fast—and his smaller frame allowed him to dart through the trees with ease. He twisted and turned, his golden-brown hair catching in the winter light as he glanced back at you, his face lit with joy. “You’ll never catch me!” he taunted, his voice light and teasing, before vanishing behind a large evergreen.

𑁍 “Oh, we’ll see about that,” you muttered, determination flaring in your chest. You followed his tracks through the snow, weaving between the trees and ducking under low-hanging branches. Despite his speed, Meludir’s laughter gave him away, echoing faintly through the forest. Eventually, you spotted him crouched behind a tree, his shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles as he peeked out to see if you were still chasing him. Grinning, you crept closer, moving as quietly as the snow would allow. When you were within range, you launched your snowball with all the precision you could muster. It sailed through the air and hit him squarely in the chest, exploding in a puff of white. Meludir let out a dramatic gasp, stumbling back as he clutched at his chest. “You got me!” he cried, falling backward into the snow with exaggerated flair. His eyes squeezed shut, and his limbs sprawled out as though he’d been struck down in battle.

𑁍 You couldn’t help but laugh as you walked up to him, hands on your hips. “Is that it? That’s all it takes to take down one of Mirkwood’s scouts?” One of his eyes peeked open, a sly smile spreading across his face. “You caught me off guard,” he protested, his voice dripping with mock indignation. “Otherwise, I would have—” Before he could finish, you pounced, tackling him into the snow. He let out a startled squeak, his laughter bubbling up as you pinned him beneath you. Snow clung to his cloak and tangled in his hair, and his cheeks were flushed pink from the cold—and perhaps from something else. You grinned down at him, brushing a clump of snow from his forehead. “I win,” you declared smugly, leaning closer to make your triumph perfectly clear. Meludir’s wide eyes locked onto yours, his breath catching as a rare silence settled between you. But it lasted only a moment before his expression shifted, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Do you?” he asked softly, his voice lilting with challenge. And before you could react, his hands darted to the ground, scooping up two handfuls of snow. With a laugh that was equal parts triumphant and apologetic, he smushed the cold snow against your cheeks, leaving you gasping and laughing in surprise.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Sledging Adventure:

𑁍 The sun hung low over the wintry landscape, its golden light glinting off the snow-covered hills. The air was crisp and cool, carrying with it the faint scent of pine. You stood at the top of the hill, the wooden sledge resting at your feet, and beside you, Meludir shifted nervously, his gaze darting between the steep slope ahead and the sledge. “Are you absolutely certain about this?” he asked, his voice tinged with hesitation. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and his breath puffed in soft clouds in the chilly air. His usual confidence seemed to have abandoned him, leaving him looking adorably uncertain. “Of course I’m sure!” you replied cheerfully, giving the sledge an encouraging pat. “It’ll be fun.”

𑁍 Meludir arched an eyebrow at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You and I clearly have very different definitions of ‘fun.’ This looks like a disaster waiting to happen.” He gestured toward the hill, as if to highlight every potential peril along the slope. You couldn’t help but laugh at his cautious nature. “Come on, Meludir. Where’s your sense of adventure? You’ll love it, I promise.” He sighed heavily, clearly unconvinced, but eventually relented. “Fine,” he muttered, running a hand through his golden-brown hair. “But if this ends with me face-first in the snow, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

𑁍 “Noted,” you said with a grin. “Now, come on.” Reluctantly, Meludir climbed onto the sledge, settling himself at the front. His movements were stiff, his posture tense as he gripped the sides tightly. When you slid onto the sledge behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist for balance, he stiffened even more. “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, glancing back at you over his shoulder. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things.”

𑁍 “Because you trust me,” you replied with a laugh, giving him a playful squeeze. “And because deep down, you know I’m right.” Meludir rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “If we don’t survive this, I’m haunting you.” Before he could change his mind, you gave the sledge a firm push, and it tipped over the edge of the hill. The world seemed to lurch as the two of you began your rapid descent, the sledge skimming over the snow with alarming speed. Meludir let out a startled yelp, his hands clutching the sides of the sledge as if his life depended on it. “This is not fun!” he shouted over the rush of the wind. But as the sledge picked up speed, his fear began to melt away. His grip loosened slightly, and a tentative laugh escaped his lips. “Okay, maybe it’s a little fun!” he admitted, his voice rising with excitement.

𑁍 You tightened your hold on him, grinning ear to ear as the wind whipped past you. “Told you!” For a few blissful moments, it was nothing but laughter and the exhilaration of the ride. But then, you spotted something ahead—a massive tree standing directly in your path. Your heart skipped a beat as the sledge wobbled slightly on the uneven terrain. “Uh… Meludir?” you called out, your voice tinged with panic. “What?” he replied, craning his neck to look back at you. The movement made the sledge wobble even more. “Steer!” His eyes widened. “I don’t know how to steer!”

𑁍 “Lean to the side! Quick!” But it was too late. The sledge hurtled forward, and with a bone-jarring thud, it collided with the tree trunk, coming to an abrupt halt. For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the soft creak of branches overhead. And then, with a gentle whoosh, a massive pile of snow dislodged from the tree above, tumbling down in a cold, powdery avalanche. It landed squarely on top of you both, burying you in a chilly mound. You were the first to emerge, laughing as you shook the snow from your hair and cloak. “Meludir? Are you okay?” you called out, looking around for him.

𑁍 A muffled groan came from somewhere beneath the snow, and a moment later, Meludir’s head popped up. His face was flushed, his hair covered in white, and his expression was one of pure exasperation. He blinked at you, clearly dazed, before finally speaking. “Well,” he said dryly, brushing snow from his tunic, “that went exactly as planned.” You burst out laughing, unable to contain yourself. His mock-serious tone only made it funnier, and after a moment, Meludir joined in, his shoulders shaking as he chuckled despite himself. “At least we didn’t hit the tree too hard,” you said between giggles.

𑁍 Meludir shot you a mock glare, though the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Next time, you steer.” “Deal,” you replied with a grin, leaning forward to press a kiss to his snow-dusted cheek. Despite the collision, neither of you could stop smiling as you pulled the sledge out of the snow and began the trek back up the hill. The promise of another ride—and another adventure—hung in the air, the day’s laughter warming you against the winter chill.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Snow Angel:

𑁍 The snow blanketed the forest floor in an unbroken sheet of white, soft and untouched except for the tracks the two of you had left behind. The air was crisp and clean, carrying with it the faintest scent of pine. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the gentle rustling of the wind through the trees, but here, in this little clearing, the world felt still and serene. Meludir lay sprawled beside you in the snow, his golden-brown hair splayed out around his head like a halo, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold. His breath came in visible puffs as he giggled softly, his laughter breathless and light, like the tinkling of bells. “Are you sure this is how you’re supposed to do it?” he asked, tilting his head to look at you with those wide, expressive eyes. “It feels ridiculous.”

𑁍 “Yes, this is how you do it,” you said with a grin, waving your arms and legs through the snow in wide, sweeping arcs. “Come on, Meludir, just try it. You’re overthinking it again.” He sighed theatrically, as though the task of making a snow angel was some monumental undertaking. “Fine, but if I look ridiculous, it’s your fault.” You laughed as he began to move, tentatively at first, his arms and legs shifting in awkward motions. His brow furrowed with concentration, but the corners of his lips twitched upward despite himself. Within moments, he was giggling again, the sound filling the air as he finally gave in to the silliness of it. “There,” he said, stopping suddenly and sitting up. “It’s done.” You propped yourself up on your elbows to look at his snow angel, and he groaned, burying his face in his gloved hands. “It’s terrible,” he muttered, peeking through his fingers. “I think I messed up the wings. They’re crooked.”

𑁍 “They’re fine,” you assured him, though you couldn’t help but smile at his self-critical nature. “It looks perfect to me.” Meludir wasn’t convinced. Sitting cross-legged in the snow, he tilted his head, studying the shape with an intensity that made you bite back a laugh. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he grabbed a nearby stick and leaned over his creation. “What are you doing?” you asked, watching as he began meticulously carving into the snow.

𑁍 “The wings,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. “They’re not symmetrical. They’re supposed to match yours.” His brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue poking out slightly as he adjusted the lines of snow with the precision of an artist. You sat up fully, brushing snow off your gloves as you observed him. “Meludir, they’re snow angels. They don’t have to be perfect.”

𑁍 “They do,” he replied without looking up. “Otherwise, it doesn’t look like they’re together.” A pause hung in the air, and then his movements slowed. His cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of pink as he added, barely above a whisper, “Now it looks like they’re holding hands.” You blinked, your chest tightening at the soft admission. His eyes were fixed firmly on the snow, as though he couldn’t bring himself to look at you, but the vulnerability in his words was unmistakable. “Like they’re holding hands, huh?” you said, your voice warm as you reached out toward him. Without hesitation, you slid your gloved hand into his.

𑁍 Meludir’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise. His lips parted, but no words came out as he stared at your joined hands. Slowly, a small, shy smile spread across his face, lighting up his features in a way that made your heart skip a beat. “Now they match us,” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. For a moment, Meludir simply looked at you, his blush deepening until the tips of his ears turned pink. Then, his fingers curled around yours, holding on as though he didn’t want to let go. “I like that,” he said quietly, his voice full of warmth and sincerity. The two of you sat there in companionable silence, hand in hand, the snow falling gently around you. The snow angels lay side by side in the clearing, their wings now perfectly symmetrical, their hands just barely touching. It was a small, fleeting moment, but one that you knew you would carry with you forever.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

#Meludir #Meludir x reader #meludir headcanons #meludir of mirkwood #Meludir x you #Meludir simps #Meludir supremacy #scout of Mirkwood #Meludir scout of Mirkwood #lord of the rings #the hobbit #lotr elves

14 notes · View notes

aghost-writer · 3 months ago

Text

Between Pages

Chapter 1

This is a Yandere Bungo Stray Dogs x Female Reader Fic!

MDNI!!

The library was serene, a quiet haven away from the bustling world outside. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting a warm glow across the rows of books that lined the shelves. In a secluded corner, Y/N L/N sat nestled in a plush armchair, her fingers delicately tracing the spine of an old book. The scent of aged paper and polished wood enveloped her, creating an atmosphere of comfort.

She opened the book, its pages yellowed with time, and began to read. The words danced across the page, painting vivid scenes of distant lands and forgotten tales. As she became lost in the narrative, the soft rustle of pages and the rhythmic ticking of a clock became a soothing backdrop.

Gradually, Y/N's eyelids grew heavy, her attention waning as the story unfolded. The characters’ voices faded into a gentle hum, and the warmth of the sunlight wrapped around her like a soft blanket. Without realizing it, she leaned back deeper into the chair, the book cradled in her lap.

Unbeknownst to her, the book began to glow softly, a luminous yellow light emanating from its pages, illuminating the surrounding area in a gentle radiance. The light pulsed in time with her steady breaths, casting a warm hue on her serene expression. She sighed, a smile playing on her lips as she drifted further into a dream-filled slumber, oblivious to the magic unfolding around her.

As the minutes passed, the library remained still, the only movement the subtle flicker of the glowing book, which seemed to pulse with a life of its own. The quiet wonder of the moment hung in the air, as if the world outside had come to a halt, granting Y/N a brief respite in a realm where stories and dreams intertwined.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the world as the day began to surrender to night. The banks of the river were quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the soft burble of water cascading over rocks. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, a reminder of the rain that had fallen earlier that day. Lying on the damp grass by the river, Atsushi Nakajima felt as though he were on the precipice of death.

His body was weak, every breath a reminder of the pain that clung to him like a shadow. Just hours before, he had escaped the suffocating walls of the orphanage that had haunted him for so long, but freedom came at a cost. The cruel words of the orphanage director echoed in his mind, a cacophony of self-loathing and despair. “You’ll never amount to anything. No one will ever love you.”

Atsushi turned his head toward the water, watching the current pull debris downstream. It felt as if the river was mocking him, whispering of his failures, of how easily he could slip beneath the surface and disappear forever. The thought was tempting, yet something within him stirred—a flicker of defiance. He didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not without a fight.

With a shaky breath, he resolved to keep living. But as his thoughts swirled with hopelessness, another idea crept in: if he wanted to survive, he would have to take matters into his own hands. His stomach growled painfully, and he looked around, desperate for anything that could sustain him. A flash of determination ignited in his chest, urging him to act. He would rob the next man he saw.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a figure drifted into view, floating helplessly on the river. Atsushi squinted, heart racing as he recognized the man’s silhouette. He was drowning! Without thinking, he sprang to his feet, adrenaline propelling him forward. He sprinted to the riverbank, throwing caution to the wind.

The man was clad in a long sand-colored trench coat, the belt unfastened, its fabric billowing like a flag of surrender. Beneath it, a black vest and light blue striped dress shirt clung to his slim frame. His mildly wavy, dark brown hair floated around his face, framing features that were both handsome and disheveled. Atsushi didn’t have time to analyze the man’s appearance—he was going under, and it was now or never.

“A—are you okay?” Atsushi shouted, his voice barely rising above the sound of the rushing water. The man’s eyes, dark brown and slightly narrowed, blinked open for a moment before closing again, surrendering to the depths. Panic surged through Atsushi. What was he waiting for?

He dove into the river, the cold water enveloping him like a second skin. The shock of the temperature stole his breath, but he pressed on, kicking hard against the current. The man was further out than he had anticipated, his body bobbing along as if he were merely a ragdoll in the grip of fate. As Atsushi approached, he reached out, fingers grazing the man’s arm.

With a surge of strength, Atsushi wrapped his arms around the stranger’s waist and pulled him close. He was surprisingly light. Gritting his teeth against the chill, Atsushi began to swim back to the shore, every stroke a battle against the relentless pull of the river. I can’t let him drown!

