#ancient tree hunt

[turtlesandfrogs]

What I was taught growing up: Wild edible plants and animals were just so naturally abundant that the indigenous people of my area, namely western Washington state, didn't have to develop agriculture and could just easily forage/hunt for all their needs.

The first pebble in what would become a landslide: Native peoples practiced intentional fire, which kept the trees from growing over the camas praire.

The next: PNW native peoples intentionally planted and cultivated forest gardens, and we can still see the increase in biodiversity where these gardens were today.

The next: We have an oak prairie savanna ecosystem that was intentionally maintained via intentional fire (which they were banned from doing for like, 100 years and we're just now starting to do again), and this ecosystem is disappearing as Douglas firs spread, invasive species take over, and land is turned into European-style agricultural systems.

The Land Slide: Actually, the native peoples had a complex agricultural and food processing system that allowed them to meet all their needs throughout the year, including storing food for the long, wet, dark winter. They collected a wide variety of plant foods (along with the salmon, deer, and other animals they hunted), from seaweeds to roots to berries, and they also managed these food systems via not only burning, but pruning, weeding, planting, digging/tilling, selectively harvesting root crops so that smaller ones were left behind to grow and the biggest were left to reseed, and careful harvesting at particular times for each species that both ensured their perennial (!) crops would continue thriving and that harvest occurred at the best time for the best quality food. American settlers were willfully ignorant of the complex agricultural system, because being thus allowed them to claim the land wasn't being used. Native peoples were actively managing the ecosystem to produce their food, in a sustainable manner that increased biodiversity, thus benefiting not only themselves but other species as well.

So that's cool. If you want to read more, I suggest "Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge: Ethnobotany and Ecological Wisdom of Indigenous Peoples of Northwestern North America" by Nancy J. Turner

[stylesispunk]

"What remains of us"

outbreak! Joel miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel doesn't die after the brutal encounter with abby because you saved him on time.

wc: 4k>

warnings: angst,mentions of blood, mentions of murder (reader becomes violent), fluff, mentions of broken bones. english is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. Written in a rush.

a/n: so uhmm. How are we feeling? I personally feel broken by the events from episode 2 so I rewrite the story while i was free in the morning to help me cope with the grief and joel is alive.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Something felt wrong in your bones the moment the snowstorm hit harder than anyone had expected. Not just the kind of wrong that came out from the conditions and freezing wind in a cold winter. This was deeper. Ancient. It whispered through the trees like a secret from another world, brushing icy fingers down your spine. In a kind of warning dressed up as bad weather. You felt it in your chest, in the weight behind your ribs, where your breath stayed too long before escaping your lips.

Your skin burned from the cold, your limbs throbbed from the fatigue, but it didn't compare to the way your heart pounded.

There was worry settled deep just over your chest from fear.

“Hey, you alright?” Jesse called ahead, pulling his scarf down just enough to meet your glance.

You nodded too fast, trying to find a source of breathing. “Yeah, but this storm is too cold.”

Ellie was further up the ridge, carving her own path through the deepening snow with over shimmer, unaware of how your whole body shook with more with the low temperature hitting your body. You hadn’t told any of them.

How do you explain to them that your body knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet? That every step forward feel like walking into danger?

Your heart was screaming at you, sending you signals through with every beating, in a language older than logic. Since the morning. Since Joel left your side before you could fully wake up.

The sound of his voice still lingered in your memory. It stayed there, like a tattoo he had kissed over your temple.

warm, softly, lingering as you stirred under the covers.

“Get some more sleep, darling.”

He hadn’t kissed your forehead like usual. He hadn’t lingered there. As if he couldn't face saying goodbye. And when you finally did get up, your gut twisted when you saw the empty space in the stable, the horse meeting, and snow falling hard over Jackson.

The truth was, Joel was out there with Dina; you had no idea under what circumstances.

The sky had turned more gray; it seemed angry, furious, waiting to hit someone else.

You shook your head, trying to focus on Jesse’s voice. Tried not to feed the panic unraveling in your chest like a pulled thread. But the cold in your mind spread, and no matter how tightly you gripped the reins, no matter how fast your horse moved, the feeling remained.

Something was definitely wrong; you could feel your heart beating harder.

You finally found a rundown outpost, an old hunting cabin half-buried in snow and swallowed by pine trees. The roof sagged, one of the windows was kind of cracked, and the door barely held on its hinges, but it was a shelter that would serve its purpose. You and Jesse pulled your horses inside the narrow lean-to out back, while Ellie stomped snow off her shoes and kicked the door open with force.

Inside, it was cold and smelled like old weed and damp rot, but you didn’t care; you needed to sit and think.

Inside, there was a radio.

You didn’t hesitate. You took your gloves off before Jesse could even notice. Your fingers moved over the knobs, turning dials, trying to find the frequency Jackson always used for patrol.

A burst of static. Then another, and finally, a signal.

Your breath caught. “Jackson patrol, do you copy?”

Ellie moved closer. Jesse pulled his scarf down, suddenly silent.

“Joel? Dina? Come in.”

Only static.

“Come on,” you muttered, heart hammering, twisting the dial again. “Joel, please, answer.”

There was nothing. This type of silence wasn’t normal or ordinary. You knew silence. This wasn’t a delay. It was an absence.

Your body went rigid, every instinct screaming louder than your racing thoughts. Your limbs moved before you made the decision. You were out the door and into the snow again before Jesse or Ellie could stop you.

He called after you still. But Ellie was already grabbing her rifle.

“Where are you going?” Jesse yelled, chasing behind.

“Something’s wrong!” you snapped, swinging onto your horse. “I just know it!”

Ellie mounted up beside you, voice louder within the storm, “Then we’re not wasting time.”

Jesse hesitated, glancing between you both and the radio inside.

“You don’t even know if that’s where they went—”

“I know,” you growled, already riding. “I feel it.”

Ellie followed you without a word. She trusted you, you were her family, and she would follow you wherever you went.

The snow clawed at your skin like it wanted to peel the truth away. The wind howled as if it knew what was waiting ahead. But you didn’t stop.

Because something had happened to Joel, and Dina was out there.

You and Ellie rode as fast as you could, the snow whipping across your faces like needles piercing your skin, the hooves of your horses lost beneath the storm. You could barely see five feet ahead, but then, in the distance, a glow that you could see anyway.

“Shit,” Ellie hissed beside you, pulling her hood lower.

You followed her gaze. Through the trees, past the slope of the hill, firelight. Orange, flickering, wrong. Was this your bad feeling creeping?

Fire was catching, rising in a bloom, too wild to be controlled. You slowed your horse as your stomach dropped.

“That's Jackson,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Ellie.

It wasn’t the whole town, not yet. But something was burning. And it was enough to send a coil of panic twisting through your gut, feeding that same deep certainty that had been clawing at you all day.

“Come on,” you growled, spurring your horse harder, cutting off the cold fear before it could settle. “We are way too far.”

And it wasn’t long before you saw it, the lodge over the hills.

It sat crooked and hunched near a clearing, like it had been dropped there by accident. Too nice to have survived years into the end of the world. One of the side windows was shattered. Smoke was seeping through cracks in the boarded upper floor. The front door hung ajar, barely moving in the wind.

You pulled hard on the reins. Your horse bucked a little, skidding in the snow. Ellie drew her rifle and slid off hers.

Your eyes locked on two shapes near the side of the lodge.

Horses.

Your heart stopped because those were Joel’s and Dina’s.

Both were tied loosely, hooves pawing nervously at the ground. Alone. No movement near the front entrance. No voices. No sounds but the wind and the creak of the old building groaning under the weight it wasn’t meant to bear.

You slid off your horse.

“Ellie,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, breath clouding in front of you.

She already had her knife out.

“Oh shit.”

You didn’t wait for backup. Couldn’t. There was something wrong.

Because Joel’s horse was here. And he wasn’t.

And whatever was inside that building, you felt it. It was about to break your heart open.

The sound of screams of agony and a body hitting the ground echoed down the hallway like a gunshot.

You knew that sound. It was torture. It was pain.

Your boots thundered down the corridor of the lodge, Ellie at your side, a worry and desperate look in her eyes. She’d followed the path like a wolf hunting its prey, her eyes screaming Please don’t let it be too late.

You didn’t say a word. Your heart was stuck in your throat, and the only thing that moved was your body, in fast motion, furious, drawn to the man who should have never left your side this morning in the first place.

Then you saw it. The door, a form from inside, screaming slipping from the lips you used to kiss every day. Those were Joel’s screams. In agony, in pain.

You didn’t wait. You didn’t breathe. You kicked the door open, and your world shattered.

Joel was on the floor, a mess of blood surrounding him and something worse. His legs bent at sort of unnatural angles. One hand barely raised in instinct. His face, bruised, bleeding, and one eye was swollen shut. His body twitched like it wasn’t sure if it should keep trying to fight life.

And above him, a woman. Blonde, her hair braided. Rage carved into her face like she’d waited for this moment. Her arms raised again, a golf club in her grip, stained in red.

She didn’t see you at first. Her eyes were solely focused on Joel, but you weren’t having that.

You roared, not screamed, roared, and tackled her with all the force you had, all your weight, all your fury into actions. You slammed her into the wall with a force that cracked wood. The golf club dropped from her hand and hit the ground.

“No more," you growled, your hand tightening around her throat.

Her group came fast, like shadows over you. One tackled Ellie to the ground. Another raised a knife at her. But they hadn’t counted on you.

You were already moving, eyes wild, mind gone. Every compassion you could have left in your body left, gone, you fought like someone who had nothing left in this life but him.

You weren’t skilled like Joel. You didn’t need to be. You were desperate. Right now, you were desperate.

Fists cracked bone. You took hits but didn’t stop. Didn’t feel them on you. You were pulling someone off Ellie, dragging them by their collar, throwing them into a chair that splintered on impact. You used what you had, a piece of wood, the same club the woman wore, your fists, and the most important thing, your fury.

And they couldn’t stop you. Because you couldn’t be stopped.

The blonde tried to rise again. You met her halfway and slammed her back to the floor. She spat blood. You didn’t flinch.

“Get away from him!” you shouted.

“Who the fuck—?!” Abby turned, fury and shock colliding on her face.

You dropped the shotgun, drew your blade, and charged.

The first one that tried to reach for you got a knife in his chest. You shoved him off like he was made of paper. The next came at you with a bat, you caught the swing and used his momentum to slam him face-first into the fireplace bricks.

“You don’t get to touch him,” you hissed. “Not him.”

The blonde took the club again, swinging it toward your face. You ducked.

Then you hit her. Right in the gut. The force of it sent her staggering back, wind knocked from her lungs.

“Do you wanna kill him?” you growled. “Try me first, then."

She looked at you like she wanted to, but she hesitated.

And that was her mistake. The moment she let her guard down, you shot her.

"It's over." You said, pointing your gun right between her brows, and the shot echoed in the stillness of the room.

She hit the floor, eyes wide. No final words. No redemption. Just silence.

Ellie flinched.

You stood over Abby’s body, breath hitching, heart pounding in your ears. The room reeked of blood, and then there was silence, except for Joel’s ragged breath.

The ringing in your ears stopped, and your breathing steadied as you took a look at the mess you had made.

Your eyes finally dropped back to Joel. You dropped yourself beside him as your knees had finally given out.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice cracking into pieces. “Joel, look at me. I’m here. I got you.”

His one good eye fluttered open, dazed, unfocused. There was blood crusted at his brow, dried and fresh, a cruel mask across the face you’d kissed so many times before, now dripping blood.

“Y-you-" he rasped, voice like torn gravel. He had barely made it.

You nodded, cradling his face in your hands, not caring that blood smeared across your palms. “I’m here. You’re safe. Don't you dare to close your eyes now."

His breath stuttered, chest rising too slow, too shallow. His eyes couldn’t stay fixed on you. They wandered, like he weren’t fully in the room anymore. As if he were fighting death and life at the same time.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered, leaning close. Your forehead rested against his, warm against cold.

Not even the cold of the snowstorm had been so cruel to you.

“Hurts,” he mumbled, eyes slipping closed again.

“No, no,” you said quickly, your hands gently patting his face. “Stay with me. I got you. You’re gonna be okay. Help’s coming, okay? I will make sure of it. Just—just hold on.”

But he didn’t answer. His breathing slowed.

And your heart stammered in panic. “Joel!"

But there was no reaction from him. You pressed your fingers to his pulse, still beating but faintly.

“Don’t you do this,” you choked out. “You fight, dammit. You’ve been through worse, haven’t you? Don’t you leave me now, please.”

You'd already faced your worst nightmare. Now you were living in it, holding it in your arms, seeing the life leave him.

Joel lay limp and broken on the floor, his breath rattled. His face was swollen, almost unrecognizable on one side, purple and black with bruising. One eye was swollen shut. Blood trickled from his nose, his mouth, and the side of his head.

“Hey,” you whispered again, voice hoarse. “Joel. Are you with me?”

A faint groan, barely audible, but it was enough because it meant he was still here.

You pulled off your jacket rapidly, shoving it under his head. Your hands were shaking, but your mind was locked in: every first aid trick you’d learned from scraps of survival guides, emergency manuals, all this time surviving, and anything Joel had ever shown you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. You had paid attention.

You just never thought you’d be using it on him, under these circumstances.

Dina stumbled in, still pale and groggy, her hand gripping the wall. “Ellie?” she rasped. “Wh—what the fuck happened?”

You didn’t look up. “You were drugged. Ellie is moving the bodies. We need the space.”

Dina staggered past, gagging at the sight of blood, but she didn’t hesitate. She knew what had happened.

This was now a war zone. You had blinded yourself, becoming a murderer monster just to save Joel.

You pulled Joel’s shirt open, shredded, stained with red. Purple splotches across his ribs. Swelling. At least two were broken.

Your throat burned, voice cracking. “You’re gonna hate me for this, Joel. But I have to move you.”

“Don’t…” he mumbled, almost unconscious. “Just... leave me—”

“Bullshit" you said, angry at you, at him, at that woman who had left him like this, your tears were splashing onto his collarbone. “Don’t you dare say that. You don’t give up.”

Ellie appeared, face pale, blood on her shirt, Dina behind her with a blanket.

“We cleared the room,” Ellie said, out of breath. “It’s just us now.”

“Good,” you said. “Help me splint his legs. We need to keep him still until we can get him out of here.”

You tore up a curtain and grabbed two broken chair legs. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing about this was. This wasn't something that should have happened.

Ellie held Joel’s leg as steady as she could while you worked the makeshift splint around the worst of the fractures. His left leg, with a shot on his knee.

Joel screamed just as he was being dragged through hell.

You didn’t stop, “I know,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his as you tied the cloth tight. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I got you.”

You felt his breath against your skin, shallow and hot, contrasting with the coldness on his hands.

His lips moved. “Why?” he whispered, barely audible.

You leaned back and looked at him. “Because I love you,” you said simply.

His eye fluttered open, just barely. And for one fragile second, the pain slipped away. There was only you and him inside this room. You brushed the hair from Joel’s face. He was burning up. You needed to clean the wounds. Stop the bleeding. Keep him warm and alive.

And somehow, by the grace of whatever broken god still watched over you all, you would.

You pressed a damp cloth to his temple where skin had split open. His blood soaked through instantly. You felt you were about to throw up.

Your hands moved on their own now, it felt monotonous. Wash. Compress. Tie. Splint. Whisper to him and beg him to stay alive.

Ellie and Dina had gone quiet. Standing behind you. Watching. Waiting for an order, a word from you that it wouldn't be a sob.

Then your voice broke through the silence. “Go back to Jackson.”

Ellie flinched, like she hadn’t expected you to speak at all. You didn’t look up. You were holding Joel’s hand, limp and calloused in yours. Trying to send him the strength he needed to survive.

“We need help,” you said, barely audible. Your voice was shot. Just whisper. “Tell Tommy, tell him to send help. We need to get Joel back there.”

You met silence. Just the sound of Joel breathing.

“Please,” you added, and that word cracked. “Please. I can’t carry him by myself. He’s...he’s too heavy. He’s—” You swallowed hard. Your fingers curled tighter around Joel’s hand.

Ellie stepped forward. “We’re not leaving you.”

You finally looked up, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “You have to. We need more people. Horses. Anything. I can keep him alive for a few more hours. But I can’t move him like this.”

Ellie’s jaw clenched. Her knuckles went white. “I don’t want to leave you with him like this.”

You reached out, brushing Joel’s graying hair from his brow with trembling fingers. “I got him.”

A pause. Then Dina touched Ellie’s arm. “I’ll go,” she said gently. “I’ll ride. I’m faster. You stay.”

Ellie nodded, eyes not leaving yours.

You left a loud sob. “No,” you said quietly, lifting your eyes once more to Ellie’s. “Ellie… you go with Dina. I’ll stay here.”

Ellie’s shoulders stiffened. Her brows pulled together like she was bracing for another blow. “What? No. I’m not leaving you and him.”

You sat back on your knees, your hands bloodied, trembling. Joel’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

“You have to,” you said, your voice breaking. “You have to, Ellie. Dina shouldn’t be riding alone.”

Ellie looked at Joel. Looked at you. And shook her head. “I can’t leave him like this. I can’t.”

You grabbed her hand, and that startled her. It startled you, too. But you held on, grounding her, pulling her attention back to your face. Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Please,” you said. “Please. Help me save him.”

Ellie’s eyes filled. Not with tears, but with everything she couldn’t say. The guilt of the lost time. The fury of what they had done to Joel. The fear that maybe it was too late.

But you looked at her like there was still something worth fighting for.

She swallowed hard. Nodded once. “I’ll go.”

Your chest caved with relief. Joel let out a faint groan beneath you, and you turned back to him, brushing your thumb against his jaw.

“I’m here, baby,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

Ellie hesitated at the doorway, stopping to look at you once again, “Will he be okay?” she asked before daring to step a foot outside.

You nodded, but it was instinct, automatic, hopeful, desperate. The truth lodged in your throat like a splinter you couldn’t spit out.

“I don’t know,” you said softly, voice trembling. “I don’t know how much damage they did.” Your eyes flicked over Joel’s body again, breath catching at the way his chest rose unevenly. “But he’s breathing. And that’s something.”

Ellie stepped closer to you. “What do you need me to do?”

You looked up at her then, and for a split second, she looked like a kid again. Afraid and shaken.

“Just go back to Jackson and bring help,” you said, your voice barely more than a breath. "That's all we need now."

Ellie’s eyes burned. She nodded once, jaw clenched. “Okay. Okay. Just hold on, please.”

You gave her one last look. “I’ll keep him breathing.”

She was gone the next second, steps pounding out the door, calling for Dina, and you were left in the broken room, just you and Joel and the slow drip of blood on the floorboards. His blood.

You pressed your hands to the worst of the wounds, breath shaking. “Did you hear that, Joel?” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “Help’s coming.”

He didn’t speak. But his fingers twitched again, slowly, and curled around your wrist.

It wasn’t much, but it meant he was still here.

That night felt heavy like wet ash. Everything smelled like blood, and outside, the snowstorm had died to a bitter hiss. The wind still screamed through cracks in the lodge, but inside, everything had gone quiet, except for the sound of Joel’s ragged breath and the low creak of floorboards every time you moved.

You’d done everything you could.

You had boiled snow over a fire in the next room just to clean the worst of the blood from his side. You weren’t a medic. But you were a woman in love. And that made you terrifying.

He faded in and out of consciousness, his lips murmuring your name between groans, sometimes not even sure it was real. You sat beside him, your back against the wall, holding his hand in both of yours.

But then it went still. You hadn’t realized how quiet it had gotten until the sound stopped completely.

“Joel?” you whispered, leaning close. There was no answer.

You shook his shoulder, gently. Then harder. “Joel.”

Nothing. His head lolled to the side. His skin felt clammy beneath your palm.

Your breath caught in your throat. “No, no—please, no. Joel—” You cupped his cheeks. “You stay with me; do you hear me?”

His brow twitched. His lips parted, barely, and a broken whisper slipped out.

"Sarah?”

The name came out like a breath lost in time. You froze. Your heart cracked open. His eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, a flicker of life.

In his mind, it was Austin all over again.

Sarah was laughing, running ahead of him, calling back over her shoulder, “Dad, come on!”

And he was smiling. Genuinely smiling. He could hear her. Feel her hand in his again. It was so warm and real.

He turned, and they were on the couch. Watching a movie. She was leaning against him, head on his shoulder. He’d just said something stupid, making her roll her eyes. He didn’t want to blink, afraid it’d all vanish.

But then came the gunshot. Her warmth was gone.

Now you were there. In the memory. Not Sarah, but you. Covered in blood and crying out his name.

Joel, please. Please.

Your hands were glowing with firelight, trembling as they pressed against his chest.

He tried to reach for you, but he couldn’t move, and the world was slipping through his fingers.

And then, your voice cut through the haze. “Joel, please. Please don’t do this.”

His heart stuttered once. A sharp inhale tore through his chest as if he’d been drowning.

“Joel!”

He coughed, body shaking, and your hands caught him just in time.

You sobbed, half-laughing as you gripped his cheeks again. “You scared the shit out of me—oh my god” you sobbed, tears streaming down your cheeks.

He looked up at you, dazed and confused. Then his eyes cleared, just a little.

“You were crying,” he mumbled, lips cracked.

“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing your thumb beneath his eye. “Yeah, I was.”

He blinked slowly. “Stop...”

“I can't,” you said.

Joel leaned ever so slightly into your palm, the pain pulling at him, but your voice anchoring him.

The night lingered like a wound that wouldn’t close, that wouldn't take time to heal.

And you didn’t sleep. Your body screamed for rest, but you had stayed next to Joel, watching the way his chest rose and fell, praying it wouldn’t stop again. Every time his breath caught or he groaned too hard, your stomach twisted into knots.

The lodge was cold. Blood had dried into the floorboards. The fire in the next room was too far away to warm either of you, and you didn’t dare move him to get closer.

So you pressed your body to his side gently, just enough to share warmth without causing him pain.

“Still with me?” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open, sluggish as if they weighed “Yeah…” His voice was more gravel than sound.

You breathed out a shaky laugh, your forehead resting lightly against his temple. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

Joel let out a faint puff of breath, maybe a laugh, maybe a wince. "Learned from you," he muttered.

Your throat clenched. You reached for his hand again, interlocking your fingers with his, so you wouldn’t brush the torn knuckles.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.

His eyes moved slowly, searching, until they landed on you again. Then he mumbled something you barely heard.

Silence settled in. You closed your eyes, listening to the wind groaning against the windows. Time stretched, only broken by Joel’s breath stuttering again.

Then, his fingers twitched around yours.

Then you whispered, “Joel?”

He made a sound.

“I love you.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were glassy with pain. But then he barely squeezed your hand, and his voice came soft, barely a breath.

“I love you, too.”

It felt like the first time he had told you those three words, and that had broken you the most.

You buried your face in his shoulder, careful of the bruises, and let yourself cry, not in panic, not in fear. But in overwhelming, soul-shaking relief.

He was alive.

Joel woke to the soft hum of voices and some old machines. The scent of cleaner stung his nose before the light even reached his eyes.

His body was in pain. He tried to move, but something warm and heavy rested on his side.

Your head was there, leaning on his side.

You were slumped in a chair beside him, your cheek pressed gently to his arm. Your fingers were laced with his, your grip loose with sleep but still holding on.

The light in the room was soft, filtering through the curtained window. Outside, life stirred in Jackson. But here, it was quiet. Just the two of you.

Joel blinked slowly, his throat dry, the taste of cotton still on his tongue. His gaze drifted down to you. There was a crease between your brows even at rest. You looked exhausted and pale.

But you were here. He breathed your name, raw and hoarse.

You stirred at the sound, your head lifting slowly as if from the depths of a dream. Your eyes met his, still sleep-warm but wide with shock. Disbelief flickered, then relief so powerful it made your lips tremble.

“Joel,” you whispered, leaving a sob behind.

His smile was small. Barely there. “You didn’t leave.”

Your hand came up to cup his cheek. “Never,” you said. “You scared me so much."

He swallowed hard, his hand tightening weakly around yours. “How long?”

“Three weeks,” you said, voice shaking with the memory. “You were unconscious the first few days back. The fever wouldn’t break. They weren’t sure if you’d make it through the second night”

He looked at you again, really looked. “And you sat here the whole damn time?”

You gave a soft, broken laugh. “Where else would I be?”

His good eye softened. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You leaned closer, resting your forehead to his. “You promised me once you wouldn’t leave me.”

He nodded faintly, his eyes closing for a moment as your breath mingled.

Your fingers brushed his temple, so gently, as if afraid he’d fade again like some half-formed dream that wouldn't last. Joel’s skin was warm beneath your touch, warmer than it had been in days, and that alone nearly broke you all over again.

“It’s going to take time,” you whispered, your voice barely louder than the hum of the machines. “To heal from this.”

Joel didn’t say anything, but you felt the tremor in his breath.

You threaded your fingers more tightly with his. “But I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?” you said, firmer now, voice catching on the tears in your throat. “I’m not leaving your side. You will get sick of me.”

His lips parted like he wanted to argue, maybe even protest, but then he looked at you again. Really looked. The cut on his brow. The bruising on his cheekbone. The pain behind his eye, and beyond that, the softness that only came when it was just you.

“You shouldn’t have had to—”

“I had to,” you cut in, gently “Because I love you. Because I couldn’t lose you. And I won’t ever lose you.” you paused to take a deep breath before continuing, “You and I will grow old together, and we will die peacefully in a farm, just as you wanted."

Joel blinked. His hand tightened slightly in yours again, like the only strength he had left was meant for that one touch.

You leaned in and kissed his forehead, bruised, stitched, healing. “You’re mine, Joel. And I’m yours."

Silence fell, heavy but not suffocating anymore. The kind of silence where you could finally breathe again. Where you knew he was going to live.

Joel let his head rest back into the pillow, the edge of a tear slipping from the corner of his eye.

“Okay,” he whispered, smiling at you.

You smiled through your tears, the kind that burned hot down your cheeks but carried no pain, only relief.

You shifted in the chair, reaching up to brush a bit of hair back from his forehead, careful not to touch where it was most tender. His skin warmed beneath your fingertips. He was alive, and the reality of that still hadn’t fully settled in.

“I’m gonna be here when you wake up,” you promised, voice like a hush of wind through leaves. “Every morning. And every day if I have to. You focus on getting better.”

