#and he may be Connecting Threads | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sugurouge · 27 days ago

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── in your hand. from my heart. hades! sylus x persephone! female! feader

. ˳༚༅༚ explicit content, dark contentish, mdni: stalking, kidnapping, aphrodisiacs, dark magic, rituals, marking, loss of virginity, slight corruption, obsession, manhandling, multiple orgasms, pet names, size difference, praise, body worship

♱ word count: 16k

♱ synopsis: You never asked for the shadows to love you but the god who rules them has deemed you his obsession. Sylus watches, yearns, and finally steals what Olympus never deserved to keep. You should hate him. You do. Yet the underworld feels less like a prison, and more like a sanctuary awaiting your claim.

author’s note: I’ve adapted the original Hades and Persephone myth to better suit Sylus’s story and personality. While I’ve strayed from the soulmate bond (since gods don’t have souls) I’ve imagined a sort of darker, ancient thread of fate to connect Sylus and reader

I recommend listening to Even In Arcadia :)

You are the kindest thing that ever happened to me, even if that is not how our tale is told. When everyone else told me i was destined to be a forgotten nymph that nurtured flowers and turn meadows gold, you saw that the ichor that resides in me demanded its own throne. You showed me how a love like ours can turn even the darkest, coldest realm into the happiest of homes.” ― Nikita Gill

Many wars begin with a whisper. The God of the Underworld may have never expected to wage war against himself. They are quiet at first, nothing but sultry temptations dancing at the edge of Sylus's mind, enticing him with promises of you, of fate, of the inevitable. Urging, no, commanding him to take what is his.

Sylus resists. For now.

However, the whispers never cease. They dig their claws deep within his being, weaving their way through his thoughts to haunt him relentlessly until they become a part of him. All sparks kindle new flames, and this obsession sears, cuts, and bleeds into every waking moment, every fevered dream. Always, her . Always, you . The girl embraced by sunlight. The daughter of sky and soil, too radiant to be held by either. She who treads through fields that bow to her, who crafts blossoms with her loving care, who beckons earth to summon spring and chase away the biting cold and darkness of winter.

A pulse of new life, a being of warmth. Your presence bends the very fabric of existence: your laugh causes the trees of Olympus to shudder in delight, and the tunes you hum bring the rivers to still to listen to your beautiful voice. Treasured, you remain untainted by darkness and desire, by everything that clings to Sylus like a second skin.

Though he has cherished you equally from the depths of his realm, the King of the Dead, meant for an existence without everything you embody, has watched your every moment. He knows you do not belong to the Underworld—you do not belong to him—and yet, he wants your divinity to grace his lonesome heart.

Neither reason nor logic may be found behind his obsession. How could something so untouched by shadow, so wholly good, possibly stir the hunger inside him unbearably?

────────── ♱

To your ears, the whispers have always been there. They called for you in the rustling of the olive trees, in the wind slipping through wheat fields. But it is at the end of a long day, in the stillness settling just before dusk, when the whispers' embrace finds you again.

As a child, you mistook them for a fantasy of your lonesome moments, an imaginary friend your mother brushed off. But time removed the layers that painted them an illusion. These are not the voices of imagination. They stir from something older, something waiting to welcome you home. They linger in the shadows, out of reach but ever near, watching you blossom. They are a presence unseen yet felt, accompanied by ruby eyes piercing through the dark.

Two dots, burning like embers, keep you company as you dance through the realms of dreams. Guarding you, cherishing you.

They first caught your attention while hiding in the branches of a forest. You told yourself that the moment had been fleeting, a trick of the light. Yet the sensation of being watched continued to press against your skin and sink into your very bones.

You never mention them, not to your mother, not to the nymphs, never to your father. Not after the debacle upon the confession of the whispers clouding your mind.

Agreed, it was foolish to believe something could possibly lurk in the corners of your world, to imagine that the unseen figure belonged to something more than a waking dream. But the truth had never been so simple: Mephisto has been watching you for years.

A shadow among fruit trees, a winged guardian keeping its master's gaze locked upon you. The crow found a home on your windowsill, in the canopy of trees—wherever you went, he was sure to follow. Each sighting, each fragment of your life gathered in the folds of darkness, only deepened Sylus's craving.

Though he remained in his realm.

After all, the God of the Underworld was not a creature of impulse, no, he was patient, methodical, and ruthless in his desires.

From his throne cradled by obsidian halls, Sylus watched you grow from an innocent flower into something untamed, something the gods of Olympus could never truly fulfil. It was not merely your beauty—yet he would never deny the allure of your glistening skin under the sun, your hair flowing in the air, or the delicate curve of your lips whenever you smiled. But it was the spirit beneath the surface. You were no ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. Not with the fire you carry within.

A fire Sylus longed to set ablaze, longed to hold in his cold, empty hands.

It took Sylus longer than he first anticipated to weave the strands of fate in his favour. His influence may stretch long and deep, seeping into the world above like rotten roots blighting the earth. However, abducting a goddess required planning. But he yearned to see you through his own eyes, to touch you with his own hands, to hear your voice rise in ecstasy and anger.

The golden light of the late afternoon leaves its loving kiss on your skin to craft a creature of warmth as you move through fields of endless gold. You stray far from the others, lost in the simple pleasure of the breeze, of the flowers, and of the rivers greeting you.

The moment is peaceful until it isn't.

Suddenly, the world itself seems to shift as even the wind stills.

A shadow darker than any you have ever witnessed spreads like thunderclouds over the once sun-kissed lands. They chase away the light and its warm hold, replacing it with something cold that wraps around your senses like a viper ready to strike.

A chill chases down your spine while your widened eyes search for the true reason for your distress. It is only upon another turn that you finally see him.

Standing at the edge of the fields, as if undaring to breach the final boundary between your bodies, he watches you. A figure of impressive, near looming height, dressed in flowing black garments with shadows dancing at the edges of the seams. Long hair cascades down his back and frames his shoulders, its silver-tone a stark contrast against the twisted horns curved atop his head to frame a face too sharp, too cruel, too impossibly beautiful. His intense eyes smoulder like burning coals, causing your gaze to drop to the blood-red ruby in his chest.

Neither a fight nor a flight response kicks in as you realise his familiarity. Those eyes—you know them from the darkness of night—remember them staring at you as you caught them from the corners of your eyes.