With each desperate kick, Atsushi felt the weight of his own despair begin to lift. The act of saving someone else momentarily drowned out the thoughts of his own suffering. He was no longer just a victim of circumstance; he was a savior. With a final push, he surged forward and managed to drag both of them to the muddy bank.

Coughing and sputtering, Atsushi collapsed on the ground, the weight of the man still pressed against him. They both lay there for a moment, gasping for air, the world around them a blurry haze of sounds and colors. Finally, the man rolled onto his back, his dark eyes blinking up at the sky, a faint smirk creeping onto his lips.

“Well, this is unexpected,” he remarked, his tone light despite the situation. “I came here to die, but instead, I’m saved by a pretty boy in rags.”

Atsushi’s heart raced, a mix of relief and confusion washing over him. “W-what? You were trying to kill yourself?”

The man chuckled, the sound almost musical. “More like attempting to. It seems the river had other plans for me.” He glanced sideways at Atsushi, noting his ragged appearance. “And what about you? Were you trying to end it all too?”

Atsushi’s face flushed with embarrassment, the vulnerability of the moment striking him. “I—I was just... trying to survive,” he muttered, averting his gaze.

The man propped himself up on his elbows, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Survival, huh? You could have picked a less dramatic method, you know. Like robbing me instead.” He paused, as if considering something. “Although, I must admit, I wouldn’t have made for a very good target in my current state.”

“Rob you?” Atsushi blinked in disbelief. “Why would I rob someone who just saved my life?”

“Because it’s only fair,” the man replied with a shrug, his casual demeanor unfazed by the absurdity of the situation. “And besides, you might find that I’m worth more alive than dead.” He offered a crooked grin, revealing a hint of playfulness amidst the gravity of their circumstances.

As Atsushi stared at him, he couldn’t help but feel a strange connection, a fleeting sense of camaraderie. The man seemed to embody everything he yearned for—confidence, ease, and a certain reckless abandon. “I’m Atsushi Nakajima,” he introduced himself hesitantly, the weight of his name feeling heavy on his tongue.

The man replied, his voice rich with charm. “I suppose it’s only fitting that a fellow survivor shares my name. Maybe you were sent here to save me from my own stupidity.”

Atsushi felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward despite himself. “You’re not as easy to save as you think.”

“Oh, I’m full of surprises,” Dazai quipped, the glint in his eyes sharp and inviting. “You’ll see.”

For a moment, they both lay there on the riverbank, the tension of their circumstances easing into a strange sense of relief. The world around them, once suffocating, felt suddenly expansive—filled with possibilities. Atsushi glanced back at Dazai, who was studying him with an expression that was equal parts amusement and intrigue.

“Do you think it’s too late for us?” Atsushi asked, his voice barely above a whisper, a hint of vulnerability creeping in as he opened up.

Dazai chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “It’s never too late. Not for a pretty boy in rags and a dramatic mess like me.”

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of purple and orange, Atsushi felt a spark of hope ignite within him. He had saved someone today, and perhaps, in doing so, he had found a glimmer of salvation for himself. With Dazai beside him, the river didn’t seem as threatening anymore.

With the weight of the world still pressing down on him, Atsushi Nakajima made a silent vow: he would fight to live. And with Dazai’s humor and charm at his side, maybe he wouldn’t have to do it alone.

The two of them lay there, the current of the river continuing to flow around them, the laughter of fate echoing in the air as they faced an uncertain future together.

Y/N L/N felt the familiar weight of sleep lifting from her eyelids, but the world that greeted her was unlike any she had known. She blinked, her vision adjusting to the dim light that filtered through the half-drawn curtains of a small studio apartment. Confusion washed over her like a wave as she took in her surroundings. The last memory she could grasp was of the library—the comforting silence, the smell of old books, and the soft sound of pages turning. But here, she was sprawled on a cozy, unmade bed with rumpled sheets, an unfamiliar quilt tangled around her legs.

Rubbing her eyes, Y/N sat up slowly, the sudden motion making her head spin. She looked around, trying to piece together how she had ended up here. The walls were painted a soft beige, adorned with abstract art that felt both inviting and impersonal. A small bookshelf leaned against one wall, filled with novels and knickknacks that seemed to whisper stories of their own.

“What happened?” she muttered, her voice hoarse and unfamiliar to her ears. Had she really fallen asleep in the library? How could she have ended up in this apartment? She could have sworn she had been surrounded by the comforting scents of old pages, not the faint smell of coffee and vanilla wafting through the air.

Pushing aside the quilt, Y/N swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted her feet on the wooden floor. She felt a strange tug at the back of her mind, an urgency to explore. As she stood, she realized her hair brushed against her shoulders, longer than she remembered. Frowning, she reached up to tuck a lock behind her ear, fingers trembling slightly. It felt as if she were a stranger in her own body, each change a reminder of the disorientation that enveloped her.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N steadied herself and stepped into the room. The cool air contrasted with the warmth of the bed, sending a shiver down her spine. She walked cautiously, each step echoing softly in the silence of the apartment. There was a small kitchenette to her left, cluttered with dishes that hadn’t been put away and an assortment of spices lined up haphazardly on the counter. A half-empty coffee mug sat beside a well-used notebook, pages filled with scribbled notes and sketches.

She glanced at the notebook, feeling an inexplicable sense of familiarity wash over her. Had she written in it? The scrawled letters looked like they could belong to her, yet the contents were a mystery. Y/N shook her head, pushing the thought away. She needed to focus.

Moving deeper into the apartment, she approached a modest dining table, its surface marked with scratches and stains from meals long past. A sense of nostalgia tugged at her heart, but it was overshadowed by the nagging question of how she had arrived here. She picked up a small potted plant, a resilient succulent that seemed to thrive in this space, and set it back down, a sense of calm washing over her.

Outside, she noticed the light was fading, casting a warm glow through the curtains. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. Y/N moved toward the window, peering out at the street below. The world outside was bustling with life—people hurried by, their faces illuminated by the golden light of evening, and cars navigated the road with a symphony of honks and engines. Yet, none of it felt real to her, like she was watching a play unfold from backstage.

She turned away, her heart racing as a sense of urgency gripped her. She had to find answers. What was happening to her? A fleeting thought crossed her mind—perhaps if she turned on the TV, she could find some semblance of normalcy, a connection to the world outside this strange apartment.

Moving to the living area, she found a modest TV sitting on a low stand, surrounded by a few scattered magazines and a remote control. With a quick motion, she grabbed the remote, her fingers trembling slightly as she pressed the power button. The screen flickered to life, casting a soft glow across the room.

Static crackled for a moment before settling on a news channel, the anchor’s voice filling the silence. Y/N stood transfixed, her heart pounding in her chest. She strained to hear, hoping for something familiar, anything that might anchor her in this reality. The news scrolled past her like a whirlwind, snippets of information that seemed to blend together, but nothing resonated.

The anchor spoke of a recent event, the usual mix of weather reports and local stories. Something about a festival happening in the town square caught her attention momentarily, but it slipped away like grains of sand through her fingers. No recollection. No memories.

Y/N shook her head, frustration bubbling within her. Why was everything so blurry? It felt as if she were peering through a foggy window, the world beyond tantalizingly out of reach. She had to remember, had to grasp hold of the pieces of her life that had scattered away from her like autumn leaves caught in a gust of wind.

With determination, she reached for the remote again, ready to change the channel, hoping to find something that resonated with her. But before she could, she paused, glancing once more at the TV screen. The anchor’s voice became a dull hum as her thoughts raced. The apartment, the familiar yet foreign feeling—it all felt like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

A faint sigh escaped her lips as she flicked through the channels, each click only serving to deepen her confusion. She stopped for a moment, staring blankly at a game show, laughter erupting from the contestants. The sound was comforting, yet foreign. Y/N bit her lip, heart aching as she felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down on her.

In that moment, a spark ignited within her, a flicker of hope amidst the chaos. She would figure this out. She would reclaim her memories and find her way back to herself.

Resolute, she took a deep breath, focusing on the light from the television, the flickering images dancing before her like fragments of a dream. There was no turning back now.

She flicked on the TV.

Atsushi Nakajima sat on the banks of the river, his back against a cold, damp rock. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue across the water's surface. However, the beauty of the scene did little to soothe the emptiness gnawing at his stomach. A hollow growl echoed within him, louder than the sound of the flowing river. He hadn’t eaten in days, and with each passing moment, the hunger pangs grew more insistent, reminding him of the struggles he faced.

He stared into the water, watching the gentle ripples distort his reflection. His light gray hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it aside, revealing a face marked by exhaustion and anxiety. The memory of the orphanage haunted him—days spent under the weight of scorn and neglect. Those days felt far away, yet the feeling of being unwanted still clung to him like a shadow.

Just as he was about to give in to despair, a voice broke through the stillness. “Are you hungry, boy?” A figure appeared on the opposite side of the river, casually leaning against the rail of the bridge above.

Atsushi looked up, startled. The man was tall and slim, with mildly wavy, short dark brown hair that framed his face. His narrow dark brown eyes held a mischievous glint, and he wore a long sand-colored trench coat, the belt carelessly untied, revealing a black vest over a light blue striped shirt. The relaxed demeanor and playful expression gave him an air of confidence that drew Atsushi in, despite the boy's apprehension.

“Uh, well... I haven’t eaten in several days,” Atsushi admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The stranger’s stomach growled dramatically in response, mirroring Atsushi's own. “How odd. I’m also hungry,” the man said with a chuckle.

“Then…” Atsushi began, uncertain.

“By the way, the river seems to have taken my wallet,” the man interrupted, his tone laced with humor.

Atsushi blinked in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding…” he muttered, incredulity flooding his senses. It was hard to believe that someone could be so lighthearted when they were in such a predicament.

Before Atsushi could ponder further, another figure appeared beside the man—shorter and stockier, with glasses and a serious demeanor. “There you are, blockhead!” the newcomer shouted, his voice booming across the water.

The tall man waved nonchalantly. “Nice work, Kunikida-kun,” he greeted.

Kunikida crossed his arms, frustration evident in his posture. “Nice work? And just who caused all this work, you suicidal maniac?! I’ve had enough of you disrupting my schedule!”

The tall man, who Atsushi now recognized as Dazai, seemed unfazed. Instead, he turned back to Atsushi, who was still trying to process the bizarre encounter. “Are you even listening to me?!” Kunikida’s exasperated voice cut through the air like a knife.

“What’s your name?” Dazai asked, ignoring Kunikida's outburst, his gaze fixed on Atsushi with genuine curiosity.

“Atsushi... Nakajima,” he replied, a flicker of uncertainty passing through him. Would this be another fleeting interaction, or was there something more to this?

“Nice to meet you, Atsushi-kun! Well, come along! What would you like to eat?” Dazai’s enthusiasm was infectious, and for the first time in a while, Atsushi felt a hint of hope.

Atsushi hesitated, feeling the weight of Kunikida's watchful gaze. “Um... well, if it’s not too much trouble…” he began.

“Oh, there’s no need to hold back!” Dazai encouraged, his tone almost conspiratorial.

“I’d like to eat tea on rice,” Atsushi finally admitted, his cheeks flushing slightly at the simplicity of his request.

Dazai burst into laughter, a sound that rang out like a bell in the stillness. “So a boy on the brink of starvation wants to eat tea on rice? Very well! Let’s have Kunikida-kun treat you to thirty bowls of that!”

“Don’t get all generous with my money, Dazai!” Kunikida snapped, clearly exasperated.

Atsushi’s eyes widened at the sheer absurdity of it all. He had encountered many people in his life, but this was a different kind of interaction—one that was both welcoming and bewildering.

“Dazai?” Atsushi repeated, feeling a mixture of relief and trepidation. The lighthearted banter felt foreign yet comforting, a distraction from the weight of his worries.

“Yeah, that’s my name. I am Dazai. Dazai Osamu,” he introduced himself with a flourish, as if he were presenting a prize at a fair.

Atsushi couldn’t help but smile at Dazai’s exuberance. The stark contrast between Dazai’s easygoing nature and Kunikida’s stern demeanor made for an odd but entertaining duo. “So, are you two friends?” Atsushi asked, genuinely curious.

“Friends is a strong word,” Kunikida replied dryly, rolling his eyes. “More like I’m the babysitter for this disaster of a man.”

“Hey! I prefer the term ‘work partner,’” Dazai quipped, nudging Kunikida playfully. “Besides, we’re here to help you, Atsushi-kun. No need to worry.”

Atsushi felt a warmth spreading through him, a sense of belonging that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was strange, being swept up in the antics of these two men, but it was a welcome distraction from his relentless thoughts. As they began to walk together, Kunikida trailing behind with a resigned expression, Atsushi felt a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Just don’t get too carried away, Dazai. I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” Kunikida warned, his tone softening slightly as he adjusted his glasses.

“Of course, Kunikida-kun! I wouldn’t dream of ruining your lovely day!” Dazai replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm, which only earned him another irritated huff from Kunikida.

As they strolled toward the nearest eatery, Atsushi couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a turning point for him. He had spent so long feeling lost and alone, haunted by the shadows of his past. Now, he was walking alongside two strangers who seemed to care—strangers who were inviting him to share a meal, to connect over something as simple yet profound as food.

Arriving at a cozy little restaurant, the trio stepped inside, the scent of delicious food wafting through the air. Dazai led the way, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he perused the menu, while Kunikida followed, muttering about the cost of everything.

Atsushi felt a thrill of anticipation bubbling up within him. Perhaps today wouldn’t just be about survival; maybe it would be about friendship and new beginnings.

As they settled into a booth, the warmth of the space enveloped them, and the promise of a meal filled Atsushi with hope. In that moment, he realized that perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he had believed. Surrounded by laughter and the aroma of good food, he felt a connection begin to form—a thread weaving through the tapestry of his life, stitching together the gaps that had once seemed insurmountable.