Joel's smile trembled, worn and crooked. His good eye drifted shut, but not before his fingers gave yours one more squeeze, like he couldn’t bear to let you go in his sleep.

You watched him as his breathing evened out again, slow like the beat of a song you never thought you would hear again. The soft light of the light, caught a golden hue over the bedsheets.

You rested your head by his side again, your cheek brushing his arm, eyes closing just for a moment. Not to sleep, but to hold the feeling. The warmth. The miracle.

He was still here.

And you would be, too. Always.

[fleurbly]

HEAVEN HELP THE HUNTED

summary: a hunt through the woods turns deadly when the man you swore to kill finally finds you — your back to the bark, his mouth at your ear, and no line left between hate and heat.

warnings: explicit sexual content, subtle dub-con, power imbalance, possessive/obsessive behaviour, toxic relationship dynamics, stalking, violence/physical aggression (subtle).

pairing: softdark!remmick x hunter!reader

word count: 3k+

DNI IF TAGS AFFECT YOU, MDNI

The heat of the night was thick enough to drown in, the kind of heat that pressed heavy on your skin and stuck to the back of your neck like a curse. The woods around you breathed slow and deep, every twig snap and rustle a reminder you were never alone. You hated that—the way this place held its secrets tight and whispered them only to those who dared listen.

Your dress, the blue one you wore to church Sunday—delicate, soft, and too pretty for a night like this—was soaked with sweat. The ruffles at the collar clung to your throat, the silk stockings beneath your skirt stuck wet behind your knees. You didn’t care. You’d worn it anyway. You always did. It made you feel sharp, like sugar wrapped in a razor blade.

Your pistol pressed cold against your thigh, tucked beneath your garter, and your knife rested silently in your boot. You were ready—always ready. For him.

You’d been hunting Remmick for months now, stalking the woods and fields where the shadows ran deep, following the trail of whispers and blood. You knew his hunger, his cruelty, but also the way he watched you with eyes that burned brighter than any fire. You hated him for what he’d done. Hated him for killing your brother—the only family you had left—because you’d refused him one too many times.

And yet, here you were, chasing ghosts through the night.

The moon was a thin sliver above, barely cutting through the canopy of trees. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves and your careful footsteps in the damp earth. Then—a voice. Low, smooth, and thick with that cruel amusement that made your blood run cold.

“Well, darlin’, you’re just full o’ surprises.”

You whirled around, pistol raised, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. He stood there, leaning against an old oak, his skin glowing faintly in the moonlight. That crooked smile—sharp as a blade—spread slow and sure across his lips.

“You always show up where I least want you,” you spat, voice steady but laced with ice. “Thought I told you to stay away.”

Remmick pushed off the tree, coming forward with a lazy step, hands tucked in his pockets like he owned the damn woods. “And I told you, sugar, I ain’t never leavin’ your side. Not ‘til you’re mine.”

You snorted, tightening your grip on the pistol. “You killed my brother. You’re not ‘mine’ anything. You’re a monster.”

The smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened. “He was just another step. You kept pushin’ me away, turnin’ your back when all I wanted was to hold you close.”

“Hold me close?” Your voice cracked with fury. “You think I could ever want you after that?”

He stopped just inches from you, gaze like a hunger that never died. “You want me more than you admit. You don’t dress like a fragile flower in these woods for nothing. You like the thrill. The danger. The taste of darkness just beneath your skin.”

You laughed, bitter and raw. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Don’t I?” He leaned down so close you could smell the iron on his breath, the faint scent of something ancient and wild. “I know the fire in your eyes when you aim that pistol. I know the way your hands tremble when you’re mad. And I know how you dream about me when the night’s too quiet.”

The words hit harder than any bullet.

“Stop,” you whispered, stepping back, trying to steady yourself.

“But I won’t,” he said, voice soft now, dangerously sweet. “I dream about you too. Dream about the day you’ll stop running.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I won’t.”

He laughed—dark and low, like a promise you weren’t sure you wanted to keep. “We’ll see, darlin’. I always come back. You’re mine whether you want to be or not.”

The night held its breath, and the woods seemed to lean in close, waiting.

You lifted your pistol again, aiming for his chest.

“Say it,” you hissed. “Say you’re leaving.”

He didn’t flinch. “Not a chance.”

Remmick’s grin deepened, eyes dragging over you like he was peeling layers off with a glance. He tilted his head slightly, that wolfish amusement curling slow at the corners of his mouth.

“Tell me somethin’, sweetheart,” he drawled, stepping just close enough that your finger tensed on the trigger. “You ever stop thinkin’ ‘bout that night in the barn?”

You stiffened.

He caught it—of course he did. His smirk turned wicked.

“Didn’t seem like much of a mistake when you had your legs wrapped ‘round my waist, beggin’ me not to stop,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “Hell, you damn near clawed my back open, remember? Still got the marks.”

You flushed—not from shame, but fury. Rage surged through your chest like wildfire.

“That was a mistake,” you snapped.

He chuckled. “Then it was the sweetest mistake I ever tasted. You said my name like a prayer and a curse in one breath. Thought the hayloft’d fall down with the way you—”

You didn’t let him finish.

Your fist cracked against his cheekbone with a satisfying smack, knuckles singing from the impact. His head snapped to the side with a grunt.

He froze for a moment, then slowly turned back to you.

His thumb wiped the blood blooming at his lip. He stared at it, then looked at you from under his lashes.

The smile he gave you wasn’t crooked anymore. It was sharp.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d hit me again,” he murmured.

You took a step back, pistol rising again.

But he moved forward.

One step. Then another.

No words. Just heat and purpose.

Until the barrel met the center of his chest. You could feel how still he went beneath it—unnaturally still.

“You gonna shoot me this time, sugar?” he asked, voice like velvet smoke. “Or just keep pretendin’ you don’t want me?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Try me,” you hissed.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“I already did,” he whispered. “In that barn. Twice.”

You shoved the barrel harder into his chest.

He didn’t flinch. He let the silence answer for him.

“I’ve been through your fire before, sugar. A couple of times, in fact. Nights you don’t wanna remember, but I sure do.” His voice dipped low. “Hell, I might’ve even lost count.”

You tightened your grip. “That all changed. Before, maybe I was a fool.”

Remmick’s eyes flickered. “You think that changed everything? Nah. It just made the game more interesting. You want to believe I’m the villain, but darlin’—you got shadows too.”

Your finger twitched. The sweat on your palm made the grip slippery. You didn’t know if it was fury or the bitter truth sliding down your spine like ice.

“I’m done,” you said. “Done with the nights I begged you to stop and the mornings I woke to silence.”

He stepped closer, voice low and cutting. “Funny. I thought you liked those nights—the way you fought, the way you gave in. You don’t wanna admit it, but part of you still craves that fire. Maybe that’s why you never pulled the trigger.”

You shook your head. “You don’t get to own me. Not now. Not ever.”

His grin twisted, darker. “Maybe not. But I’m still here. Still the shadow that follows you.”

Your laugh broke like a splinter, raw and tired. “Try me,” you repeated.

He cocked his head, almost admiring. “Been tryin’ all this time, sweetheart. And I ain’t done yet.”

You pressed the barrel harder.

Then suddenly—his hand snapped around your wrist. The gun clattered to the dirt.

Before you could react, he grabbed your arm and spun you, slamming your back into the bark of the oak. The impact jarred your spine, and the rough bark scraped through your dress like claws.

His weight pinned you, hot and heavy. The heat between your bodies was stifling, his breath grazing your neck.

“You think you’re in control?” he growled.

Your body fought his hold, but his grip was iron.

“You don’t get to decide,” he said low. “Not anymore.”

You pressed harder into the bark, as if it could anchor you. Your heartbeat thundered in your throat.

His hand slid down your arm—slow, possessive.

“Don’t pretend you don’t feel it,” he murmured, eyes burning into yours.

You shoved against him, wild and desperate. He didn’t move. Just watched you.

“See?” he whispered, thumb brushing your jaw. “You’re fightin’ me. But you ain’t fightin’ it. Not really.”

Your breath hitched. You shut your eyes, chasing any clarity in the chaos.

But when you opened them, he was still there. Still too close.

“Let me go,” you whispered.

“Why would I do that,” he murmured, “when I’ve finally got you where I want you?”

He leaned in, lips ghosting your ear.

“You came for me, darlin’. Deep down, you always knew you would.”

His hand slid down your jaw, tracing a searing path along your collarbone, his fingers brushing the damp silk of your dress. “You dress like this,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your skin, “for me. You wear these pretty clothes, you carry that gun, all to tease me, to drive me crazy. But you don’t get to play with fire and not expect to get burned.”

His hand moved lower, palm flat against your stomach, fingers splaying wide. You could feel the calluses on his hands, rough and real, a stark contrast to the smooth silk of your dress. His touch burned through the thin fabric, branding your skin. Your breath hitched as his hand grabbed onto the skirt of the dress, pulling the fabric tight against your abdomen.

“You want me to let you go?” he whispered, his voice a low growl. Or do you want me to show you just how deep this game goes?”

You refused to respond, to give him any satisfaction. But your body betrayed you, hips pressing forward slightly, seeking more of his touch. His smile widened, a victorious smirk that made you want to both slap him and kiss him.

His hand slid lower, fingers brushing against the wet lace of your underwear. You gasped, the sound ripped from your throat, raw and desperate. His touch was electric, igniting a fire that scorched through your veins. “You’re soaked,” he said, voice thick with desire. “And it’s not just from the heat.”

His fingers hooked into the lace, tugging it to the side. His fingers found your entrance, slipping inside with a slow deliberate thrust. “You’re tight,” he murmured, voice strained. “So tight and wet. You want this darlin’. Don’t deny it.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the moan that threatened to escape. His fingers moved inside you, stroking, teasing, driving you to the edge of madness. Your hips moved in time with his fingers thrusting into you, betraying your body’s desperate need.

His thumb found your clit, circling it with a pressure that made your vision swim. You were so close, so damn close. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing your skin and that was it. You came undone, your body shuddering against his, a cry torn from your throat.

He held you there, fingers deep inside you, thumb still circling your clit, as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. When you finally went still, and as your dress slowly fell back down to your legs, he pulled his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He sucked them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

“What do you say, darlin’?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “You gonna run from me again? Or are you finally ready to admit you’re mine?”

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your chest heaving against his as you tried to regain some semblance of control. But Remmick gave you no quarter, his body pressing into yours, his eyes burning with a hunger that matched the fire still licking at your nerves.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. “But not from fear. You want more, don’t you darlin’? You want me to fill you, to fuck you right here against this tree.”

His words were crude, filthy, but they sent a fresh wave of heat crashing over you. You tired to push him away, but your hands were shaking, your body betraying you at every turn. He caught your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, his grip iron and unyielding.

With his other hand, he hiked up the skirt of your dress again, the damp fabric whispering against your thighs. His fingers found your entrance again, teasing, tormentating, but not giving you what you craved.

“You’re so wet,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “So ready. But you’re gonna have to ask for it, sugar. You’re gonna have to beg.”

You shook your head, a desperate denial. But your body arched against his, seeking more of his heat. He chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Go on darlin’,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

His fingers slipped inside you, slow and deep, his thumb circling your clit. You moaned, the sound torn from your throat raw and desperate. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice a harsh command. “Say you want me.”

You hesitated, the words lodged in your throat like a bitter pill. But his fingers moved faster, his thumb pressing harder, and you found yourself chanting his name, a desperate litany that spilled from your lips like a secret prayer.

“Please Remmick,” you begged, your voice a ragged whisper. “Please, I need you. I need you to–”

“To what?” he cut you off, his voice low. “Tell me what you need.”

His fingers slipped from you, leaving you empty and aching. You cried out, a sound out of pure frustration, but he just smiled, a slow, cruel curve of his lips. “Tell me,” he repeated, his hand moving to the front of his pants. You watched, breath held, as he unbuttoned them, revealing the thick length of his cock, hard and straining.

“You want this, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “You want me to fill you, to stretch you, to fuck you until you don’t even know your damn name.”

His hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking slow and steady, his eyes never leaving yours. You could see the beads of moisture gathering at the tip, could see the way his breath hitched. And you knew, with a certainty that shook you to your core, that you wanted it. You wanted him.

“Yes, “ you whispered, the word torn from your throat. “Yes, I want it. I want you.”

Remmick’s smile widened, a victorious smirk that made your heart pound. He stepped closer, his body pressing into yours, his cock hot and hard against your thigh. You could feel the heat of him, the power, the sheer masculine strength that seemed to radiate from his every pore.

"You're mine, darlin'," he growled. "Mine to touch, mine to taste, mine to fuck. Say it." You hesitated, the words a chokehold around your throat. But his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin, and you found yourself nodding, a desperate, jerky movement.

"Yes," you whispered, the word a ragged admission. "Yes, I'm yours." Remmick's smile was slow and cruel, a triumphant curve of his lips that sent a shiver down your spine. He released your chin, his hand moving to your thigh, hitching your leg up around his hip.

You could feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, hot and insistent, a promise of what was to come. "You're so wet, darlin'," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "So ready for me. But this is gonna hurt, been long since i’ve been in this pussy. You understand?"

You nodded, a jerky, desperate movement. You knew what he meant. You knew the size of him, the power, the sheer masculinity that seemed to radiate from his every pore. But you also knew the pleasure, the sheer, mind-numbing ecstasy that came with taking him inside you. And you craved it. You craved him.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice a harsh command. "Tell me you understand." "Yes," you whispered, the word a ragged admission. "Yes, I understand." Remmick's smile was slow and cruel, a triumphant curve of his lips that sent a shiver down your spine.

He pressed forward, the head of his cock slipping inside you, stretching you, filling you. You gasped, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate. The pain was sharp, a white-hot burn that seemed to consume every nerve ending, every sense.

He paused there, his body tense, his eyes locked on yours. "You okay, darlin'?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "You want me to stop?" You shook your head, a desperate denial. The pain was there, sharp and insistent, but so was the pleasure.

The sheer, mind-numbing ecstasy of having him inside you, of feeling him stretch you, fill you, claim you as his own. And you craved it. You craved him. "Keep going," you whispered, the words a ragged plea. "Please, Remmick. Don't stop.”

He pressed forward, his cock sliding deeper, filling you, claiming you. The pain was still there, a sharp, insistent burn, but it was fading, replaced by a pleasure so intense it made your vision swim.

You moaned, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate. Your hips moved in time with his thrusts, your body betraying your every secret. He was so deep, so hard, so fucking perfect. You could feel every inch of him, could feel the way he stretched you, filled you, claimed you as his own.

"You feel so good, darlin'," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "So tight, so wet, so fucking perfect. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to take my cock, to be fucked by me." His words were crude, filthy, but they sent a fresh wave of heat crashing over you. You couldn't speak, couldn't think, could only feel. Feel the pleasure, the pain, the sheer, mind-numbing ecstasy of having him inside you.

His thrusts grew faster, harder, more insistent. Each one sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, each one drove you closer to the edge. You could feel it building, a tension that coiled tight in your belly, a pressure that grew with every thrust, every moan, every ragged breath.

"You're gonna come for me, darlin'," he growled, his voice a harsh command. "You're gonna come all over my cock, aren't you? You're gonna scream my name, beg me for more." His words were a trigger, a spark that ignited the fire that had been building inside you. You came with a cry, your body convulsing around him, your muscles clenching tight, milking him, demanding more.

Waves of pleasure crashed over you, each one more intense than the last, each one driving you deeper into the abyss. His thrusts grew harder, faster, more desperate. He was chasing his own release, his body tensing, his muscles coiling tight. And then, with a low growl, he came, his cock pulsing inside you, his body shaking with the force of his release.

He held you there, his body pressed tight against yours, his cock still buried deep inside you. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart pounding against your chest. And you knew, with a certainty that shook you to your core, that you were his. Completely and utterly his. And he was yours.

[nekoashiii]

your dragon sylus is my absolute favorite ever. I especially love the part where he scent marks the trees around the cottage ahh he’s so lovely. how do you think he would react if men show up at your door?

Pairing: dragon!sylus x reader

Notes: Eat dragon sylus lovers, I made more

Click here for my masterlist.

The bracelet must have slipped off your wrist sometime during the storm. You hadn’t even noticed—your fever had consumed every ounce of attention, and Sylus had refused to let you so much as take a step outside until your strength returned. Still, the moment you spotted your bare wrist, something tightened in your chest.

It had been a simple thing—woven with beads, feathers, and a tiny polished stone Sylus had gifted you after his first hunt for you. He never said much, but you knew what it meant to him. And to you, it was a promise of a good future.

You didn’t know it had been found.

Not until a low, rumbling growl echoed through the den like distant earthquake .

You stiffened. You were seated beside the fire, wrapped in Sylus’s massive fur pelts, reading a weathered book he’d found at some long-lost ruins. When the growl came again—closer, sharper—you stood slowly, your hand reaching toward the cave wall for support

“Sylus?” you called, voice soft but uncertain.

No answer. Just the scrape of claws against stone.

Then, you heard something unexpected—a voice. A human voice.

“Hello? I… I mean no harm. I found this near the river trail and—”

The knight’s voice was young, unsure. His words were muffled by the heavy ferns and trees that lined the forest’s border. He hadn’t dared come too close, yet. But he was close enough.

Far too close for anyone’s comfort.

Sylus’s presence surged like a storm. The air grew heavier, warmer, dangerous. You turned just in time to see him descending from the higher ledge of the den, red eyes glowing like dying embers, wings twitching with restrained fury.

“Sylus—wait,” you breathed, already stepping toward him.

But it was too late.

The trees outside screamed with the sound of splitting bark and flapping wings. Sylus vanished in a blink, launching into the air with such force that dirt kicked up in his wake. You could still smell his scent—smoke, cedarwood, and something ancient—burning through the forest.

⸻

Outside, at the forest edge,

The knight hadn’t even stepped over the first marker—the one tree carved with deep claw marks and a dark, tar-like resin oozing from the wounds. It reeked of beast territory, of death.

But the knight was naive. Young. Perhaps new to his patrol. Maybe he thought it was just a bear’s territory. Or a wolf pack.

He realized the mistake only when the sky darkened, and a massive, scaled body dropped from the canopy above with a deafening thud.

Sylus landed before him, wings fanned wide, eyes narrowed into glowing slits. His horns curved like twin blades, and his chest rumbled with low, bone-chilling sound. Smoke slipped from his mouth and nose—not fire, yet, but a warning.

The knight stumbled back, dropping the bracelet onto the mossy ground. “I-I wasn’t trespassing! I swear! I just—there was a bracelet—someone might’ve—!”

Sylus didn’t answer. He took one slow, heavy step forward, tail dragging deep grooves in the earth. The scent he had laced these woods with his claim, his warning hung in the air.

You were his. This place was his. And no one came near either without consequence.

The young knight flinched when Sylus leaned down, nostrils flaring as he took in the scent. Not of the knight—but of the bracelet. Of you.

His claws twitched.

The dragon in him knew. It belonged to his mate. And this human—however innocent—was holding it.

Sylus let out a hiss, hot and sharp, and the trees around him seemed to wilt from the smoke

The knight had enough sense to drop to one knee. “I swear, I meant no harm. I thought it might belong to someone who… who lives nearby.”

Sylus’s eyes bore into him like burning coals. He could have incinerated him. Ripped him apart. But instead, he plucked the bracelet from the earth with deadly care, wrapping it in one scaled palm before turning sharply.

He left no parting words, only a sound that sounded almost like a growl of warning and a flick of his tail to the tree barks that knocked leaves from trees.

The knight didn’t linger.

Back at the den, You felt him return before you saw him. The heat rose, the wind shifted, and then he was there, ducking through the cave’s entrance, wings folding in as he loomed into the firelight.

“Sylus…” you whispered.

He didn’t speak. He only walked to you, slowly, deliberately, as if making sure you were okay. Then he knelt before you, massive form coiled tight to make himself smaller, less beast and more man.

In his hand was your bracelet—cleaned, warmed by his fire, glinting in the glow.

Your heart squeezed as your mood turned upside down with joy. “You got it back!”

He pressed it into your palm, then leaned forward until his forehead touched yours. His voice came low, gravel-rough.

“Tell if you lose something. Anything. Ever.”

You blinked, startled by the possessiveness in his tone.

“The man—he didn’t mean harm.”

“I don’t care,” he growled, quiet and firm. “He smelled like you. He stood near what is mine.”

Your cheeks flushed, but your hand slid into his without fear.

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

A pause. “No.” Then, a beat later— “…This time.”

You smiled, slipping the bracelet back onto your wrist. “Thank you.”

His eyes softened just a touch. Then he pulled you into his chest, wrapping wings around you like a comfortable blanket. His claws flexed protectively along your back.

You were safe here, With him

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

71 / 2.1k / part 4 of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

nsfw; dubcon, group sex, predator/prey dynamics, degradation, manhandling, sex while on substances. also monsterfucking and sex pollen if you squint.

...

You're not stupid. You know fur won't save you. Their hunt is sweeter for prey that changes skin.

You'll pay for this. And they intend to make you pay in more than just blood--they want your fear, your pleasure, your vulnerability. Everything you've refused them until now.

You run until you reach the ancient chapel in the middle of the woods. Right as you reach the empty space where the front doors used to be, enormous paws slam into your back. The henbane's power ebbs. Your palm bleeds where glass shards remain embedded. The cracked stone steps, laced with overgrown brambles, press cold on your naked skin. Gaz's paws dig into your back as they shift into clawed fingers. You hear Soap's approach, too--the way he shifts halfway from crow to human as he lands behind you. The half-beast shape sharpens the look of starvation and lust in his bright eyes.

Gaz's claws dig into your shoulders as he flips you onto your back. You writhe as Soap's hands close around your legs and pull you between him and Gaz. Your body is human, but adrenaline and henbane trap your mind partway between animal instinct and human nerves. Your body is hot and your cunt swells and glistens as their rough hands grip you, squeeze you, drag you away from the entrance of the holy sanctuary, and spread you open over the forest floor. The chapel's crumbling walls loom over you, moonlight slicing through broken stained glass to paint your naked skin in fractured colors. You were so close.

Soap's claws carve crescent moons into your hips. "Think you're clever, aye?" His hand wraps around your throat and presses his thumb to your frantic pulse. "Playin' games with us."

Gaz pins your wrists above your head, his catlike pupils blown wide. Henbane still clouds his movements. He watches Soap spread your thighs. "She's dripping for it. Nothing better than a chase to make rabbits want to fuck."

Soap licks a stripe up your thigh and chuckles against your skin. "Knew you wanted to be caught. Should've stayed a rabbit. Och, but this is better," he groans against your skin, cock already pressing against your leg. "Fightin' us even when you're fucked raw on poison. Perfect."

The henbane twists everything--their snarls into hymns, the pain of being chased and held down into a perverse sacrament. With Gaz holding your wrists above your head and Soap holding your thighs apart, you're completely exposed. Your heartbeat makes your skin warm, makes it flush, and you know they can see how wet it makes you. Both sets of eyes are glued to your cunt.

You buck uselessly as your human pride compels you to fight. Then rabbit-like instincts compel you to lay still. Your throat is ragged from the chase.

Soap laughs. He splays his hand over your lower belly, pins you there, and leans mouthwateringly close to your cunt. From above your head, Gaz leans over you upside-down and drags a messy, open-mouthed kiss up your sternum. "Poor creature."

"Should've known she'd like this. Witch with a martyr complex. Gets off on being punished."

"Could've let the villagers take you," Gaz croons. "Would've paid good coin to watch 'em try to torture our witch. Bet you'd rut against their stakes just to feel something."

You feel Soap's breathy chuckle against your core and jerk. He holds you fast. "Could've just tied her spreadeagle to the old tree, aye? Let the whole village watch us fuck her. Ghost can have first go."

"Now that's just cruel."

Their cruel words braid into praise in your henbane-fogged mind. Soap licks a hot stripe through your folds, and your back arches against your will. He chuckles again, breath fogging your wetness. "Think she'll come on my tongue before Price gets here? Five silver coins says she screams."

Gaz's free hand pulls your head back to expose your throat. "Ten says she bites like a hare."

You writhe, but Gaz's grip is iron. Soap's mouth seals over your clit and sucks hard enough to blur your vision. Your thighs tremble. The pleasure is a serrated knife sawing through your weak resistance.

"Fuckin' starved," Soap growls against your cunt. His fingers spread you wider to lap harder at your clenching hole.

They move in tandem. Soap's tongue fucks into you, long and relentless, while Gaz’s hand angles your face toward himself. Gaz laps at your mouth and the beads of sweat saturating your skin to take his fill. As Soap's claws dig into your hips, your body betrays you over and over--arching into their mouths, cunt and throat clenching around nothing. You writhe, but Soap pins you harder and harder with each lathe, grinding you against the moss until your thighs shake. The henbane amplifies every sensation--the drag of his tongue, the scrape of Gaz's stubble against your neck, the damp earth beneath you. Every rough touch ignites nerve endings you didn't know you had. Your vision blurs at the edges. Rabbit instincts scream for you to submit even as your hips lift greedily for more.

Gaz releases your hair to palm your breast. "Slow down, Soap. Price'll skin us if we don't leave some fresh."

Soap's obscene groans vibrate through your core. He pulls back, lips glistening. "Better get here faster if he wants some, then. Him and Ghost both."

You moan at the loss of contact. Your hips chase his mouth, and his self-restraint snaps.

"Nah, fuck 'em." He flips you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up, and pushes a finger inside you eagerly. Anything to get you wetter. "Let 'em hunt for themselves."

You're so high and dizzy, cheek pressed to the broken stone below, that it takes you a few seconds to notice when Gaz runs his hands up your arms, over your shoulders, and cups your jaw in his hands.

"Beg," he says softly. "Beg your servants to fuck you."

You whine as he lifts your front half up to kiss you. He practically cradles you in his arms--protective, but completely unyielding--and slips his tongue into your mouth to devour all he can.

You squirm and gasp around his tongue. The command surprises you enough that your humanity--your pride as a witch--surface over the instinct to submit. You sink your canines down on his invading tongue.

Gaz pulls back with a hiss. His eyes narrow and his pupils slit.

Soap laughs. "That's ten to you, then. Rabbits do bite, don't they?"

Gaz ignores him. His grip tightens around your jaw. He takes your mouth in another searing kiss that lasts until your lungs burn and you taste his blood in the back of your throat. He holds you captive there and enjoys the way Soap's finger-fucking forces your desperate moans into his mouth. Then he pulls back.