"You," nothing but a breathless whisper, but oh does it tug on Sylus's heart to finally hear your unfiltered voice—in recognition at that. He ignores the tentative step you take backwards. A part of him perhaps pities you for the freedom you are about to lose.

"You've been watching me," you dare to accuse. While your voice may not shake, the tremble in your hands is as evident as the longing in Sylus's eyes.

But he can't lose his composure just yet. He can't scare away his prey through his own foolish greed. A slow, knowing smirk on his lips is his attempt to act nonchalant.

"Of course."

Revulsion battles with another deeper, more twisted emotion buried in your bones. And finally, finally , your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but upon the first turn of your ankle, a snap of fingertips follows, and darkness shoots out like tendrils all around you. Not to split the earth beneath but to finally bring his world into awaiting arms.

The mist pulls you forward, closer to the being at the edge of the field. Panic claws up your throat, causing your voice to become a broken, raspy screech as you struggle against the pulsing shackles around your figure. "Let me go!" You try to warn him, fighting and clawing at nothing but shadows. But your struggle doesn't hinder Sylus. If anything, your fighting spirit amuses him.

Yes, he seems magnified by the racing rise and fall of your chest, by the widened pupils and blazing anger flashing across your features. "You fight like a young wildcat," he muses in a sultry voice, tilting his head as if admiring you in deep thought. "Claws bared, teeth flashing."

A scoff follows from your lips while you twist and turn with all the strength you can muster up. And still, his expression remains one of idle fascination. As if this, too, was exactly as Sylus had imagined.

"Mhm, you shine brightly, my dear," Sylus teases before one finger curls toward him. It is a simple gesture that sends another wave of black and red force to come crashing around you, steal the breath from your lungs, and cause your fighting spirit to falter in exhaustion.

The world may turn blurry; your knees may give way, but you do not crumple into the ground. Not when strong arms can finally cradle you. Sylus moves fast, almost too eager yet incredibly fluid to catch you. One arm wrapped around your waist is enough to cradle you against him. A gentle, near-ticklish touch glides along the back of your thighs before lifting your feet off the ground.

He carries you like an offering he already claimed. "Hush now," a mumble in a way that could render you willing, that should convince you to find comfort in his arms.

At least to his calculations.

But you do not.

How your body twists in his grasp, how your fists hammer against his chest—it is almost enough to infuriate him. Of course, it does not hurt, not physically, but your vehement rejections land piercing blows to his ego. Part of him believed you would willingly run into his arms and would recognise this connection you share.

Oh, was he wrong.

"Put me down!" Sylus assumes that the command is the first of many to follow in the future.

But he is quick to understand the need to act it off. He has to pretend to be unbothered by your distaste for him. So, after steeling his resolve, crimson eyes glance down to face your glare head-on. Newfound amusement dances across Sylus's features, accompanied by a burning passion whirling through glistening flecks of gold in his gaze. "I would, but I fear you might run."

"I will!" you bite back while struggling harder against the confident hold of your captor. "I will run, and I will never stop!"

Something akin to a purr rumbles inside Sylus's chest. His smile widened, slow and indulgent, at the prospect of a game. "Don't tempt me so…" he mumbles in adoration while leaning in to nudge the tip of his nose against yours.

Fury seems to burn brighter than your fear by now, though it did not change the scene that unfolded.

The fields, the light, the warmth of the sun— everything vanishes into the abyss. Only him, only the darkness, the scent of smoke and myrrh remains as the blackened energy whips around your entangled bodies and pulls you down.

Sylus hides his face in the crook of your neck, and as much as you drown in darkness and despair, does Sylus finally drown in warmth and sweetened notes of fruits and florals.

No matter how much you struggle in his loving hold, ultimately, there is no escaping the force that drags you downward. The sun becomes a distant memory before it is gone entirely. The home you knew and cherished is no longer a place to return to.

────────── ♱

Now everything is new. No, it is not new; it is different. Other . This silence seems suffocating, so unlike the gentle hum of life or the breeze in the leaves, it feels like finality. It presses against your skin like the desperate hands of drowning souls trying to grasp their chance for life anew.

Vast and endless, a silence that does not belong to the living.

"You're awake."

Your breath falters at the commanding voice reverberating inside these grand, dark halls. The only source of light falls from the flickering glow of lanterns filled with ethereal blue fire. The shadows in this realm appear to stretch longer across the polished floors, and at the heart of it all, he sits on a throne made to be feared and cowered before.

The figure that has stolen you from the world above. The God of the Underworld. Known to the mortals as Hades, known among gods as Sylus .

He waits for you with bated breath. Hoping for you to speak, to move, to give him anything he could work with. Perhaps you sense his hidden distress, at least that is what Sylus tells himself, since you finally part your lips.

"Why am I here?" Your voice is hoarse, raw from the screams of your fight.

A slow, deliberate smile tugs at the corner of Sylus's lips while he watches your impatience sprout like weeds. So unlike the gentle goddess, you present yourself to be.

"I concluded it was time for you to come home."

The words slam into you, twisting and turning until anger surges to victory and leads you to stagger to your feet. "This—" You pause right after the first word to allow yourself another glimpse at these forsaken halls. " This is not my home!" There's so much bark for such little bite, you look entirely endearing to Sylus.

So, unsurprisingly, he does not fall for your temper. Instead, he remains unmoving. His lips are sealed, and no arguments follow. He only watches patiently, as if waiting for you to tire yourself out of this tantrum.

It's almost like he already knew the end of your tale.

"Take me back." The demand leaves your lips with a confidence Sylus has not yet seen. Oh , and this look, the determination in your eyes, awakens the desire he tries to keep at bay.

Why not coax the spark into a blaze?

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, followed by a gentle sigh of satisfaction. There is only one word, two syllables, and its meaning is distinctive: "No."

The thundering echo of father's famous rage appears to ring true inside your frame as your fingers curl into fists and the ground of the Underworld starts to shake. Perhaps it already recognises its queen. "You have no right!" Is your angered accusation towards the god who remains unbothered by your distress.

Sylus is indeed unbothered, but for differing reasons than one might suspect. His mind is distracted by how willingly his home, his realm, welcomes you in, bends to you, and kneels at your will.