“Now, let’s see about those thirty bowls of tea on rice!” Dazai exclaimed, laughter dancing in his eyes.

Y/N sat frozen on the couch, her heart racing as she stared at the television screen. The newscaster's voice echoed in her mind, each word crashing over her like a wave of icy water. "Reports are coming in of multiple tiger attacks in Yokohama, leaving the city on high alert..." The footage that accompanied the report was terrifying—a chaotic montage of panicked citizens fleeing and flashing police lights, with a massive white tiger stalking through the streets.

No way. No fucking way.

She shook her head as if doing so could clear the disorienting images from her mind. The memories of the library flooded back, her fingers brushing against the spine of a familiar book—the title, *Bungo Stray Dogs*, flickering like a neon sign in her thoughts. It was a simple title, one she had plucked off the shelf one day, curious about the story within. But now, it felt as if the book had reached out from her past and punched her right in the gut.

Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, her breath quickening. The white tiger was a vivid detail in the book, a character she had read about but never thought she’d see in real life—let alone in a news report. Had she somehow slipped into that story? Was this a cruel joke? She could no longer even remember where she had left that book, the last place it had resided a blur in her mind.

She glanced around the dimly lit apartment, the walls closing in on her as reality settled like a thick fog. Nothing about this place felt familiar, and yet, it felt real. The couch beneath her was a faded gray, the coffee table littered with half-read magazines and a takeout container that smelled faintly of cold noodles. The atmosphere was suffocating, the weight of the news pressing down on her chest.

With each passing second, the panic within her swelled. “This can’t be happening,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper. She picked up the remote and turned up the volume, desperate to catch more details about the situation unfolding outside. The newscaster continued, his voice steady but urgent, outlining the measures being taken by local authorities to contain the threat. Y/N felt her stomach churn; the city she had once seen as a safe haven was now a backdrop for chaos.

In her mind’s eye, the scenes from *Bungo Stray Dogs* flashed vividly—a group of armed detectives, their supernatural abilities wielded against various threats. The thought of a white tiger roaming freely among them sent chills down her spine. Was it truly happening? The story felt too real, too close to home. She could almost feel the pages of the book slipping through her fingers as she recalled the tension of the plot.

“What’s happening?” she breathed, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched the remote tighter. The images on the screen flickered with urgency, showing police cars blocking off streets and citizens warned to stay indoors. There was no way this could be a coincidence.

Y/N’s gaze darted around the room, searching for something—anything—that could explain the surreal situation. She longed for her familiar surroundings, for the cozy nook in the library where she had lost herself in the pages of that book. But now, that comfort felt like a distant memory, eclipsed by the grim reality unfolding before her.

Suddenly, a bright flash caught her attention. She looked back at the television, and the image of the tiger loomed large, its powerful frame taking center stage. Her breath hitched as the newscaster provided a description: "Witnesses report a white tiger resembling the one featured in local lore—one that has been linked to various urban myths in the city."

No fucking way.

Y/N’s mind raced, a million thoughts colliding at once. She felt a sickening realization creeping in—the uncanny parallels between the fictional world she had escaped into and the one surrounding her now. Had she inadvertently crossed over into that world? Was she losing her grip on reality? She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was somehow being pulled into a story that she didn’t belong in.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she was struck by the gravity of the situation. She had to get to the bottom of this. Standing abruptly, she felt the urgency to take action wash over her. But where could she go? What could she do?

“Focus, Y/N,” she whispered to herself, trying to ground herself in the present. “Think.”

As the news report continued, she felt a determination igniting within her. She needed to learn more—about the tiger, about the city, about how a story could bleed into reality. With one last glance at the screen, her mind made up, she stepped away from the couch, her heart racing as she prepared to face whatever awaited her outside.

But first, she had to know if the legends were true.

With a sudden resolve, she picked up her phone, ready to search for anything that might connect the dots, the image of the tiger etched firmly in her mind.

As she tapped away, the words of the newscaster faded into the background. “We advise everyone to stay indoors and keep vigilant…”

She flicked off the TV.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs #yandere bsd x reader #bsd

12 notes · View notes

return-to-twisted-wonderland · 5 months ago

Note

Coello Hunt

Coello: Rabbit

Twisted From: Thumper from Bambi

House: Pomefiore

Personality Traits: Coello is outgoing, playful, and unfiltered, often speaking his mind without a second thought. Unlike Rook’s meticulous, poetic nature, Coello is spontaneous and finds beauty in small, everyday things. He loves exploring, especially anything involving nature, animals, and discovering hidden places around NRC. His straightforwardness sometimes gets him into trouble, but his good-hearted intentions are clear to those who know him well.

Unique Magic: “Heart’s Echo”

Coello's Unique Magic amplifies the feelings of those around him, making emotions more vivid. This power can create a sense of shared joy, laughter, or energy, uplifting his allies. Conversely, it also allows him to sense when someone is feeling down, subtly nudging them towards happiness or calm. The spell is particularly useful for boosting morale and energizing his friends in stressful situations.

Mood Mirror: Coello can reflect back the emotions of those around him, lightening spirits or easing tension.

Empathy Trigger: With enough focus, he can provide a small emotional boost, enhancing feelings of happiness, courage, or peace in his friends.

Weaknesses:

Emotion Overload: Being around too many people with intense emotions can overwhelm him, as he feels a "rebound" effect, making him susceptible to their moods.

Limited Effect Duration: His influence is short-lived, and he must be close to someone for the magic to work effectively.

Vulnerability to Dark Magic: Dark or intense magic can disrupt his magic, creating a “reversal” effect that may impact his own emotions instead.

Appearance and Outfit

Coello's look would reflect a more rustic, nature-inspired aesthetic, blending with Pomefiore’s elegance but in a youthful, relaxed way. His outfit would include hints of his love for nature and a few playful touches.

Physical Appearance: Coello has short, fluffy, light blonde hair with soft waves and pale green eyes that reflect his youthful energy. He’s shorter and a bit stockier than Rook, with a quick smile and an expressive face.

Uniform Modifications:

Nature Accessories: He carries a small charm made of carved wood (shaped like a rabbit’s foot) attached to his belt, and he has a woven bracelet with small leaves.

Small Bunny-Themed Brooch: To represent his “Thumper” inspiration, Coello wears a tiny bunny-shaped brooch near his collar as a playful touch.

Soft Boots: His shoes are practical yet stylish, with soft leather that’s ideal for quick movement, letting him run or jump around without slipping.

Personality: Coello has an energetic, straightforward nature that makes him easy to approach. Though he lacks Rook’s eloquence, he makes up for it with his genuine kindness and curiosity. He’s often seen exploring the grounds, admiring small things like insects, leaves, or hidden spots, and he loves sharing his discoveries with friends. Coello is bubbly, enthusiastic, and always eager to make new friends. Though he doesn’t have Rook’s poetic approach to beauty, he’s sincere in his appreciation of everything around him, often seeing beauty in simplicity.

Backstory

Coello Hunt hails from a world vastly different from the refined halls of Night Raven College. A place of whimsical landscapes, daring quests, and vibrant colors, vast mushroom forests, rolling green hills, and peculiar floating islands stretch across the horizon. Bright, pastel skies shift from dawn’s soft pinks to vivid daytime blues, while skies at night come alive with stars and constellations unseen in the TWST realm. His world is filled with life — from unique flora and fauna to lively, bustling kingdoms where adventure lies around every corner.

Growing up in such a vibrant environment, Coello was accustomed to the unpredictable and the extraordinary. His home kingdom was a harmonious mix of nature and fantasy, ruled by a gentle queen who valued unity and peace. The people of his world were as varied as the landscape itself, with neighboring regions hosting unique creatures, from mushroom-like inhabitants to foxes and rabbits. Coello's early years were spent exploring this terrain, making friends with the kingdom’s magical beings, and engaging in lighthearted skirmishes with mischievous foes who threatened his friends.

Coello himself came from adopted family who held a deep reverence for nature, particularly for the plants and creatures that thrived across his world. Like his brother Rook, he had a natural curiosity and appreciation for beauty. However, in a world where power-ups and enchanted items were everyday tools, Coello found himself drawn not to magical artifacts, but to the simple wonders of nature. He felt a connection to the forest and fields, spending hours exploring to uncover hidden secrets or finding medicinal herbs and rare flowers. He would often bring back his discoveries, sharing stories with his family of the mysterious paths he encountered or the plants with strange and fascinating properties.

Coello's affinity for adventure and empathy caught the attention of his world’s wise beings, who noticed his unusual ability to influence emotions around him. His Unique Magic, “Heart’s Echo,” was a rare gift that allowed him to amplify positive emotions, spreading joy or peace wherever he went. This power was incredibly valued, as it allowed his people to resolve conflicts and ease tensions in their everyday lives. For Coello, it became second nature to use his ability to help others, whether calming a friend after a scare from a nearby castle’s Koopa troops or lightening the spirits of those worn out by daily tasks.

When the invitation to attend Night Raven College arrived, Coello was reluctant to leave his familiar, adventure-filled world. However, he was encouraged by the queen and his family to go, as they believed he could learn more about himself and bring his knowledge back to their kingdom. The journey between worlds was disorienting at first, and Coello had to adjust to the differences in magic, atmosphere, and cultural practices. Yet, the school’s mysterious nature and new friends intrigued him, reminding him of the surprising wonders of his home.

Now at NRC, Coello's lighthearted personality and grounded view of beauty set him apart from his classmates in Pomefiore, who often held rigid standards of elegance. However, his warmth and empathy have earned him the friendship of others, especially those who yearn for a bit of simplicity in their complicated lives. Though he misses his world’s colorful fields and wild adventures, he brings a bit of his homeland’s wonder with him, inspiring his peers to appreciate the beauty around them, no matter how small or unexpected.

His world is based on: Super Mario Movie

Peopla hearing Hunt and they automatically assume he's like Rook only to learn Coello is the exact opposite.

#twisted wonderland #return home au #coello hunt

7 notes · View notes

fanficapologist · 2 years ago

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Silver platters and ornate serving dishes hold a dazzling array of foods. Roasted game birds, their golden skins glistening, are surrounded by mounds of freshly harvested vegetables, their colors vivid and appetizing. Plates of succulent meats, carved to perfection, promise a culinary delight to all who partake. Goblets and chalices, crafted from fine metals and adorned with gemstones, hold a variety of wines, from deep reds to sparkling whites. The rich aroma of aged wine mingles with the tantalizing scents of the feast, creating an intoxicating bouquet in the air.

As the lords and ladies gather around the table, the atmosphere is one of conviviality and celebration. Laughter and animated conversation fill the hall as guests take their seats. Maera approached the table, her eyes scanning for familiar faces. Her father, Lord Jasper Wylde, sat three seats away from King Aegon, who was already in a boisterous mood, his booming voice carrying down the table. Aemond occupied the seat immediately to the left of the King, leaving a space for Maera between him and Lord Jasper.

Her gaze was soon drawn to Aegon's face, and she stifled a gasp as she noticed the bruise on his cheek, similar shades of black and purple that still adorned her arms and neck. It was clear that Aemond had indeed made Aegon regret his actions. The thought of Aemond punching Aegon for the sake of her sent a wave excitement and nervousness flushing through her body. As she took her seat, Maera looked at Aemond, her expression a mix of surprise and gratitude. He smirked at her, taking a casual sip from his goblet, and she couldn't help but smile in return, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

“The Jewel of Rainwood! Mayflower, you look exquisite.” The King called across to her, smirking as he took in the sight of her in her shining turquoise and gold leathers, her deep brown hair pinned away from her face.

“Your Grace,” Maera muttered, granting him a respectful nod. The anger within her still burned bright from Aegons attempted assault. Noticing the King’s eyes roaming her body made her muscles tense, her demeanour now catching Aemonds attention as well. Aegon caught his brothers eye before quickly looking away, turning his attention back to his goblet.

A few seats remained empty opposite the Wylde’s, causing a delay in the feast. Maera mingled with the guests surrounding her, a lord from House Tyrell and a Lady from House Lannister, exchanging pleasantries and compliments on attire. There was a movement around Maera as she continued her conversations, the final few vacantseats being filled. Aegon greeted the new arrivals, commenting to Maera, with an air of amusement, that he believed Maera and the new arrival had already crossed paths. Maera, her fingers subtly tightening around her goblet, raised it to her lips as she turned to meet the person's gaze, nearly choking on her wine when she saw who it was.

It was Ser Reginald Penrose, the very man she had rejected years ago and the one who had spread those baseless rumors about her maidenhood. He had aged since she had last saw him four years prior. His steel-grey eyes carried the same seriousness, ahead of deep black hair, neatly cropped at a medium length, framed his face. He dressed in well-maintained, polished armor that reflects the colors and sigil of House Penrose, two white feathers crossed against a background of red. Maera’s face remained composed, but turmoil raged within her.

This was Aegon's scheme, she realized—to embarrass her publicly. Maera forced herself to offer a brief but polite greeting to Ser Reginald, who replied with a curt nod. She couldn't help but glance at her father, who seemed on the verge of fury, his fists clenched around his cutlery. Aemond, on the other hand, appeared cool but had a noticeable tension in his clenched jaw. Then, her gaze shifted to Aegon, who sported a smirk that betrayed his satisfaction. He was relishing this awkward entertainment, and Maera knew she would need to tread carefully during this feast.

As the food began to be served, Maera made a concerted effort to divert her attention away from the pain and anger that having Ser Reginald seated across from her ignited. Instead, she scanned the hall, observing the other guests and their sigils. She recognized the emblems of Houses Peak, Swyift, Blackwood, and others adorning the attire of various Lords and Ladies in attendance.Despite the initial air of celebration, the atmosphere remained thick with tension. Conversations hushed as King Aegon directed his attention squarely at Ser Reginald, setting the stage for an uncomfortable exchange.