"Good rabbits," he growls, "know when to play dead."

Gaz's hand fists in your hair and yanks your head back. It forces a deeper arch into your back just as Soap slips a second finger into your cunt. You clench around the inclusion. God, it feels to good. You've been so careful, looked over your shoulder, smudged sage into every dark corner. So much tension, protecting yourself the way you need to, and nowhere to channel it. Even lying awake at night in your house, gritting your teeth and thumbing tight circles around your own clit, the release wasn't enough. Wasn't even practical. The animal in you never left; it only slept.

Soap's fingers curl inside you, calluses scraping your walls. He chuckles. "Greedy."

Gaz chuckles, too, at the sounds you're making. "Chatty."

Your back arches further as Soap adds a third finger. He stretches you ruthlessly. Gaz's other hand drifts down to circle your clit, fingers pressing hard enough to make your thighs twitch and shake.

"Look at her," Soap rasps. "Fightin' for more. Fuckin' made for this."

Ghost's howl rolls through the trees. A warped distortion of an owl's screech calls back in response.

"Price is coming," Gaz says.

Soap withdraws his fingers with a lewd schlick. He drags you upright and presses his chest against your back. "Better get our fill first, then."

Gaz spreads your legs wide. "Hold her open."

Soap grips your thighs as Gaz lines himself up. His cock drags through your slick--teasing at first, and then slow and rough with sudden hunger. You can't remember how to form words. Just as well--if you spoke, you'd only beg him to take you. So much for pride.

Then Price's shadow falls across all three of you. He descends from the trees as something resembling a screech owl--but larger, older, something that blurs your vision at the eddges with instinctive fear. But by the time he lands atop the leaf litter, his talons have already morphed into boots, and his enormous wingspan is gone.

"Having fun, boys?" Price's voice is venomously calm. "While I track our wayward witch through three miles of cursed thicket?"

Soap doesn't lift his eyes from his new view down your body. "Just securing the kill, Cap'n. Didn't you hear our signal?"

A lie. "Move."

Soap sighs and wipes his glistening chin. "That's five more coin."

He pulls away, but before he can withdraw--if he intended to at all, still eying you with hunger--Ghost is there. He grabs Soap by the neck and hurls him away as easily as a sack of cats. Soap skids across the moss, leaving furrows in the earth.

Ghost doesn't pause to see him react. He pins your hips down with a hand the size of your face. Gaz watches from above you with careful eyes as Ghost's claws divot your skin as he leans down. Gaz glances at Price, but wisely does not stand in the way.

Soap straightens up casually. "She's high as fuck on henbane, LT. Go easy."

The divots under Ghost's claws deepen. "No."

He replaces Soap's mouth with his own. The difference is immediate. Brutal. Where Soap languished, Ghost devours. His tongue spears into you, thick and unrelenting, fucking and scooping into your cunt with the same merciless rhythm a wolf would use to feed. You choke on a sob, heels digging into the loam.

Price's hand fists in Ghost's hair and yanks his head back. "Enough. She's not some tavern whore to be ruined before the main event."

Ghost licks your slick from his lips, gaze burning into yours. "Could be."

"Later." Price steps over you, boot between your splayed thighs. "Up. Now."

They haul you upright. Your legs buckle. Gaz catches you and bands his arm around your waist. You try to stand, leaning into him, but you're struggling to remember how. The sudden movement blurs your vision and your body aches from the chase and from the torment of pleasure still thrumming through your muscles.

The threshold of the church--holy ground--looms so close, still. Then, to your shock, Price crosses over that threshold. Right into the old hallowed church.

Your breath hitches. "How--?"

The chapel gives an echoing groan. "Sacrilege," Price mutters. He glances up at the half-collapsed rafters. "Good."

He turns, backlit by moonlight pouring through the broken windows. His shadow stretches long and strange across the altar. "You really thought a pile of crumbling stones could keep us out?" He taps the tattoo on his inner forearm--your mark, seared into his flesh the night you bound them. "We go where you go, darling. Even into God's own house."

Gaz's hand slides up your ribs and plucks at your nipple. "You're ours down to the marrow, love. Nowhere holy enough to change that. But we admire the effort. Running, hiding, getting us good and hungry." His too-sharp teeth graze the shell of your ear.

He pulls your head sideways to expose the scarred sigil behind your own ear. The one you branded there the night you summoned them.

Price unbuttons his coat. "You bound us. Fed us. Let our filth seep into your bones." His belt buckle clinks open. "Now you'll take your communion. Ghost," he commands. "The altar. Bind her."

Ghost pulls you out of Gaz's arms. Your fuzzy, drug-addled brain struggles to keep pace. Then the cold bite of iron shackles snaps shut around your wrists, chaining you to the marble surface of the altar. Ancient restraints meant for darker rites.

Soap whistles low. "Harsh even for you, LT."

Ghost stands. "Witch needs to learn her place isn't in the dirt." His boot nudges your spread thighs wider. "It's on her back."

...

← part 3 / [part 4] / part 5 ➡

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[starmaidengarden]

hi!! i was wondering if i could request just a very sweet moment of just being close to one another and kissing them with rook and kalim? you can also add whoever u want if u would like! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

—Rook : Kalim : Jamil : Malleus : Ace x gn!reader. no cw/tw. dividers: uzmacchiato.

note: sorry this took so long!! (T_T)

Rook Hunt ༉⋆｡˚

Rook doesn’t just love you—he adores you, in the way one might admire a breathtaking sunset or a perfectly composed poem. You’re both sitting beneath a tree at the edge of a flower-filled courtyard, the golden hour sunbathing you in a soft, warm glow. He’s been quiet for a moment, his gloved fingers brushing over the back of your hand, his eyes half-lidded with a gentle smile playing on his lips. “Mon trésor... you’re radiant in this light,” he whispers, his voice full of awe. You laugh softly, brushing a petal from his shoulder—and he watches you as if he’s trying to memorize your every move. You don’t even realize you’re leaning in until your foreheads are touching. He closes the gap with a kiss, slow and tender, his hand rising to cup your cheek with almost reverent care. It’s sweet, and light, but full of emotion—like he’s telling you just how deeply he feels with nothing but a kiss.

Kalim Al-Asim ༉⋆｡˚

The two of you are on the rooftop of Scarabia, wrapped in a blanket, staring up at the stars. Kalim is warm—physically and emotionally—and his laughter still lingers in the air from the joke you told moments ago. He’s not shy about affection, but this is different: quieter, softer. He leans his head against yours and sighs dreamily. “This is perfect, isn’t it?” he murmurs, turning to look at you with those bright, earnest eyes. You nod, and when you look back at him, he's already close—so close. He smiles again, less energetic this time and more adoring, and leans in to kiss you. It’s not hurried or giddy like usual—it’s gentle, slow, a moment where his joy softens into something deep and genuine. He hums against your lips, his hand squeezing yours, holding onto the moment like it’s precious.

Jamil Viper ༉⋆｡˚

It’s quiet in the Scarabia lounge, the lights dim, and the world outside feels miles away. Jamil isn’t one to initiate contact too often, but right now, he’s relaxed—so much so that your head is resting on his shoulder and his arm is around you. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and calm, under your hand. He doesn’t say much. But when you look up at him, there’s a softness in his eyes that he rarely shows others. His fingers brush through your hair before resting gently at your jaw, guiding you to face him. He kisses you slowly, purposefully, like you’re the only thing that exists in his world right now. There’s no rush, no performance—just a simple, tender press of lips that says I trust you. And when he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, he whispers, “Stay here… just like this, a little longer.”

Malleus Draconia ༉⋆｡˚

Malleus is used to silence, but the quiet with you is different—it’s peaceful. You’re walking together in the moonlit gardens of Diasomnia, hand in hand. Fireflies flicker around you like falling stars, and his expression softens every time he glances your way. You pause near a blooming flowerbed, and he turns to face you fully, one gloved hand resting gently at your waist. “The night is beautiful,” he murmurs, “but it pales in comparison to you.” His words make your cheeks heat up, and Malleus smiles softly. Carefully, like he’s handling something fragile, he leans in and kisses you. It’s full of ancient affection and discovery, slow and full of quiet emotion. The kind of kiss that makes time seem to slow down. He lingers close afterward, gazing into your eyes like he’s seeing eternity in them.

Ace Trappola ༉⋆｡˚

You’re sitting side by side on his bed, your legs brushing. The TV plays something forgotten in the background, but neither of you is paying attention anymore. Ace keeps glancing your way, lips twitching like he’s got something to say but can’t find the words. Finally, he nudges your knee with his. "You always do that thing with your nose when you're trying not to smile. It's stupid cute." You snort and smack his arm lightly. His laughter dies down as he leans closer, just barely touching foreheads. “You’re real cute when you get flustered too, y'know…” His voice is quieter now, almost sheepish. And when he kisses you, it’s surprisingly gentle—no teasing, just soft pressure and warmth. He lingers for a moment, then pulls back just enough to smile that rare, genuine smile of his. "...You make my heart do all kinds of dumb stuff," he mutters, face a little red.

[honeybeegashii]

Feral Devotion

⋆˚꩜｡Note: My first time posting something like this. But this fandom needs more Yautja x reader content. Please bear with me as I improve more in the future

Summary: Used as bait for the Elder Hunters. Instead of the intended hunters, you caught a different hunter interest. Despite not understanding each other, the warrior became fiercely protective.

You don’t remember being taken.

Not exactly.

Just the after.

Heat like breathing inside a furnace. Metal walls and no windows. A hiss of hydraulics and something moving just out of sight. Bigger than anything on Earth. The air here tastes wrong. Heavy. Wet with ozone and blood.

Your wrists still ache from the way they strung you up, bait on a hook for something ancient and cruel. Tech-slick cuffs, research collars, chemical fog burned into your skin. You were never meant to survive. Just scream loud enough to lure something out of the trees.

Pheromones, they said. You’re appealing. Not because you’re beautiful—but because you’re biologically interesting. Like a scent that sets off alarms in a predator’s skull. You’re the kind of soft that makes instincts break down and violence feel holy.

But it wasn’t the elder hunters that found you.

It was him.

Didn’t expect the Young Blood who found you first. Young, yes. Raw, yes. But deadly. Already decorated in the blood of creatures older and meaner than he had any right surviving.

You remember the scream of something dying. Not yours.

You remember the drip of blood onto the metal floor, the snarl he made when he sliced you down from where you hung.

He didn’t kill you. He should’ve.

But instead, he touched your hair. Strange and clumsy. Just the very tips of his claws. He watched you the way humans watch lightning, awe and danger, like getting too close might kill him. And then, he took you.

Scooped you up in those terrifying arms like you were a prize. A trophy. A thing to be carried off and hidden in the dark corners of a starship.

You were unconscious most of the journey. The air too thin. The gravity too heavy. But sometimes you woke up long enough to see him, kneeling beside you like a shadow, fingers twitching near your face. Like he wanted to touch. Like he didn’t know how.

He doesn’t speak your language. But you feel what he means when he looks at you.

He wraps you in fabric stripped from his own gear. Tucks you into the warm belly of the ship like you’re an egg he means to hatch. He growls at the others who come too close, real warriors, Blooded ones. They snarl back, laughing, until he nearly kills one of them. Over you.

They think he’s gone feral. You think maybe he has too.

He shouldn’t have touched you. Should’ve left you strung up like a carcass. Should’ve let the others take the kill.

But he didn’t. He claimed you.

And now you live in the eye of a hurricane made of muscle and blood and devotion that doesn’t make any sense. Now you sleep on the pelt of some slain beast in the belly of his quarters, under the eye of a warrior who’s too young to know better and too wild to care.

You were bait. Meant to be hunted.

But he got to you first.

And gods help you—he won’t let you go.

Next Part

[coffeeanddonutscafe]

Astarion’s Hidden Strength — Headcanons part 2

The Switch is Sudden — And Terrifying

One moment, he’s lounging against a tree, half-laughing at Gale’s latest ramble. The next — a twig snaps nearby. His spine straightens. His head tilts unnaturally sharp. And his eyes? Red. Alert. Starving. No transition. Just predator.

The Shift Is Physical. Violent.

His elvish grace no longer looks delicate. It looks lethal. Tav once described it as, “Watching a silk ribbon tighten around someone’s throat.”

His Teeth Click When He’s Agitated

Like a predator baring warning. A little click, jaw twitching. You’ll hear it in the quiet moments before a fight. Tav once heard it and simply muttered, “Oh, he’s gone feral again.”

He Smells Fear

Literally. His nostrils flare. His mouth parts slightly. He can scent it like perfume. Tav once saw him smile — wide, teeth too long — just as a cultist backed away trembling. “Oh yes… you’re ripe.”

Then he steps forward, slow and graceful, and whispers:

“Run.”

After all, the chase is half the pleasure.

He Growls Without Meaning To

Not just in battle. When someone touches Tav without permission. When someone speaks of Cazador. It slips out low in his chest, a growl deep and ancient, not meant for words. Everyone hears it. No one comments.

His Hands Are Always Cold

Not icy. Not corpse-cold. Just… unsettling. Like marble left in shadow. When he touches your wrist, it’s like the blood in your veins pauses for just a second. He likes the contrast — your warmth against his chill.

He Stalks Even in Combat

While others charge, Astarion prowls. Circling. Waiting for the moment a neck is exposed or an enemy is distracted. And then—he pounces. Not a fighter, but a hunter. It’s never messy. It’s swift. He doesn’t brawl — he strikes, like a serpent through lace.

He Watches Like a Beast Studies Prey

He doesn’t just look at you — he studies you. The jugular. The pulse under your jaw. The way your chest rises when you panic. Gale once caught that look and quietly moved behind Lae’zel.

His Smile Is Not Always Human

Sometimes it stretches too wide. Sometimes he smiles with too many teeth.

And when he tilts his head — when he’s deciding whether to toy with you or tear you open — it’s pure predator, wearing lace and lies.

Eyes Like Knives in the Dark

They gleam when he’s fighting. When his blood is up.

When the world slips into slow-motion for him, those red eyes cut through fog and illusion — tracking prey with the patience of something who’s stalked forests longer than you’ve been alive.

They don’t blink. Not when he’s hunting.

When He’s Hungry, His Voice Drops

That usual flirty sarcasm? Gone. Instead, there’s this deep, low thing to his voice — velvet, but tight like it’s being forced through clenched teeth. Astarion doesn’t snap when hungry — he becomes still. Watching. Breathing slow. Every sense on edge. It unsettles even the bravest of the party.

He’s Stronger When He’s Angry

Not many people get to see it, but when he’s truly furious — not playacting, not sarcastic — something ancient floods up from his blood. His voice drops. His muscles tense. He doesn’t roar — he hisses, low and guttural, and the very air feels like it wants to step back.

He Doesn’t Break a Sweat — He Breaks Necks

Literally. No drama, no battle cry. Just movement: quick, quiet, final. There’s a predatory efficiency to it when he stops pretending to be “the pretty one” and shows what vampiric instincts can do.

He Has No Fatigue Like Mortals Do

It takes hours, days even, before he slows. While others sleep or rest, he stays unnaturally still — and when it’s time to move, he’s instantly alert.

It unnerves the others sometimes, especially Karlach, who once joked, “I swear you just power-nap with your eyes open like some kind of murder statue.”

Sometimes He Forgets to Breathe

Hours can pass. Astarion will sit motionless, unreadable, utterly still — not even blinking.

Only when someone speaks too close does he return to himself — with a blink and a hiss, like a cat waking mid-hunt.

……………………………………..

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.

Alright, so here are my Astarion headcanons, everyone! I know he’s technically a spawn, but I love leaning into his full vampiric self.

What really gets me is the contrast between his angelic elven beauty and that feral, beastly vampire side.

It’s like—rawr—my adorable little murder baby has claws and everything. 💖

Here’s a part 1 btw.

Masterlist with my Astarion fics

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 .

# with roronoa zoro.

when one labored feelings for another, there were a few ways to proceed. to zoro, coaxing you into an aphrodisiac mist was not the worst of ideas.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day twelve. smut (mdni!). aphrodisiacs. corruption kink. edging. virginity!loss. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2.4k.

he could not quite pinpoint the exact moment in which the trees began to mingle, a mortar of wood, frail vines and leaves that gave him no indication of where he was headed whatsoever. deserted, forest-like islands were not as common in the new world as they were on the grand line, so one for sure could expect the appearance of, at least, ancient beasts and odd plants. venture by oneself was far from the wisest decision, yet it hadn’t been one zoro thought much about beforehand. the perv-cook offered — rather insisted — to be your escort, professing love-coated compliments and promising to be your ever-so-diligent knight. zoro turned on his back and strived towards the first direction he faced right thereafter, lacking the self-restraint not to snap then and there.

that had been twelve hours prior.

according to the witch, the log-pose would take three days to settle their next route. without a closer deadline, zoro doubted they would waste time searching for him — not when that land offered fruits and herbs for re-stocking, as well as served as a hunting ground for their captain. he could handle himself well-enough for the time being, a half-burnt rabbit fed him just as much as those fancy meals the cook prepared and his swords could slice an opponent within the second. he grew quite used to a lonesome state of life, yet the crew undid that decade-crafted tendency, and those wandering hours without company had him quite melancholic.

zoro itched for you, and failed to contain the tendon of jealousy that wrapped itself around his heart. where were you; why haven’t you searched for him? perhaps the cook had you far more entertained than anticipated. the thought had him slicing the large trunk of a tree in four pieces, sheathing wado with a harshness uncommon to the usual treatment he spared to his swords. yet again, not his brightest idea, for he, too, seemed to have sliced an odd plant.

zoro’s nostrils were filled with spores, burning his throat and bringing tears to his eyes. he cursed, trembling fingers wrapped around the wild pulse of his wrist. his flesh grew scalding, sweat trailing down the muscles of his back. he half-expected to crumble, to have his throat constrict and cease the path of air to his lungs. poison. it must have been. he would soon be dead, punished for his own recklessness. his thoughts traveled to you, regretting the fact that he had not confessed. yet, his breathing remained — wild, ragged, there still. and the image of you ensued in greater heat, a pit of molten fire that threatened to ignite every organ; consume every particle of air. his cock was throbbing, aching, and zoro clutched own heart in agony, desperation feeding off his every thought.

the weather was tropical. it had forced you to leave the ship wearing nothing but a bikini-top and pants. zoro grunted at the reminder of those breasts, all but partially covered, frail fabric that he could snap with the simplest touch. he lost himself in his thoughts, tearing the waistband of his pants. spores embraced his aching member, and it was as though he had dipped himself into a sea of lava. zoro fisted himself, although the touch neither soothed nor brought comfort. instead, he fell to his knees, chasing a release that did not find him.

“zoro!” you shouted through the mist. “was that you, cutting through the tree?”

the sound of your voice had him shouting, pleasure coursing through his veins. haze of spores clouding his sights had him struggling to catch on the lines of your figure, lingering outside that clouded nightmare. he yearned for you — had been yearning for as long as memories could tell. yet, whenever he dared muse the prospect of confessing, courage failed him, and he was forced to retreat to his usual corner; to watch as the cook swirled around you.

that urge of pleasure brought by the plant, could it be shared? perhaps if zoro lured you into it, you, too, would burn — for it; for him. he was not the brightest tool in the shed, mind more often than not too slow to wrap itself around certain concepts. if zoro was to call you in, submit you to those spores, no one — perhaps the curly, but he did not care whatsoever — would dare blame him. he’d state he hadn’t noticed; hadn’t known; and in the aftermath of what he planned on doing to you inside that fog, if those feelings were not reciprocal, the pair of you would merely pretend. put the blame on the spores. it was a plan of no honor, but lust clouded his better judgment. the desire for your touch, which would present itself as the cure for the self-inflicted disease; the illness he planned on sharing with you.

“zoro?” you tried again, your voice strained.

he called out your name, straight into the lion’s den. his eyes grew more focused at your approach, ears perking up. you started to cough in sheer shock, yet zoro was conscient of the fact that it was but temporary. once your throat grew used to the burning, the spores would settle and you’d be conditioned to want him — perhaps as much as he wanted you.

“i’m here,” he coarsed, hiding his cock from your sight.

zoro beckoned you in, containing the grunt at your approaching figure. you were such a loyal, preoccupied crewmate, ignoring the warning signs for the sake of his protection. tear-pooled eyes met his wide ones as you caught on the state of him — kneeling, trembling. sweat glued the fabric of his shirt to his chest, and he marveled at the realization of your lust. hardened nipples, hands gripping the fabric of your pants. he could see you trembling, struggling to keep yourself together as you drowned in the sight of his sweat-covered figure. your mouth watered; your fingers fidgeted.

“come,” he told you, his voice coated with a sensuality unusual to him. “need your help.”

a faux plea. an encouragement to have you fall into his well-placed trap. when you grew closer, enough to witness the loose state of his pants, he allowed you to have a glimpse of his cock — tip red and leaking; shaft tortured around his bruising grip. he smirked, feeling it twitch as he shifted and offered you the entire view.

zoro called out your name, and you jumped as though a terrified deer caught in the woods. “yes?”

his self control slipped within the second, yet zoro would not dream to push himself past the boundaries of your consent.

“touch,” he rasped out, grunting as his thumb teased his tip.

you leaned forward, as though intoxicated; eyes dazed, chapped lips coated with your saliva. “it’s so big, zoro. i don’t—”

he threw himself at you, pinning you to the ground. his breathing pattern was ragged, and droplets of his saliva fell from his parted lips to your face. the second his hands wrapped around your wrists, zoro was moaning at the contact, the shared heat enough to cover his vision with black spots.

“shit,” he cursed, rutting his hips forward. you mewled, biting your lip, seeming embarrassed at the sound.

“zoro,” you moaned, squirming under his touch. “i won’t know what to do.”

he stopped, observing you as though you were a free-course meal. zoro licked his lips, daring to drag his nose into your chest, drunk in your scent. he wrapped his teeth around the strap of your bikini, glancing at you through his eyelashes, refusing to relieve the pressure around your wrists. “how so?”

your frustration surfaced; your hips rolling against his own. zoro’s pre-cum stained the fabric of your pants, and you bit down your lower lip, avoiding his gaze. “i’ve never had sex,” you admitted, pressing your cheek against the grass. “it won’t help you.”

his brain short-circuited. zoro trembled, threatening to come undone. the act of luring him to that haze of spores gave him the claim to your innocence, for he would be the one to maculate that inch of your body. he teased the waistband of your pants, drooling at the realization that you had no idea on how to behave whatsoever. the movement of your hips was erratic, inexperienced. your nails scratched against the back of his hands. your legs trembled; fought a losing battle against the weight of his own.

“you’re a virgin,” zoro breathed out in ecstasy, dragging his tongue down your stomach, never once daring to break eye-contact.

“i’m sorry,” you cried, voice broken due to both lust and despair. “i just want this to feel good to you. please, zoro, touch.”

he clicked his tongue, using both hands to lift your bikini top. the plant spores teased your nipples, and the broken sound that escaped past your tortured lips had him twitching. zoro’s tongue swirled around a pert bub, fingers pinching the other one as he used his other hand to force your pants down. he had no time for foreplay whatsoever, much too desperate due to the effects of the plant.

“it will be,” he promised, excited to ruin you.

his eyes glued at the pale-rose, lacy underwear of your panties. when he teased the strap, snapping it against your hip, you moaned. zoro’s own voice betrayed his desire when he tore the fabric and opened your folds with his fingers, exposing your cunt to the effects of the aphrodisiac. you were soaked wet; clit swollen; hole clenching around nothing. your essence dripped down on the grass; coated his nails. zoro refused to believe that had been all from the effect of the spores. you were so sensitive; so easy to arouse. he smirked, reveling in the sight of your disheveled state, forced into the aphrodisiac fog.

“can’t handle it,” he grunted, teasing your entrance with his tip. you teared up with a whimper, and zoro hissed as his cock stretched you out, walls swallowing him whole. “need to move.”

“please,” you begged, squirming. the burning sensation at the pit of his stomach all but exploded, and zoro started to pounce into you, thrusts fast-paced and rough. he slid with abnormal easiness, his tip numb due to the spores.

you struggled under his weight, and zoro snapped his hips as a response, gripping both your wrists with a single hand. his index reached your clit, rough digit drawing hectic, desperate circles. zoro constricted your movements and latched his lips around your breast, ignoring your sounds. he failed to see past the haze of pleasure, ignoring your sounds and squirming. you were but a ragdoll at his mercy, victimized by the restless pace of his thrusts.

“zoro!” you shouted, coughing thereafter for you had inhaled a considerable amount of spores in the process.

he bottomed out without warning, biting your nipple harshly. you followed-in-suit, yet he continued, the orgasm useless to satisfy his hunger. your cum mingled with his own, soaking his still-hardened cock as he persisted, ruthless and rough, his wrist growing numb due to the prolonged movement required to tease your clit. he felt you struggle, back arching and head moving to the sides. the instance thereafter, your hips moved in a failed attempt to match the pace of his thrusts — his chaste, inexperienced crewmate sheepishly baring fangs after the first orgasm.

zoro retreated his head off your breast with a pop, brushing his nose against your chin before biting on your lower lip. the aphrodisiac cloud began to lose its density, and he breathed it in; mouth slack as if to collect most of it before its disappearance.

“open it,” he demanded, collecting saliva during the process needed for your consent. the second the external world cleared, zoro spat on your mouth, forcing you to swallow the remaining spores that lingered on his tongue.

he pumped the previous round of his load inside before busting yet another one unannounced, glaring to where your bodies connected, enamored with the sight of his white-stained tip shoving itself in-and-out. zoro removed his finger from your clit, shoving it inside your mouth.

“cum,” he demanded, fucking his essence deeper, sensitive tip prodding at your walls.

without the aphrodisiacs numbing his flesh, zoro doubted he’d last longer — yet he refused to leave you hanging. your tongue stilled around his finger; a reminder that you had much to learn still. he teased your g-spot, his digit muffling the moan of your high, and zoro bit back a broken whimper when your essence drowned his tip.

zoro lowered his head to regain his breathing, attempting to swallow down the embarrassment at what he had done. the absence of spores, too, had him aware of your compromising position, and he released the grip on your wrists with a clear of his throat, fixing the top of your bikini.