Shadows darkened his face upon the tilt of his head, and the amusement that once danced across his features vanished in the blink of an eye. When he speaks again, his voice is soft but cuts through the air all the same. "I have every right."

The weight of his words presses down on you, heavy as the walls of this palace. You try to find reason and desperately make sense of the situation you find yourself in. But there is none. Only panic, worry, and fear are your newfound companions through the dark reaches of the Underworld.

Your mother will search for you; the gods above will not stand for this, and there will be consequences.

Yet any possible consequence means little to Sylus.

Eventually, he rises from his throne in a slow and graceful motion, serving as a reminder of his prominence. He is tall, impossibly so, and his form casts a long shadow over you, staging as claws of a predator while they reach for his prey.

You flinch away from the outstretched hand, but something so feeble could never stop a god possessed. Sylus's fingers brush against your cheek—light, worshipping—before he pulls back too soon. Though his eyes, warm and filled with unspoken wishes, remain on you, to study you like the most precious treasure.

His treasure.

"You were always meant to be here," Sylus eventually murmurs, breaking this seemingly still moment between you two. Even if you don't see it yet," he adds, before halting not just his words but also the fingertips that almost brushed against your shoulder. "You are made for me."

With these words, Sylus turns to leave and vanishes into the endless corridors beyond. Though your words of hatred become his companion, they echo off the palace halls.

"I will never belong to you!" A vow, a promise, a warning spoken with conviction.

How much truth rings true may only be deciphered in the future, but Sylus seems already sure of the outcome, judging by the small, knowing smile spreading on his lips after he mumbles, "We shall see," like a secret between himself and the darkness around him.

You stand motionless, every muscle in your body tense, perhaps even trembling, as you remain stubbornly unwilling to accept the cold finality of your circumstances. The grandeur of the palace is impressive, though to you, it feels like a cage. The polished black stone reflects your form in taunting echoes as you wander through forgotten halls and corridors.

Your anger seems to boil like a volcano about to erupt, a force even nature yields beneath. You are a goddess, not a helpless mortal ready to be toyed with. And yet, you were taken, stolen in the bright afternoon sun.

────────── ♱

Time moves strangely here. Day and night have no meaning when neither the sun nor moon chase another across the sky. Instead, you are suspended in the void, accompanied by an ever-burning firelight. You have lost track of how long it has been since he stole you away, but the hunger inside you sharpens with each passing hour.

In silence, you defy Sylus. Sealed lips, empty stomach and eyes filled with hatred render the God of the Underworld near helpless. The plates of ripened fruit and honeyed delicacies tempt yet do not manage to break your will. The air, filled with sweet scents of pomegranates, figs, and golden-crusted bread, is in equal amounts ignored as the goblets of wine.

Hunger gnaws at you; it scratches against the hollow of your stomach, but your resolve is stronger.

Through it all, Sylus watches. He does not force you, does not plead or beg for you to see reason. But he also does not take pity. No, he simply leans against the framed passage to your chamber, muscles bulging from the fold of his arms across his chest.

He only watches.

It is infuriating.

"Refuse me all you want." Sylus's words snap you out of your trance-like state. You haven't even realised his movements, but he sits across from you by now. The ruby on his chest pulses in the dim light as though it has a heartbeat of its own.

He might as well pass a statue, a thing of immortal beauty and cruel stillness, were it not for his eyes—those endless red depths, watching you with emotions akin to something patient and knowing.

"Starving yourself won't help," he continues in an attempt to break your silence. Perhaps you only need a nudge in the right direction? The domineering aura relaxes once Sylus leans back against the cushioned chair, literally opening himself up to you and your scrutinising gaze.

There it is. That familiar glare he has come to appreciate.

His fingertips drum against the chair's armrest, seemingly anticipating whatever you finally offer him.

"I want to go home."

The words surprise him, though do not infuriate. Instead, he appears concerned at your undying defiance. A slow blink follows a momentary freeze of his figure before a lick across his lips wet them. "You are home," Sylus reassures you with a quiet, seemingly compassionate voice.

It further fuels your anger. "This is not my home!" The words bounce off the palace once more, as they have for the past days since Sylus brought you here.

He exhales a puff of air while pinching the bridge of his nose. Silver strands of hair slip forward upon the tilt of his head, accidentally catching the firelight to illuminate the piercing rubies beneath his bangs. "And yet, you were meant to be here. Can't you feel it?"

You can, which is the most terrifying part of all. Something disturbs your peace within whenever Sylus is near you. It should not be there, this pull, this inexplicable gravity that makes it hard to look away. But it is always there, and it only grows stronger with each passing day.

You try to push it off as nothing but the old magic of this place, the way the very walls seem to recognise your presence. But it is not just the Underworld that calls to you.

It is him. And you hate him for it. Even more so hate the realisation of your influence over him: Sylus hesitates on the rare occasions you say his name out loud, as though it carries a power even he does not understand. His gaze always lingers too long; his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to reach for you. He is the God of the dead, ruler of this forsaken realm, feared by all—and yet, you begin to wonder if you are the one meant to rule over him.

While these thoughts may not change your anger, grief, or longing for the world above, they shift something within you.

Until one night, your hunger eventually wins.

Perhaps the servants left the plates out on purpose. The truth may never be revealed, nor is it important in the grander scheme of things. The only thing that mattered now was the intoxicatingly sweet scent of fruits that lingered on throughout your sleepless night. The warning voice inside your mind rings hollow; it pales in comparison to the glistening cuts of fresh harvest tempting your restless figure teetering at the edge of your bed.

You should not.

But your stomach twists, your body weakens, and the scent lures you in to take step after step until you stand in front of the silver platters. Without thinking or comprehending your mistake's finality, your fingers close around a small pomegranate seed, glistening like a drop of blood.

The moment it slides down your throat, the air in the room changes. It is a subtle shift at first, a whisper, then a gust of wind, usually unbeknown to this isolated place.

One pulse is all it takes for Sylus to stand in the archway of your chamber once more, like he has done many times before—watching, waiting. Your breath is unsteady, the weight of your actions sinking into your stomach like lead. And unlike the despair coursing through your body, victory curls Sylus's lips into a small, satisfied smile.