Aegon's voice, laced with a twisted amusement, cut through the silence. "I believe, Ser Reginald, you were intended to marry Lady Maera," he proclaimed, his tone dripping with sly condescension.

Before Ser Reginald could respond, Lord Jasper Wylde interjected, his voice firm and resolute. "The match was not deemed advantageous enough for my daughter, my King, so they were never promised to each other," he declared, defending his decision.

Ser Reginald, his demeanor gruff and unapologetic, retorted, "I am glad the Gods intervened so that I could continue my search for a more suitable, purer woman to take to wife."

Maera couldn't contain her own response, her voice edged with a mixture of irritation and sarcasm. She spoke out, her voice carrying a trace of icy composure, "I'm not surprised, Ser Reginald, that you remain unmarried if this is how you handle rejection."

Ser Reginald, perhaps fortified by the wine, took a long gulp from his goblet before adding with a smirk, "Whatever feelings I had for you, Lady Maera, are long gone... as has your Maidenhead."

The room seemed to still as Lord Jasper, unable to contain his anger any longer, rose from his seat, fists crashing onto the table. King Aegon couldn't help but revel in the chaos he'd orchestrated, a snicker escaping him from behind his goblet.

Maera, keenly aware of the dangerous path this conversation was taking, urged her father to sit back down, her voice laced with frustration, "Father, please, sit down."

Reluctantly, Lord Jasper complied, the weight of the situation and the King's presence compelling him to control his rage. Maera's resolve, however, remained unbroken. She emphasized to Ser Reginald, "A feast in front of the King is hardly the place for such discussions, Ser Reginald. My father will deal with you later for your insolence."

Aegon seized the opportunity to mockingly interject, his laughter nearly choking him, "Tread carefully, Ser Reginald. As they say, 'The Seven Hells hath no fury like a woman scorned.'"

Maera's eyes blazed with anger, a retort at the tip of her tongue, but her father squeezed her hand in her lap, a silent plea for restraint. Reluctantly, she bowed to her father's unspoken request, casting her gaze downward in a defeated acceptance of the night's circumstances.

A small, barely audible hum emanated from beside Maera, and she turned to find Aemond fixedly staring at Ser Reginald, his jaw clenched, fingers rhythmically drumming against the table.

Aemond's voice sliced through the tension, his words confident and unwavering. "This feast seems to be the perfect place to discuss such matters," he declared, directing his piercing gaze at Ser Reginald. Maera's eyes remained locked on Aemond, her expression a mixture of confusion, surprise, and a growing curiosity about his intentions. What was he up to?

The One-Eyed Prince addressed Ser Reginald directly, his tone demanding answers. "Who, Ser Reginald, in your learned opinion, took Lady Maera's Maidenhead?" he inquired, his voice carrying a weight of authority. Maera's heart pounded, unsure of what Aemond was attempting.

Ser Reginald responded swiftly, his tone mocking and filled with malice. "It was Ser Olyver Trant," he retorted, his words dripping with disdain. "He clung to Lady Maera as if she were a bitch in heat.” The laughter of some of the men around him filled the air, and Maera's anger surged, threatening to erupt. But then she felt it—another firm squeeze on her hand, but not from her father, from Aemond. The touch sent a confusing jolt of emotions coursing through her. It was a gesture that, in the chaos of the moment, paradoxically comforted her. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and decided to trust Aemond's judgment, whatever it might be.

Aemond wasn't finished. He continued his inquiry, shifting the focus. "When do you believe this incident occurred, Ser?”

Ser Reginald's response was swift and assured. "It happened between the time Lady Maera received a letter from her brother Dermot, about his arrival in Volantis and the moment my proposal was rejected by her father, Lord Jasper."

“And you are quite certain of this?” Aemond pressed the knight once more. Ser Reginald's response resolute.

"I swear by the Old Gods and the New, my Prince," he affirmed. There were quiet conversations happening amongst the spectators of Lords and Ladies at the table, who were watching the awkward situation unfold.

With a satisfied nod and still holding Maera's hand, Aemond called across the table to Lord Larys Strong, the Master of Whispers, who sat on the opposite end. "Lord Larys," Aemond inquired, "can you tell us how long Maera's brother had been in Essos before he wrote that he was in Volantis?"

Larys replied promptly, "Seven moons, my Prince. "

Aemond continued his line of questioning. "And how long had Ser Olyver Trant already been in Essos after Maera received that letter from Lord Dermot?"

Larys responded, "Four moons."

A triumphant smile graced Aemond's lips as he thanked the Master of Whispers for providing clarity on the matter. His gaze returned to Ser Reginald, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he demonstrated to the other party guests that the story the knight had spun wasn’t exactly adding up. With the pieces of the puzzle falling into place, the table buzzed with murmurs as Ser Reginald's body began to tense at the unwanted attention.

The web of lies that had ensnared Maera for so long were now being meticulously unraveled before her very eyes, a sense of relief washing over her. The truth, like a shining beacon, was finally being revealed, dispelling the darkness of false accusations. With her hand still firmly held by Aemond, she used her other hand to seize her goblet and took a deep sip of wine, savoring its taste, a triumphant sweetness that mirrored her newfound vindication. Maera glanced toward King Aegon, who continued to drink from his goblet, seemingly delighting in the unfolding drama.

Aemond turned his attention back to Ser Reginald, his words like a tightening noose around the man's deception. "It appears," Aemond remarked coolly, his tone dripping with disdain, "that there might be some discrepancies in your story, Ser." Maera watched as Reginald stammered, his fumbling words betraying his guilt, attempting to concoct a response, only to be swiftly cut off by Aemond's piercing question.

"Are you either a simpleton, muddled in your own tale, or so embittered by your rejection that you've woven lies to harm a decent Lady’s prospects?" Aemond inquired, his voice carrying across the table with an air of challenge. Around the table, the lords and ladies couldn't help but react to this revelation, a mix of chuckles and gasps filling the air. Maera couldn't contain her satisfaction as Aemond's words penetrated the falsehoods that had plagued her reputation.

Ser Reginald, however, was not one to take this humiliation lightly. He shot up from his seat in a belligerent stance, prompting the Kingsguard surrounding the table, including Ser Arryk, to swiftly unsheathe their swords and step forward, a silent but imposing warning to Reginald to yield. After a tense moment, he reluctantly returned to his seat.

Beside Aegon, his Hand and grandfather, Otto Hightower, voiced his disapproval. "This is ludicrous," he remarked, turning to Ser Reginald. "Do you have any evidence to substantiate your baseless claims, Ser Reginald?" After a pause, Reginald admitted defeat, stating that he did not. Otto did not mince his words, condemning Ser Reginald for sullying his own honor and House's reputation with malicious lies born from a bruised ego. Turning to Lord Jasper, Otto made it clear that the fate of Ser Reginald Penrose was in his hands as it was his daughters reputation that had been disgraced by the lies. Maera watched her father, her expression resolute, ready to see justice served.

“Do you have any other words, Ser?” The Master of Laws addressed the knight.

Ser Reginald, clearly unnerved by the weight of the moment, swallowed nervously and cast an imploring glance towards Maera. His voice trembled as he addressed her directly. "Please forgive me for my actions, my Lady, my Lord. "

Lord Jasper shifted his attention to his daughter, seeking her guidance in how to proceed. "You have been affected by these falsehoods the most, Maera. How would you like to proceed?"

Maera's emerald eyes, filled with a mixture of gratitude and contemplation, turning to Aemond for a brief moment. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before releasing her own, propping her elbows on the table and leaning her chin on to her hands, staring Ser Reginald down. She pondered her options for the treason he had committed. Maera could ask for him to be stripped of his titles and sent to the Wall, something she was sure would be approved by her father. She could ask Ser Reginald to compensate her years of no marriage with coin, an arrangement the Master of Laws would certainly not object to. But then she thought of her mother, and what she had taught Maera about forgiveness and the Gods serving justice without the need for earthly intervention.

With a sigh, she finally spoke with a composed but firm tone. "There is a war. And with Ser Reginald being such a skilled fighter, it would be a shame to waste his talents that could be better used serving the realm." she declared, now looking around the table at the other Lords and Ladies. “My late mother, the Lady Gael of House Targaryen, instilled in me the Mother’s compassion, and to put our duty of serving the crown above all else.”

Maera looked at Aemond, who was also watching her speech, his violet searching hers, waiting for her next words.

“I forgive you, Ser.” She proclaimed, watching Ser Reginald release the breath he had been holding. "I will pray to the Father and Mother to protect your soul, and to the Maiden, to shield your sisters and any daughters you may sire, from the same fate I have endured for years."

Lord Jasper stood and raised his cup in a toast to her, commending her for handling of the situation. “My daughter had demonstrated that the Mother’s mercy flows through her. But I believe that it is the Targaryen blood, which she shares with the Crown, that has allowed her to endure this torment with grace. My late wife would be proud.”

The other nobles at the table followed suit, a jokester amongst them shouting “which one?” In relation to Jasper ‘late wife’ comment, causing the table to erupt in laughter, Maera and her father included. Sensing he had outstayed his welcome, Ser Reginald promptly left the banquet, taking his two squires with him. Good riddance, Maera thought, sipping from her goblet.

Unexpectedly, even King Aegon stood, obviously now thoroughly drunk, his bruised cheek exposed to the sunlight. He raised his cup in agreement, his voice echoing across the gathering. "My Lady Mayflower, you have proven yourself over a number of years of intermittent service, to be a loyal servant to the crown, to my wife the Queen, and to my children.” The King hiccuped, before continuing his toast. “Whichever Lord wins her hand in marriage, and does eventually claim her maidenhead, will be truly fortunate." Aegon winked at Maera as some of the guests chuckled at the King, causing her to bite the inside of her cheek to maintain her composure.

Aegon then his attention to Maera’s father. “My Lord Wylde, you are a valuable ally to the crown, as is your eldest daughter. It would be unwise for a King to freely give away such an irreplaceable asset. It would mean a great deal to me and my family for Lady Maera to stay within Kings Landing indefinitely.” His speech earned the approval of onlookers and a grin from even Aemond, as he subtly raised his cup to his brother.

But Aegon had not finished, as he had one more proclamation to share with the crowd. “To encourage her future husband to allow Lady Maera to fulfill her duties to the crown, and as thanks to you as well, Lord Wylde, for your many years of service, the suitor who wins her hand in marriage shall also earn a seat on my small council as the Master of Coin.”

Maera's jaw dropped in utter astonishment, and she saw the smile from Aemond's face promptly disappear to Aegon's unexpected announcement. T he banquet table erupted in applause and cheers for Lady Maera, leaving her overwhelmed and uncertain of what the future might hold.

Tags: @grungegrrrl @shesjustanothergeek @blue-serendipity @marvelescvpe

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

#maera wylde #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #chapters #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #hotd helaena #house targaryen #house wylde

57 notes · View notes

mathanlin · 2 years ago

Text

Hero AU where hero!Wilbur has… interesting powers. But they don’t get much use, considering his cushy office job with the League.

Until a recruit knocks on his door, shaking and barely standing.

And mumbles, “I need you to knock me out.”

It’s a strange request, considering the kid’s clearly on the verge of collapsing.

And yet he keeps rambling. “Class A consciousness control, right? You could keep me asleep for a little while?”

“Kid,” Wilbur says, blinking. “Just go to the medbay if you need sleep—”

“I can’t,” the kid says, voice cracking. “Just— Please. I just need some rest.”

And… Wilbur can’t argue. The bags under the kid’s half-lidded eyes are horrifying, even without his fraying hair and sickly skin.

And it’s not just from lack of sleep, Wilbur soon learns.

He sets up a cot as the kid shivers, dull eyes tracking Wilbur’s movements.

“Just a few hours,” the kid mumbles. “And— thank you.”

“No problem.”

Wilbur lays a hand on his temple. The kid flinches before sinking into it, eyes fluttering shut.

For the first hour, everything’s normal.

The kid’s breathing is steady, heartbeat kept slow under Wilbur’s ability.

But something’s wrong. Something’s *pushing* at Wilbur’s control, fighting him far harder than anyone’s consciousness should.

And then the kid starts crying out.

Wilbur leaps up from his desk, rushing to the cot. The kid’s eyes flutter, legs spasming against the tangled blankets.

“Hey, hey,” Wilbur says, falling at the kid’s side. He snags his flailing wrist, trying to put him back under—

—and he’s yanked into the kid’s nightmare.

It’s an unfortunate side effect of Wilbur’s ability, one he doesn’t feel often.

Usually he’s powerful enough to keep someone under, away from night terrors or anything even remotely upsetting.

Not now.

It’s just a flash.

Hands, closing around the kid’s temples. A face Wilbur can’t place, sneering, “Come on, Tommy. Get over yourself, it can’t be that bad.”

Then, *terror.*

And then the kid — *Tommy* — jolts awake.

With a choked cry, he smacks Wilbur’s hands away. Through the last remnants of Wilbur’s ability, he can feel the kid’s heart *racing.*

“Hey, it’s okay,” Wilbur says, hands raised. “It’s okay, don’t be afraid—”

And Tommy flinches like Wilbur slapped him.

“I’m fucking *not.*”

With that, he’s gone, lurching through Wilbur’s office door, chest heaving and every limb trembling.

But it’s not long before he comes back.

It becomes a ritual of theirs.

Tommy stumbles in, barely conscious. Wilbur puts him under, staying close & learning to manage the kid’s frequent nightmares.

It’s almost peaceful.

Until Tommy starts refusing to sleep.

He’s already tucked in blankets, head resting on the pillows Wilbur brought.

They’d talked for a bit. Wilbur had even earned a few laughs, cracked with exhaustion but no less real.

But when he brushes a bit of hair from Tommy’s eyes, ability humming to life, Tommy *fights it.*

“Come on, kid. I thought you needed rest.”