“zoro?” you whispered, placing your hand above his own. “did it feel good?”

he dared face you, reading the lines of both bliss and hesitation in your expression. zoro smiled ever-so-slightly, unable to contain his adoration. “felt amazing.”

you cleared your throat, averting your glance as your fingers toyed with his. zoro was still sheathed inside, fearing the moment he’d need to retreat. he was lost in thought, struggling to find the proper words to convey his feelings. would you fancy an “i love you”? would it be too soon?

“can we do that more often?” you broke the silence, staring at him. “with a kiss next time?”

has he not kissed you yet? zoro softly guided your chin, pressing his lips against yours with a soft, victorious sigh. “can do it as many times as you want.”

you smiled, whimpering the second he removed his soft cock. perhaps a bit of recklessness could sometimes be rewarded.

— 🐈‍⬛ : a bit late today but time is a concept i’m sure it’s the twelfth day somewhere still!

[slashersiren]

Hi hi!!! I was wondering if I can throw in my request? I made sure to not go aginst you're rules but if there was some rules I dident see then ignore this then and im sorry. I was hoping to reqest a reverse harem?

In this request, 3 elder Yautja males are mated for life with (Y/N) who is a human. One day, while they are walking through the forest to hunt, their human lover stops and freezes. They know humans are prey even on their world, so seeing their partner acting like very alarms them.

So, (Y/N) sees something, like a face pattern or maybe the uncanny valley since we have evolved to see that. How will our 3 elder boys act when (Y/N) suddenly stops, freezes and sees somthing they can't (Even if it is nearly impossible).

Sorry if this is a long request, ignore if it is to big. (Y/N) is female though, you can turn them male if you want to, I don't mind. Stay safe irl :)

Hi,

I actually liked this idea a lot, I hope you’ll like the story I made out of it as well!

Here you go, take care and stay safe🫶🏻

Three Elder Yautjas x Female reader

Unseen Danger

The forest was alive with the quiet hum of nature. Birds chirped distantly, the wind whispered through ancient trees, and the earth beneath their feet felt alive and sacred. Three massive figures moved through the dense greenery with the grace and power of predators born to hunt. Their armor was scarred, their presence undeniable Elder Yautjas, each one marked by countless battles, their dreadlocks dusted with silver and streaked with dark blood.

Ka’rath the oldest, Br’kan the second and Xul the youngest.

Between them walked their most treasured prize, not a trophy won through blood, but through bond. Among all their victories, she was the one they guarded most fiercely, a human, fragile by comparison but fierce beyond measure. She carried herself like a queen, her senses sharper than any human had a right to be, honed by years living with these legendary hunters. Her heart beat steady in her chest, her eyes wide and alert. But then she stopped.

Suddenly, she froze mid-step, breath hitching in her throat. The three elders halted immediately, their bodies tightening like coiled springs, eyes flicking to her with an urgency that turned the air thick with tension.

“She is not moving.”

Rumbled Ka’rath, his helm scanning her vital signs.

“She is afraid,”

Growled Br’kan, already unslinging his blade from his back.

“Heart rate high. Adrenaline spike.”

Xul, the quietest of them, stepped closest. He reached out a large, clawed hand to her shoulder but paused just before touching her. His voice, low and gravel-deep, spoke in Yautja.

“You are safe. Speak.”

But she didn’t move.

Her eyes were locked forward — wide, unblinking. Unseen to the others, nestled in the brush of trees ahead, something looked back. It didn’t breathe. It didn’t move. But her primal instincts screamed. The pattern on the tree bark was too symmetrical. The shadows too perfect. The face wasn’t right.

“I see it..”

She whispered. Xul’s mandibles clicked open in immediate warning. “Where?”

“There,”

She said, and her voice was not her own. Distant.

“It’s… looking.”

Br’kan moved to stand in front of her, shielding her with his massive body. Ka’rath dropped into a crouch, aiming his shoulder-mounted cannon into the thicket.

“There is nothing,”

He growled, frustrated.

“She sees what we do not,”

Xul said darkly.

“It may not be for our eyes.”

She flinched. A shiver traced her spine. Then it was gone. Her body slumped forward. Br’kan caught her before she hit the ground. His grip was firm, grounding her. Her breath steadied, the fear draining from her limbs like venom from a bite. But something still lingered in her chest. Xul touched her cheek gently, claws soft against her flushed skin.

“You saw the Unseen.”

“I don’t know what I saw,”

She admitted, voice small.

“But it saw me too.”

Ka’rath growled and activated a full scan of the area.

“No sound. No movement. Nothing physical… We will not allow you to walk in danger.”

“We are hunters,”

Br’kan said fiercely.

“But she is ours and we are her’s. We will hunt anything that dares to threaten her. Even if it is not flesh.”

They circled her as they resumed the path weapons drawn, senses on edge. The forest suddenly felt colder, the light dimmer, but with the three elders standing beside her, the impossible fear began to crumble into fierce determination, and whatever lingered in the dark?

It knew she was protected.

[heliosunny]

My little sunny apple

Yandere!Caleb x Reader

I had one fic for Yandere!Xavier inspired by sleeping beauty. So why not Yandere!Caleb with Snow White. -There are details that are different from the game-

Growing up in a world devastated by the monstrous Wanderers, Caleb and you clung to each other like survivors in a storm. The orphaned boy you met at the shelter became more than a companion; he became your family. To you, Caleb was a brave, kind older brother, someone you could rely on. But for Caleb, you were so much more—his light.

When Caleb first arrived at the shelter, he was distant and bitter, carrying the weight of loss and distrust. At first, he resisted your attempts to befriend him, brushing off your kindness with scorn. But when he hit rock bottom—sick, starving, and too proud to ask for help—you were there, offering medicine and food, staying up through the nights to cool his fever. When the other children bullied him, you stood by his side, fighting battles that left bruises on your skin but pride in his heart.

It was your unwavering presence that sparked a change in Caleb. He vowed to be strong, to grow into someone who could protect instead of being protected. Despite the world’s chaos, the ancient apple tree in Linkon City—one of the last remnants of beauty—became your sanctuary. Under its shade, Caleb called you "Little Sunny Apple" a nickname that carried the hope and light you brought into his life.

But fate was cruel. During a catastrophic attack by the Wanderers, the shelter fell. The world you had built together shattered as the ground caved beneath your feet. Caleb was dragged from the rubble by strangers, unconscious and broken, while you were left behind, believing he had perished.

---

Caleb’s rescuers were not saviors, they were the Farspace Fleet, a militarized faction bent on survival at any cost. They took Caleb in, reshaped his broken body and fractured mind, and turned him into a weapon. His right hand, once warm and steady, was replaced with a high-tech prosthetic covered in synthetic skin. Under their harsh training, Caleb rose to power, becoming a feared colonel renowned for his ruthless efficiency. But despite his transformation, one thing remained unchanged: his obsession with finding you.

Years passed before Caleb discovered you were alive. The revelation filled him with a manic joy and a burning resolve to never lose you again. But Caleb was no longer the boy you had known. His love, once pure and selfless, had curdled into something darker. Like the wicked stepmother from a fairytale, he became consumed by his need to craft the perfect version of you—one who would never leave his side.

Through years of research into the Wanderers, Caleb had uncovered their secrets. Beneath Linkon City lay their cores, strange organic artifacts that, when harvested and refined, could create a serum granting extraordinary abilities: superhuman strength, longevity, and immunity to the Wanderers' powers. Yet the process was gruesome, requiring the deaths of countless Wanderers and innocent civilians caught in the crossfire.

From this research, Caleb created his masterpiece: a shimmering, otherworldly apple infused with the essence of dozens of Wanderer cores. He believed this "perfect apple" would make you immortal, tying you to him forever.

---

Unaware of Caleb’s transformation, you continued your dangerous work hunting Wanderers, finding solace in quiet moments at the ancient apple tree. It was there, on a rare day off, that you saw him. The man before you was a stranger, his features hardened by years of war, but his voice stopped you in your tracks.

"Do I know you?" you asked, skepticism in your tone.

"It’s me... Caleb," he replied, his voice trembling. "Your Caleb."

You were ready to dismiss him as an imposter until he uttered the nickname only one person could know: "Little Sunny Apple."

Tears blurred your vision as years of grief and longing crashed over you. You threw your arms around him, clinging to the boy you had thought you’d lost forever. The reunion was bittersweet—a balm for your broken heart, but beneath the surface, something felt off.

---

At first, Caleb’s gestures seemed loving. He brought you baskets of apples, listened intently to your stories, and promised to protect you from all harm. But his care soon became suffocating. He insisted you quit your job, claiming he could provide for you. When you tried to cook, he took over. When you wanted to explore his ship, he forbade it, urging you to stay in your quarters for your own safety.

One day, curiosity led you to a hidden lab aboard his ship. What you found left you breathless: the glowing apple, its unnatural light casting eerie shadows. Files revealed the truth of its creation—the slaughter of Wanderers, the sacrifices of innocents, all to craft a fruit meant to bind you to Caleb.

"You weren’t supposed to see that." Caleb’s voice cut through the silence.

Horrified, you turned to face him. "How could you? All those lives… for what?"

"For you" he said, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. "To keep you safe. To make sure no one—not the Wanderers, not anyone...could hurt you."

He held the apple out to you like a sacred offering. "Eat it. Please. It will make you stronger. You won’t need to risk your life anymore."

You backed away, shaking your head. "This isn’t love, Caleb. This is control."

---

Caleb’s obsession reached its breaking point when he locked you in his quarters, convinced you would eventually "see reason." Days turned into weeks as you planned your escape, aided by Kevin, Caleb’s adjutant. Kevin, unlike his commander, treated you with kindness and respect. His gentle demeanor and steadfast loyalty reminded you of the princes from forgotten tales—a quiet hero in a story overshadowed by darkness.

Caleb noticed. His jealousy burned like a wildfire, consuming what little restraint he had left. "You still see me as your brother" he snarled one night. "But I’ll show you. I’ll make you see me as more."

Your chance to escape came during a Wanderer attack on the fleet. As chaos erupted, you and Kevin made your way to the lab, determined to destroy the apple. But Caleb intercepted you, his powers—gained from the very serum he had created, rendering him nearly unstoppable.

"Don’t do this" he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you."

"You don’t understand, Caleb" you said, tears streaming down your face. "Love isn’t about control. It’s about freedom."

In the struggle that followed, you and Kevin managed to destroy the apple. But Caleb’s fury was swift and brutal. With a single shot, he ended Kevin’s life, his eyes wild with grief and rage.

"You chose him over me" Caleb said, his voice trembling with betrayal. "But it doesn’t matter. I’ll fix this. I’ll fix you."

Caleb’s control tightened after that day. He kept you close, his obsessive love morphing into a gilded cage. You became his "perfect apple" a treasure to be admired but never freed. Yet even in captivity, your spirit remained unbroken. You vowed to find a way to escape—to remind Caleb of the boy who had once valued your freedom as much as your life.

[rollofthed1ce]

What if Y/N cookie fell asleep in a place that can't easily be found and the ancients thought they ran away, will they come looking for their dear cookie?

I Soo wanna see their expressions! Ohhh! What faces will they make when they realized Y/N cookie was just asleep

🎭

Short answer: yes Long answer:

Lost and Found

“Nononononnononono…!”

Pure Vanilla yelled out, making a mess in the library. He had checked all the hiding spots you could hide in after you went missing. All he remembered was leaving you in his room for an important meeting.

After throwing a table to the side, he started to panic more and more. Trying to think of where you might have hid.

“Ok, they’re not in our room, library, bathroom, or any other spot in the castle. Maybe… no.”

He darted out the library, running down the halls as fast as he could. He hoped that maybe they didn’t come back. The thieves that tried to take you away from him.

“Please don’t let this be please don’t let this be please-“

Pure Vanilla came to a screeching halt as he turned around. There was a door. A door unfamiliar to him. It lay opened just a tiny bit. He stepped closer and opened the door.

Behind the door layed another bedroom. It held a bed with two nights stands, a few empty book shelves, and a desk. Pure Vanilla walk in. He looked around the room with confusion.

“There was… another guest room? When did…”

He paused. Looking at the bed he spotted someone sleeping in the bed. He stepped closer to see it who it was. When he did, he felt relief wash over him. 

There he found you, sleeping soundly in the bed. Pure Vanilla placed a hand on your head and gently stroked your head. A soft smile forming on his face

“You gave me such a scare, my love. Oh, but you look so cute when you asleep. Sleep well my dear. Sleep well…”

Three hours. That was the time where everyone had seen you last.

Hollyberry waited out in the garden. She walked around the plant beds and statues as she thought of what to do. Sweat began to run down her face as her mind spiraled out of control. She was worried.

She wasn’t worried that you were in danger. She knew you could take care of yourself. No. She was worried because of the fact no one had seen where you went. No guard on patrol had seen you go out of the palace. And the servants were too busy with the preparations for the next ball to notice you had gone missing.

“How is this possible? Where could they have gone? May they… perhaps…. What about….”

Hollyberry let out a groan of annoyance, she was tired. She got home after a long adventure and now she has to deal with this.

“Ok, perhaps I should call another hunting event. Perhaps some of them could find Y/n and take them back home… or I could get Pitaya to help find them. They couldn’t have gone far… right?”

Hollyberry continued to walk around. Her pattern soon got broken as her thoughts blinded her. She didn’t know she had started to walk down a path under the trees. She didn’t realize she had walked out far from her palace. She didn’t realize she had just discovered a massive lake. And on the lake she spotted… a gazebo?

She made her way down the path next to the lake. At the end she stumbled upon a massive gazebo. The railing shown some sign of old age, yet it still stands. 

“…this architecture. They look similar to ones you’d see back at my kingdom. And yet… they look as tho there from a different world.”

Hollyberry stepped into the gazebo. there lay a fire place with a table in-front as three couches surrounded it. She looked around see there was also a small kitchen area, hangers, and an entire shelves of juices. Seeing this, she let out a sigh of relief as she went to one of the bottles.

“Thank the witches, I needed one of these. Tho I wonder who- ah!” She jumped a foot off the ground as she saw you sleeping on one of the couch.

There was a silence for a long while before letting out a chuckle. Patting your head as she smirk.

“So this is where you run off to?” She chuckled to herself. Hollyberry smirk slowly faded away. She looked down at you, seeing you sleeping like this. Seeing how small you were compared to her. It made you look… adorable.

She thought for a moment before lifting your head up she can sit down and place your head on her lap. Patting it as she put the bottle of juice to the side.

“I guess the ball can wait a little while…”

The sun begins to set, the storm calms down, but the King still roams the halls of his citadel.

Dark Cacao has grown worried of your absence, you hadn’t returned from work and no one had seen where you had gone.

He knows you never left, but that only makes things worse. Where had you gone? 

He wondered and wondered and wondered until he felt his legs felt like jelly. He had lost track of time and yet it felt as tho time had halted. He didn’t know where you had gone to, but he might know why.

It had been so long since you had been outside. You wanted to go out for a walk, a long one, and he refused. Your need to go out had caused an argument, it felt similar to his fight with his son. But unlike him, you fought with words. After you stormed out and ran off. He was so full of anger he didn’t think of stopping you.

“…oh, how foolish I was. If I just….” He looked out, seeing the snow fall from the sky as he thought about his decision, “…maybe I should have let them go. They’ve been so restless even with the constant work… but if they did then…”

In the distance, he saw the faint light of a fire. It came from a tower. He thought it came from on of the watcher towers… until he looked to sees all the watchers at the wall.

“…WAIT A MI-“

Yeah I think you know where this is going

“WHERE ARE YOU Y/N!!!”

Golden Cheese roared, flying down the halls of her pyramid with high speed. She had searched every inch within her territory and out. Yet she couldn’t find you anywhere. It was only near the Tropical Soda Island was she notified that you had never actually left.

More and more she grew desperate, going faster and faster, so fast that that everything started to get blurry. She came to a screeching halt, almost crashing into a wall, she was tired and wanted to just go to her bed and cuddle. But with you gone, she was worried sick.

She let out a tired breath, walking all the way to the sarcophagus she uses when you escaped. 

“How could I have happen? How did I loose my most prized possession? Why must Y/N be so distance from me. haven’t I lost enough already? How much more must I…”

As she made her way to your sarcophagus, she spotted something. It was a hallway, one unfamiliar with Golden Cheese.

She made her way down the hall, spear in hand, and walked down the dimly lit hall. At the end of the tunnel she found an airlock. After that she found herself in a conservatory, one flourishing with many species of plants. From common roses to the rarest flower to ever be recorded. 

Golden Cheese looked on with awe as she explored the rest of the conservatory.

“So many plants, so many unfamiliar with this terrain. Who build this? Was it a Cheese Bird? Who would be able to build all of this?”

She walked around more and more, eventually stumbling upon a flour bed of orange lilies. And there in the middle lay a sleeping bag with someone inside. She walked closer to find you sleeping.

At first she dove straight to you with open arms, but stopped, flying up high before sitting next to you. She watch you sleep. Seeing you so comfortable, how to lilies matched your yellow-orange sleeping bag… how much she wanted to pull you into her arms and keep it like that as long as she lived.

She sat there for a long while, quietly getting up and walking off to explore the rest of the conservatory.

“…maybe it’s best I know more about this area… right?”

How did she lose you?

HOW did she, manage to lose sight of where YOU were??

She searched everywhere around the kingdom. She knows you’d never go anywhere else. The dangers that came from this island was too much for poor old you… right?

Hours upon hours of searching, she just gave up. Her eyes were dry and stained tears ran down her cheeks as she tried to catch her breath, she refused to believe that you were truly gone.

“N-No this… it c-can’t b-be tr-true… t-the-ey couldn’t have l-left. M-maybe t-they were w-w-waiting b-back home… r-right?”

White Lily walked down a path separated from the rest, this path led to her happy place. A place where she can calm down.

Soon she found herself in a field of white lilies, all surrounding the edge of a pond. She sat down near the pond. Letting the sound of nature flood her head as she lets out a deep breath. Closing her eyes as she slowly calms down.

After a while she opened her eyes again, watching as the fish swim about. how they swim so calmly as they swim under a sleeping you floating above the water. Seeing all the colors and patterns each scale forms on each fish has become a way of relaxation for her when she can’t be with you. But even so, sometimes it’s best to just sit down and enjoy the beauties of nature- wait what?

White Lily darts her head up, seeing you sleeping but also floating above the water.

“MY LITTLE BUTTERFLY!!!” White Lily screamed, jumping into the water and swimming towards you.

[d1stalker]

Embers of Connection [Logan Howlett]

Summary: You're not like him. In fact, you're not like any of them. Maybe that's why he doesn't trust you-- why he doesn't want to trust you. But, time and time again, you prove him wrong.

Warnings: none really. lowkey enemies to friends to lovers.... kind of slow burn. fem!reader/afab!reader - maybe some grammatical errors

WC: 6.3k - MASTERLIST

The mansion was quiet as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, casting long shadows across the lawn. Inside, the halls of the Xavier Institute were just beginning to stir, the students slowly waking to another day of training, learning, and discovery. But in a room far removed from the rest of the school, a figure sat alone, her eyes fixed on the window, lost in memories of a past long gone.

You were not a mutant, at least not in the way the students at the school understood the term. You came from a lineage so ancient, so steeped in myth and legend, that even the oldest books could not fully capture the truth of your people—a race of beings who walked the earth with the grace and power of dragons, feared and revered in equal measure.

But that was long ago, before the rise of mutants, before the world had changed. Your people had been hunted, exterminated by those who feared the strength you carried within your veins. You had been just a child when it happened, too young to understand why your world was being torn apart. One of them, moved by pity or perhaps some deeper sense of guilt, had spared your life, hiding you away until the danger had passed.

You had wandered for years, alone and afraid, never staying in one place for too long. You learned how to conceal your wings, hide your sharp nails, and conceal your powers. The world had changed, and you had no place in it, no home to return to. It was by chance that you crossed paths with Charles Xavier, a man of immense power and wisdom, who saw in you not just a relic of a forgotten time, but a soul in need of protection and understanding. He had taken you in, offered you a place in his school, not as a student but as something else—something he himself could not fully define.

And so you stayed, a silent observer in a world that was not yours, learning from the shadows, watching as the young mutants trained and grew, honing their powers under Charles’ guidance. You were an enigma to them, a being from another time, another world. Some were curious, others wary, but none dared to challenge you.

Until Logan arrived.

You sensed his presence before you saw him, a raw, untamed energy that crackled through the air like a storm on the horizon. The students whispered about him, their voices hushed with a mixture of awe and fear. The Wolverine, they called him—a man who had seen more battles than he could count, whose past was as blood-soaked as it was mysterious.

You were in the garden when he first laid eyes on you. He was alone, his expression dark and brooding as he walked across the grounds, clearly uncomfortable in this place of peace and learning. His gaze swept over the students, then landed on you, standing apart from the others, your wings folded close to your back, your scales glinting in the morning light.

His eyes narrowed, and you could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the suspicion that curled like a shadow behind those intense, feral eyes. He approached, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You’re not a mutant,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

You met his gaze, unflinching. “No, I’m not.”

“Then what are you?” There was no warmth in his tone, only a cold curiosity.

“A survivor,” you replied steadily, though your heart beat faster at the memory of what you had survived. “My people were hunted to extinction long before you were born.”

Logan’s expression hardened, and he took a step closer, his stance challenging.

“So why are you here? What do you want?”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with the same intensity he gave you. “I could ask you the same thing. But I’m here because Charles offered me a place, a sanctuary. He’s curious about what I am… and he believes I need protection.”

“Protection from what?” Logan’s tone was edged with skepticism, as if he didn’t believe you were a threat to anything or anyone.

“From the world,” you answered simply. “And perhaps… from myself.”

He scoffed, the sound harsh and dismissive. “You don’t know what it’s like, being a mutant. You’re just hiding here, playing along, pretending to understand.”

You bristled at his words, your wings twitching with the urge to unfurl, to show him just how much power you held within you. But you held back, staying calm.

“And you don’t know what it’s like to be the last of your kind, to watch everything you’ve ever known be destroyed. We all have our battles. Just because mine are different doesn’t mean they’re any less real.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to find the lie in your words. But there was none to be found, and that seemed to unsettle him more than anything.

“Just stay out of my way,” he growled, turning sharply and walking away without waiting for a response.

You watched him go, a mixture of anger and sadness swirling in your chest. You had known the moment you met him that Logan would be a challenge, a force of nature that would not be easily swayed or understood. But you hadn’t expected the sting of his words, the way they cut deep into the wounds you had thought long healed.

Over the next few months, you and Logan avoided each other as much as possible. He made it clear he didn’t trust you, and you made it equally clear you didn’t care for his attitude. The students quickly picked up on the tension between you, giving you both a wide berth whenever you were in the same room.

But Charles Xavier, ever the strategist, saw something neither of you did—a potential for growth, for understanding, if only you were forced to confront each other. So, when a mission came up that required both your skills, he sent you out together, despite your protests.

The mission was simple in theory—retrieve an artifact from a group of rogue mutants who had stolen it. But from the moment you and Logan set foot in the field, it was clear that working together was not going to be easy.

Logan, used to working alone, resisted your attempts to coordinate, charging ahead without a plan and nearly jeopardizing the mission in the process. You, trained in patience and strategy, found his reckless approach infuriating, and the two of you clashed at every turn.

The mission was ultimately successful, but it came at a cost—your mutual respect for each other (well, whatever had existed of it to begin with). The animosity between you only deepened, cementing your status as strangers within the walls of the school.

---

Enveloped in the forest's ancient embrace, you walked among towering trees that stood like silent sentinels. Their gnarled branches wove together, forming a dense canopy that swallowed most of the light. Cool, damp air hung heavy with the earthy scent of moss and decaying leaves. Each step sank into the soft, spongy ground, the stillness occasionally interrupted by the rustle of leaves or the distant call of a bird.

You moved with purpose, your eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. Logan walked a few paces behind you, his expression as unreadable as ever. Charles had sent the two of you on this mission with little more than a vague explanation, and the tension between you had only grown as you ventured deeper into the wilderness.

“You sure this is the right way?” Logan’s voice broke the silence, gruff and tinged with impatience.

You didn’t bother turning to face him. “I’m sure.”

He let out a low grunt, clearly not satisfied with your answer. “I still don’t get why Xavier sent me with you. Seems like you could’ve handled this on your own.”

You bit back a retort, knowing that engaging in another argument wouldn’t get you anywhere. “Maybe he thought you could learn something.”

“Learn what?” Logan scoffed. “How to wander aimlessly in the middle of nowhere?”

You stopped abruptly, spinning around to face him. “You’re here because Charles thinks you need to understand what I’m dealing with. This isn’t just another mission, Logan. It’s personal.”

His gaze hardened, but there was a flicker of something else—something softer—beneath the surface. “And what exactly are you dealing with?”

You hesitated, unsure how much you wanted to reveal. The memories of your past were painful, buried deep for a reason. But you knew that if you were going to work together, he needed to know.

“There’s an ancient temple hidden in this forest,” you began, “It’s said to hold a clue—something that could lead me to the mutants who destroyed my people. I’ve been searching for answers for years, and this is the closest I’ve ever come.”

“And you think finding this clue will give you what you need?”

You nodded, the weight of your words pressing down on you. “I have to believe that it will. My people were wiped out—hunted down and killed because of what we were. I’m the last of my kind, and I need to know why.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze locked on yours. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep and hoarse, almost hesitant. “I know what it’s like to lose everything. To have your whole world ripped away from you. But revenge… it doesn’t bring peace.”

“This isn’t about revenge,” you said firmly, though part of you knew it wasn’t entirely true. “It’s about closure. About understanding.”

Logan didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes told you he understood more than he was letting on. He turned away, resuming his trek through the forest, and you followed, the tension between you easing slightly.

The journey was long and arduous, the dense undergrowth making progress slow. The further you went, the darker the forest became, the ancient trees blocking out the sun entirely. It was as if the forest itself was warning you to turn back, but you pressed on, driven by the need to find the temple.

Finally, after what felt like hours, you reached a clearing. In the center stood the temple, its stone walls covered in vines and moss, its entrance a dark, gaping maw that seemed to swallow all light. The air around it was thick with an ominous energy, as if the very ground was infused with the memories of the past.

“This is it,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Logan.

He nodded, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the temple. “You sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

With that, you stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the temple. The air inside was cool and damp, the stone walls slick with moisture. The only light came from the narrow beams of sunlight that managed to filter through cracks in the ceiling, casting long shadows across the floor.