"You understand now, don't you?" His voice is low, almost gentle, perhaps influenced by the horror visible in your helpless gaze. You swallow hard as you try to find your voice, your reason, yourself . But the only possible solution is to blame it all on Sylus.

"What have you done?"

Now you irritate him. His brows crease upon your accusation, though his calm demeanour does not crumble. "What have you done?" he much rather returns the question right back to its sender to watch your defiance finally break.

Trembling hands appear tainted to your blurry gaze as you look down in disbelief. They are clean, but to you, each tip seems stained with the juicy remnants of your sin.

The truth is an unbearable thing.

You cannot leave.

Not now.

Not ever.

Never again.

The realisation crackles like the fireplace, though you have never felt this cold. With slow steps, the distance you so fiercely fought for diminishes until Sylus stands right before you.

This time, you refuse to flinch when his hand reaches for you; his fingers trace the air in between before closing around your wrist. Skin to skin, you realise the chill that clings to his touch, though an unfamiliar fire courses through your veins, a traitorous response you loathe yourself for.

Sylus turns your hand over and lifts it to his lips. The first gentle brush of lips against your palm is enough to send shivers down your spine. It is a kiss as soft as the brush of a feather; however, the warmth of his breath lingers, seeping into your flesh and marking you in ways deeper than any chain could.

"You belong to this realm," he murmurs into your palm, his lips grazing each word into your skin. "And you belong to me."

Irritation in its purest form hardens Sylus's features as you yank your hand from his hold. You should really stop fighting; you should stop despising him. "The damage is already done," he whispers beside your ear, though he does not touch you this time.

You can feel it—this invisible thread that ties you to him, to this place, to the very darkness that seems to sprout within you. "I hate you," you whisper in return.

Momentarily, a flicker of hurt passes through those crimson depths before Sylus takes a step back, and you might even start to regret your declaration until a slight smirk lifts the corners of his mouth.

"You say that now," he says softly, "but you have already begun to change."

────────── ♱

His words ring true.

The air in the Underworld is different now. It hums with an energy that wasn't there before, a certain pulse in the walls, the ground, and the air you breathe. You feel it around you; it seeps into your bones and reshapes something deep inside you. It is a dark and restless presence that lingers like the weight of your mistake, like the warmth of his lips against your palm.

There is no time to mourn your fate in silence and isolation, not with Sylus. He comes to you more often now, no longer content to watch from the shadows. His presence is as constant and inevitable as the burning torches that line the palace halls.

Sylus never forces, but he does not relent either. He pushes, always pushing the boundaries you fight so hard to uphold. But his endurance might be one of his most impressive qualities.

The pursuit is a slow, insidious thing that sneaks into your veins like the pomegranate's curse. He touches you more deliberately—a palm at the small of your back as he guides you through the corridors, fingers graze your wrist when you pass him in the grand halls, a featherlight brush of his knuckles along your jaw when you glare at him too fiercely.

It is maddening.

And yet, your pulse races when his lips hover near your ear when his voice spills honeyed words against your skin.

He seeks you out, always, even in your chambers, especially in your chambers, where the air is heavy with your sweetness.

"You are avoiding me," his musing tone catches you off guard. If it weren't for his proximity, for the body looming behind your back, you would whirl around to glare at the uninvited guest. "And you fight so hard," Sylus's breath is warm against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

How his lips yearn to taste you.

It's as though he enjoys your rejections more than an open welcome. You're too adorable this way as if you truly were to believe your acts of defiance could help against fate itself.

"I have no desire to entertain you" is a grumble as you turn further away from Sylus. But for each step you take away from him, Sylus takes two in return.

"That is a lie." His presence presses against your senses, unrelenting in his pursuit. Sylus happily witnesses the goosebumps his touch leaves in its wake with the gentle ghost of his fingertips along your arm. "Your body betrays you so very clearly, my beauty."

Your heart thrums within your chest, so loud it nearly succeeds in drowning out the teasing lilt in his voice—almost, but not quite. Because you're too attuned to him now, too ensnared by the pull of his presence to resist for much longer. Whether caused by fury or the desire to look into crimson eyes, you turn and face Sylus, drawn as if by fate itself to those infernal, beautiful features. "You tore me from everything—my life, my mother. How could I ever—"

Oh, you are ravishing like this, even more so with that sinful glare upon the knowing, near-cheeky smile on Sylus's lips. "Because you are mine." A light touch weaves its way through your fingers, tickling your palm and wrist to brand your skin with his longing.

A nudge from Sylus's free finger tilts your chin up, effortlessly forcing your glare to focus back on his eyes. That little gasp from your lips beckons him to close the scant distance between your mouths. "Hate me, curse me, reject me," Sylus murmurs with a voice as dark as the abyss itself, "it will only deepen my love for you."

The heat in his stare makes your stomach twist in ways you fail to comprehend, in ways you refuse to acknowledge fully. You do not answer, cannot answer, because some terrible, secret part of you shudders in delight at how right his claim feels even as your mind rebels against him.

He is too close to the point that his scent clouds your better judgment while silver hair falls past his shoulders to tickle your skin. Momentarily, you consider running your fingers through the long strands.

Instead, reason calls upon you to press your hands against Sylus's chest to push him away—but he feels so good beneath your touch that you fail to pursue your goal.

And he notices, of course, he does. His muscles give way beneath your palms as Sylus leans in a fragment closer. "You are fighting something inevitable, my love," he whispers against your temple. "Do you not feel it? The pull?"

You do, and you loathe yourself for it.

Long, greedy fingers trail along your collarbone; it's nothing but a ghost of a touch meant to unravel. "I could make this easier for you, little goddess," a gentle murmur of affection, though his voice remains laced with amusement, with something far more wicked. "Or you could keep resisting. Either way, you have me wrapped around your finger."

Despite the raging pulse that betrays your resistance, you snap at the God of the Underworld. Once more, forever more, Sylus's own heart skips a beat at the rejection of his feisty goddess. "I would sooner wither."

The words could have caused him to fall apart in this instance if he had lower self-control.

Perhaps it is this very realisation that causes Sylus to chuckle. Low and deep and true, the sound vibrates against your skin. "Would you?" His lips nearly kiss the shell of your ear. "Tell me, do you truly despise this?"