Tommy lets out a sleepy mumble, leaning into Wilbur’s hand. He fights harder with each gentle touch, completely limp & yet warring against sleep.

And Wilbur understands, as clearly as if Tommy’d said it himself.

“I need this more than rest.”

‘This.’ The random talks & laughter they’d had, the gifts Wilbur’d given, the affection Tommy never failed to sink into.

All the times Tommy’d insisted he, “just wanted to hang out,” despite his dull, exhausted expression.

It’s… concerning.

Wilbur’s pressed before, trying to find an answer. Tommy had always shut down, insisting nothing was wrong — a lie, with Tommy’s vivid exhaustion as evidence.

But Wilbur needs answers.

And he has a way to find them.

He pushes Tommy under, wincing at the tiny bubble of confusion that colors the kid’s mind as he’s shoved into sleep.

And he waits for the nightmare to return.

It doesn’t take long.

It’s the same as before. Hands, tight around his head, mocking words spit out. Then, terror, so much it’s agonizing.

But when Tommy flinches, trying to wake…

Wilbur doesn’t let him, murmuring, “Come on, kid. Just a little more.”

The terror doesn’t stop.

Tommy writhes on the ground. Wilbur can *feel* him fighting, trying to steady his breaths, to stop trembling as the figure looms over him.

And Wilbur recognizes them.

Not a villain. A hero.

Tommy’s mentor.

“Calm down,” they spit, as a new wave of fear wracks Tommy’s body. “It’s just a little fear, you need to manage it.”

And against all reason… Tommy does. He presses himself into the training room mat, heaving for breath and yet unsettlingly silent.

He stays like that, even as the terror builds. Quiet, still, limbs rigid. Utterly frozen as his mentor ignores every panicked noise that sneaks out.

Only when he goes entirely limp does the fear recede.

“That was embarrassing. Do better next time.”

The nightmare dissolves.

Tommy shudders, crying out one last time before slipping back into sleep.

But Wilbur’s wide awake.

He knows that hero. Tommy’s mentor.

Causing fear is a horrifying ability if it’s used *once.* Long-term…

Well. All Wilbur has to do is look at Tommy to see the effects.

Insomnia — no, sleep deprivation, fear ingrained so deep he couldn’t sleep without powers like Wilbur’s.

Suddenly, the skittishness makes sense. The way he’d always flinch under Wilbur’s hands, the pleading.

And the desperation as he’d insisted, “I’m not afraid.”

Tommy’d asked for a few hours of rest. Wilbur gives him the entire night, fighting off every nightmare that tries to bubble up.

It’s exhausting. But it’s the least he can do, after forcing Tommy to relive that pain.

After murmuring, “Come on. Just a little more,” before forcing him back under.

He can only hope the kid forgives him when he wakes.

#mcyt #dsmp au #dsmp #sbi #sbi au #threadfic

111 notes · View notes

zeciex · 1 year ago

Text

A Vow of Blood - 57

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 57: Wisps of Smoke

AO3 - Masterlist

In the lush sanctuary of the Red Keep’s gardens, Daenera strolled leisurely, her gaze drawn to the small, lively figure of Jaehaera darting ahead of her. The young girl flitted from flower to flower, her excitement palpable as she searched for the perfect bloom, her movements as graceful and fleeting as a butterfly.

The garden enveloped them in a serene embrace, bathed in warm, golden sunlight that filtered softly through the branches. The air was fragrant with the scent of countless blossoms and herbs, a heady mixture that hinted at both nature’s sweetness and its wildness. Flowers spilled over in carefully tended beds, their colors bright against the deep green foliage, while bees and butterflies drifted lazily from petal to petal, lost in their quiet work.

Jaehaera danced between the plants, her pale blue dress swishing against the leaves with each step. The fabric seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, brushing against the blossoms as she moved. She paused beside a flowering shrub, captivated by a cluster of small, white flowers that stood out against the leaves, like a scattering of fresh snow amidst a summer scene.

With a child’s delicate curiosity, Jaehaera reached out, her fingers barely grazing the petals as she selected a single stem to study, marveling at its beauty up close.

Daenera watched her fondly, allowing the moment to linger as she drew closer, her own hands busy with a gentle harvest. She plucked a few lavender blossoms, their soft purple hue and soothing scent a perfect addition to her basket. As she gathered the flowers, she found herself captivated not only by the garden’s beauty but by the wonder that sparkled in Jaehaera’s eyes–an innocence that reminded her of her own youth, running through the gardens and pestering the workers with questions.

“What are these?” Jaehaera asked, her gaze lingering on the delicate white flowers clustered in her hands.

“They’re called baby’s breath,” Daenera explained, crouching beside the young princess, her voice soft and inviting. “How about we weave some into your flower crown?”

At this suggestion, Jaehaera’s face lit up with a brilliant smile that seemed to capture the warmth and brightness of a summer’s day. Her sky-blue eyes sparkled with excitement, and a rosy blush colored her cheeks, giving her a sweet glow.

She brushed a hand through her silver hair, smiling at the girl’s pure joy.

“Oh, yes, please!” Jaehaera exclaimed, her grin widening as she eagerly leaned closer, her small fingers already reaching for more blossoms to add to her growing collection.

Daenera carefully trimmed a few sprigs from the bush, her movements precise and gentle, ensuring the plant was left unharmed. Just as she placed the freshly pruned stems into her basket, she noticed Jaehaera rise from her crouch, her attention now captivated by a peculiar bloom that stood out among the more familiar flowers around them. The petals were an unusual shade, delicate and marked with slender black stripes, and each flower bore a single vivid yellow dot at its center, like a tiny burst of sunshine against the softer colors.

“These look funny! What are they?” Jaehaera asked, her wide eyes blinking up at Daenera, curiosity radiating from her expression.

Daenera smiled, tucking away the small knife she’d been using to trim the stems. “They’re called eye bright,” she explained. “They’re often used to soothe swelling in the mouth and nasal area. Quite a helpful little plant.”

Jaehaera reached out, her small fingers brushing the petals with a gentle reverence. She lingered there, her voice soft with wonder. “Do you think Mother would like it?” she asked, glancing up at her with hopeful eyes.

“I’m sure she would,” Daenera replied warmly, selecting one of the flowers and snipping it with care before placing it gently in her woven basket alongside the other flowers. As she looked up, she noticed that Jaehaera’s attention had already been captured by another bloom–a soft pink flower with elegantly ruffled petals that fluttered in the gentle breeze.

Anticipating her niece’s inevitable curiosity, Daenera stepped forward with a smile. “These are called carnations,” she explained, her voice filled with a quiet enthusiasm. She began gathering a small assortment, choosing both the delicate pinks and pristine whites, each one carefully inspected before joining the growing collection in her basket.

Around them, the dense foliage and towering greenery created a natural frame for the small, blooming world they occupied. Here and there, Daenera caught glimpses of Jaehaerys and Patrick as they darted in and out of view, their laughter and gleeful shouts ringing through the garden like notes in a joyful melody. The sound of their play filled the air, mingling with the rustle of leaves and the soft hum of bees flitting from flower to flower.

Drawn deeper into the lush heart of the garden, Jaehaera’s boundless curiosity continued to guide her steps. She soon paused, her attention captivated by a quaint tree standing at the garden’s edge. Its leaves were uniquely lobed and finely serrated, creating a delicate texture against the vivid greenery surrounding it. From its branches blossomed an astonishing array of pale, cloud-like flowers, so densely packed that their white petals nearly concealed the green leaves beneath.

As a gentle breeze drifted through, the white petals began to fall softly, swirling like snow around them, the air filled with a light, sweet fragrance. Daenera watched Jaehaera, enchanted by the child’s fascination, staring up at it.

“What tree is this?” Jaehaera asked, her small hand pointing towards the crown of the tree.

Daenera smiled at her, “This lovely one is a hawthorn tree. After these flowers are pollinated, they’ll transform into hawthorn fruits. You can see they’re starting to transform, that’s why the petals of the flowers are falling.”

Jaehaera’s face was lit with both wonder and perplexity, her brow furrowing slightly in thought as she clutched Daenera’s skirt. “Hawthorn fruit?”

Bending to Jaehaera’s eye level, Daenera’s hand rested on the girl's back, her smile one of amusement.

“Exactly,” she spoke gently. “Hawthorn fruits are akin to tiny berries, a vivid red. They’re somewhat like small pomegranates. From these fruits, we can make jams and wines, and you can even eat the leaves of the tree.”

Jaehaera’s face morphed into a skeptical expression. “Eat the leaves? Really?”

Daenera chuckled. “Indeed, the leaves. They might surprise you with their sweetness.”

Jaehaera, still doubtful, continued incredulously, “But they’re leaves…”

Rising to her feet, Daenera gently plucked a leaf from the hawthorn tree, presenting it to Jaehaera like a treasure. The young girl chuckled and shyly turned her head, only to watch in astonishment as Daenera popped the leaf into her mouth. The leaf’s sweetness was delicate, a whisper rather than a shout.

“You ate it!” Jaehaera gasped, her eyes wide with surprise.

“I did,” Daenera replied, amused. “As I said, it’s edible.”

Jaehaera animatedly shook her head. “I don’t want to eat leaves!”

Daenera laughed, brushing her hand over Jaehaera’s head in a reassuring gesture, “That’s perfectly fine. It was merely an offer. I won’t make you try it if you don’t want to.”

“What if there was a bug on that leaf?” Jaehaera asked with a mix of curiosity, amusement and disgust.

“Then I guess I would have had a little meat with the leaf,” Daenera replied with a chuckle, leaning down to plant a gentle kiss on top of Jaehaera’s head, her pale curls tickling against her skin. “It’s certainly better than accidentally nibbling on you.”

Jaehaera wiggled playfully, her laughter mingling with Daenera’s lighthearted tone.

“Let’s go find your brother,” Daenera suggested.

In a burst of energy, Jaehaera titled around and called out with youthful exuberance, “Jaehaerys! Auntie Dae just ate a leaf, and it might have had a bug on it!”

Her voice carried through the garden, a playful accusation filled with the innocence of childhood.

Daenera trailed behind Jaehaera as the young girl eagerly darted through the garden, her quest to find her brother fueling her swift movements. As they ventured into the more secluded area dedicated to medicinal plants, Daenera gently beckoned Jaehaera back to her side. With a tender grasp, she took the girl’s small hand, guiding her along the pathway that meandered between the rows of carefully cultivated plants.

This peaceful section of the garden was meticulously maintained, a testament to the importance of the herbs and plants it harbored. Each species, with its distinct appearance and aroma, was a natural treasure trove of healing properties. The air here was infused with a blend of earthy and herbal scents.

Together, Daenera and Jaehaera strolled down the path.

Jaehaera’s small hand pointed eagerly toward a tree nestled in a shadowed corner of the garden, its gnarled, twisting branches scattered with clusters of tiny, jewel-like red berries. The berries gleamed enticingly in the dappled sunlight, their vivid red hue stark against the deep green, needle-like leaves.

“Auntie Dae, look! That tree has little red berries!” she called out, her voice a blend of excitement and innocent curiosity.

Daenera’s gaze followed her niece’s pointed finger, taking in the tall, ancient tree with its thick, rippled trunk, appearing almost as though several branches had melded into one over centuries. The branches reached outward, crooked and twisted, casting a shadow over the delicate herbs growing beneath its canopy. Birds flitted between the branches, some pausing to nibble carefully at the bright berries among the dark, spiky leaves.

“That’s a yew tree,” Daenera said softly, stepping closer to Jaehaera. Her voice grew gentle but firm, sensing the need to temper the girl’s curiosity with caution. “These berries may look bright and tempting, but you must never eat them.”

Jaehaera turned to her, her eyes widening. “Why not? They look just like candy,” she murmured, her gaze drifting back to the berries.

Daenera knelt beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Though the red flesh around the seed isn’t poisonous, the seed itself is extremely dangerous. Swallowing even one could make someone very sick, or worse.” Her eyes held a quiet seriousness as she watched Jaehaera, hoping her words would settle into her young mind. “And it’s not just the berries–the entire tree, from the bark to the roots, even the leaves, carries poison. It’s a beautiful tree, but one we must only admire from a distance.”

Jaehaera gave a solemn nod, her gaze shifting from the berries to her aunt’s face as she absorbed the warning.

Daenera’s eyes traveled back to the twisted branches and thought briefly of how this tree, for all its danger, held a strange, layered beauty. Its wood, both deadly and powerful, was often used for crafting longbows, weapons of great strength that could change the course of battles. In its own way, the yew embodied the dual nature of power–a force that could protect as well as harm.

Jaehaera’s brow furrowed as she looked up at Daenera, confusion evident in her young face. “But why keep it here in the garden if it’s dangerous?” she asked, her voice quiet but curious.

Daenera smiled gently, her gaze scanning the garden as they strolled, keeping an eye out for the two boys. “Sometimes, the difference between poison and medicine lies only in how much is used,” she replied, her tone thoughtful. “Many plants can be both–if you understand them.”

She raised her voice, calling into the deeper foliage, “Jaehaerys! Patrick! Where are you?”

Almost instantly, Jaehaerys bounded into view, cheeks flushed with excitement, knees scuffed and dusted with soil. The energy of his play was infectious, radiating off him as he skidded to a halt in front of his aunt. Just a step behind him was Patrick, who bore even more evidence of their adventures; his hands and knees were caked with dirt, and a rogue smudge streaked across his chin. Clearly, he had been the one eagerly digging in the earth, likely at Jaehaerys’ urging.

Daenera’s gaze turned sharp with concern as she took in their disheveled state. She knelt down to meet their eyes, her expression serious but calm. “You two haven’t touched or eaten anything from this area, have you?” Her question was firm, her tone laced with a quiet authority, as she gently brushed a bit of dirt from Patrick’s cheek.