The deeper you went, the more the oppressive feeling grew. You could feel it in your bones, a sense of foreboding that made your skin crawl. But you didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, even as the darkness closed in around you.

Finally, you reached the heart of the temple. In the center of the chamber stood an ancient altar, covered in strange markings that seemed to pulse with a faint, eerie aura. But what caught your attention was the object lying on the altar—a small, intricately carved stone, glowing with a soft, ethereal light. You found yourself moving towards it subconsciously, almost in a trance.

Logan hung back, his senses on high alert. “Be careful. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”

You nodded, reaching out to take the stone. The moment your fingers touched it, a surge of energy shot through you, and you gasped, the memories flooding back in a rush.

You saw your people, the Draconic, living in harmony with nature, their wings glinting in the sunlight, their scales shimmering like jewels. But then came them, their faces twisted with fear and hatred, their powers unleashed in a torrent of destruction. You saw the fires, heard the screams, felt the pain of loss as your world crumbled around you.

And you saw them—the creatures who led the charge, who ordered the slaughter. Their faces were burned into your memory, and now, thanks to the stone, you had the knowledge you needed to track them down.

But your moment of revelation was short-lived. As you turned to show Logan the stone, you noticed something else—a series of dark shapes lying dormant against the walls of the chamber. Your breath caught in your throat as you realized what they were.

Dozens, hundreds of them, the ones responsible. Their bodies encased in some sort of stasis, their forms twisted and unnatural. These were the ones who had destroyed your people, the ones who had brought death and destruction to your world. And now they were here, waiting.

“We need to leave. Now,” you whispered urgently, your heart pounding in your chest.

Logan’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the sleeping mutants. “Agreed. Let’s get out of here before they wake up.”

You moved quickly, retracing your steps toward the entrance. But as you passed one of the mutants, Logan accidentally brushed against it, his claws scraping against the stone. The sound echoed through the chamber, and you froze, your heart skipping a beat.

The creatures began to stir, their eyes snapping open, glowing with an unnatural light. Groans and snarls filled the air as the creatures awoke. Panic surged through you, the sight of the mutants awakening bringing up old, buried fears. You didn’t need to be told twice. You bolted for the entrance, Logan close behind, but the mutants were faster, their rage propelling them forward.

“Go!” Logan urged, grabbing your arm as the enemies began to move toward you.

But, in a effort to delay their advances, you had an idea. A surge of primal instinct took over, and you felt a transformation deep within you. Your eyes flashed, glowing with a fierce, emerald shade as they narrowed into slitted dragon-like orbs.

With a deep breath, you summoned the power of your ancestors. Flames erupted from your mouth, a torrent of blazing fire that swept across the chamber. The first wave of predators got caught in the flames, their forms writhing in the intense heat. The ancient stone walls glowed with the reflected light, casting long, flickering shadows. Now was your only opportunity for escape.

You unfurled your wings, the leathery membranes catching the air as you leaped into flight, grabbing Logan’s arm and dragging him with you. The temple walls blurred past as you flew through the corridors, the remaining mutants hot on your trail.

“Hang on!” you shouted, your voice barely audible over the rush of wind.

Logan didn’t respond, his focus entirely on the creatures chasing you. They were relentless, their fury palpable as they closed in, their powers crackling in the air around them. Logan clung to you, feeling a mix of awe and frustration. The cool wind whipped around but inside, he felt the sting of helplessness. He had always prided himself on his physical prowess, his ability to fight, to survive. Yet here he was, carried like a child by someone he had barely trusted.

Whatever these predators were, they were fast in their pursuit. However, you were faster. You burst out of the temple and into the open air, your wings propelling you forward with all the strength you could muster. They followed, but they were no match for your speed.

You swooped low, diving into the dense forest below, weaving through the trees with precision. Logan felt his his claws digging into your scales, but you barely noticed, your focus entirely on evading the threat. Watching the forest shrink beneath him, he felt a deep sense of inadequacy. He had been the one to get them into this mess, and now, instead of being the hero or the savior, he was reduced to a mere passenger. The raw power you displayed was breathtaking, but it also highlighted just how little he had known about you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you lost them. You landed in a small clearing, breathing heavily, your wings trembling from the exertion. Logan released his grip, dropping to the ground beside you, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. 

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of what had just happened settling over you. The danger had passed, but the tension remained, a lingering reminder of how close you had come to disaster. 

Logan was the first to break the silence. “You saved my ass back there.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “You would’ve done the same.”

He nodded, his gaze meeting yours. “Maybe. But I didn’t know you could do all that. The wings, the speed… the power. You’re a hell of a lot stronger than I thought.”

You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “I’m just trying to survive.”

“You’re more than that,” he said quietly. “You’re a fighter. And I… I respect that.”

The tension between you shifted, the animosity that had defined your relationship beginning to melt away. You saw Logan in a new light, not just as a stubborn, solitary warrior, but as someone who understood pain and loss, someone who had his own demons to face. And as he stared at you, he caught a glimpse of the fierce determination that drove you. In that look, he saw not just a fellow X-Men but a formidable warrior with her own battles and her own story. He understood now that you were more than he had given you credit for.

“Thanks,” you said softly, “For helping me. For trusting me.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “We’re a team now, right? So let’s do this together.”

And in that moment, something shifted between you. It wasn’t quite friendship, but it was a start—an understanding, a shared sense of purpose. You smiled. 

---

A few days later you and Logan find yourselves on the balcony of the mansion, taking in the peaceful surroundings. Logan leans against the wooden railing, his eyes lost in the horizon.

“Never really get used to these quiet times, do you?” Logan mutters, taking a drag from his cigar.

You sit beside him, your posture relaxed but alert. “It’s a stark change from the chaos, that’s for sure. But I guess we need these moments to recharge.”

Logan exhales a plume of smoke, glancing over at you. “Recharge, huh? I guess you really did a number back there. Flying us out, unleashing fire… It made me rethink a lot of things.”

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “Oh? What are you thinking now?”

He shifts, his expression thoughtful. “I thought you were just another oddity at the school. But seeing you in action… You’ve got a lot more going on than I realized. There’s a strength there I didn’t see before.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. “Thanks. It means a lot to hear that from you.”

Logan shrugs, a faint grin on his face. “I guess we both have our surprises.”

You laugh lightly. “Seems like it. I’ve seen a different side of you too. You’re not just the gruff loner I thought you were.”

Logan’s eyes soften. “Yeah, well, I suppose I’ve got my own stuff to work through. You’re not the only one with a past.”

“You’re right,” you say, your tone gentle. “We all carry our burdens.”

A comfortable silence settles over the two of you, the evening’s calm settling in. Logan reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, crumpled piece of paper. He unfolds it carefully, revealing a sketch of the ancient temple you explored. It captures the essence of the place—its grandeur and hidden menace.

“I drew this after our mission,” Logan says, offering it to you. “Thought you might like it.”

You accept the sketch, your fingers tracing the lines. “It’s really good. Thank you. No one’s ever taken the time to understand the significance of these places to me before.”

Logan chuckles, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I guess we’re not so different after all. We’ve both got our own battles”

“Yeah. And we’re fighting them together now.”

Logan’s grin widens slightly. “Let’s try not to make a habit of almost getting killed, though.”

---

Realizing the potential he saw in you and Logan wasn’t a hoax, Charles assigned you to more missions together, hoping to strengthen the bond between you and harness your combined skills. Each mission brought its own challenges, but the respect and understanding you had developed for one another made you an unstoppable duo. 

There was a palpable shift in the air during these joint ventures. Logan’s gruff exterior softened around you, and his trust in your abilities grew. You, in turn, found yourself relying on his raw strength and experience more than you ever expected. The missions, though often intense, became a testament to your growing synergy.

One day, however, Charles decided to send Logan on a mission without you. The decision came with good intentions—Logan needed to work independently to regain his confidence and show that he could handle situations on his own. He was sent to investigate a lead on a dangerous group of mutants that had surfaced. It should’ve been routine. In and out, minimal resistance, standard extraction. But nothing about your life ever goes according to plan, and this time is no exception.

The distress call came through late at night, jarring you awake from a restless sleep. The voice on the other end was strained, panicked. Logan’s voice. You had never heard him like that before.

“They got me,” he had said, the roughness in his voice edged with something you hadn’t heard from him before—fear. “Don’t know who they are, but they’re… strong. Can’t fight ’em off.”

The line went dead before you could respond, leaving you wide-eyed and breathless in the darkness.

Now, standing on the deck of a small boat cutting through choppy waters, you replay those words in your mind, over and over. The coordinates he managed to send you led to a remote island, far off any known maps—a place of whispers and legends, rumored to be inhabited by creatures of immense power and terrifying abilities. Mutants, yes, but something else too. Something different.

Cyclops-like mutants. You remember the stories from the older X-Men, of a time when creatures with a single, glowing eye roamed the earth. You had been too busy mourning the loss of your people to be aware of what else was going on around the world. They had been driven to extinction, or so everyone thought. But it seems that, just like the ones who destroyed your kind, they had simply been lying in wait.

You glance at the island now coming into view, its rocky cliffs rising sharply from the water, shrouded in mist. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you sense the power emanating from the place, the dark, ancient energy that pulses like a heartbeat beneath the surface.

There’s no turning back. You tighten your grip on the wheel, the wind whipping through your hair as you steer the boat toward a small, concealed cove. It’s time to see just how far your powers can take you.

You drop anchor in the shallows, the boat rocking gently as you strip down to your tactical suit. The fabric clings to your body, designed to be lightweight and flexible, perfect for what you’re about to do. With a deep breath, you dive into the water, feeling the cool embrace of the ocean as you slip beneath the surface.

As soon as you’re fully submerged, the change begins. Your skin hardens, taking on a faint shimmer as it transforms into scales. Your fingers and toes elongate, webbing forming between them, allowing you to cut through the water with incredible speed. Your vision sharpens, the murky depths of the ocean becoming clear as day.

You swim toward the island, your movements silent and fluid, a predator in your own right. The water is your domain, and you move through it with ease, your body perfectly adapted to the environment. You can feel the power coursing through your veins, the ancient, draconic energy that makes you who you are. It’s exhilarating, but you keep it in check, focusing on the task at hand.

The cove is narrow, hidden by jagged rocks that would tear apart any normal vessel. But you slip through them effortlessly, the scales of your skin providing protection against the sharp edges. You surface silently, peering over the edge of the rocks to get a better look at the island’s interior.

It’s as eerie as you imagined, a landscape of twisted trees and dark shadows, the air thick with the scent of decay. And there, in the center of it all, is a massive stone fortress, old and crumbling, yet still formidable. It’s clear that the cyclops mutants have made this place their home, and it’s equally clear that Logan is being held inside.

Your heart clenches at the thought of him, trapped and possibly tortured, and you have to force yourself to remain calm. Logan is tough—one of the toughest people you know—but even he has his limits. You have to reach him before those limits are tested too far.

With a final deep breath, you haul yourself out of the water, your body instantly adapting to the new environment. Your skin returns to its normal state, the webbing between your fingers and toes retracting as you prepare to move on land. You move quickly, keeping to the shadows as you approach the fortress. 

The entrance is heavily guarded, as you expected. Two massive cyclops mutants stand watch, their single glowing eyes scanning the area with unnerving precision. You study them for a moment, assessing their strengths and weaknesses. They’re strong, undoubtedly, but you have the advantage of surprise and agility. You crouch low, waiting for the right moment. When one of the guards shifts slightly, turning his attention away from the entrance for just a second, you make your move. In a blur of motion, you spring forward, your claws extending as you strike. The first guard doesn’t even have time to react before your claws rip through his throat, silencing him instantly.

The second guard is more alert, swinging a massive fist toward you, but you’re already moving, ducking beneath his arm and driving your claws into his chest. His eye widens in shock before the light fades, and he collapses to the ground with a heavy thud.

You don’t waste any time, slipping inside the fortress before anyone else can notice. The interior is as dark and foreboding as the exterior, with narrow, twisting corridors that seem to go on forever. You move silently, your senses on high alert as you navigate the labyrinth of stone and shadow.

You find Logan in the deepest part of the fortress, chained to a wall in a small, dimly lit cell. He looks battered but not broken, his eyes narrowing in defiance as he glares at the door, ready to fight anyone who comes through it. But when he sees you, his expression softens, a mixture of relief and concern flickering in his gaze.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles.

“Would’ve been here sooner if you hadn’t let yourself get caught,” you retort, already working on the chains that bind him.

He snorts. “Didn’t exactly have a choice. These bastards are stronger than they look.”

You nod, your expression serious as you focus on freeing him. “I know. But we’ll figure a way out. Together.”

Logan’s chains fall to the ground with a heavy clatter, and he flexes his wrists, testing his strength. “Together? Sounds good to me.”

You help him to his feet, steadying him as he takes a moment to regain his balance. He’s clearly been through hell, but he’s still standing, still fighting. It’s one of the things you’ve always admired about him, even when you couldn’t stand his attitude.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he mutters, his voice low and dangerous.

You nod, but before you can move, a deep rumbling sound fills the air, the walls vibrating with the force of it. The ground beneath your feet trembles, and you realize with a sinking feeling that the cyclops mutants know you’re here.

“Time to go,” you say urgently, grabbing Logan’s arm and pulling him toward the exit.

The two of you move quickly, navigating the twisting corridors with practiced ease. But it’s not long before the mutants catch up to you, their heavy footsteps echoing through the fortress as they close in. You can hear their growls, low and menacing, and you know you’re in for a fight.

Logan doesn’t need any encouragement. He’s already on the prowl, his claws extended as he charges toward the nearest mutant. The two of you fight side by side, a lethal combination of strength and raw power. Logan’s claws tear through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency, while you use your claws and wings to strike with precision and speed.

But the cyclops mutants are relentless, their sheer size and strength making them formidable opponents. For every one you take down, two more seem to take their place. The battle is intense, the air filled with the sound of clashing steel and guttural roars.

In the midst of the chaos, one of the mutants lands a heavy blow to Logan’s side, sending him crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. Your heart lurches as you see him go down, and something inside you snaps. A fierce, draconic roar escapes your lips as your wings unfurl, their scales gleaming in the dim light. Your body shifts, your scales hardening as your claws grow longer and sharper. 

You launch yourself at the mutants with a ferocity you’ve never felt before, your claws tearing through their defenses like paper. Your wings whip through the air, knocking them off balance, while your scales protect you from their attacks. It’s a dance of death, a whirlwind of power and accuracy that leaves the mutants reeling.

From his place on the ground, Logan watches as you take down the last of the cyclops mutants, your body glowing with the aftereffects of your transformation. You stand amidst the carnage, your chest heaving with exertion, but there’s a fire in your eyes that hasn’t been there before—a fire that burns with a fierce determination to protect the man you care about.

“Damn,” Logan mutters as he pushes himself to his feet, wincing slightly. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

You can’t help but smile, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “What if you already are on my bad side?” you tease, though there’s no real bite to your words.

He chuckles, the sound low and rough. “Fair enough.”

With the mutants defeated, you and Logan make your way back through the fortress, the oppressive atmosphere beginning to lift with each step you take. As you reach the outer wall, you glance up at the sky, the mist beginning to clear as dawn approaches. You can see the small boat you came in anchored in the cove, waiting to take you both to safety. Logan follows your gaze, then looks back at you, his expression unreadable.

“Ready to get out of here?” you ask, your voice low as you take a step closer to him.

He nods, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “More than ready.”

Without another word, you extend your wings, the powerful muscles flexing as they unfurl to their full span. Logan watches you with admiration and something else, something deeper that he’s not ready to voice just yet. You wrap your arms around his waist, and with a powerful beat of your wings, you lift off the ground, carrying him into the air.

The flight back to the cove is short, but it’s enough time for you to feel the tension in Logan’s body start to ease as the wind rushes past. You land gracefully on the deck of the boat, setting Logan down gently before retracting your wings. He lingers for a moment, his hands still on your shoulders, as if reluctant to let go.

“Thanks for the save… Again” he murmurs.

“Anytime,” you reply, your heart skipping a beat at the closeness between you. You pull away slightly, not wanting to dwell on the feeling too much, and move to untie the boat from the anchor.

Logan takes a seat on the bench, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. You’re aware of his gaze as you work, but you try to focus on the task at hand. The sooner you get back to the school, the sooner you can both recover from this ordeal.

The boat cuts through the water smoothly, and the silence between you is comfortable, the need for words unnecessary. Logan leans back, closing his eyes as he lets the sun warm his face. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, taking in the lines of his face, the slight smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

You’re almost back at the mainland when Logan finally breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, his voice deep and filled with thought, “I’ve been through a lot in my life. Seen a lot, done a lot. But I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

Your hands still on the wheel, and you turn to face him fully, your heart beating a little faster.

“What do you mean?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You’re strong, tougher than anyone I’ve ever known. But it’s more than that. You… you don’t give up on people, even when they don’t deserve it. Even when they’re as messed up as me.”

“Logan,” you start, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“Let me finish,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re always there, always fighting, and I… I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for that. For everything you’ve done, not just today, but since the day we met.”

You’re at a loss for words, the sincerity in his voice taking you by surprise. Logan isn’t the type to open up easily, to admit to needing anyone. But here he is, doing just that, and it makes your chest tighten with emotion.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you finally manage to say, “I did what anyone else would’ve done.”

He gives you a look, one that says he doesn’t believe that for a second. “No, you didn’t. You did what you do best. You fought for me. And I think… I think it’s time I stop fighting against this.”

“Against what?” you ask, though you have a feeling you already know.

Logan takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he’s about to say. “Against what I feel for you. Against this… connection between us. I’ve been pushing it away, trying to ignore it, but I can’t do that anymore.”

Your breath catches in your throat as his words sink in. You’ve felt it too, the pull between you and Logan, the way your hearts seem to beat in sync when you’re together. But you never thought he felt the same way, never dared to hope that he could see you as more than just a teammate.

“Logan, I…” You struggle to find the right words, the ones that will convey everything you’re feeling.

“I feel it too. I have for a long time. Since the temple. But I was scared. Scared that it would ruin what we have, that it would make things complicated.”

“Things are already complicated,” he says with a wry smile, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

You nod, your heart swelling with a mixture of hope and apprehension. The boat slowly comes to a stop upon the reaching the shore, but you don’t make a move to get out. “So… what do we do now?”

Logan reaches out, taking your hand in his, the roughness of his skin a comforting contrast to the softness of the moment. “We see where this goes. And if it gets too complicated, we deal with it together. Like we always do.”

Logan’s eyes search yours, his gaze tender and filled with unspoken promise. Slowly, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, hesitant kiss. It’s a gentle touch, a careful exploration of the emotions that have been building between you.

You respond with equal tenderness, your hand still in his as the kiss deepens. The kiss is more than just a physical act; it’s a melding of hearts, a silent declaration of the feelings you’ve both been holding back.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathless, a shared smile lighting up your faces, and for the first time in a long time, the future seems less daunting.

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

A/N: Thanks for reading! I've been lurking for so long and have finally decided to start writing again. I think I gotta write smut or something after this - it was sooo dramatic and for what LOL.

[holybibly]

this is such a weird scenario ..but imagine a little red riding hood concept, the big bad wolf being san, and him tricking innocent reader into "playing" with him and just fucking her dumb in the woods !!

God baby, I love the Little Red Riding Hood concept. I'm such a slut for it, to be honest. I'm a little obsessed with dark, twisted gothic fairy tales.

You should have heeded the warnings before you wandered alone through the woods on a full moon night. Or where you're meeting a big, handsome and very mean wolf from whose clutches you won't easily escape and maybe that's exactly what you want.

Warning: Dub-con, Werewolf! San

The night air was unpleasantly cold against your bare skin, ripping you from the sweet embrace of Morpheus. You reluctantly shivered and slowly opened your eyes, only to be greeted by the dense darkness of the forest. The sudden lack of sunlight jolted you from your half-sleep state, sending an unpleasant shiver down your spine and your heart pounding loudly in your chest as the forest around you continued to sing the song of the night. 

You shouldn't be out here, especially at such a late hour. You hurriedly gathered your belongings and cursed yourself for letting the beautiful meadow of flowers enchant you and for letting your guard down. You had been warned that ancient magic lived in these woods and that you should be very careful when you walked along the path through them, but of course you hadn't listened, and now you regretted it. You had always assumed that all these warnings had been given because of your gender. Most of the people in your small town were still stuck in the Dark Ages, thinking that a girl couldn't go through the forest alone. You wanted to prove them wrong. 

Another cold gust blew across the clearing, and you wrapped yourself tighter in your heavy cape. The velvet fabric was expensive and luxurious, a rich scarlet that earned you your nickname, Little Red Riding Hood. 

You were sure that you were going to be all right. You were smart and savvy, and you had a hunting knife with you. You'd think that would be more than enough to handle anything that might be lurking in these woods and get you back to your grandmother's house unharmed. At least that is what you thought. 

A long, blood-curdling howl echoed across the clearing, freezing you in place and halting your frantic gathering. Dear Lord...

Your eyes automatically rise to the night sky, only to find your worst fears confirmed: Through the dry, tangled branches of the trees, the brilliant face of the full moon illuminates the earth with its diffuse silvery glow. The words of your grandmother, which she had been repeating to you ever since you were a child, came to your mind at once: "Beware of the moon, whose face is full and merry, my child, for this is the time when its children have their feast. And their hunger is insatiable and greedy'. Another howl pierced your heart, a reminder of the situation you were now in. 

Wishing that you had listened to the warnings, you ran, clutching your beautiful wicker basket tightly with your hands as your scarlet cape evolved behind your back. You weren't sure of the right way as you ran through the dense thicket of the forest. You sobbed softly as the sharp branches of bushes and trees dug into your skin, leaving long, lacerating marks; the warm, crimson liquid running down your thighs, soaking into the fabric of your tall, white socks, spreading the seductive scent of your blood through the forest. 

Nothing seemed to be familiar to you in the thick, impenetrable darkness of the night. You stumbled through the massive roots of the trees and almost fell into a thorny bush with heavy, glistening bunches of poisonous berries hanging from it. You're so tired already—you can hear your heart pounding in your chest through your laboured, hoarse breathing.

Another furious growl echoing through the air keeps you from stopping, forcing you to keep running. You could almost feel the hot, wet breath of the wolf on your neck and the sharp claws on your skin, and it seemed to you that if you stopped for even a moment, the wolf would tear you to pieces. The hair stood up on the back of your arms, and the image of the sharp-toothed monster pinning you to the ground filled your mind's eye. No. No. No. You shake your head, hoping to banish the dark thoughts and push away the horrible images of blood and broken bones. 

A sharp pain blossomed on your face as you fell face first, stumbling over a large dried log and almost losing consciousness from the combined sensations. It was horrible—your mouth was full of dirt mixed with blood from a busted lip, your knees were skinned and bleeding, and in general you want nothing but sobbing with despair and fear. 

The hopelessness of your situation was more palpable to you now, when you're sitting in a pile of dirt and leaves, than ever before. A deep and low howling sounded from behind you, sending a shiver of cold down your spine. It made you jump to your feet, in spite of the sharp pain that you felt at such a sudden movement. You looked around anxiously. You glanced around anxiously, letting out a small sigh of relief at the fact that there was no one in your wake. But you didn't stop, the edge of the forest was already in sight, the soft welcoming light of the nearby village's lanterns calling to you. 

Your relief was short-lived, however, as a warning growl suddenly sounded directly in front of you, a pair of sacred silver eyes glaring out from the shadows of the forest. You gasped loudly as a tall, broad-shouldered fellow emerged from the thicket, his plump scarlet lips raised in a snarl, tongue slowly sliding over sharp teeth as he began circling you. 

This was not good, so damned not good. Cold fear gripped your heart with a tight grip, your hands clutching your basket tightly, shaking slightly at the low rumbling growl that came from the guy. Your frightened, wide-eyed gaze darted from the wolf to the forest path leading to the village; if you tried hard enough, you could get away from him. The boy noticed your gaze and shifted his sharp eyes to the narrow path leading out of the forest. He snorted slightly, as if the thought of you running from him amused him.

"You shouldn't even try, sweetheart. You can't escape me, little Red." The man's husky, deep voice made you flinch, but the way he addressed you by name as if he knew you made you drop the basket and cover your mouth with your hand to hold back your terror-filled scream."

He turned to face you again, and you could see his lips curl up in a predatory grin, revealing deep dimples on his cheeks. You couldn't help but notice how beautiful the wolf was—perhaps the most handsome man you had ever seen—and that fact made you fear him even more. Nothing ordinary and natural could possess such breathtaking beauty, which meant that the guy in front of you was many times more dangerous than any real wolf prowling around this forest thicket that night.

"Why are you so scared, little Red?" He slid his tongue over his lips as he kept his dark gaze on you. "I can almost feel your fear on my tongue." He murmured, the deep sound practically vibrating in the air. "I just want to play with you, beautiful. I promise I won't bite you... hard." His voice trailed off at the last word, his breathing getting heavier as he began to slowly approach you. 

You began to back away from him, trying to put as much distance between you as possible, and he clearly didn't like it. 

"You're not running away from me..." He growled, and those were the last coherent words you heard before he pounced on you, digging his claws into your skin and tearing at the edges of your cloak and skirt that prevented him from reaching you. The loud sounds of tearing cloth echoed through the forest as you tried to grab onto anything that might help you crawl away from him. 

"You'll have no run from me..." He growled, and those were the last coherent words you heard before he pounced on you, his claws digging into your skin and tearing at the edges of your cloak and skirt that were blocking his path. The loud sounds of ripping cloth echoed through the forest, and you tried to grab hold of anything that might help you to crawl away from him. 

"No. Please, no. Let me go, please...". But your words fell on deaf ears. In one swift motion, he flipped you onto your stomach, and you squealed loudly. Limiting all movement, his broad hand pressed between your shoulder blades. "No!" You cried out again, but a sharp slap on your bottom, which was suddenly bare, made you stop all your movements. You didn't even notice it as he tore off your clothes completely, leaving you vulnerable and naked for him to see. "I-I... please let me go..." All your energy has left your body, and you sob softly. He lifts your hips with one hand and puts you in the position he wants you to be in. 

"You were warned, little Red. Weren't you? You have been told to stay out of the woods, especially during the full moon. But have a look at where you are now. A stupid little girl, too self-confident to listen to anyone's advice, and that's what girls like you get. A big, bad wolf will eat them alive." The last sentence came out of his chest in a low, vicious growl before you felt a hot, slippery tongue travel between your buttocks. 