Worshipping hands slide down your arm; they trace the curve of your wrists and ultimately entwine with your fingers. A moment passes before your hands are lifted to his mouth for Sylus to press kisses across your knuckles.

Only now do you realise the beautiful and heavy set of his lashes and the gentle crease of his brows as if this act alone could convey the undying embers of his love, which burn hotter than his breath against your skin.

The sensation sends a sudden jolt through you, something unfathomable if you remain insistent on denying your own affections. This tender moment ends with a sudden yank to free your hands from his reverent hold, though it does not darken Sylus's mood.

"You are insufferable," you grumble all over again, to which Sylus chuckles. The sound is neither cruel nor mocking. No, it is like the weightless reassurance of a man who knows you will come to him in the end.

────────── ♱

The Underworld is not the lifeless void you once assumed it to be. Its unexpecting offer is more impressive than what you first granted: Through the dark pits of Tartarus, the paradise of Elysium and the barely noticeable meadows of Asphodel flow rivers like silver snakes, their surfaces rippling with unseen currents, only disturbed by Charon transporting souls across the Styx. Shadows curl and move, whispering in the voices of the hopeless and lost. And the sky here? It's not black but a deep, endless twilight speckled with stars that do not belong to the world above.

And rather than simply accepting your fate, you embrace it now.

Your reflection reveals it first. In the land of the dead, you flourish. Your skin shines with renewed energy while a new-found hunger lingers in your eyes, craving more than sustenance. Your gowns are also different now: darker, tighter, more opulent, and made for the station Sylus insists is yours. Jewels glint at your throat, wrists, hair, gifts, all of them, from him .

You tell yourself you wear them only because you have no choice, but deep down, you know better.

The realm accepts you now. It bows to you in small ways—doors open before you touch them, whispers grow soft when you pass. The Underworld does not take just anyone. It takes queens. One queen. His.

Sylus does not bother to hide anymore. He is not just waiting for you to succumb—he is guiding you toward it, coaxing you, moulding you. His every interaction carries intent: every touch is a test, every word a step closer to something inevitable.

One evening, he corners you in the dim glow of the throne room to tease and tempt you until you want to flee. Your steps back ultimately cause you to stagger into his chest through the calculated tug on your wrist. Grasped between his thumb and pointer finger, your face is directed towards his own; your head tipped back for your lips to part invitingly.

"You wear my gifts well," Sylus murmurs the compliment while rendering you defenceless thanks to the simple brush of his thumb against the swell of your lower lip, "they were made for you, and you were made for me," a hushed promise spoken against the shell of his ear.

Shamelessly, his head dips lower, and you feel his nose against your jawline, feel him inhale your floral scent deeply as though attempting to fill his entire being with you before pressing a singular kiss filled with longing against the racing pulse dancing beneath the thin skin of your neck.

"What?" He continues this solitary conversation. "Are you not going to hiss at me?" The quirk of his brow is infuriating—infuriatingly attractive.

"I was not made for you," you force the reply, a sweet attempt to seem as repulsed as before, but the words come weaker than you intend.

At that, Sylus can't help but laugh. The sound is low and rich, and it's exclusively for you.

The grand finale of tonight's pursuit follows in the shape of Sylus's lips brushing the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, but rich enough in intensity to make you wonder what it would feel like if he truly claimed you.

────────── ♱

The arrival of Hermes shatters the fragile dynamic that has begun to blossom from your connection with Sylus.

He appears without warning, a figure of golden light and refined grace, with flaxen hair and eyes of near-luminescent blue. Xavier. His movements are effortless, fluid, a beacon of hope in the heavy stillness of the Underworld. With him, he carries the expectations of Olympus, and for the first time in weeks, you remember what it felt like to breathe in fresh air, to feel the sun's kiss upon your skin.

Yet there is something sharper about him here in this place of no belonging—his smile is edged with mischief, his ivory tunic ripples with divine energy. A calculative gaze flicks to you, then to Sylus, who remains seated on his throne, utterly unbothered by the unwelcome interruption.

The messenger neither bows nor cowers. "Well," Xavier says, his arms moving to cross as he leans against a pillar. "The king of gods has spoken."

Sylus tilts his head at the mention of your father, clearly unimpressed. He eyes the messenger amid his grand hall, mustering the God of trade and luck. "Has he now?" Despite the calm tones in Sylus's voice, there is a dangerous edge lurking beneath its surface. By now, you can tell as much.

Xavier's gaze momentarily returns to you. Emboldened by the solemn vow to bring the harvest goddess's beloved daughter back to the realm of living, he speaks. "Your mother grieves. The earth withers in her sorrow. You are to be returned to Olympus immediately."

Freedom? A return… home?

For a fleeting, breathless moment, the words cause a flutter to take wing inside your chest—like a bird stirring from its slumber after a long night. Hopeful, fragile, aching to believe. But then you notice how Xavier speaks of you. Not to you, no over you.

To be returned, not to return.

You move slowly and find Sylus already watching you. His attention pushes down on you with unspoken words and painful longing while restless fingers drum against the jet-black glass of his throne. Then, without looking away, he plays his final card.

"She has long eaten the fruit of my realm."

Xavier sighs dramatically at the desperate antics from the God of the Underworld. "Yes, yes , and you've tied her to you now. Very clever." He glances at you once more before meeting crimson head-on with cerulean. "But the world above cannot survive without her. You know this."

Sylus lifts a hand, demanding immediate silence from the messenger without another glance in his direction. Rising from his throne, he crosses the chasm between your bodies with purposeful steps until the distance wanes and bends like fate itself. He does not stop until his presence surrounds you and his hot breath ghosts over your lips.

Gentle fingertips find your jaw for a touch equally sinful as tender. Possessive. Worshipful. The pad of Sylus's thumb lingers beneath your chin, tilting your face for him to adore your every angle. "You are mine," he murmurs, low and intoxicating. "Even if I let you go, you will return."

The certainty of his claim causes your heart to falter, and you feel yourself falling apart, unravelling beneath his acts of devotion. You hate him for it. You hate that a part of you knows he is right.

Xavier watches the exchange with an arched brow. "Charming as always" is a mockery of God, who never showed romance to any being prior to you.

Though the words fly past the bubble created by Sylus's longing for you, you're enthralled by the hypnotising allure of tender lips that, once more, press slow kisses onto your hand. "My queen," he speaks the title into your skin as though searing your being with your future power and might.