Jaehaerys shook his head with a grin. “No! We just ran through the plants. That’s all!”

Patrick nodded, a bit more sheepishly. “Didn’t touch a thing,” he muttered, though his fingers still bore evidence of some dedicated digging.

“Auntie Dae, look!” Jaehaerys called out, his voice bubbling with excitement as he approached her, hands carefully cupped together. He slowly opened his palms to reveal a small, iridescent blue beetle that scurried about, its tiny legs tickling his skin. His silver hair, catching the sun’s rays, seemed to glow like a crown atop his head, adding to his youthful, eager expression.

Jaehaera leaned in to examine the beetle, her natural curiosity drawing her close. But as she caught sight of the tiny insect crawling over her brother’s hands, her expression shifted, her nose wrinkling in faint distaste.

“Do you think Mother will know what kind of beetle this is?” Jaehaerys asked, looking up at Daenera with bright, hopeful eyes. His voice carried that unmistakable tone of anticipation, eager to hear her response.

Daenera opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Jaehaerys leaned closer, a spark of mischief lighting his face. “Do you think she’ll be impressed?” he added, clearly hoping his small discovery would earn him some admiration.

Not one to be outdone, Jaehaera quickly straightened, clutching the small bouquet of flowers she had gathered with Daenera. Her voice rang with the playful challenge of sibling rivalry. “But she’ll like my flowers better, won’t she, Auntie Dae?”

Daenera offered a diplomatic response, her smile gentle, though a flicker of amused exasperation played at the corners of her mouth. “She’ll certainly treasure both of your gifts,” she assured them, hoping to satisfy their competitive spirits.

With a spark of purpose, Jaehaerys declared, “I’m going to show her right now!” He spun around, his excitement radiating as he sprinted across the garden, his laughter echoing among the trees and flowers.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Jaehaera’s voice called after him, her eyes bright with determination. She took a few hurried steps, then turned back and grabbed Daenera’s hand, her grip firm and insistent. Clearly, she wanted her aunt involved in the pursuit, unwilling to let her brother claim all the glory.

Daenera let herself be tugged along, laughing softly as they moved together. She felt the soft earth give way beneath her feet as they wove through beds of flowers and herbs, their vibrant colors a blur as they passed. The warm sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting playful shadows around them, and the air was filled with the fragrance of blooms and the faint hum of insects busy at work.

Stepping out from the hedges, Daenera and Jaehaera entered a secluded, grassy clearing bathed in soft sunlight. At its center stood a towering, dome-shaped cypress tree, its branches spreading like a gentle embrace over a yellow blanket spread on the ground beneath, where Helaena sat, beneath the tree’s protective canopy.

Jaehaerys was already there, kneeling beside his mother, his eyes fixed intently on the small blue beetle Helaena held in her hand. Her poise was one of calm curiosity, completely unbothered by the creature crawling along her fingers–a quiet courage that set her apart, defying the usual expectations of a noblewoman.

Seeing her mother, Jaehaera released Daenera’s hand and darted forward, her excitement spilling over as she joined her mother and brother on the blanket. The three of them formed a cozy cluster, with Jaehaerys animatedly pointing out the beetle’s tiny legs and Jaehaera presenting her carefully gathered flowers.

Nestled nearby in the shade, their youngest sibling, Maelor, slept peacefully in a wicker basket, wrapped snugly in soft linens. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, undisturbed by the gentle hum of life around him.

Daenera lingered at the edge of the blanket, a warm smile on her face as she watched the children huddle close to their mother. In this quiet clearing, away from the demands of court and duty, the scene was one of pure, unguarded affection.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Aemond standing at the edge of the clearing, partially hidden in the dappled shadows cast by the cypress branches. His gaze was steady and inscrutable, but a spark of amusement lit his blue eye as it settled on her. She met his look with a subtle, knowing smile.

Helaena’s attention remained absorbed by the beetle skittering across her open palm. “This is a blue ground beetle,” she murmured, her voice gentle and filled with fascination. “They’re nocturnal, preferring to stay hidden during the day. They’re good for the garden because they hunt pests that can damage the plants.”

Daenera knelt down beside the blanket, setting her basket of freshly picked flowers beside her. She moved with a comfortable ease, brushing away the bits of earth clinging to her bare feet as she settled herself. Her attention on Helaena and the children, even as Jaehaerys’ curious voice broke through the quiet.

“Auntie Dae, why aren’t you wearing any shoes?” he asked, his face alight with interest at this small rebellion against convention.

Daenera smiled, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Sometimes, it’s nice to feel the earth beneath your feet,” she replied. “Shoes can be confining. This way, I’m closer to the garden, to everything growing here.”

Jaehaerys nodded, as if trying to absorb the sense of it, glancing down at his own sturdy boots with a mixture of doubt and curiosity. Helaena smiled softly, her gaze still on the beetle, but a gentle warmth spreading over her features as she listened to her sister’s words.

She watched as Patrick joined them, his hands busy twisting and weaving tall grass and straw together. His focus was unwavering; his brow furrowed in concentration, and the tip of his tongue peeked out as he carefully crafted what could only be described as a humble, improvised flower crown.

Jaehaera, watching him briefly, leaned closer to her aunt with a hint of worry clouding her face. “Grandmother says we should always wear our shoes outside our rooms,” she murmured. “She says it’s not proper.”

Daenera let out a soft hum, entirely untroubled by what the dowager might think of her bare feet in the garden. “Well, it’s rather lucky your grandmother isn’t here to scold me, isn’t it?” she replied with a wink, causing Jaehaera to stifle a giggle, her worry melting away.

With a sudden burst of purpose, Jaehaera moved to her mother’s side, holding up the single flower she had so carefully chosen earlier. “Mother, this is for you,” she said, her voice soft with affection.

Helaena accepted the flower with a gentle smile, murmuring her thanks. “It’s beautiful, my sweet. Thank you.”

With delicate fingers, Jaehaera tucked the flower into her mother’s braid, placing it just above her ear. She stood back to admire her work, a look of pride lighting her face. “Now you’re as beautiful as the flower,” she declared softly, her words filled with sincerity and admiration.

“Your mother is always beautiful,” Daenera teased, a playful warmth in her voice. She watched as Helaena’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, her gaze dropping shyly back to the beetle in her hand, as if suddenly uncertain where to focus.

Jaehaera, grinning, returned to Daenera and nestled herself comfortably between her legs, watching intently as she began to weave a crown from the basket of freshly gathered flowers. Jaehaera eagerly handed over blossoms, her small hands moving quickly to select the prettiest blooms. Inspired, she picked up the straw Patrick had collected earlier and tried her hand at crafting a tiny crown, imitating Daenera’s steady movements with the earnestness of a child determined to learn.

They sat together under the dappled shade, their work illuminated by soft rays of sunlight filtering through the branches. The quiet hum of the garden surrounded them–the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze, the occasional buzz of a bee flitting from bloom to bloom.

Together, they sat in the shadows, enjoying the summer day.

Gravel crunched beneath Aemond’s every step as he ventured down the well-trodden path that meandered through the splendid gardens. His keen gaze scanned the surroundings, searching for the familiar figures of his sister and Daenera.

In a quiet, shaded alcove beneath the sprawling canopy of a towering tree, he spotted his sister. She sat with an air of serene concentration, her delicate fingers weaving through threads of embroidery work that captured her full attention, while she gently murmured to herself. “Weaves, weaving, wove, woven. Strings and spools. Weaves, weaving. Strings and spools. Wove, woven. What is, what was, what could be, what will be. Weaves, weaving, wove, woven.”

The dappled sunlight filtered through the foliage, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow upon her, a familiar expression upon her face.

Beyond the hedges and the verdant barricades of the tall plants, the joyful snicker of his nephew and the hushed murmur of Daenera created a symphony of laughter and whisperings.

Aemond, his footsteps now on the soft grass, approached his sister, drawn to the tranquil atmosphere that enveloped her. He reached the tree’s trunk and leaned against it, embracing the stillness of the moment. The garden seemed to hold its breath as his sister continued her murmurings.

Nearby, nestled in a basket, the youngest of their family, Maelor, lay in peaceful slumber. His round face was a portrait of innocence, cheeks red, his eyelashes resting upon them. Beside him, his mother continued her meticulous work, her nimble fingers expertly guiding the needle through the fabric as she stitched down the intricate design of a spider.

“Storm clouds are gathering,” she whispered, her voice laced with a foreboding undertone. “Do not chase the storm. Vengeance hungers with it maw wide open, its teeth gleaming. Vengeance hungers, and from the storm, death’s jaws snap shut, the thunder of war resounding.”

She tilted her head slightly, her fingers tugging at a thread, “Vengeance has its price–blood begets blood begets blood begets–in an endless cycle. Vengeance hungers, and it seeks to be fed–yet, do not feed it, lest it consumes you.”

The thread was pulled taut, causing the fabric to pucker and twist under the stitch. “Vengeance is a beast with no master, insatiable once fed.”

As Aemond ventured through the peaceful garden, his sister’s foreboding words washed over him, like dark tendrils creeping beneath his skin and taking root. They found a place to settle within him, a chilling presence lurking deep within the void where his eye had once been, nestled behind the sapphire that now adorned his gaze. The weight of the words lingered, and he was about to question her, when movement caught his attention.

From the garden’s edge, a burst of youthful energy catapulted into view. Jaehaerys, with his pale curls that caught the sun’s radiant light and seemed to shimmer like spun silver adorned with hints of gold, emerged with an infectious grin splashed across his reddened cheeks. His nimble feet carried him over the grassy expanse, like a playful sprite on a mission.

“Uncle Aemond! I caught a beetle!” Jaehaerys greeted with boundless enthusiasm, playing no heed to the possibility of waking his slumbering brother.

Aemond acknowledged him with a nod, his stance unwavering as he leaned against the tree, arms folded across his chest. His gaze, however, couldn’t help but shift upward, drawn by the magnetic force. It settled upon Daenera and Jaehaera as they emerged from the garden, their silhouettes painted by the gentle sunlight.

A sense of longing stirred within Aemond as he watched Daenera’s dark curls cascade freely around her face, capturing the light and offering an ethereal glow. She held Jaehaera’s small hand in her own, her smile radiant as she walked beside the young princess.

Jaehaera, unable to contain her excitement, released Daenera’s grip and bounded across the grass with the same exuberance as her twin. She joined her brother at her mother’s side, as Helaena examined the beetle.

Aemond observed the tender moment with rapt attention, lingering at the outskirts like a ghost, a shadow cast by the radiant presence of Daenera. Her smile, so gentle and warm, reached out to him, gripping his heart with an unfaltering embrace, squeezing it tightly. He hated the stirring as much as he longed for it.

Jaehaera nestled against Daenera’s chest, her curious gaze fixed on the intricate dance of fingers weaving a crown of delicate flowers. With each plucked blossom, she passed it to Daenera, contributing to the growing creation. Nearby, the young boy, Patrick, watched the weavings with keen interest, trying his best to mimic the process using straw and tall grass.

Meanwhile, Jaehaerys, his curiosity momentarily diverted from the blue beetle he had found earlier, had settled beside his wooden toys. His fingers traced the intricately carved figures of a dragon, feeling its wooden scales beneath his touch.

Aemond found himself caught in a contemplative moment, silently pondering whether this was what it would be like.

Aemond’s heart ached as he glimpsed a life that he could never truly call his own–a life filled with the unrestrained freedom of emotion, the bonds of marriage, the laughter of children, and the simple joys that flowed effortlessly from a love that knew no bounds or limits. He could vividly see it all, painted with the radiant hues of light and warmth, a life where love flowed freely, unburdened by the weight of their reality.

Yet, he was acutely aware that what he envisioned was nothing more than a dream, a wistful fantasy that danced on the periphery of his consciousness. In that dream, perhaps they could have found the happiness that had always seemed just out of reach, a life unencumbered by their differences and the constraints of their circumstances.

But like wisps of smoke dissipating into the air, the dream slipped through his fingers, leaving behind a lingering sense of longing. This was the cruel reality they faced–their existence, a mere fraction of the dream, a fragmented fantasy. It was less than what the dream promised, yet it was tangible, it was real, and Aemond clung to it with a possessiveness born of desperation, willing to grasp onto even the smallest sliver of what could have been.

He acknowledged the potential for growth, even if it would be a twisted and gnarled sort of growth, stunted and restrained. But it was his, and he would seize it with unwavering determination, a monstrous resolve to make it his own.

She was his.

In the depths of their complex and imperfect reality, he found that glimmer of hope.

Aemond embraced it, for he knew that even if it never fully blossomed, he would settle for the fraction of a dream that was now within his reach. It was his, and he would grasp it tightly–grasp her tightly, no matter how twisted or fragmented it might be.

Jaehaera’s voice broke the stillness, her request carrying the sweetness of a child’s desire for storytelling.

“Aunty Dae,” she mused, her small fingers brushing strands of hair away from her face as she reclined against Daenera’s collarbone, calling her ‘aunty’ despite them being cousins. “Tell us a story.”

Daenera’s concentration remained focused on the flower crown, her brows slightly furrowed in thought. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips as she worked, her voice echoing with the gentle hum of contemplation, “A story?”

Jaehaera, ever the enthusiast, eagerly chimed in, “Yes, a story! A story about a princess.”

Her brother, however, had his own vision of the narrative. “No, a story about knights and dragons.”

Their playful debate echoed through the garden, as Jaehera pouted and countered, “No, a story about princesses and love!”

“Death comes from above and below, shrouded in the raging storm, its maw agape with gleaming teeth. With a resounding snap, the jaws shall close, and the sea shall devour the rest,” Helaena emitted a low, haunting hum, her voice resonating an otherworldly chant. It seemed as though she was lost in her own thoughts, her words flowing as if she was unaware she was speaking. Her gaze drifted towards her youngest, her delicate hand coming to rest upon his chest, her fingers gently tracing a path along his cheek.