The pointed tip slid between your labia, salivating over your tender folds. He removed his hand from your back only to dig his fingers into your buttocks and spread them wide apart, holding you completely open for him so that he could feast on your cunt with ease. Pitiful sobs escaped from your mouth as you felt his rough, long appendage snaking its way between your folds, rubbing against your clit and poking at your hole as it tried to force its way in. His claws dug themselves into your flesh in painful fashion, leaving bloody marks that were sure to become scars. 

The sensation of the wolf's tongue licking desperately at your cunt and the wet, feverish breath that washed over your sensitive centre caused your body to react against your desire.

A shameless moan of pure pleasure escaped your lips faster than you could stop it. Covering your mouth with your hand, you tried to swallow the embarrassing sounds as the werewolf's long tongue continued to wash your clit with its warm, viscous saliva. You couldn't enjoy it... it was simply impossible. This guy was dangerous; he wasn't human; he was a horrible, hungry wolf pinning you to the ground in the middle of the night forest. You were terrified, but that didn't stop your body from responding joyfully to his touch. 

Every movement of his tongue on your pussy made your hole clench around nothing and ooze juices. This only excited him more as he greedily licked up every drop of sweet slime that flowed from you onto his tongue. Eventually it wasn't enough, and the wolf pressed his whole mouth against your little hole and began to literally drink from your pussy. 

Your hips began to shake as you approached your orgasm. Your fingers dug into the loose soil, dirt collecting under your fingernails as you tried to fight the rush of pleasure coursing through your entire body. It was completely futile. Against your will, the werewolf made you scream in blinding pleasure as the first of many orgasms shook your entire body. 

As your fluids poured into his mouth, giving him a full taste of your sweet flavour, he growled low as he thrust his tongue into your hole and licked your juices from your trembling walls. This went on for a few minutes until you felt his hands leave your body. A vague sense of relief filled you as you hoped he would leave you now that he had got what he wanted. But that relief was quickly replaced by panic as his clawed fingers pinned your fragile shoulders to the ground and his unnaturally hot and massive length rubbed against your arse, staining it with sticky pre-cum. 

He rubbed against you like a dog in heat, his hips pressing against you as if he were too lost in his lust to pay attention.

Hot breath scorched your cheek as he pressed his entire body against you, laborious growls and puffing escaping his throat as his heavy, hard cock dragged between your buttocks. You turned your head slightly to the side to catch a glimpse of the man looming over you, his sharp fangs glinting in the moonlight, and you almost regretted looking.

Every movement he made against you made your stomach twist with a mixture of fear and pleasure, and although the rational part of you was in a state of pure terror at the realisation of what awaited you, on some deep subconscious, twisted level you enjoyed it.

The werewolf's cock seemed almost as long as your torso, there was no way you could take it all in. But that didn't seem to bother him tonight. As the head of his cock entered your hole, you sobbed from the painful stretching and squeezed your eyes shut as he began to push his cock deeper into you. It was thick, so fucking thick that the tender edge of your pussy burned when the entire head of his cock was inside, but that was only the beginning.

The first few inches were enough to awaken your senses, pleasantly stimulating your quivering walls, but as he pushed further into you, the pain came. But that didn't matter to the werewolf on top of you. You whimpered and shook your head from side to side as the man above you moaned deeply as he continued to thrust his cock relentlessly into you.

"Please…" You sobbed openly now, hoping this would be over quickly.

"Mmm, look at you, you're acting so nice now. You were warned, little Red, but you decided to be a naughty girl and came to the wolf yourself, knowing full well what would happen to you. So don't play hard to get and take what is given to you." The wolf towering over you growled in your ears.

The more it pressed into your body, the more you became afraid and grabbed at tree roots and plants. For anything within reach that might help you free yourself from him. Your face crinkled in pain and your teeth clenched tightly together, grinding against each other. When it finally settled into your body, you'd never felt so full. You couldn't see it, but you could feel the great bulge in your belly, perfectly mirroring the contours of his cock.

When he begins to move, pulling his monstrous length out of you, you find it strange. His cock entered you much deeper than it could be possibly, and when it was completely out of you, you felt so empty, your cunt clenched around nothing, already missing the warmth of his cock. When he entered your cunt again, you let out a sound mixed with eroticism and a painful cry. It wasn't bad, but not necessarily good. His cock seemed too hot, buried deep inside your body, but every thrust in and out of your pussy rubbed against a sensitive ball of nerves that made your eyes roll to the back of your head.

"No! I don't want this! Please stop..." The voice in your head did its best to drown out the sensations overwhelming every other sense in your body, but it was useless. The wolf's large body pressed against your back, his feverishly hot, wet skin rubbing against the exposed areas of your skin that were visible through your tattered cloak with each sharp thrust into your body. 

His rhythm grew rougher and sharper as he stretched the tight confines of your pussy. Promises to fill you with his cum and give you his puppies came in steady succession with each thrust of his hips.

Wide eyed, you watched his fingernails dig into the dirt beside your head and thanked the gods that those nails were no longer digging into your skin. They pulled the earth a few inches away from your face, reminding you of the strength in those hands. He could have easily broken your neck with a snap of his fingers. Instead, he shifted his stance, his foot pressing your face deeper into the dirt beneath you.   You should have been disgusted; it was wrong, but something dark and twisted inside you made you even more aroused, enjoying everything that was happening.

Your quivering, slippery walls tightened around him, and you heard him moan deeply in response.

"You like it, don't you? What a dirty bitch you are, little Red. Do you like it when I claim the rights to your tiny human cunt? Does it turn you on that I'm fucking you like a bitch in the middle of the forest?"

"Please..." Your voice was swallowed by a loud, air-piercing howl as the wolf howled over you in pleasure. 

Your entire body shook beneath him as he fucked you with reckless abandon, his hips slamming painfully against your arse, causing the tender skin on your buttocks to become irritated and red. It was disgusting; you had dirt in your mouth mixed with blood from the previous fall, your whole body aching from his assault, but you wanted more; you wanted him to destroy you. 

Something hot and tight pushed into your entrance, and you almost mistook this sudden invasion for his balls until you felt your pussy being forced to stretch even further to accommodate it.

"Please, no! You're going to hurt me!!! Don't do this!" Pleasure was replaced by pure terror as you tried to crawl away from him. Sharp nails pierced the skin of your thighs as he clawed at you and growled in warning, making you freeze. 

"Take this! You're going to take all of me, and you're going to love it, you little slut." Each thrust felt like he was trying to shove a baseball inside you. 

He was determined to complete his task, and when he did, you screamed in pain, tears staining your rounded cheeks and making your face look even dirtier. A loud howl pierced his chest, and his nails dug into your back, drawing blood as he tied you up with his knot and poured his sperm into your waiting body. You could feel every pulse of his cock as it emptied into your pussy, and against your desire, your walls clenched around the invasion, squeezing out all he had to offer you. His warm, viscous cum splashed into your body, making you shiver.

"I hope you've learnt your lesson and won't wander the night woods alone again, little Red." The werewolf whispered hoarsely in your ear, licking the tears from your cheek. 

You turned your head to the side, meeting his slanted silver eyes and gloriously sharp cheekbones. 

"Maybe I should learn that lesson a few more times, San. You know I'm not good at memorising, love."

[slylycurioustreasure]

The Bleeding Sky

Summary: Heir to a cursed line of sorcerers, you carry on your shoulders the weight of an ancestral pact: to prevent the destruction of the world, you must unite with four men from clans once enemies of your own kind—a demon, a celestial, an immortal fox, and a human.

But nothing is simple when love, hate, desire, and betrayal intertwine. Torn between your curse and your feelings, protected by some, judged by others, you will have to face the truth about your blood... and what you are willing to sacrifice to survive.

What if it wasn't you, but them... who were trapped from the start?

Genre: Fantasy, Dark Romance, Drama, Action, Reverse Harem, Supernatural, Wuxia, Historical

Pairing : Enha hyung Line x reader

Warning: Death, pain, blood, injury, hatred, loneliness, despair, psychological suffering, fear, anguish, black magic, ritual, sacrifice, intense emotions, fatality, forced marriage.

word : 15k

NEXT (PART 2.1) ✘ SERIES MASTERLIST ✘

Long ago—so long that even immortals have forgotten the taste of memory—there existed a clan whose name was erased. Erased from the royal chronicles. Strictly erased from the celestial tablets. Defiled and then buried beneath centuries of silence and fear.

A clan that should never have existed. A clan born from a crime against the laws of creation.

It is said that when the world was young, before the mountains rose, before the stars aligned, a fragment of chaotic essence wandered freely at the edge of the worlds. 

Neither life nor death. Neither order nor destruction.

An ancient, formless spirit, hungry for form. His name was Wu Hei, the Nameless Shadow. And one day, in his drift, he met a woman who had fallen from the sky. A banished celestial, whose wings had been burned for loving a mortal. Her name was Yun Qiao, the Bearer of the Red Star.

He possessed her. Or she accepted him. No one knows.

From this blasphemous union was born a lineage the heavens had not foreseen. Neither human. Nor demons. Nor celestial. Something else. Something too ancient to be named. They were called sorcerers. But that word, in itself, was a betrayal.

Their bodies were of shadow and flesh. Their veins carried a black fire—not a fire that illuminates, but a fire that consumes, slowly, silently, until nothing remains but ashes of soul. Their gazes troubled mirrors. Their voices disrupted the seasons. They were born with screams, and died in silence.

They lived for a long time on the fringes of the world, slipping into the invisible faults—where maps end, where laws lose their power. They built cities from the roots of ancient trees, dug palaces beneath acidic lakes, carved temples from the skulls of dead beasts.

They didn't pray. They remembered.

They were cursed at birth. Not by a god or a demon, but by the very nature of their blood. For their magic was unchanneled: it burned unhindered, transforming them, devouring them little by little. Each spell cast cost them a part of their being. But they had no choice. It was that or disappear. And then they became powerful. Too powerful.

The world noticed them.

Men, jealous of what they did not understand, decided they were heretics. Demons, intrigued by their raw magic, wanted to capture and domesticate them. The celestials, frightened by what they perceived as a threat to the balance of cosmic laws, condemned them without trial.

And then the purge began.

Sorcerers were hunted like beasts. Shrines were ransacked. Children were torn from their mothers' arms to be purified in flames. Sages were executed, their tongues torn out and nailed to the doors of celestial temples. Pregnant women were disemboweled under the red moons, so that their lineage would not survive. The rivers where they had washed were rendered unfit for life. Even the demons eventually retreated. Too unstable, too dangerous. Too human, too inhuman. And in the final hour of their fall, a single name was whispered among the ashes: Wu Zhen.

Wu Zhen was the last of the Negative Fire masters. He had been trained in the depths of a forgotten sanctuary, beneath the Heiyan Sea of ​​Mist, where the sky was no longer reflected. He knew the 49 languages ​​of pain. He could make a blade cry, or a corpse sing.

But he never wanted war. The world imposed it on him.

They took his sister—hung her naked on celestial chains, her womb cut open, her eyes burned with divine light. They took his son—a three-year-old child with diaphanous skin, whose heart was offered to the gods to sanctify a harvest.

They took his name, his clan, his history.

And then Wu Zhen, the last, the tombless, lost his mind. But it wasn't a madness of screams and blood. It was a madness of order. A madness of silence. A madness of purpose.

He carved a forbidden incantation into his own body, right into his bones. A curse so ancient that even immortals feared it. He shattered the barriers between worlds, reversed the flow of rivers, disrupted the cycle of the seasons. He opened gates even demons barely dared to touch.

And into that gaping chasm between existence and nothingness, he cried out a single wish: “Let all perish.”

It wasn't revenge.

It was an end.

Not a war. A sentence.

The three great clans, panicked, forgot their ancestral hatred. Humans—weak but cunning. The celestials—pure but cruel. The demons—powerful but divided. Together they forged a pact. A new curse, born of fear.

They could not kill Wu Zhen. But they sealed his work. And they swore that never again would such power be born. So they turned the curse on his own line. The sons were erased. But the daughters… The daughters still carried the seed of chaos. 

Every generation, a witch would be reborn. And to control her, to prevent her from opening the gates again, she would be bound—body and soul—to four representatives of the enemy clans.

A demon, to contain his violence.

A celestial, to watch over her.

A human, to humanize him.

A fox, to disturb her.

This wasn't a marriage. It was a cage. A punishment. A living seal. Each bond devoured the witch a little more. Each oath bound her essence to enemy souls. She wasn't allowed to love. Nor to choose. She had to obey, survive, bleed, and then die. Her heart was a tomb. Her body, a key.

And as long as the key remained in the hands of fate, peace, fragile and corrupt, could be maintained.

But with each generation, the same tragedy began again. The witch suffered. Her husbands fell, slowly, consumed by the curse. And despite everything, despite the fear, despite the pain—they fell. Into her eyes. Into her distress. Into her cursed light. And the circle began again. One girl. Four men. A cracked world. And love, like a double-edged sword—beautiful, fatal, and always bloody.

500 Years Later — Guangyin Si (光殒祠) – The Temple of Falling Light

In the forgotten languages ​​of the ancient Celestials, the name Guangyin Si is broken down as follows: Guangyin , the light that no longer shines, the clarity that falls, fades, slowly collapses into the abyss without a cry—and Si , a funerary word, a term of sacred exile, which does not designate prayer, but mourning. Not that of the living, but that which the dead impose on the survivors. A complaint that even the gods no longer console.

Guangyin Si is not a temple. It is a scar.

A fracture in the celestial order. A chasm in the memory of the immortals. A remnant of an act of betrayal so pure, so absolute, that no tongue yet dares to name it.

It rests—or rather, hangs—on the edge of reality. Where the celestial realm frays into mists of frost. Where the sky ceases to be a shelter and becomes a precipice. The temple hangs over an infinite abyss, like a black fruit plucked from the world tree, held together only by ancient chains of fossilized light, stretched across the last pillars of a vanished era.

They creak sometimes. Not in the wind, because here, the wind is dead. But under the weight of centuries and captive souls.

It is said that Guangyin Si was sealed, not built.

The Immortals themselves speak of it only in hushed tones, as if they feared being overheard by the shadows that still sleep there.

The temple is carved from celestial obsidian so dense, so pure, that it absorbs light. The walls are black, but shot through with dull reflections, dead glows—memories of collapsed constellations.

Each slab is engraved. Not mere characters, no—but psalms of eternal penance, calligraphed in the funerary script of the High Immortals, a language only the fallen can read without losing their minds. They are forbidden to be spoken. Some have. Their bodies froze. Their mouths vanished. And their names were blotted from the sky.

The sanctuary rises like a vertical tomb. Its columns, twisted with runic chains, bear the weight of ancient, petrified celestial guardians—mutilated statues with bandaged eye sockets, severed wings, unearthed hearts. Each blind gaze seems to cry out for a punishment they did not choose. Their hands implore the heavens. The sky remains silent.

The wind doesn't blow here. It moans.

A deep, slow rattle that seems to come from within the walls. As if the stone were sighing under the sins it contains.

At the exact center of the temple rests the Altar of Lost Tears. A translucent, almost living monolith. It doesn't always shine. It doesn't vibrate with prayers. It waits. And when a soul collapses, when a being swears without believing, when a heart opens to mourn what it can never have... Then the Altar lights up. With a soft glow. Tragic. Deadly.

Guangyin Si does not welcome crowds.

It opens its doors only to those whom destiny has marked with a sacred seal:

The witches, descendants of the cursed blood. And the husbands, those who will be bound to them by the Pact. But this is not a marriage. It is a divine judgment. An offering. An execution.

The Celestial designated for this bond is never a weak being. He is chosen for his righteousness, his faith, his ability to obey without question. But when he enters Guangyin Si, he understands. He understands that he will not be a protector. That he will not be a lover. He will be the chain. He will take an oath not out of duty, but out of condemnation.

The ritual is long. Slow. Cruel.

He is temporarily stripped of his wings. To remind him that he is not a god here. He is made to kneel before the Altar. His hands plunge into the crystal. He then feels the memories of others, the fragments of those who came before him.

Their screams.

Their doubts.

Their useless love.

Their fall.

The bond is woven not with flesh, but with essence. An invisible vein opens between him and the witch. She doesn't see it, not yet. But she feels it. A burning deep in her heart. A trace of ash in her bones. From that moment on, she is his—not like a wife, but like a sacrificed key. And he is condemned to love her without ever being loved.

It is said that some Celestials tried to flee. Others begged. Some tried to break the pact at the final moment, facing the Altar. The Altar does not judge. It absorbs. We can still see their traces. Luminous silhouettes, half-melted into the walls, like star specters.

They don't scream. They no longer have a voice.

But if you listen carefully, if you listen for a long time, you will hear... Their regret.

You were only twelve years old.

Twelve silent winters spent growing up within the hushed, treacherous walls of the Black Lotus Pavilion. There, nothing was truly alive. Everything was only forms and appearances. You were fed bitter herbs and carefully measured poisons, twisted truths and dire premonitions. You were spoken to softly, like a precious doll... but every step, every word, was watched like a sin in the making.

You were neither a child nor a student. You were a warning. The cursed descendant of a blood the immortals had tried to erase, a living echo of a time the books no longer dared to mention. A shard of chaos embodied in a body too young, too thin, too still trembling to bear such fatality.

So you ran away.

Not forever.

Just… for a few hours.

You wanted something other than the acrid smell of black incense, something other than the long processions of mute sorcerers, the lessons delivered with voices of stone, the stares that weighed like blades balanced on your neck. You wanted to see something other than the dried blood in ritual cups, the tattoos seared with hot irons on the arms of the elders, the sacred ashes that served only to hide fear.

You had run barefoot, unprotected, unguided, through withered groves, hills where twisted trees seemed to weep. You had crossed the remains of ancient battles, fields of ashes where souls never truly rested. The wind carried whispers there that no one listened to.

And then you saw it. A temple. Broken. Half collapsed, half engulfed under thick brambles, roots bleeding black sap. A forgotten, or perhaps hidden, shrine. Something in its silence had called your blood.

You should never have come in.

This was not an abandoned shrine, nor a lost ruin. This was Guangyin Si. Where even immortals dared not set foot. Where oaths were bound by blood and silence. Where the living were sealed like upright coffins.

The ground beneath your feet was icy. You felt the stone vibrate—not like matter, but like memory. Each slab seemed to weep. There was a strange heaviness in the air. No smell. No light. Nothing but emptiness. A palpable chasm opening inside you, as if this place already knew who you were. What you carried. You reached out toward a worn relief, a sculpture eaten away by the centuries, half angel, half beast. Your fingers barely trembled—and that's when it appeared.

Not a sound.

Not an alert.

Just… the pain.

A hand, large and cruel, had fallen upon you without warning, seizing you by the hair with animal brutality. You felt your neck twist. Your feet leave the ground. Your breath catch. The grip was that of an executioner: assured, disgusted, sure of his right.

You had screamed.

But the sound had crashed into the walls, absorbed by the stones. No echo. No response. Even the shadows had turned away. Your tears had flowed at once. No shame, no fear—just a flood of naked pain. You felt them slide down your twisted jaw, mingling with your blood. Whole strands of your hair had fallen to the ground, some clinging to your scalp, tinged a dark red, almost black. Your stomach twisted. Your vision rippled.

And he spoke.

"What's a little witch doing here?" His voice was a low whisper, laden with suppressed anger, but also with a kind of cold disgust. Not like an outraged man. But like an insulted god.

As if your presence desecrated not only this place, but also its essence.

You wanted to speak. Scream. Spit out your rage. You wanted to bite him. Scream your name. Throw your curse in his face. But your body no longer responded. So you struggled. Your hands, too thin, too fragile, reached out toward his face. You scratched, struck, screamed silently. Like a cornered animal.

But with each attempt, the light pushed you back. A barrier. Thin. Invisible, but burning hot. You felt your skin melting. Your palms sizzled from the impact, marked with red, painful blisters.

You'd never touched anything so pure. So... unattainable. It wasn't a spell. It was him. A Celestial. Not a simple guard. Not a priest. One of their own. An immortal. One of those who think that their gaze is enough to judge, that their silence is a sentence.

He watched you, suspended in midair, like an anomaly he needed to crush. But he wasn't crushing you. He was waiting. He was sizing you up, like a scientist with a rare insect. Maybe he hoped you'd cry more. Beg. Break down like the others.

But you didn't.

You were in pain. The world was spinning. Blood pounded in your temples like funeral drums.

But you growled. A hoarse sound, coming from deeper than your throat. A scream that wasn't human. A howl of bloodline, of curse. Something that came from the shadow of your clan. Something that wouldn't die.

The Celestial sneers. A shrill, broken sound, like a bone being bent until it cracks. There is no mercy in this laughter. No hesitation. Just a cruel, tiny joy that pierces beneath his voice, as if what he is about to do is not only a duty... but a forbidden pleasure.

Then comes the shock. Brutal. You don't see it coming.

Your body is thrown to the ground with such brutal force that the air suddenly leaves your lungs. You hit the stone with your lower back, your legs, your arms. A sinister crack mixes with the impact: your shoulder, perhaps. Or your hope.

The pain is immediate. Acute. You want to scream, but only a hoarse breath escapes your throat. Your face contorts, not from fear, but from this unbearable, pure, white suffering. Your legs refuse to move. Your back screams.

You stand there for a moment, face down, listening to the irregular beating of your own heart. The echo of the Celestial's sneer floats above you like a mocking specter.

And then you crawl. You have no more strength, but you crawl. Your fingers, covered in burns from his barrier of light, are already bleeding. But the stones here aren't mere pebbles. They're engraved with ancient runes, ancient celestial oaths as sharp as blades, encrusted with obsidian crystals and purifying salt. Every movement tears at your skin. Every step forward tears the flesh of your hands a little more, opening deep cracks that are instantly blackened by blood.

You swallow your screams. You refuse to give him that. Tears fall, heavy, hot, silent. You feel them slide down your cheeks, mix with the sacred dust of the ground, form a sticky red mud beneath you.

Behind, his footsteps still echo. One. Two. Three. Slow. Measured. As if counting the beats of your heart before the final silence.

“You think you can run away?” His voice is low, calm, almost gentle. And it’s that gentleness that chills the blood. “You think you can escape what you are? Little scum of the world… Your kind should have been eradicated generations ago. You are a mistake. A blasphemy.”

He doesn't scream. He just observes. As if your existence violates some fundamental law of the universe.

You keep crawling, a little, just enough to get away from his shadow. You're out of breath. Out of strength. Your body is a field of pain. So you stop. You close your eyes. You breathe in. Slowly. Once. Twice. Your hands are shaking, covered in blood and tears. But you place them flat on the floor. You clench your jaw. And you straighten up. Painfully. Trembling. Like a flame that refuses to go out.

Facing him.

He watches you. His eyes are pale, shot through with a hard glow, as if forged in the glare of divine judgment. But you don't lower your eyes.

“We didn't do anything…” you say. Your voice is raspy, barely above a whisper. But it's there. Alive. “Nothing… to deserve this. We didn't choose. The universe rejected us. But… You chose to hate us.”

You swallow. Blood rises to your mouth. You wipe it with the back of your hand, stained, soiled, and continue:

“If living is a crime… if being born a witch is a fault… then kill me. Now. But look at me well, and tell me if your oath gives you the right to treat me as less than a beast.”

You challenge him. Your eyes shine—not with light, but with that shadow so ancient it predates even the laws of the gods. It is a spark of chaos. A promise of destruction. And he sees it. He frowns, a breath hesitates on his lips. Doubt? Fear? Perhaps. Or perhaps a simple shudder. Then he raises his hand. A sword materializes in a shower of golden shards. Its light is almost unbearable. It sings. A crystalline music, pure, sharp. A blade fashioned to kill beings like you—living curses.

He points it at you.

“I'm going to kill you, for the good of this world. For peace. So that my people can sleep without nightmares.” He smiled. Cold. Empty. “Don't take this the wrong way, little one. I have no choice.” 

But you see it. You feel it. He's lying. He loves this scene. He enjoys this terror. And he chooses, every day, to hate what he doesn't understand.

And in the silence that follows, as the blade lights with the will of the gods, something within you awakens. Something older than your name. Deeper than your blood. Older than the temple itself.

At first you feel a dull tension gnawing at your being, like a poison slowly seeping in, then a hot ember igniting in the hollow of your chest. This ember becomes a cruel fire, a voracious fire that consumes your veins, devours your flesh, consumes your will.

Your breath quickens, gasps, becomes hoarse, like a trapped animal. Your hands tremble, your whole body screams silently.

Then this fire explodes.

A storm of white light erupts from your heart, violent, blinding, torn with deep-black shadows, as if the sky and the night themselves had been unleashed within you. The blast surges forth in furious waves, devastating everything around. The ground trembles, the temple walls vibrate with the force of your power.

A pungent smell of blood mixed with that of dark magic fills the air. The very air seems to be cracking.

The celestial, until now frozen in a deceptive calm, is swept away by this storm. His body flies backward, crashes against the thousand-year-old stone of the sanctuary wall with a dull, dry thud, his skull hitting the stone with a sinister crack.

A shudder of pain twists his face. He collapses to his knees, gasping for breath, overcome by the violence of your power. Blackish blood seeps from his temple, slowly sliding like a river of darkness across his pale skin. The thick liquid seeps into his hair, stains his face, and falls in silent drops onto the temple's engraved flagstones. He half-closes one eye, his gaze clouded with pain and surprise, but refuses to sink. His saber, planted in the ground, is his last anchor.

And you, at the center of this chaos, no longer resemble the child you once were. You are no longer the vulnerable girl who sought light amidst the darkness.

Something ancient, dark, unfathomable, has taken possession of your soul.

In your palm rises a sword. It is forged in your own blood, mingled with swirling black smoke, as alive as you are. The blade is deep black, veined with incandescent red, smoking like the maw of a sleeping dragon. It throbs, a cursed heart beating within the steel.

You take it without hesitation. It's heavy, but it feels like a natural extension of yourself. It's cold, yet it burns your skin like frost and fire combined.

You advance, slowly, inexorably. Your bare footsteps hammer the sacred ground, leaving crimson prints, bloody traces that seem to dance beneath the grim glow of the torches.

Your gaze is a blade. Empty. Icy. Merciless. Your heart no longer beats for yourself, but for one thing: revenge, survival.

"You won't blame me..." your voice rises, foreign, broken, woven with a veil of shadow. It is no longer that of a child, but that of a being who has seen too much, suffered too much, lost too much. "...for killing you to save my clan. To save me."