Eager to escape this scene of lust and devotion, Xavier attempts to break this tension by clearing his throat before speaking: "Then I assume we have reached a compromise."

"A compromise?" Sylus echoes in wonder, though neither of you flees from the ensnaring heat crafted through your eyes as if the very act of looking at another was a ritual in itself.

"You will release her," Xavier declares, the decision carried by the weight of Olympus. Sylus already parts his lips to retort, though the messenger beats him to it. "And she will return to her mother, as the divine law demands. However…” Xavier's gaze moves to you, seemingly softer, mournful almost. "Since she has tasted your realm, she is now tied to it. Therefore, she shall walk between both worlds. She will return to you for half of the year until duty calls for her to step into the light of Olympus for the remaining months."

Sylus's grip tightens on your hand; a faint tremble to his fingers betrays his opulent presence. The smugness he wears like armour fades into a scowl. Turning to Xavier, Sylus pulls you to stand behind him with a possessiveness akin to a dragon threatened to lose his treasure.

His body turns into a shield between you and the final sentence of Olympus.

"She will depart with me today," Xavier continues unconcerned, "And until her eventual, unfortunate return to the Underworld, you shall be tested. Your patience, your virtue, the purity of your devotion to the Goddess of Spring,"

Xavier's conclusion leaves no room for arguments. A flicker close to triumph dances through the messenger's eyes as the God of death and shadows has been brought to his knees, even if only for a season.

"So be it," Sylus murmurs before, all too soon, returning to gaze upon you. As though you are the only vision that matters, the only beauty worth witnessing.

His free hand rises for his fingers to trail along the column of your throat before curling around the back of your neck. However, he would never use force on you. No, instead, Sylus draws close to you, so close his words become a secret between you two. "Enjoy your time above, little one, while I wait for your return to me."

It's a promise, a threat, and a certainty all at once. And truthfully, a part of you already misses him.

────────── ♱

Sylus had never realised how deafening the silence of the Underworld could be. It stretches through the empty halls of his palace and seeps into the very marrow of his existence. Once filled with your anger and fire, the throne room is once more cold. The grand halls echo only with his own footsteps. And even the torches seem to burn a little dimmer.

You are gone, and he hates it. He should not feel like this. He has ruled the Underworld for aeons and has never known loneliness, not in a way that mattered. But now, now he feels it.

You are in the world above, in your mother's arms, beneath the golden touch of the sun. You are in a place where he cannot reach you, and the realisation gnaws at him like a slow, festering wound.

His patience wears thinner than ever thanks to sleepless nights or haunting dreams of nothing and no one but you. Always you. Of your lips parted in anger, in surrender. Of your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. He imagines your return and how you will look when you finally stand before him again. Will you be softer? Will your time above have reminded you of all the things you once thought you wanted? Or will you have come to understand the truth? That you belong to him.

He waits and watches once more. Never would Sylus have ever suspected to be forced to witness you again through the crow's eyes, but here he was—dependent on his messenger. Mephisto is his eyes in the upper world, a shadow against the bright skies. The crow perches in high branches, on windowsills, in the eaves of the great temple where Demeter holds you close, whispering reassurances that all will be as it once was.

But it will never be as it once was because you have changed, too.

While at first you revel in your freedom, the world above seems a little too bright, vibrant, and bursting with life in a way the Underworld never could. The fields bloom beneath your mother's touch, and the air is warm, filled with the scent of ripening fruit and fresh earth. You are surrounded by love, by the warmth of familiar arms, and by the laughter of those who missed you.

And yet, on the first night already, you awake to search for something which isn't there. On the second night, you dream of silver hair, hands trailing along your skin, and a voice murmuring your name in the dark. On the third night, you catch sight of a shadow moving along the tree line, and your heart stutters in your chest—not with fear, but recognition at the familiar gleam of red eyes.

Mephisto does not leave, and you do not want him to.

Days pass, then weeks, then months. You fill them with laughter, with long walks through sunlit meadows, with the comfort of your mother's presence. But there is a hollowness inside you now, a quiet, insidious ache that only grows with each passing day. It is not enough, you realise.

None of it is enough. Nothing measures up to the feelings Sylus brought to life within your shell. You are not the same as you were before. Confidence, stubbornness, and greed are qualities you happily embrace by now.

Your mother notices the change. One evening, she catches you staring out at the horizon with distant eyes while watching the setting sun. She sees how your hands trace absent patterns against your skin, as if recalling a touch is no longer there. She does not speak of it, but you can feel her watching, worrying.

When the leaves turn red and yellow, you wake with the remnant taste of pomegranate on your tongue, with an anticipation that brings your heart to pick up its pace at the prospect of returning to him .

────────── ♱

The descent is not the same this time. You are not stolen, not wrenched from the world above in a flurry of fear and resistance. No, this time, you go willingly. Your heart pounds with anticipation as the air around you grows heavier, the sun's warmth fading into the cold embrace of the Underworld's shadows.

And then you see him. He is there already, long awaiting.

His silhouette emerges from the fog like a memory-made flesh, tall, terrible, and heartbreakingly familiar. His eyes devour you. They do not blaze with conquest, though they burn with aching relief, with desire tempered only by the agony of restraint. A god undone by the absence of the one thing he could not command: your return.

"You came back," he says, and it is not a statement of triumph. His voice sounds fragile, relieved. The evidence of a desire stretched too thin over too many empty nights.

All you manage to respond is a quiet "I did," since the weight of this moment, of your joy, presses into your lungs and bones.

Sylus says nothing in return; the longing in his eyes is louder than any verbal confession. He rather steps closer, slowly, carefully, to chase away the forced distance of the past months. He has not changed, not truly. But the sharp edges of his obsession have softened.

He looks at you like you are someone he is afraid to lose, which makes your next step easier as you extend your hand toward him. Without hesitation, he encases your offer in his palm and lifts your hand to his lips, though a deep exhale of relief escapes his lungs long before pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles.

This time, you do not pull away. This time, you let him. This time, you welcome him.

The gates close behind you with a soft sigh, like a breath exhaled after being held for too long. The Underworld waits. Not as a cage this time, not as a prison of shadow and stolen freedom. No—it waits as something altogether different. Your kingdom to rule.