The children, accustomed to their mother’s enigmatic musings, appeared entirely unfazed by her haunting words. They had grown accustomed to her moments of distant contemplation, her mind often lost in the labyrinth of mysterious omens. Daenera observed Helaena for a brief moment but chose not to press for further details, her eyes lifting to meet Aemonds, before opting to instead alleviate the tense silence with her own soothing voice.

“Once there was a princess,” Daenera began, her voice carrying the promise of a captivating tale.

“Was she beautiful?” Jaehaera eagerly interjected, twisting within Daenera’s protective embrace to gaze up at her with wide, curious eyes.

A soft smile graced Daenera’s lips as she indulged the young princess. Leaning down, she placed a tender kiss upon Jaehaera’s forehead, filling the moment with warmth.

“Yes, she was beautiful,” Daenera confirmed before the girl nestled back into her comforting hold.

Aemond felt it like the warmth of the sun, and he tilted his head in curiosity as he watched Daenera and his niece.

Daenera continued her story, her voice a gentle cadence in the tranquil garden. “She was the daughter of the heir to the throne, but she was not the firstborn. She spent her childhood away from the castle, raised alongside her brothers. And when time came for her to find a husband, she embarked on a journey to the castle.”

“The King organized a grand tourney, a spectacle that drew lords and knights from every corner of the realm,” Daenera narrated as she skillfully wove the flower crown. She used the supple stems of the flowers to hold the delicate creating together, the soft colors harmonizing to create a crown of gentle elegance. Her voice held the children in rapt attention as she continued her tale.

“There was the Raven Knight,” Daenera recounted, her words flowing easily. “An old friend of the princess, he was of a similar age and possessed the qualities suitable for the royal maiden. However, he was not the sole contender for her hand.”

She paused, allowing the intrigue to build before continuing. “Among the competitors stood the Antler Knight, a formidable figure known for his immense strength and unyielding pride. Truly, there were many valiant men who desired the princess’s hand in marriage, but none more fervently than the One-Eyed Knight.”

Jaehaerys exclaimed with a bright grin, “Like uncle Aemond!”

Aemond couldn’t help but smirk at the playful jest, silently awaiting the unfolding narrative. He interjected, “I don’t think the One-Eyed Knight sought her hand in marriage by the time the tourney arrived.”

Daenera playfully chided him, “Oh, please, he would have been fortunate to have such a prospect. Now, am I the storyteller here, or are you?”

Her words were imbued with a playful banter as she scowled amusedly at him.

Aemond raised a conceding hand in a gesture of surrender before folding his arms, eager to hear the rest of how the story played out.

“The tourney commenced with the jousting,” Daenera continued. “Knights, resplendent upon their steeds, faced each other with lances and shields adorned with their noble sigils. In that fateful contest, the Raven Knight clashed with the fearsome Black Hound. Their lances shattered upon impact, and the Black Hound was unseated, tumbling unceremoniously from his mount.”

Jaehaerys, fully engrossed in the tale, inched closer, picking up his wooden sword and placed it in his lap, ready to spring to action should it be needed.

“While the Raven Knight displayed valor and skill, it was the Antler Knight who truly stood out.” A faint crease marred her features, her delicate brows knitting together. Aemond could almost sense her thoughts drifting towards her husband, and the memories of his brutality.

“With ferocious determination, he unseated opponent after opponent, dispatching two knights with splintered lances and injuring a dozen more. The Princess, watching the carnage unfold, couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of unease at the prospect of marrying such a man. After each victory, the Antler Knight would point his sword towards the Princess, a macabre display to revel in the glory of bloodshed.”

Curiosity brimming, Jaehaerys posed his question, “What of the One-Eyed Knight? Did he not participate in the tourney?”

Daenera offered a knowing smile, “The One-Eyed Knight was renowned for his exceptional skill, but he considered competing in such tourneys beneath him. He believed no true honor to be won in mock battle.”

“But I thought he wanted to win the Princess's hand?” Jaehaera questioned her brow furrowed in thought.

Daenera nodded, her gaze thoughtful. “Indeed, he did. However, he understood that even if he emerged victorious in the competition and crowned the Princess as Queen of Love and Beauty, it would not secure her hand in marriage. There was deep-seated animosity between him and the Princess’s father, and so, he resolved himself to watch the Princess and dream of her love.”

“As the jousting continued, knights unseated their counterparts, and the contest for the princess’s hand gradually narrowed down to just two contenders–the Raven Knight and the Antler Knight,” Daenera said, her voice carrying a dramatic undertone. “These two formidable adversaries took their positions at opposite ends of the tilt, their steeds pounding the sand beneath them. With lances poised and shields held firm, they awaited the signal to charge. As the banner wavered, they spurred their steeds towards each other, intent on a collision. But just as their lances were about to find their marks, the Antler Knight made an abrasive move. He aimed his lance at the legs of the Raven Knight’s horse, causing the steed to fall and sending the Raven Knight tumbling to the sandy ground.”

Jaehaerys, his sense of honor deeply offended, exclaimed, “That’s dishonorable!”

Daenera nodded in agreement, “Indeed it was. You see, the Antler Knight was determined to claim the princess as his prize by any means necessary. He had secretly loosened his opponents’ saddle straps and fed their horses plants that would make them ill.”

Jaehaerys’s indignation flared once more. “That’s cheating! He can’t win the princess that way!”

“But no one else knew of his deceit,” Daenera continued with a dramatic pause. “So, the Antler Knight believed he had secured his victory. However, the Raven Knight, undaunted, rose from the sands, drawing his sword in a powerful display of determination. He challenged the Antler Knight to combat, who responded with laughter and taunts, warning the young knight to stand down unless he wished to meet his demise. The Raven Knight, resolute and unyielding, refused to back down, and so, the Antler Knight drew his sword and descended upon the sands.”

Daenera’s voice held an eerie hush as she continued. “The Raven Knight was indeed a skilled swordsman, but he was younger and considerably smaller than the hulking Antler Knight. Although he fought valiantly, the Antler Knight’s brutality knew no bounds. He tormented the young knight with his sword, breaking bones and spilling blood. As the Raven Knight lay defeated on the sandy arena floor, surrender obvious, the Antler Knight remained true to his word. He drew his sword through the Raven Knight, robbing him not only of his life but also his honor.”

Aemond watched with a smile as Daenera artfully condensed the story, simplifying it for the children’s understanding. Her eyes briefly met his, and he smirked playfully, savoring the subtle amusement in the narrowing of her eyes.

“The Antler Knight crowned the Princess as the Queen of Love and Beauty and claimed her as his prize,” Daenera narrated. The children’s expressions twisted into scowls, but they remained engrossed in the tale. “They were wed, but true to his character, the Antler Knight was no honorable husband. He mistreated his wife, the Princess, and dishonored her by engaging with other women. The Princess felt lonely and isolated in her marriage, and as the months passed, that feeling grew until one night…”

“Unable to sleep, the Princess ventured into the castle’s hallways, her steps leading her outside to the starry expanse in the moonlight. Here, she encountered the One-Eyed Knight, who was training with his sword. He had been watching her from afar all these months, filled with longing.” Their eyes met again, and Aemond could sense her challenging his amusement, but he continued to wear his smug expression.

“Under the cover of the night, the two grew closer, their heart beating in unison,” Daenera spun her tale. “They knew that their love could never be realized as long as she remained married, so they contented themselves with yearning for each other, concealing their emotions. However, one fateful night, the Antler Knight noticed his wife’s absence from their bed, and concealed in the shadows, watched as the two danced beneath the moonlight. A fury consumed him, and upon her return to their chambers, he unleashed his anger on his wife.”

Jaehaera gasped, her lips pouting in sympathy for the princess. “How could he do such a thing?! What did the One-Eyed Knight do?”

Jaehaerys, ready to defend the princess with his wooden sword, chimed in, “If he couldn’t protect the princess, I would.”

Daenera chuckled and continued, “When the One-Eyed Knight learned of this abuse, he couldn’t bear to see the Princess suffer any longer. He challenged the Antler Knight to a duel. They met in the heart of the forest, where they drew their swords. The Antler Knight, blinded by his arrogance and pride, didn’t realize that the One-Eyed Knight possessed the spirit of a dragon. The One-Eyed Knight brought the Antler Knight to his knees, pressed his sword to the knight’s throat, and with a smile on his lips, he thrust the blade through the Antler Knight’s throat, spilling his blood on the forest floor.”

Jaehaerys cheered, brandishing his wooden sword in excitement, while Jaehaera turned to Daenera, her curiosity piqued. “Did he marry her then?”

Daenera nodded and answered, “Indeed, he stole her away and married her in secret.”

“What did the Father say to that?” Jaehaera inquired.

“The Father was angered by his daughter’s actions, but he could not oppose the marriage, for it was already consummated,” Daenera explained. “In truth, he himself had done the same with his wife.”

“So, they lived happily ever after?” Jaehaera asked.

Daenera contemplated the question before responding,” What do you think?”

“I think they did,” Jaehaera replied with a wide smile.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul,” Helaena mused quietly, putting aside her finished embroidery, one leg of the spider twisted from the pulled thread. “One funeral pyre.”

“I want to be like the One-Eyed Knight when I grow up!” Jaehaerys declared, rising from the blanket and wielding his wooden sword. “I will vanquish dishonorable men like the Antler Knight.”

“And you, Jaehaera, can become the Queen of Love and Beauty,” Daenera remarked, placing the now completed flower crown on Jaehaera’s head. “With this flower crown, I crown you as such.”

The girl stood and twirled around, her light blue dress adorned with golden embellishment shimmering in the sunlight, her curls caught in the whirl, fluttering around her grinning face.

“Here, Lady Princess, this is for you,” the young boy, Patrick, offered, handing Daenera a delicate crown made of grass and straw, adorned with a few blooming flowers. Daenera thanked the boy and gently placed the crown on her own head, her dark curls making the pale blossoms bloom.

“Uncle Aemond, will you teach me how to fight?” Jaehaerys turned his big eyes towards Aemond, pointing his sword at him in challenge.

Aemond pushed himself off the tree and picked up one of the wooden swords, feeling its light weight in his hand. Although he was accustomed to heavier weapons, this one would suffice for training. “Very well.”

Aemond knelt down to give his nephew a lesson on properly gripping the sword. Jaehaerys’ small fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt, and he furrowed his brow in deep concentration. Aemond began with deliberate movements, demonstrating how to bring the sword down and parry, while the young boy tried to mimic his actions with his own inexperienced ones. They repeated these slow and precise motions for some time, with Jaehaerys determinedly honing his skills until he felt confident enough to challenge his uncle.

With a small, indulgent smile, Aemond accepted the challenge and moved to stand in front of his much smaller nephew. He couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at the determined and stubborn expression on Jaehaerys’ face.

Jaehaerys initiated the duel by slowly swinging his sword, practicing the techniques he had just learned from Aemond.

Aemond expertly parried and deflected the wooden sword with ease, encouraging his nephew. And as the practice continued, Jaehaerys’s movements became quicker but less precise, and he began to swing his sword from side to side with little concern for proper technique.

With each swing, Jaehaerys accompanied his movements with a fierce roar and spirited shouts that filled the garden with his youthful enthusiasm.

Aemond skillfully swatted the wooden sword away, sidestepping the charging boy who had almost tripped over his own feet but managed to regain his balance. Jaehaerys spun around on his heels, his pale curls swaying as he held the sword high above his head, and then charged again with a resounding “AAAHHH!” followed by a dull thud as the sword’s tip thudded into the ground.

“Stop dancing around, uncle!” Jaehaerys exclaimed, lifting his sword again, its tip scratching the earth as he lifted it and pointed it accusingly at Aemond. “Fight me like a knight! fight me like a man!”

Aemond couldn’t help but be amused by the boy’s determination, deftly avoiding the wooden sword while responding with moves of his how.

“You are a boy.” Aemond remarked.

“I am not! I’m the One-Eyed Knight!” Jaehaerys declared, closing one of his eyes for emphasis, only to instinctively open it again as he swung at Aemond. “I will best you and win the Princess’s affection.”

Aemond’s smile grew even wider at the boy’s determination, skillfully avoiding the wooden sword once more while playfully challenging Jaehaerys. “If you are the One-Eyed Knight, what am I?”

Jaehaerys shrugged, brushing his hair out of his face, cheeks a vivid red. “You can be the Raven Knight.”

A snort of amusement escaped Daenera, drawing Aemond’s attention away from his playful duel with his nephew. He glanced over at her, finding her smiling with amusement, a light chuckle escaping her lips. She cradled Maelor in her arms, gently swaying from side to side as she held the blond babe close.

Aemond might have acknowledged the irony of being labeled as the Raven Knight and the source of her chuckle, but he was too entranced by the sight of her with her arms wrapped around the baby.

Maelor nuzzled into her warmth, his lips gleaming with drool as he gnawed on his tiny hands, yet devoid of any teeth. Daenera’s affectionately smile down at the boy, her gentle rocking, and the soft murmurs she whispered to him seemed to tug at Aemond’s heart.

The mere sight of her cradling the baby pulled at something deep within him. He felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach, an undeniable yearning. He couldn’t control this desire; perhaps, it had taken root all those months ago when he offhandedly offered to father her children.

Now that thought seemed to grow, sprouting wildly and delving deep, strong in its presence.

He yearned to see her carry his child, to witness her belly swell with the promise of life–and all it entails, to feel the baby’s movements within her womb, and to see her cradling their own child, nursing it with her love and care. He longed to read to their child, to teach it how to wield a sword, and even how to soar through the sky on dragonback. But this dream, this fantasy, was sharp and cruel in its realism–it was just that, a dream.