The celestial lifts his head, barely conscious, panting, a vein pulsing in his forehead. His eyes, half-lidded, are a mixture of pain, disbelief, and a final spark of defiance. He knows that this gaze is no longer that of a child, but of a demon inhabited by a curse. He knows the battle is lost.

"I don't have a choice either." You say the words with a cruel smile, a grimace distorted by pain and determination, which is anything but childish.

You suddenly disappear in a swirl of thick black smoke. Then you reappear before him, a specter of vengeance and despair. Your saber raised, but too slow, too weak. 

Your blade pierces his chest. The black metal pierces flesh, splits bone, pierces a heart that still beats, but weakly. A deep, muffled rattle escapes his throat. It's not a scream, but a final breath laden with pain, regret, and silent forgiveness.

His eyes open wide, filled with indescribable grief, a silent goodbye. His fingers weakly grip your wrist, searching for one last connection, one reason, one forgiveness. His breath comes short, uneven. His body trembles, slumps, like a wilted flower in a black rain.

He dies.

You slowly back away.

The sword in your hand is still warm, steaming, saturated with its essence, its ripped life. Heavenly blood trickles from the wound, falling in heavy drops onto the sacred ground. You watch it crumble, motionless, slowly absorbed by stone and shadow.

You don't look away. You smile. A broken, torn, heartbreaking smile, somewhere between the bitter jubilation of having survived and the visceral horror of having killed.

And in this silence, you don't see. The child. Thirteen years old. He stands there, in the shadows, like a frozen ghost. He still wears the uniform of the celestial novices, clumsy, too big for him. His face is pale, his eyes too light, frozen in a mixture of fear, pain, and despair.

He saw everything.

Your unleashed power. The death of his master, the one who had taken him in, raised him, loved him like a father. Your smile, that of a witch lost in her own night. His lips tremble, his hands clench the hilt of a saber he has never wielded.

Then he screams. A heart-rending, shrill cry, a sound that pierces the silence like a blade.

He throws himself at you.

You no longer have time to think, nor to flee. A sharp pain explodes in your shoulder. The blade is thin, clumsy, but it penetrates, brutal, cruel. Your cry of pain tears through the sanctuary, awakening echoes of the past. Your magic breaks free, uncontrollable. A new explosion of dark and luminous energy propels him backward. The boy is thrown against a column, collapses, half-conscious, gasping for breath.

You stagger, breathless, your body bruised. You tear the blade from your flesh with a scream of agony. Blood flows, a red river on the cold stone. You tremble. And in this absolute pain, you see it.

He is not a warrior. Not a celestial. Just a child. A boy with a face still round, his eyes full of tears. And you have just stolen his world. He looks at you one last time. A look full of sadness, fear, hatred. Then he passed out. And you... You run away. You become mist again. Silence. Shadow. A nightmare we prefer to forget.

That day, Sunghoon didn't just see his master die. He saw a demon born. And this demon had the eyes of a girl. Eyes that, one day, he knew, would find him again.

16 Years Later — Shīhún Qiáo — The Bridge of Lost Souls

You've always been told legends. Tales to lull children to sleep, or to nurture the bravery of young soldiers. You've been told that true warriors don't bleed. That their skin is as smooth, immaculate, and fragile as a newborn's, protected by an invisible, impenetrable force. That their flesh refuses injury, like a mystical shield insulating them from pain. That their bones, tempered in fire and iron, are as strong as the immortal blade they wield. You've been told repeatedly that they never fall, that their bodies are living fortresses, invincible, eternal.

They lied to you.

For at this precise moment, on this bridge suspended over the sacred river—this thick, black stream, whispered by the ancients as the incandescent border between the realm of the living and that of the dead—there is a body. Or what remains of it.

The wood of the bridge groans beneath your cautious steps, slippery, soaked by the recent rain, drowned in a thick winter mist. The worn ropes hang like vines covered in mold and, above all, stained with blood. Ancient blood. Blood mingled with lost souls.

The air is icy, laden with an almost palpable humidity that clings to your skin like a shroud, heavy and suffocating.

Amidst the blackened, war-scarred planks, you see a collapsed figure, clinging to the worn wood, like the last castaway on a worm-eaten raft.

A man. No. A soldier. A survivor. Or rather, a dying man.

He is slumped, overwhelmed, on his knees, but his legs seem to have broken themselves, or perhaps they have betrayed him. He can no longer support them, he no longer feels them. His body is curled up, folded in on itself, as if the pain, as unbearable as death, were trying to suffocate him. His chest heaves painfully, each breath a hoarse, wheezing rattle, each inspiration a struggle against the approaching nothingness.

Behind him, a trail of blood stretches across the wood, long, thick, and winding, like a funereal mark carved into the bridge. In places, the bright red color has darkened, coagulated into thick, almost solid black stains. In others, the carmine liquid still drips, warm, fresh, vibrant with the life slowly escaping from his body. Every step you take splatters this bloody ground; you walk on the remains of a battle, on the vestiges of a broken army.

You step forward, your muscles trembling with emotion, your breath caught, and what you discover draws a stifled cry from you. His armor, once gleaming black and gold, bears the scars of hell. It is cracked, torn, twisted. The protective plates, once solid, now hang in shreds of bruised metal, some melted, cracked, as if burned by magic too devastating to be human.

His flesh appears, torn, burned, shredded. Blood flows in invisible, sticky streams between the plates, trickling down his pale skin, splashing the wood of the bridge in a macabre fresco. On his left side, a gaping wound spreads like an open carnivorous mouth, revealing the red and black pulp of his entrails, which throb painfully with every breath.

And yet, despite this devastation, he is still alive.

His fingers, stiff and tense, desperately grip the hilt of his sword. A long, cracked blade, eaten away by rust and fire, its metal blackened by the infernal heat of spilled blood and raging flames. This once-proud sword now bears the scars of a war that poets would sing of as an epic tragedy. But this blade is twisted, worn, tired. Like its master.

His forehead rests against the cold, icy pommel, covered in dried blood. You might think he's praying, finding some final comfort in this contact. But his lips barely move. These aren't prayers. They're names.

« Jiang… Lu'an… Fei… »

You crouch down beside him and scrutinize his face, hidden by soaked locks of hair, stuck to his pale skin. He's young. Far too young. Maybe not even twenty. He could have been handsome. He could have laughed. But today, that face is broken. Fractured. Fragile like porcelain abandoned in torrential rain. His gaze, red and glassy, ​​expresses an indescribable pain. An immense fatigue. A pain of the soul. And suddenly, you hear. It's not just the wind that slips between the ropes.

These are voices. Barely audible whispers. Forgotten breaths. Gaunt sighs. Smothered cries that tear at each other. Moans distorted by eternity. These are the spirits of the dead. The black souls floating on the river. Those who sank into its waters, believing they would find rest there. Those whom the soldier himself perhaps sent to the other bank.

They circle him like invisible vultures, carried by the wind. Drawn by the smell of blood, of despair, of the end. You reach out hesitantly to touch his shoulder. He groans, a heart-rending rattle, and your heart clenches painfully. He looks at you. And in his eyes, there is neither fear nor anger. It is a consuming, infinite shame. The shame of having survived. Of having seen his brothers fall one by one. The shame of not having died with them.

“They… told me to run away… I… I left. I left everything…” His voice is a hoarse breath, a painful rattle, a whisper of death. Each word seems to cost him his life. And yet, he speaks. Because there is nothing left but the words. The memories. The ghosts.

You see his tears. But they don't run down his cheeks. They mix with the blood. They slide from the corners of his eyes, mix with the grime, and fall silently onto the sticky wood of the bridge. He grits his teeth, but his body trembles, shaken by fever and pain.

You look at his wounds again. Not all of them are visible. Some go far deeper than flesh, to the very heart of the soul. Wounds that neither magic, nor time, nor tears can heal. 

You tear off a piece of your garment, soaked with moisture and blood, and press it against his gaping wound. The fabric immediately soaks, bright red, bursting like a cry of despair, red with death, red with stolen life.

You feel the heat escaping from his body, the end near, the flickering light. And as you try, with all the strength you have left, to right him, he collapses, sliding against you. His forehead rests on your shoulder, his weak but firm hand grips your wrist like a desperate anchor.

“Tell them… we didn’t run away. Tell them… we fought. To the last man.” Her voice fades little by little, like a flame blown out by the wind. But her grip, fragile and trembling, remains. Almost stronger than her breath.

The wind howls through the bridge ropes, carrying with it the funeral melody of wandering souls. The river roars, black and untamed, engulfing the dead and their secrets in its waters. And you stand there. Frozen. Holding this brother of blood and pain against you. The sky is a thick gray shroud, laden with ash and despair. The world seems reduced to dust. And you... you finally understand.

Heroes are not immortal. They are bleeding. They cry. They die. And sometimes they howl into the night, alone in the cold, on a bridge between two worlds.

You hadn't thought. You hadn't had time. Your instinct had screamed louder than reason. Your heart, drowned in a storm of invisible tears, had screamed louder than your magic itself.

And in the blink of an eye, you had left that bridge. You had left the world suspended between life and death, this theater of blood and shadows, to appear within the Black Lotus Pavilion—this forbidden, ancient sanctuary, which even the most powerful hardly dared to name.

A black mist engulfed you before spat you back into your room, its walls draped in dusty silk and the faded scent of forgotten incense. The man's inert body hung in your arms, heavy, icy, wet with the blood of former comrades, enemies, or perhaps both.

He'd slipped from your grasp once as you staggered to your feet. You'd screamed unintentionally, in pain or rage, or perhaps both. But you'd finally hoisted him onto the black brocade bed, the sheets of which immediately became soaked with the blood that kept flowing, slowly, mercilessly, like the grains of an hourglass whose fall you could no longer stop.

His breath was almost imperceptible. A weak, broken whimper, somewhere between life and agony. You placed your hand on his chest. Cold. So cold. And then you understood. He was dying. And you were going to have to save him. But he wasn't an immortal. He wasn't a celestial, a demon, or a spirit beast. He was just a man. A wounded, broken, shattered man.

You knew what it would cost.

This wasn't a simple healing. It wasn't a stitching of flesh or a bandage of light. What you were about to do… was about to tap into an ancient magic. A dark magic. Forbidden. A magic that drew on your life force. Your blood. Your memory. Your essence.

And you knew that by triggering it, you would never be the same again.

Every ounce of power used to save him would be ripped from your own soul. Once given, it would never return.

You looked at him one last time. He looked so young… almost peaceful, in that moment. Like a child exhausted by war. Like a brother you never had. A king without a throne. A soldier without a war.

You made your decision.

Your fingers began to dance in the air, despite their trembling. You formed the first mudras, the first sacred gestures, precise, sharp as blades. Each one made your bones creak, as if your flesh refused to obey this forbidden invocation.

Then your mouth opened. And the spell flowed from your lips like a river of curses. A deep, guttural, ancient whisper. Words in a language no one spoke anymore. The walls of the pavilion seemed to shudder at their sound. The room began to shake slowly, then more violently, in time with your voice.

The wind rose in the closed room. Yet there were no open windows, no half-open doors. But magic called for a storm. The candles flickered. One by one, they went out, swallowed by an invisible breath. The shadows fell. And suddenly, your body began to burn. Your blood turned to fire. You felt a pressure burst in your chest, your veins twisting like angry snakes, your breath caught.

You leaned forward, gasping for air, and vomited blood onto the floor. Red. Thick. Hot. You didn't stop. You couldn't stop. You continued the actions. The words. The sacrifices. You lost track of time. Hours. Or maybe seconds. Your body was on fire, and your soul was bleeding, but suddenly you felt a jolt in the air. A pulse.

The soldier's body rose slowly above the bed. He floated, his arms dangling, his head hanging. Around him, a black aura, like liquid ash, formed. Black flames—no, spiritual burns—rose from his torso, his arms, his wounds. They devoured the pain. They stitched the flesh together, slowly, brutally, like incandescent needles. His bones cracked. Snapped back into place with an unbearable noise.

And yet, he didn't scream. Because he was unconscious. But you felt every wound as if it were tearing at you. You screamed silently. You felt your power melting, your essence burning away, your heart beating like a war drum ready to explode.

Then, like a dying wave, the spell fell. The body fell back onto the bed with a shudder, its wounds healed, its breathing more regular. Still weak. But alive.

You collapsed. You fell to your knees, your hands pressed against the ground, in a pool of blood—your blood. You were shaking. Your breath was nothing but a rattle, a painful hiss. You raised your head. A tear fell. Then another. You tried to speak. Nothing came out. You coughed up more blood. It was darker this time. Almost black.

You placed your hand on the wall to keep from falling. Your eyes burned. You couldn't see anything anymore. You were empty. And in that almost total silence, broken only by your broken breath, you understood. You had saved a man. And you had just sacrificed a part of yourself that you would never get back.

You closed your eyes. You were no longer whole. But he… he was alive.

A few days had passed, but they had brought no relief. The echo of the forbidden spell still screamed through your bruised flesh, reverberating through every vein like a blade that was both cold and burning. Your body, once a proud and solid sanctuary, was now nothing more than a cracked receptacle, tainted by the dark, corrupted magic you had summoned. Forbidden, unholy magic, an open wound in the very fabric of your soul.

Every night, you lay on the frozen floor of the Black Lotus Pavilion, your wide eyes fixed on the ceiling of shifting shadows, frozen between life and death, like a motionless offering in an abandoned temple. Your breaths came in short, ragged gasps, a hoarse rattle that seemed to come from the depths of an abyss. Your blood, that vital liquid, had become a burning poison, distilling pain and fatigue with every pulse. You had given everything, sacrificed everything. And something inside you, that day, had ceased to exist.

Time no longer had any contours. The hours ticked by in a thick fog, slipping like black sand between your icy fingers. The nights coiled around your throat like poisonous, endless snakes, strangling you in a silence echoing with the howls of the past war. Nothing made sense anymore, except this dull, tenacious pain, this gloomy wait, and the silent figure lying a few feet away from you, this fragile body that you had torn from the grim reaper, without it ever knowing.

Sitting cross-legged, arms clasped around your bruised stomach, you meditated in the icy silence. You tried to reconstitute that sacred IQ, that mutilated vital energy, torn apart by your forbidden act. But the gaping rift remained, hungry, insatiable. It was a bottomless pit, a void that nothing could fill. Your body was still bleeding, despite the magic. Streams of thick, black blood, weighed down by the curse, escaped from your nostrils, ran down your palms, sometimes even from your eyes. The metallic smell of iron, of rust, of misfortune had permeated you, sticking to your skin like a second flesh, an invisible gangrene.

And yet, despite this ignoble agony, you knew you had to make him leave. He must never know. Never discover that you had slashed your own heart to snatch his from the clutches of death. He must not see you as you were—the damned witch, the outcast of heaven, the guardian of a silent and monstrous sacrifice. You refused to let him bind you to this desecrated magic, to this horror that even the heavens refused to bless.

So you got up.

Your body reeled, heavy and broken. Your legs suddenly buckled in a wild spasm, as if refusing to bear such a heavy burden. You clutched desperately at the rough stone wall, your fingers trembling, your flesh bruised, to keep from collapsing into a pile of ash. A sharp pain, as sharp as a rusty blade, pierced your spine. You bit the inside of your cheek until it bled, to keep from letting out a scream of agony.

But you walked.

Your bare feet slid across the cold, damp, black-moss-covered flagstones, each step echoing in the icy silence like a funeral drumbeat heralding the end. You walked through the stagnant mists of the cave, where the air seemed laden with ancient deaths, oozing from the walls like a promise of despair. The smell of decay and blood permeated your matted hair, and your breath came in short, harsh gasps. Even the wind, once free and alive, seemed frozen here, trapped in an invisible tomb.

You finally reached the bedroom. And then… your eyes find him.

He was sleeping.

You stopped, panting, unable to go any further. Your breath caught in your tight throat. The name of this man, this mutilated soldier, echoed in your head like a profane incantation you had never dared to utter aloud: Lee Heeseung.

This stranger, this fragment of humanity torn from the demons of war, this broken body that you had saved, at the cost of your own sacrifice.

He lay on the black wooden bed, unconscious but alive. His chest rose and fell gently, almost timidly. His skin had become a little lighter, his wounds healed, cleansed of clotted blood, but the scars remained—etched into the flesh like so many silent witnesses to the carnage. His gaze, even closed, seemed to bear the weight of an unfathomable abyss, a void as black as night. You had felt his last breath slip through your fingers, and you had refused it, clinging to him by a thread of forbidden magic.

You approached slowly, your hands trembling, hesitant, as if haunted by the fear of profaning this fragile miracle. You wanted to hide them in the sleeves of your worn robe, but they slipped away, nervous, uncontrollable. You leaned over him, observing the rebellious locks falling on his forehead, still damp from the cold rain of the resurrection spell. He wore a black hanfu, woven in a secret whisper by your trembling hands—a robe of shadow, made of silence, ashes, and oblivion, the garment of a fallen king.

You looked at him for a long time, too long, as if you were looking for an answer, a release. Then, slowly, with infinite delicacy, you placed two fingers on his chest, where his heart beat weakly—that slow, hesitant drum, fragile like a last breath.

The black mist rose around you, dense and heavy, enveloping you in a veil of oblivion. And with a breath, you disappeared with it.

When you reappeared, it was in front of the Lee Residence. It was a shadow of its former self.

The stone bore the scars of a recent battle: arrow shards embedded in the walls, gaping breaches like open wounds, the ground stained with fresh, damp blood, filling the air with a metallic smell of iron and death. Distant screams rose muffled, drowned out by smoke that rose in thick curls toward a low, gray sky. The war was over here, leaving behind a silence of ashes.

You moved slowly, each step heavy, almost solemn. The lanterns hanging from the branches of the surrounding trees trembled, half-melted, casting flickering lights on the faces carved in the stone—dead heroes, forgotten ancestors, frozen in a time that would no longer pass.

You gently placed Lee Heeseung at the foot of the rough wall, his legs bent like those of an exhausted man, his back pressed against the cold stone. His head tilted limply to one side, exposing a pale, vulnerable throat, bare to the world. You knelt before him, and for the first time, truly, you looked at him.

He didn't look like a survivor. He looked like a sacrificed king. To a forgotten martyr. To a bloody offering.

You reached out your hand. A black lock of hair fell on his cheek, which you pushed back with a gesture of infinite gentleness. Your fingers brushed against his burning skin, slid slowly across his forehead, beaded with cold sweat. You felt the warmth of his life flickering, that fragile beat in the night.

And there, in that tiny touch, your heart nearly broke. No love. No pity. Something ancient, crueler, more voracious. A savage need, a burning desire. A hunger born of blood and war.

You jerked back, gasping for air. 

His brows furrowed in an almost imperceptible spasm. He was about to wake up. You shouldn't have been there. You were only the shadow, the silent sacrifice. Then, without a word, without a goodbye, you withdrew. You were dissolved into the mist, erased by the night.

When Heeseung opened his eyes, it was like a blade slashing through the black mist of unconsciousness. At first, it was a pale, harsh, unbearable light—as if his soul, snatched from the clutches of death, was not yet ready to return to life. Then, slowly, the outlines of a silent world appeared around him, blurred, twisted, bathed in an almost supernatural calm.

He no longer felt pain. And that alone should have alarmed him. For before… there had been only pain. Fire, blood, screams, swords slicing through flesh. The chaos of a battlefield that even the heavens had denied.

But all of this… seemed to belong to another life. A life he had left behind.

A veil covered his memory, not like natural forgetting, but like a curse. Thick, sticky, oozing with that dark, ancient magic that men should never touch. A painful absence, a hollow in his mind where something should still have burned. Someone. But there was nothing.

Not even a trace.

Not even an emotion.

As if the memory of someone he had unknowingly loved had been torn from him. When he looked down, it was to meet the gaze of a woman kneeling before him.

A celestial one.

Her immaculate dress floated in the still air as if it obeyed no laws of this world. Her skin was unblemished, her face marked by serene compassion. In her open palm, a soft light pulsed, like a heart ready to offer a second life. She looked at him gently, like a goddess descended from the heavens. And he… he believed her. He believed this illusion.

Because he needed to believe it.

Because a man returned from the dead, covered in healed wounds and clotted blood, no longer had the strength to doubt. His soul was too damaged, too weary, too broken to question what fate offered him. So he accepted. He accepted this lie. And in this choice—or this non-choice—was the most terrible cruelty. For it was not she who had saved him. It was not this woman of light.

It was you.

You, the shadow, the forbidden one, the witch with the torn heart. The one who had vomited blood to give him life again. The one who had sacrificed years of existence, burned away his power, lost part of her soul. The one who had carried him, inert and covered in wounds, to your home to snatch him from death.

You, of whom nothing remained. Not a trace in his memories. Not a hint of warmth in his gaze.

Heaven, in its cruel justice, had erased your name from its destiny. It had made you invisible. And while the celestial placed a benevolent hand on its brow, you were nothing more than a faded memory, a phantom presence that even the wind refused to name.

But your blood was still there. It stained the stones in front of the Lee house. It seeped into the roots. It called your name silently.

And if Heeseung had paid a little more attention... if he had listened a little more to his heart, he might have heard that silent cry, that tiny dissonance in the false harmony that was being held out to him.

But he didn't. He accepted the lie. He accepted his "savior." And you, somewhere in the mists, watched. Heart broken, body hollow. Knees in the mud, fingers covered in ash, eyes wide open in the night. You were the one who had loved him enough to disappear from his memory. The one who had saved him... so that he could live without you. 

And in a world torn apart by war, in a time when life was sold for pieces of soul, there was perhaps nothing more tragic...

…than having given everything to be forgotten.

20 Years Later — Yǒng míng huī diàn (永冥灰殿) — The Shrine of the Ashes of the Eternal Shadow 

It is said that the sanctuary of Yǒng Míng Huī Diàn stands on a desolate plateau, swept by icy, howling winds, atop a barren mountain, torn by centuries of storms and battles. Where life once tried to cling, today only black stones, split and splintered, remain, mutilated remnants of a world consumed by the fury of flames and the wrath of the gods. 

The ground is dry and cracked, crevassed like the skin of a dying man, and the few tufts of grass that dare venture there are quickly scorched by a burning dust laden with ash and dried blood.

The temple itself is a grim colossus, rising like a scar on the devastated landscape. Its dark stone walls appear to have been eaten away by fire and time, covered in thick, still-damp ash, as if war had just been raging within them once more. 

Massive columns, as black as the purest ebony, soar into an inky sky, heavy with clouds that stretch as far as the eye can see, threatening to engulf this place in an endless abyss. Each stone bears the scars of ancient battles, engraved with forbidden and cursed runes, engravings that glow faintly with an ashen, malevolent light, as if the temple's tormented soul itself manages the boundary between this world and the underworld.

The air is so thick with dark magic that it constricts the chest and tightens the throat, each breath becoming a painful struggle for breath, as if the shadows themselves were trying to penetrate your being. The wind, laden with dust and ash, never ceases to moan, carrying with it strange whispers, sighs of lost souls and the muffled laments of vanished soldiers. These voices haunt the temple, echoing through the empty corridors, mingling with the distant creaking of walls cracking under the weight of centuries and curses.

With every step, the ground becomes more menacing. It is littered with shards of broken bones, fragments of shattered weapons—swords, spears, axes—silent witnesses to a forgotten massacre, buried beneath layers of dried blood that blacken the earth. In places, dark, sticky pools, remnants of unspeakable carnage, betray the violence of the fighting that robbed this place of every ounce of life. The blood has mingled with the dust, creating a dark, viscous paste that oozes between the stones, like the indelible memory of a suffering that even time cannot erase.

Once sacred altars lie shattered, their mystical symbols half-erased by flames and the passage of time, but still imbued with a sinister energy. Reddish traces—a mingling of blood and ash—still stain their surfaces, evidence of ancient, bloody, perhaps forbidden rituals that resonate in the bleak silence of the sanctuary like an echo of immemorial horror.

The temple seems alive, breathing a dark, almost palpable melancholy. It echoes with a dull, incessant murmur—a spectral chorus of forgotten chants, muffled cries, and distant laments that twist the soul. The wind carries these sounds like a morbid lullaby, a funereal symphony mingling pain, anger, and despair. 

In some places, a thick black magic spreads in the air, undulating like a black and toxic mist, capable of plunging the heart into an icy night, of weighing down each beat, of constricting the lungs to the point of suffocation.

It is said that this sanctuary is not simply a place of contemplation or prayer, but a living tomb, a crossroads where tortured souls and vengeful spirits intertwine. Here, the boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead is fragile, and the shadows of fallen warriors wander in a dance of death, trapped in an endless cycle of suffering and blood. 

This place embodies the end of all things—absolute destruction, inexorable fall—but also the terrible power of that which refuses to die: the eternal shadow, the black flame, the incandescent ashes of war.

A marriage sealed in this place does not celebrate the sacred union of two souls, but a fatal pact, a fragile and unstable alliance between the unleashed forces of destruction and the resurgent forces of pain. It is marked by suffering, by the cruelty of fate, by the bloody violence of an oath forged in fire and blood. It is not an oath of love, but a commitment to bear the cross of a fragile balance between life and death, between light and darkness, sealed forever by sacrifice, pain, and the memory of torn souls.

You wore a blood-red hanfu, as bright as an open wound. It slid across your skin like a stream of fire, its long sleeves trailing behind you like the funeral ribbons of an offering. Motifs of bridled phoenixes, with folded wings and dull eyes, snaked along the fabric. They weren't sewn to fly. They were there to remind you of sacrificed nobility, aborted rebirth, the chains that even mythical creatures could not break.

The bottom of the hanfu was so dark it looked as if it had been dipped in ashes, blackened by the flames of a sacred pyre—that of your freedom.

And you, silent, you walked.

On your head rested a phoenix crown, forged from gold too heavy, engraved with imperial motifs and encrusted with ancient jade and pearly beads. With every step, it pulled you toward the ground, weighing like the sky itself. Every pin stuck in your hair seemed to pierce your skull to reach your mind, and the gold chains that hung from it vibrated gently, tinkling like funeral bells. They didn't celebrate a union. They mourned an execution in disguise.

You were dressed like an empress... But you felt like a prisoner being led to sacrifice.