────────── ♱

For the first time, Sylus leads, and you follow. You allow him to bring you to a garden that does not need sunlight to blossom; it's hidden beneath a silken canopy draped in silver threads. It glows from within, lit by fireflies not belonging to the world above. The flower petals here are as dark as night, and their stems shimmer faintly with iridescent dew. They are beautiful in a way that defies logic.

You sit on cushions of satin and velvet, a low table between you, and a feast of things not found in the upper world. Black figs bleeding golden juice. Pomegranate seeds are like rubies scattered on porcelain. Honey-soaked cakes with petals pressed into their tops—slices of moon fruit, with shimmering flesh like opal.

"Does it please you?" Sylus asks, with a voice as gentle as a lover's caress. You glance at the spread and then at the man sitting across from you, his broad frame draped in a tunic of deepest black threaded with the night sky that barely conceals his impressive build, exposing well-defined muscles inked with faint, ancient markings.

Sylus's lips curl into a smile upon the motion of your head, the simple nod rewarding him with a sense of relief. "It's strange. But yes," you admit with a gentle tone.

"One could consider yourself strange in this surrounding, too. And yet—you please me." Sylus's honesty strikes somewhere low in your belly. You should be used to his intensity by now, but thread by thread, it continues to unravel you. He is open with his intent, never hiding it, not the want, worship, or way his eyes trace the line of your throat or the corners of your mouth when you speak.

For a while, you sit in silence. A peaceful quiet, as though both of you are learning how to be something other than what you were. Not captor and captive. Not hunter and prey. Equals, lovers . The final thought may lead your fingers to finally reach for a slice of fig and hold it out to him.

Sylus's gaze flicks to yours, something akin to amusement pooling in those crimson shades as he momentarily hesitates. "You're feeding me now?" Though he regrets the words quicker than he has spoken them once, the sweet reward is being snatched away from Sylus's lips with a huff of mild exasperation over his daring, teasing response.

Mind you, the God of the Underworld is not one to have his treats taken from him. A firm touch around your wrist, a breathed chuckle and a brush of soft lips follow all too soon before Sylus welcomes the fruit from your offering hand.

His actions are deliberate and intimate, causing your breath to catch and your cheeks to grow warm beneath his intense gaze. Through thick lashes, his crimson eyes bask in your reaction, though his mouth remains occupied until a murmur of "Why, aren't you sweet tonight?" falls from glistening lips that seem to beckon you to lean in.

It is only at the last moment that you notice your desire. You catch yourself and pluck one grape off its vine instead of reaching for the God of the Underworld.

However, Sylus takes it from your fingers and presses it to your lips instead. "Your turn," a gentle command and challenge dusted in this low, sultry tone.

Parted lips allow the grape to burst on your tongue—sweet and tart, while Sylus's attention remains on your mouth. He doesn't budge, not when he knows you have grown aware of his stare, not when you chew, not even when you swallow.

"I missed you," he says in a whisper that carries a longing stretched too thin. His expression is nearly vulnerable, tender, and a little insecure, perhaps.

This newfound softness suits him. Leading you to allow your eyes to roam over his sharp features to find further gentle details. From his cupid's bow to the golden flecks in his eyes and the lines on his face when he smiles at you, for you.

"Did you?"

"Every night," Sylus murmurs, possibly a little rueful. "I dreamed of you walking back into my realm, of your voice echoing through my– our halls. I imagined…"

He stops himself at the last moment. A hint of a blush dusts his features, bringing a charm to his looks you would have never granted him before.

"Imagined what?"

The heavy set of his jaw causes his held-back confession to stir worry in your mind; Sylus can tell as much as he takes in the slight crease of your brows. It may be time to jump over his shadow.

His smile returns, though it appears rather self-deprecating this time around while avoiding your gaze.

"You. Smiling at me like you meant it. Touching me because you wanted to," Sylus admits with a purse of his lips, evidently cringing at his confession. This was ill-befitting to the ruler of the Underworld.

Yet, your fingers befit him very well. How they begin to trace the lines of his hand, from the back of his hand to the calloused pads of his fingers? Sylus stills beneath your touch as if afraid a single move might cause you to vanish again.

"And I missed—" he continues but swallows the rest.

You are the one to smile now. You didn't expect to coax so many confessions out of him tonight, though he appears to be in a rambling mood, which makes it impossible not to tease, not to probe and test your luck further.

With a tilt of your head, you let your eyes flick up to his own, a glint of amusement dancing in your gaze. "Tell me."

His eyes dart away almost immediately, lashes fluttering against flushed skin, while Sylus seems to contemplate whether or not he shall make a grander fool of himself. But you seem receptive, accepting of him...

"I missed the sound of your voice even when you cursed me. Especially then."

You smile at that, a real one. "You deserved every word."

"I still do," Sylus replies, unbothered at that and well aware of his own 'shortcomings'.

The conversation finds a tranquil close through shared chuckles and lingering eye contact before the fruits call for attention.

You eat in slow, quiet indulgence. Feeding another slice of moon fruit and seeds of pomegranate accompanied by a brush of his thumb across your lower lip or the hitch in Sylus's breath as your fingers graze his mouth.

The air seems to thicken with something you do not dare to address, a sweetness far beyond the decadence of the fruits.

When juice glistens at the corner of Sylus's mouth, you reach without thinking to wipe it away. The gentle moment deepens once long fingers catch your wrist to press your palm against Sylus's cheek.

He leans into the touch like a man starved of warmth and love, turning his head for his lips to brush against the warm skin of your hand. "I've waited," Sylus murmurs, "I've tried to be good. I did not drag you back, though every shadow begged me to," his words are paused to nip into your palm while amusement dances in his gaze upon your soft sound of surprise. "I wanted to see if you would choose me. Not as your captor—but as your other half."

Your heart stumbles at the confession, and you allow yourself a moment to look at Sylus, really look at him. He is still dangerous, still secure in his power and confidence—but beneath it all, he is trembling.

"For nights, have I imagined this," Sylus continues upon your flustered silence. "This canopy. This moment. You, beside me. Willingly ."

At that, you finally reach out to brush a strand of silver hair from his cheek. Your fingers trail along Sylus's defined jawline, down his throat to witness him swallow before being drawn to the ruby in his chest, where you allow your fingers to rest.