Amid his reverie, Jaehaerys swung his wooden sword, slipping past Aemond’s defenses to strike him across the shin with a loud rap. Aemond’s attention snapped back to the present as pain radiated up his leg, throbbing insistently. Nonetheless, he managed to deftly circumvent Jaehaerys’s next attack, only to dramatically sink down on one knee, pretending to have lost the use of his leg.

Jaehaerys, caught up in the play, ran towards him and mimicked thrusting his wooden sword through Aemond’s heart with a triumphant roar. Aemond fell backwards, feigning death as he stared up into the sky, the dream as tangible as the drifting clouds, just out of reach.

Daenera gently nestled Maelor back into his cozy basket, her fingers tenderly picking up the delicate silver rattle. The rattle, adorned with intricate dragon imprints, shimmered in the light and chimed as it was shaken. Maelor’s chubby, robust fingers wrapped around it, giving it a spirited shake before he amusingly popped it into his mouth, his tiny feet playfully fluttering in the air.

Settling herself beside Helaena, Daenera watched the children’s lively play. Helaena, setting her embroidery aside, joined her in observing. Jaehaerys and Patrick had teamed up, brandishing wooden swords in a mock battle against Aemond, while Jaehaera was engrossed with her doll.

“Aunty Dae, do you have any sisters?” Jaehaera inquired, sweeping her silver-gold hair back to peer at Daenera. The flower crown on her head added a splay of color to her.

“I have two stepsisters, Baela and Rhaena. They’re twins, just like you and your brother,” Daenera replied, leaning her head affectionately against Helaena’s shoulder.

Jaehaera’s lips formed a thoughtful pout. “But do you have any real sisters?”

“To me, they are my real sisters,” Daenera responded, an amused glint in her eyes. “As for those I share blood with, I have my older brother, Jacaerys, and my younger brothers, Lucerys and Joffrey. And then there’s my younger half-brothers, Aegon and Viserys.”

“My father’s name is Aegon too!” Jaehaera exclaimed almost excitedly.

“Yes, your father is Aegon the Second, whereas my brother is Aegon the Third,” Daenera clarified. She didn’t think elaborating on their family tree would bring any more clarity to their relations, especially given how young Jaehaera was. It was best to leave that conversation for another day.

Jaehaera’s face crinked in bewilderment. “Doesn’t that get confusing?”

“Some might think so, yes,” Daenera mused.

Abruptly shifting topics with the unpredictability of a child, Jaehaera then inquired, “When will you have children, Auntie Dae?”

Daenera’s eyebrows arched, and a soft, musing sigh escaped her lips as she thought about the question. “Someday, perhaps. But for that, I would need a husband.”

“Why?”

“It’s a matter of propriety.”

“But why?”

“Because that’s how things are. I need a husband to have a child.”

“But you have a husband?”

Daenera responded gently, “I did. My husband died, remember?”

“Oh, right,” Jaehaera murmured, and Daenera couldn’t help but suppress a small chuckle at the child’s reaction. Jaehaera and her brother Jaehaerys had been present at Boris Baratheon’s funeral, participating in the ceremony. Yet, being so young, their grasp on the concept of death was as tenuous and elusive as the true meaning behind being a prince and princess. The intricacies of loss and finality were still worlds away from their innocent minds.

Helaena reached out, taking Daenera’s hand into her own, pressing her pointy against each of Daenera’s fingers as though she was counting. She spoke softly, her words almost like a poetic musing, “The seed sown in shared blood will thrive and dream. It grows, yet not every blossom reaches its full potential, cut down before it can bloom.”

The young girl continued her inquiry as she ran her fingers through the tangled hair of her doll. “Do you want children, Auntie Dae?”

Daenera’s gaze locked firmly on the girl, even as she saw him out of the corner of her eye, lifting Jaehaerys into the air, the small boy a bundle of giggles.

“Yes,” she affirmed, feeling a flutter of emotion in her stomach. “One day, I do want a child.”

Jaehaera seemed pleased with this answer, her face brightening. “I promise to play with them and I will show them my dolls!”

“I’m sure they’ll like that very much,” Daenera hummed.

As Daenera and Helaena observed the children’s playful antics, the serene summer day enveloped them. Jaehaera was absorbed in her dolls, while Jaehaerys, Patrick, and Aemond were still engrossed in the mock sword fight. The day was graced with sunshine, the air fragrant with floral scents, and a gentle breeze whispered through the trees, its soft rustling harmonizing with the children’s laughter. Helaena nestled against Daenera, her fingers delicately tracing over Daenera’s hand, creating invisible patterns that sent tingles across her skin.

“People say that the line on your palms can reveal your life’s journey,” Helaena mused thoughtfully, turning Daenera’s hand to study her palm, her fingers gliding from the middle finger down to the wrist.

Daenera gazed at her palm, reflecting on this notion. “Perhaps they can tell stories of one’s past and present through the hands’ appearance, but I doubt they can predict the future from them.”

Helaena continued, tracing a line on Daenera’s palm. “Some believe these lines can foretell the length of your life.”

Curious, Daenera inquired softly, “What do you think my hand reveals about my life?”

Helaena pondered, carefully examining Daenera’s hand. “Your hands are soft, and indicating a life of care and attention,” she noted, running her fingers over the faint silver scars that was etched into the overside of her hand from minor cuts.

“Yet there’s a defiance in them—you’re not one to shy away from getting your hands dirty.” Helaena observed the remnants of stems under Daenera’s nails from plucking flowers and the small patches of dirt clinging to her skin.

“These hands also speak of luxury and nurture, suggesting a life of comfort and meticulous grooming.” She flipped the hand to study the palm again. “The lack of callouses signifies a life more genteel than laborious. The hands of a noble lady.”

Helaena traced a line gently. “Your life, as I see it, will be long, marked by challenges, struggles, and heartaches. But you will persevere through all of them. You are stronger than you think you are, and you will grow into your power.”

Her finger traced the pink scar that drew through her palm. “You are loved.”

“What do the lines on your hands reveal?” Daenera asked softly, her voice filled with gentle curiosity.

Helaena hesitated, a hint of apprehension in her voice. “I’m too afraid to look.”

Her hand balled into a tight fist.

“Then let me look for you,” Daenera suggested warmly, carefully taking Helaena’s hand into hers and gently coaxing it open to reveal the palm. She first examined the back of Helaena’s hand. Her fingers were long and immaculate, lacking the scars of outdoor escapades. Her nails were meticulously maintained, trimmed to the perfect length. “Yours are the hands of something with a tender touch. They’re nurtured and refined, delicate and soft.”

She then flipped Helaena’s hand over to inspect the palm. “These hands are creators, dream weavers. I can discern the tiny calluses from years of needlework, the testament of that of a skilled artist.”

Daenera’s fingers flipped over the soft lines etched in Helaena’s palm. She noted one line that was shorter, almost fragmented, while others diverted in different directions. “In these hands, I see the nurturing touch of a mother. But there’s also the strength of a dragonrider, forged for soaring among the clouds.

Daenera pressed her own palm against Helaena’s, their fingers intertwining.

“I wish for my children to have hands that are resilient and strong,” Helaena whispered, her voice tinged with the familiar hint of melancholy. Her grip on Daenera’s hand tightened slightly.

“They will be,” Daenera reassured her confidently. There was no reason the children wouldn’t grow up to be strong and resilient.

Helaena leaned closer, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Had you been born a boy, I would have married you too.”

Daenera chuckled warmly. “I could always cut my hair and whisk you away to Lys or Braavos, though it seems more like you’d be the one abducting me, especially since you’re the one with a dragon.”

At that, Helaena’s laughter filled the air, light and at ease.

Alicent stood at the garden’s edge, concealed by the lush, meticulously tended foliage that surrounded the area. Her gaze remained fixed on her children and grandchildren as they reveled amid the vibrant blossoms and the verdant scenery. However, her attention was primarily drawn to the subtle interaction between Daenera and Aemond. With each passing moment, her apprehension grew, etching lines of worry and dread onto her features.

It was not long ago she had ordered Aemond to devote careful consideration to the matter of a marriage alliance, to choose one that would best serve their family’s interests.

Her deep-rooted apprehensions weighed heavily on her mind, a gnawing dread that kept her awake for many nights. The negotiations for marriage contracts and the establishments of alliances were slow-moving, filled with diplomatic intricacies and courtesies. It was a process that required a patience she did not have.

Aemond had dutifully sent letters to various noble houses, including the Tyrells, the Tullys, Greyjoys, and the Reynes, expressing an interest in potential marriage alliances. His compliance with her wishes had been commendable, but his apparent lack of enthusiasm cast a shadow of uncertainty over her.

She knew that forming such alliances took time. Negotiations were meticulous, involving delicate considerations of dowries, titles, and political implications. The future depended on these arrangements, and they could not afford to rush into ill-considered unions—nevertheless, Alicent feared more that word of her son’s affair would get out, reveal itself for what it was and ruin any prospects with Houses such as Baratheon… And worse yet, that it would see him married to her.

The information that had reached her through Larys Strong was deeply disconcerting. Aemond’s visit to the Tyrells had resulted in a meeting with a prospective bride who was described as beautiful and of the appropriate age. Despite these favorable qualities, Aemond displayed no further interest in her.

Worse still, the Tullys, whose alliance could be instrumental, had withdrawn their interest in a marriage alliance when Aemond had left their daughter in tears.

It was a troubling sign that had planted seeds of doubt within her heart.

Alicent fidget with her hands as she contemplated her son’s behavior. The weight of her responsibility bore down on her shoulders, and she could not afford to let this matter languish. Her family’s future depended on it, and she was determined to guide Aemond towards the right decision.

“Why are you lurking in the gardens, Mother?” Aegon’s voice broke through the silence, his casual demeanor belying the palpable tension in the air. His unkempt hair, a stark contrast to his princely status, irked her deeply. She wished he would compose himself with more dignity, particularly when he meandered about in the castle.

“I am not lurking,” Alicent replied tersely, her gaze still fixated on the scene before her.

“Then what are you doing?” Aegon inquired, shifting his attention towards the garden, mirroring his mother’s intense scrutiny.

Alicent’s eyes flitted briefly from her son, her lips forming a disproving line. Her response was curt, her eyes returning to the garden. “I am observing.”

Aegon redirected his gaze as well, his discerning eye landing on his siblings and children, and when he spoke, there was that infuriating smugness in his tone. “He’s smitten by her.”

“He is not,” Alicent countered, her fingers inadvertently digging into her own flesh as unease gnawed at her.

“He absolutely is, Mother. Just look at the way he gazes at her,” Aegon argued, a hint of fascination in his tone.

Her narrowed eyes watched as Aemond seemed to lose himself in contemplation, his gaze unwaveringly focused on Daenera. The way he looked at her, like a boy struck with awe, filled her with dread. It seemed to swell within her chest, creating an oppressive weight that pressed against her lungs and heart.

“He understands his duty,” she stated firmly, turning her discerning gaze towards her eldest son.

Aegon regarded his mother thoughtfully. “He appears to be delaying, though, doesn’t he? You could have arranged his marriage by now.”

“I have faith in him,” she responded with unwavering resolve as her grip on her own flesh grew tighter. “Aemond will fulfill his responsibilities. He will marry, and he will honor his marital vows. That is his nature. And in time, he may come to genuinely care for his wife.”

“Perhaps you should have accepted Rhaenyra’s proposal and had Jacaerys marry Helaena, and I marry Daenera,” Aegon remarked, his tone carrying an unsettling nonchalance that sent shivers of apprehension down her spine. She couldn’t quite put a finger on the source of his eagerness, whether it was a genuine desire for Daenera or simply a childish yearning for what was forbidden. Regardless, it filled her with even more dread.

Alicent turned to her son, her gaze sharp and warning. “Stay away from her, Aegon. She’s a Princess, and you mustn't forget that.”

Aegon’s response was defiant, bordering on insolent. “She’s a bastard–”

With a stern look, Alicent cut her son off, her voice laced with authority. “She’s a Princess, and you will treat her as such. We cannot afford any scandal involving you and her, do you understand?”

Aegon’s demeanor shifted, his arms folding defensively over his chest as he leaned against one of the ornate pillars. His frown deepened, and he spoke with a note of bitterness. “I am not the one you should be concerned with. I am not the one in love with her.”

Alicent let out a dismissive sound, akin to a scoff, as she refuted his claim. “He is not in love with her, Aegon. His duty will guide his actions, as it always has.”

But Aegon remained resolute, his tone carrying a sense of resignation mixed with petulance. “He is in love with her, Mother. He may delude himself, and you may believe his delusion, but he is very much in love with her. For once, he should be your disappointment, not I.”

Alicent released a slow, measured breath. “I am not disappointed in you–”

“You are, Mother. You’ve always been,” Aegon interrupted, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability that tugged at Alicent’s heart. He looked so much like the little boy he once was, wounded by a perceived lack of trust. “If only you’d afford me the same faith you have in him.”

Alicent took a tentative step towards him, her maternal instincts urging her to comfort her son. Her hand rose to brush against his cheek in a gesture of reassurance, but Aegon swatted it away. He turned and walked away, his posture that of a petulant child, leaving Alicent with a heavy knot forming in the back of her throat.

Her gaze returned to Aemond, who was still engrossed in the playful sword fight with his nephew. She reminded herself that, ultimately, her son would prioritize his duty over his infatuation. He had always been the one she could rely on, and she would not let Daenera take that from her.

**Lavender: Happiness, love, devotion. **Baby's breath: Innocence, purity of the heart. **Eye Bright: Mental Clarity, psychic powers. (the flower Jaehaera puts in Helaena's hair.) **Pink Carnations: A mother's love, I will never forget you. **White Carnations: Sweet and lovely, innocence, pure love. **Hawthorn Tree: Hope, fertility. **Cypress Tree: Death, mourning, despair, sorrow. **Doll's Eye: Toxic/Poison.

#aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood

33 notes · View notes