Your face was hidden beneath a veil of red silk, embroidered with gold threads that outlined ancient characters—perhaps prayers, or perhaps curses. No one dared read them. This veil was the last bulwark between you and the world, between dignity and collapse. Around your neck, stiff, tight collars hampered your breathing. On your arms, dark metal bracelets, engraved with pact seals, bound you to the four clans that had shared your fate.

You moved slowly, each step painful. You felt the muscles in your legs protesting under the weight of the fabric, the metal, and the memory. The shoes were thin but stiff, and small patches of blood were already appearing at the tips of your toes—your body was reminding you that it refused to get used to this pain.

Since childhood, you had been trained. Yes, trained. Uneducated. Untrained. Trained as one forms a weapon, a tool, a bond.

Each ceremony, each ritual, had distanced you a little further from your humanity, making you the living heart of a fragile peace pact, the final barrier between war and the end of the world. And yet, today, atop this bare mountain, you understood that it was not peace you carried, but war frozen in a silk coffin.

The path to the Yǒng Míng Huī Diàn shrine was steep, lined with sharp stones and broken bones half-buried beneath the black dust. With every step, the mountain seemed to whisper, speaking to you in a language made of biting wind, scorched sand, and dried blood. The wind slapped you, sometimes lifting your veil, reminding you that you were only a body offered to the ancient gods.

When you finally reached the summit, a wave of dizziness washed over you. Before you, the temple stood its black silhouette against an inky sky, its walls cracked by war, its columns covered with forgotten symbols. There were no wedding decorations. No ribbons, no flowers, no music.

Only silence. The cold. And the ruins.

It was right. It wasn't a marriage. It wasn't a union. It was a ritual of mutual submission, an offering of flesh and soul to delay the inevitable—the next conflict, the next fall.

You saw the representatives of the four clans, posted at a good distance. Each of them wore mourning in their eyes, or in suppressed hatred. None of them really looked at you. You were not a woman. You were not a wife.

You were the knot in the rope, the one that bound them all in this senseless trap.

Your heart was beating. No fear. No hope. Of rage. Silent. Burning. Ancient.

Because no one had asked your opinion. No one had looked at you as you bled. No one had mourned the dead you left behind. And today, you were alone, terribly alone, surrounded by men, legends, pacts, and ruins. Your name, your past, your future had been torn from you. And now they wanted your body, bound by blood and the chains of an ancient oath.

And you walked towards the altar. The chains of your jewels rattled like funeral gongs. Your veil fluttered like a shroud. And beneath your feet, the mountain was still bleeding.

You walked slowly toward the altar, each step echoing off the icy stone of the shrine. Your blood-red hanfu, weighed down by the gold, silk, and chains that snaked around your body like so many silent oaths, trailed behind you like a living shroud. The black phoenix embroidery seemed to stir in time with the howling winds, as if they too rebelled against your fate. The golden crown on your head seemed to dig into your skull, each pin like a sharp claw. It was not an ornament, but a cage—a sentence.

Your veil obstructed your view, but you didn't need to see to know where you were going. You felt the presence of others. Their gazes. Their judgments. Their silence. You kept your head down, not out of submission, but out of necessity. To avoid looking at them. To avoid giving them the satisfaction of gazing at your broken face.

Because you didn't want them to see. Your pain. Your anger. Your fear.

You arrived before the altar, frozen like a statue. The wind rushed into the open nave of the temple, carrying flakes of ash, the smell of iron, ashes... and blood. The entire mountain seemed to contract around you, as if the earth itself were rejecting this marriage of ashes and chains.

You had been prepared for this moment since childhood, conditioned to obey, to endure. But none of the forced prayers, none of the cruel training, none of the mock ceremonies had prepared you for this real horror.

Five bowls were placed before you. Then a knife.

You grabbed the weapon, the cold metal biting into your palm before you could even move. Your hands were barely shaking, yet you felt your heart pounding against your ribs, like a captive beast. Without a word, you cut into your flesh. The pain was sharp, acute, almost clean at first. Then it became deeper, duller, settling into your bones, your nerves, your stomach. You poured your blood into the first bowl. But it wasn't enough. So you started again.

Again.

And again.

Each time, the blade cut more slowly, as if resisting, sinking more painfully into your already tortured flesh. Your blood was hot, viscous, almost black red in the funereal glow of the temple. It flowed slowly into the stone bowls, sliding down your wrist, dripping onto the sacred ground. You heard the pearls of your ornaments clash against your hanfu, and the shudder of the metal echo against the oppressive silence.

You weren't allowed to cry. Not now. Not here. Because you knew you were already in chains. You were just afraid of breaking yourself even more.

When the five bowls were finally filled with your blood, you put down the knife, your purple-covered fingers trembling slightly, but you straightened up, back straight, eyes still hidden.

Then came the others.

The celestial. The cold embodiment of divine law. He poured his blood into two bowls, one for him, one for you. His expression was fixed, solemn, almost inhuman. He wasn't afraid. Perhaps he felt nothing. Or perhaps, like you, he had learned to hide everything.

Then came the demon, the fox, the general. Each offered their blood. Each wove a scarlet thread between you.

One by one, you mixed your essences.

The mixture was thick, almost black. The blood pulsed in the bowls as if it were still alive. You could hear murmurs rising, ancient, guttural, as if the temple itself were awakening, hungry.

So you lifted your veil. The silk slid slowly off, revealing your pale, frozen face, bursting forth like a poisoned flower in this funereal setting.

You grab the bowl. And you drank. The first sip was lukewarm, metallic, disgusting. The second, a test.

You wanted to vomit, to spit out this abject agreement, this carnal pact, but you didn't. You swallowed every drop, your gaze empty, your hands clenched. And as the black liquid went down your throat, you felt something tear inside you—a last innocence.

Then the pain came. Not normal pain. Holy agony. As if a burning blade were slowly inscribing itself between your shoulder blades, carving an eternal seal into your flesh. You fell to your knees, your breath caught, the cry frozen in your throat. You heard ancient chants, muffled cries, the crash of armies, the suffering of the dead, fire and ice mingling.

And on your skin, the mark took shape. A black and red swirl, like a cursed galaxy. At the center, the demon's devouring spiral, blood red, pulsing like a heart. A vivid, barbaric energy that seemed to want to engulf you.  Around them, the stylized wings of the celestial—elegant, but burned, tarnished, broken. Justice corrupted. Duty sacrificed.  On the right, the dancing flames of the fox—graceful, undulating, deceptive, dangerous. The cruel charm of the manipulator.  On the left, sharp fragments of armor—the general. Fallen honor. War in the flesh. The weight of responsibility on broken shoulders. And you, at the center, receptacle of their power, prisoner of their war.

It wasn't a wedding.

It was a curse.

An eternal condemnation.

And in the silence of the temple, while your blood still steamed at the bottom of the bowls, you understood that nothing would ever be the same again.

You would never be free again.

The marks of the pact were not mere symbols.

They weren't painted or tattooed. They had been burned into their flesh like a hot iron, but this fire wasn't made of ordinary flames. It came from another world. From an ancient magic, closer to a curse than a blessing.

On Sunghoon, it had formed on his right wrist—not on the palm, nor on the arm, but right there, between the fineness of the tendons and the pulsing of the artery. Where the blood beats regularly. Where chains, in other times, would have been attached.

At first, it was only a shudder. Then the pain came, sharp, dull, as if a needle of pure light were piercing every nerve. The mark had carved itself, slowly, in silent agony, like an invisible hand tracing an ancient incantation on his skin, indecipherable to mortals.

It depicted a broken circle, surrounded by vines of lightning and celestial runes half-erased by the centuries. Each line seemed to breathe. Sometimes the mark would pulse with a dull red light, whenever he came close to you—or whenever his heart wavered between duty and anger.

He no longer dared raise his arm without feeling the mark burn. As if it reminded him with every gesture that his hand was no longer his. That it belonged to the pact. Yours.

For Jay, it was a more intimate torture. The demon's mark opened in the center of his left palm—the hand he extended when he made deals, killed, or caressed.

It appeared as a crack in the middle of his skin, as if a lightning bolt had split it from within. A breath of shadow escaped from this mystical wound during the ritual, almost as if something living were screaming silently. It wasn't just a wound, it was a door. A rift into the dark. Into everything he had repressed, locked away.

Black filaments, like dead veins, extended from the mark, running up his forearm like snakes ready to burst beneath the skin. It burned him whenever he used his magic. Whenever he thought of you. Whenever he wanted to run away from what he had become.

Sometimes he would slam it shut, his fist trembling, as if to stifle a voice that only he could hear. But the voice came back. And she whispered your name.

In Jake's case, the mark was more insidious, almost elegant in its cruelty. It had drawn itself behind his right ear, where the whispers of yesteryear slip in, where promises are made in hushed tones. An intimate place. Fragile. That no one can see... unless they get closer. And few were those he let approach. The mark was shaped like an inverted crescent moon, surrounded by thin claws, like a forgotten bite. On its surface, ancient symbols appeared and disappeared like illusions. They glowed with a murky purple radiance, a reflection of moody and unstable magic.

When his thoughts became too vivid, too painful, the mark would come to life, pulsing against his skin like a stray heartbeat. Sometimes he would scratch it until it bled, but it remained there, unalterable.

A secret. A curse. A subtle and cruel chain that he wore in silence, with the lying smile of those who prefer to hide their pain behind laughter.

For Heeseung, the mark had taken root on his left collarbone, where the heart beats strongest, where the burden of command weighs like invisible armor. It had burst from his skin like a blade's shard: brutal, sharp, silent. It looked like a gash in the shape of an inverted cross, lined with black fragments like pieces of shattered armor. The surrounding skin was purple, as if bruised by fire. Through the lines, screaming faces could be seen, silhouettes in flames, memories of ancient battlefields.

When he breathed deeply, the mark spread. As if it were soaking up every breath, every thought. Once, he lay alone, shirtless, in the freezing rain, hoping the water would wash away the seal. But nothing worked.

The brand remained. Alive. Red. Living. Like you.

And at the center of each of their bodies… The mark sometimes throbbed in unison. A silent, barely perceptible shudder, like the breath of a memory thought forgotten, but which never quite dies. An ancient echo, buried in the flesh, engraved in the bones. A cursed pulse that responded to the most visceral emotions, as if each heartbeat was no longer entirely theirs. As if a part of you lived through their pain.

When one of them thought of you—not with tenderness, but with that confused burning between hatred, regret, and desire—the mark would awaken. Red. Dark. Cold, at first, like the shiver of a warning. Then hot, burning, devouring. It vibrated beneath the skin, as if something inside them wanted to come out, scream, flee… or come back to you.

And when you suffered—when you wept alone, under the weight of the pact, when your knees touched the stone floor and your blood flowed again to assuage the curse—their marks would flare for no apparent reason. They would awaken in the middle of the night, in the midst of battle, or in the silence of a deserted palace. They pulsed like a reminder. A bond. A shared pain, foreign yet intimate, as if your grief screamed through the bones of the world.

And when one of them used the magic of the pact... When the forces sealed in their flesh were activated, when they invoked forbidden techniques born of common blood, then the five marks would light up together, even from leagues apart.

They answered each other, clashed. They screamed. Not an audible scream, no. But a scream from the soul. A scream that only those who suffer understand.

A red light—dense, almost black—emerged from those open cracks in the skin, those scars that never healed. It shone for a moment, like an eye opening. An ancient eye. Witness to the horror. And then… the pain returned. Not the pain of an injury. Not the pain of a torn muscle or a broken bone.

No.

That of a heart forced to beat for a cause it didn't choose. That of a love buried alive, beneath duty, war, and black magic. The demon shuddered, growled, his fangs clenched, his palm branded with fire beneath his chains. The celestial, for his part, closed his eyes, trying not to show anything, but his wrist trembled, and his breath broke in the prayer he never finished. The fox, still smiling, held his hand behind his ear as if it were nothing—but his eyes lost their sparkle, and his laughter became empty, hollow, broken. And the general... He placed his hand on his left collarbone. He said nothing. But his silence bled more than all the screams.

And you. You, at the center. Voluntarily imprisoned by a destiny that no longer allows you the right to love or hate freely. You who drink their pain like one drinks poison that never ends.

Your own seal, lodged between your shoulder blades, pulses every time they think of you. You never know which one. But you feel it. You feel their rage. Their confusion. Their sadness. And sometimes, that burning in your back becomes unbearable. A silent agony, a fire beneath your skin, as if each of them is calling you, claiming you, cursing you… or loving you, all in the same breath.

And you, what can you do but stand upright, veiled in red and silence, your back burning, your hands bloody, and your heart poisoned by four souls who can neither love you... nor forget you?

It wasn't a bond. It was a chain. A blood oath, twisted, impure, sacred. Impossible to break. Impossible to escape.

A mutilated love.

An exiled love.

A love that bleeds and lives, against the will of the gods.

Yè Mó Gǔchéng – Ancient City of the Night Demon

You find yourself in Yè Mó Gǔchéng — the Ancient City of the Night Demon.

Suspended in the heights of a cursed valley where dawn never breaks, it is a relic of a forgotten age, a chasm of shadows frozen in stone. As you advance, the wind crashes against the fractured walls like an ancient sigh, carrying with it a thick, reddish, almost living mist. It seeps between the collapsed arches, winds between the mutilated columns, and coils around your ankles like bloody chains.

The cobblestones creak beneath your feet. Not because of the cold, but because the ground is made of crushed bones and memories frozen in stone—fragments of war, betrayed oaths. They say every wall in Yè Mó Gǔchéng is a tomb, every roof an open coffin, every tower an unfinished prayer. And you hear them, those whispers of pain—muffled, tiny, like tears that even death could not silence.

The Demon King's palace sits in the center, like a black heart wrapped in obsidian chains. It has no stained-glass windows or light. It offers no shelter, only the weight of its silence. It is said that this palace still beats like a wounded beast curled into itself, infected with forbidden magic, growling with every sigh of the wind.

This is where you must spend your wedding night.

You were not led to him with tenderness or music. There was no procession or flowers. You walked alone, draped in red, the veil falling over your eyelashes, escorted only by the ghosts of the virgins who had died before you. You were the offering. The pact. The blood sealed in a cup of agony.

The bridal chamber does not resemble a love bed, but an execution cell.

The bed, immense, is made of a blackened wood that even flames refuse to consume. The sheets are heavy, red silk woven with tarnished gold threads, embroidered with scenes of war and ancient pacts. From the ceiling, a mobile of hanging bones creaks with every movement of air, emitting a macabre music of dry clicking. Chains hang from the walls, unused but present, like a silent threat. The room is saturated with overly thick perfumes, burning black jasmine candles, and immortality incense—an aroma too sweet, almost sickening, like the taste of something too beautiful in a mouth full of blood.

You are here.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, straight as a marble statue, frozen in a dignity that crumbles with every second. Hours pass and your gaze wanders to the floor, then to the wall, then to the moving shadow cast by the dying flame of a lantern. You say nothing. You hardly breathe. Waiting is a blade against your throat.

You are hungry. But hunger is a suffering you know how to contain.

For it wasn't your stomach that groaned the loudest—it was your heart. Your heart, which, despite the pain, despite the betrayal, had held onto a shred of hope. A shred of humanity. You had thought, maybe… maybe he would come. Not for you. But at least for the honor of the pact. For the blood you had shed. For the pain that had scarred you forever.

But he doesn't come. Not a step. Not a vibration in the air. Just silence. And cold. And shame. When the door finally creaks, it's not him. She's a young maid, pale-faced, arms outstretched, trembling like a candle in the rain. She doesn't speak right away, as if your anger will strike her before it even takes shape.

You don't even turn your head. You no longer have the strength. Your eyes stare into space, the moving shadows of the red veil hanging over the wedding bed, that bed where no oath was ever consummated, that bed where your heart emptied itself in silence.

"He won't come... will he?" Your voice rises, weak at first, then colder, sharper than a blade drawn in the dark. It's not a question. It's a sentence. The kind you carve on a stele, funereal, irrevocable.

The maid jumps as if she's been struck. She lowers her head so low that her forehead almost touches the black stone floor. Her fingers tremble on the coarse fabric of her dress, as if she's trying to sink into it, disappear.

"I... I apologize, madam... the lord... he is overwhelmed this evening."

"Overwhelmed"... The word resonates, bitter. Like a poison distilled in a low voice. You stand slowly. You don't leap—you rise. Like the rising red tide, unstoppable. Your robe, a vast hanfu of scarlet silk embroidered with dead phoenixes, spreads around you, heavily, like spilled blood that never dries.

Your hair, tied back in a crown and studded with golden thorns and precious chains, quivers under the weight of silence. Your eyes, shining with a pain you refuse to let flow, stare at the maid who barely dares to breathe.

“Get out. I no longer require your services.” Your voice is calm. Too calm. A chilling calm, where you can sense entire worlds crumbling beneath the surface. “And tell him this: if the king of hell thinks his throne is too heavy to honor a pact sealed by blood and pain… let him know that some things never forgive forgetting.” You don’t scream. You don’t cry. Feelings are an offering you refuse to make to those who trample them.

You reach out. The black mist envelops you. A mist born of the pact itself, a cursed magic, contracted in blood, worn like a chain around your soul. It devours you and carries you away. In a breath, you are gone.

And you reappear at the Black Lotus Pavilion. A sanctuary. A refuge. No… not anymore. The lanterns are out. The silence is so dense it crushes you. The walls, painted gold and jade, seem narrower than ever. As if this room has become a tomb. Your tomb.

And then you collapse.

You let out a scream. A howl. Not of pain. Not yet. A scream of rage, of shame, of loneliness. You tear down the draperies, you smash the precious objects you were given, you toss the censers, the vases, the instruments. Everything that reminds you that you were an offering. A bride. A thing to be consumed and forgotten.

The mirror shatters against the floor. It reflects your own face back at you, shattered into a thousand shards. A thousand versions of you. All lost. All hated. You fall to your knees, your palms bleeding against the shards. You gasp, your lungs burning. And your eyes… your eyes, they still refuse to cry.

Until you see her.

The pin. Just one, slipped into the storm. A thin golden stem, adorned with a black pearl and a drop-shaped ruby. It was your mother's. One of the few memories not taken from you. A promise, long ago. That you would never be alone. And you grab it. Your fingers tremble. You press it against your palm. Hard. Hard enough to feel the bite. Hard enough to make the blood flow again.

“I'm an idiot… an idiot…” Your voice breaks. Each word is a fragment of soul you spit out like shards of glass. “I should have known… Hope… hope is poison… And love… love is a curse.”

You curl into yourself, your dress crumpled, your body twisted. You lie down on the cold wood. Your cheek against the ground. Your hands close around the void. You shiver. With grief. With shame. With anger.

And the tears come. Not human tears. Ancient tears. Tears that carry within them all the sacrifices you've had to make, all the sleepless nights, all the sacrifices imposed on you.

You cry. Until your eyelids close against your will. Until sleep tears you from the pain. A dark, haunted sleep. A dreamless sleep. Or perhaps populated by just one: that of a man with red eyes... who will never come.

And in the icy silence of the Lotus Pavilion, the shadows close in on you. Some cry with you. Others… laugh softly in the darkness.

And that night…

As your body lay on the floor of the Black Lotus Pavilion—this place now a tomb, this sanctuary now empty—an ancient breath rose in the air, imperceptible, but laden with a forgotten memory.

A thrill. A whisper in the spine of the world. A call.

And beneath your skin, just between your shoulder blades, where the flesh had been marked by the pact, a glow ignited. Faintly at first. Like an ember thought to be extinguished. Then the light grew brighter. A pale blue. But it wasn't the blue of the morning sky, nor that of a distant dream.

It was a spectral blue.

The blue of the abyss.

The blue of goodbyes.

It rose from you like a silent complaint, a wave crossing heaven and earth, striking, without pity, the hearts linked to yours. And with that light… came pain. Not for you. No. Not this time. It hit them. One by one. Slowly. Irremediably.

At the top of the world, where the air is too pure for mortals, the celestial Sunghoon meditated, seated on a pale silk cushion, in the silence of a temple suspended in the void. Circles of ancient ink floated around him, chains of celestial prayers, all intended to purify his soul, to sever the bonds of the lower world.

But no seal, no prayer, no divine law could stop what happened.

Without warning, he tensed. His right palm began to burn. Not on the surface, but deep within the flesh. The blue light seeped into his veins, sinuous, painful, as if a river of ice and fire were flowing against the current of his blood. His breath caught. He leaned forward, his hand pressed against his wrist, where the mark pulsed like a second heart. A scream rose in his throat… but it didn't come out. He didn't scream. He closed his eyes.

And in that inner darkness, he saw you. Collapsed. Extinct.

Something tore inside him. Not his pride, nor his celestial dignity. No. Something older. More primitive. A link. An oath he had sworn to hate… but which survived the hatred.

He didn't think. His body acted on its own. And his steps, free from all logic, began to move.

Towards you.

In the bowels of a cursed temple, beneath blood-soaked stones, the demon king Park Jongseong uttered the final words of a forbidden spell, his forehead covered in black sweat, his body surrounded by ancient glyphs.

But even the dark magic stopped, as if terrified. A blue flash split the shadow.

His left palm burst into flames, and he howled—a guttural, primal sound, a wounded beast in the darkness. He fell to his knees. His heart skipped a beat. The tattoos along his arm activated, pulsing, as if your name were etched into them in letters of fire. He spat out blood. And in that blood, a fragment of your grief. He slowly straightened up, his eyes wild.

“You again… what did you do to me…?”

But it wasn't anger that drove him. It was something else. Even more terrible. A dull fear. A worry he never wanted to feel.

In the heart of a pleasure house hidden beneath red lanterns, the fox Sim Jake played the lute, his laughter hanging on his lips, his charm diffused like sweet poison.

He seduced. He played. He forgot.

Until the pain hit him. Just behind his ear, where his mark, so subtle it might have seemed inexistent, began to glow an electric blue. He dropped his instrument. The lute shattered on the ground. He staggered, one hand on his temple, his eyes wide. He stood up, unsteady, his legs weak. He leaned against a wall painted with flowers, which now looked faded.

"You really are... incorrigible," he murmured, his throat tight.

He wished he didn't feel anything. But that fire in him was yours. That pain was your heart screaming into the void. And even in his cowardice, he could not escape it.

On a training ground abandoned since the war, General Lee Heeseung tirelessly repeated the same movements. A blade. A step. A breath. The saber dance in silence.

But on the fourth move, his sword slipped from his grasp.

His left collarbone flared up. He fell to his knees, his hand clutched at his chest. His mark glowed like a firebrand, blue cracks spreading across his skin like frozen lightning.

And suddenly… he knew.

He saw you. Not with his eyes, but with that part of him you had locked away in the pact. He felt your shame, your loneliness, your silent rage. He felt your cold body against the floor. Your muffled sobs. And he bowed his head. Without a word. He wouldn't come. But he didn't forget you.

And in the silence, a tear traced a bitter furrow on his cheek.

Four places.

Four pains.

Only one link.

The mark throbbed on their skin, a single beat. An invisible chain.

You, forgotten witch, rejected, abandoned in the room where no lover came... you made them suffer. Not out of revenge. But because you bled. And they bled with you. Not because they wanted to. But because the pact does not forget.

You crawled slowly towards the bed, your gaze drowned in absence, your hands pressed against your stomach as if you could contain your pain, and you whispered, to no one:

“Hope is poison… Love… damnation.”

And the shadows around you wept too. Or cursed you. But it didn't matter. Because that night, you were all bound together.

Not by desire.

But by blood.

And blood… never lies.

Taglist : @weepingsweep @immelissaaa

[revelboo]

This might get lost but I'm super curious to know who your most requested character is?

I thinks it’s a toss up between Jazz, Waspinator, and Tarn 🤣 And my inbox is somehow back at 600 again with nearly another 100 in drafts

18+ Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Scenario-play

Predaking x Reader

• Skin prickling as you catch a glimpse of him through the trees, his biolights a golden glow in the dark as he rumbles and you hide behind a tree. Hearing branches cracking as he pushes them out of the way with his bulk, hunting for you. Can you make it to a new hiding spot before he sees you? Goosebumps lifting all over you when he makes a deep chuffing noise, you almost bolt from your hiding place, heart racing as his massive form stalks past.

• Tail lazily swinging as he makes himself move past your hiding place, every intake scents of you. Knows as well as you must that you can’t really hide from him. That he will always find you. And it’s so hard to be patient, to not end the game too soon no matter how eager he is or how much his spike aches. Steps slowing so he doesn’t get too far from you, waiting. Head snapping around with a snarl when you break and run.

• Actual, legitimate terror spins you tight when he roars and you forget. Forget everything but that ancient, animal part of your brain that panics and seizes control. Hear him crashing after you, the sound of him transforming and an arm hooks around you, hauling you off your feet as he falls with you, twisting so he takes the impact with you sprawled on top of him. And his big servos brush your throat, feeling the frantic thrum of your pulse as you remember you’re safe, feel his mouth against your shoulder. “I caught you,” he murmurs, smiling as his mouth brushes your jaw, denta pressing a soft bite against your neck before he’s rolling you under him. “You’re mine.”

• Hooking an arm under you even though you don’t need any encouragement to lift your hips for him, going up onto your knees and elbows. “That’s right. Yours,” you whisper as he shifts behind you, servos cupping you and he growls finding you already slick. Enjoying being hunted as much as he enjoys the conquest. It’s a relief to free his aching spike and cover you. Feel your wet heat take him deep as he shifts against you, caging your smaller frame.

• Clawed servos digging into the loam on either side of you, he begins moving against you, the first hard drive of his hips nearly knocking you off balance before you brace and he finds a rhythm. Hips pumping urgently as he growls in your ear. Knowing by the end you’ll have dirt under your nails, leaves and sticks in your hair and not caring at all. His mouth brushes your shoulder, denta biting gently as he shifts at your back, pushing your upper body down and the shift in angle trips you over that edge. Crying out as he bites again, harder this time, hips bucking even as you feel the base of his spike swelling to lock him inside you.

• Elbows on the ground beside you as you tremble under him and he fills you, he knows he’s not going to be able to separate from you for a while you’re wrapped so tightly around his spike. Not that he’s in any hurry. Cheek brushing yours, he shifts against you and you whimper as his spike pulses inside you still. Filling you and tempting him to try to spark you while you’re tied together. Hips rocking against you as much as he can with his spike so swollen, thinking about you carrying his sparklings as you shudder and whimper that you’re too sensitive. Of breeding a new generation of predacons with you. No matter how many tries it takes.