Though the touch lasts briefly before you rise to claim your throne, Sylus watches you unmoving as you settle into his lap. His arms come around you as if instinctually, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your nape.

Surrender. You see it in Sylus's eyes, in his body language. So, you conquer. A touch along his cheek before your fingertips drag from his jawline forward to his chin to pull him in, to make him chase until your lips meet.

Soft. Tentative. A whisper of longing finally answered.

Sylus groans—it's a low, broken sound—and deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until there is no space left between your bodies. The heat of him surrounds your body; his hunger devours your lips while his hands glide along your waist, over your shoulders and back.

Every touch is a question Sylus does not dare ask aloud.

You answer with your body, tilting your head and opening your mouth, letting him taste the sweetness you've withheld for so long. This ignites the deep pull of your bond, the magnetic ache that has hummed between you from the start. But now, it sings.

It is only once you're breathless that your lips part, though Sylus chases you once more—one more time to kiss you deeply until his confession clings to your skin as his mouth moves down your neck.

"I'm shameless with you," nothing but a hot breath, a roughened rasp. "You've made me something undone."

At first, only silence follows. A silence that seems to weigh down on Sylus's shoulders as he slumps into you, his embrace on you tightening as though he may fear you were to disappear into fine dust.

But then he feels you lean in again and grants you complete control. So you guide his head to tip back while your lips brush along the curve of his throat, the edge of his jaw before your words find their way into his ear. "And I like it."

You kiss him, not on the mouth this time, but under his ear, along the line of his jumping pulse. You mould him with every breath and shift of your body in his lap.

"Is that so?" Sylus asks in quiet, curious amusement while shooting you that confident smirk alongside a quirk to his brow.

He is powerful, yes—but tonight, you are the one who holds him in your palms.

And you know it, you abuse it. Leaning closer, you brush your lips against his again, gentle, faint, teasing as you whisper, "It makes me feel powerful."

Sylus is patient. He waits years to welcome the lost to his realm, watches calmly over the mishaps in the upper world and waits for the cards to play in his favour.

But your teasing? Oh, it all causes Sylus to grow impatient.

He craves the promise of relief from your lips, wanting to taste the sweet haven. The denial is almost too much to bear when you lean back, the disdain manifested with a groan vibrating through Sylus's chest and the flex of his arms around your figure. "You are," he assures you so willingly, "you could command me with a single word."

"Then behave," you whisper before pulling away enough to let Sylus see your smirk and that awful challenge in your eyes.

You didn't expect Sylus to laugh at your little display of power. A sound low and dark, self-indulgent even when he leans in to nuzzle your cheek. "I've been fighting my hardest. You have no idea how much. But you're not making it easy, my little goddess."

To make matters worse, you indulge Sylus by threading your fingers through his long silver strands, scratching past the base of his curled horns to steal a soft grunt as you whisper in his ear: "I'm not trying to."

He hums in delight as though your torture was the purest love of all.

"Good."

The tension snaps at that, causing your lips to seek out another kiss and another until pecks turn to a passionate exchange of breathless sighs and saliva.

You guide Sylus's hands to your waist, your fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently as your kisses turn urgent.

Sylus groans—an unguarded sound, shameless and beautiful—and his grip tightens again, grounding himself through you, needing you to anchor him as much as you need to feel him unravel.

You feel the restraint in him teeter on the edge of collapse, but it does not break tonight.

Instead, you curled up against him, your fingers brushing the ruby in his chest as if it were a second heart. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged, but his touch remains gentle, cradling you like something sacred.

You lie together beneath the silken canopy as torchlight flickers against your skin. He tells you of the garden he grew while you were gone. Of the starlight dome he had built to mimic the sky you miss dearly. Of every small hope, he fed his heart in your absence like embers waiting to be fanned.

You listen, and you stay until sleep finds you. Enveloped in Sylus' arms, where you belong.

Home.

────────── ♱

With that, the time has finally come.

Hades has passed his trial from the gods above and earned the right to wed his spring queen. He kneels before you, succumbing to his love and burning desire for the one true love.

A pulse moves through the obsidian caverns, across black rivers and beneath skeletal trees. The dark realm stills in anticipation. Even the air tastes of omen. Stones whisper in a tongue long forgotten by Olympus—born of death, longing, and devotion.

Tonight, the god of the dead weds his queen.

There is no mortal spectacle, no divine applause. The ceremony unfolds deep within Domos Haidou, an ancient grove untouched by time, where even the moon dares not look. Only ghostly embers and violet fireflies shimmer, illuminating the sanctum where the veil between sacred and sinful has worn thin.

Here, beneath a sky of nothing but velvet void, where only the faintest glow from ghostly fireflies and floating embers light the scene, the ritual takes shape.

You are dressed not in fabric but in falling petals—obsidian lilies and pale mourning blooms cascading from your shadow-cloaked figure. The scent is intoxicating. Crushed orchids and roses bleed sweet perfume into the air, mingled with the deep, honeyed pull of burning amber, cracked myrrh, and the lush, ripe promise of pomegranates split open beneath a blade.

Incense swirls in winding tendrils around your ankles, carried by a wind that seems to breathe only for you.

Sylus waits.

He stands at the altar made of stone and root, his tall frame outlined by flickering braziers lit with violet flame. His tunic clings to him, dark as pitch, draped loose over his strong shoulders, revealing the ridged definition of his chest. A crown of black laurel rests upon his silver hair, his curved horns framing the impassive mask of his face—until he sees you.

And then he breathes again.

The firelight deepens the red in his eyes, and his gaze—tender yet hungry—devours the sight of you. Not like prey. Never that. Like devotion, like something sacred, he has been waiting for eternity to touch.

Your steps, unhurried and deliberate, carry all the words your mouth does not say. You are no longer a frightened girl ripped from her world. You are a woman who has tasted the Underworld and claimed it alongside its ruler.

You place your hands in his, and the world shifts.

From a chalice forged from volcanic crystal, you share the ritual drink—a dark elixir of wine and crushed blossoms, thick with enchantment and laced with the bite of something older than lust. It slides down your throat like fire, and immediately, the air changes. It prickles against your skin, magic thickening like fog. Your limbs are warm, your head light, and your breath shallow.

The circle around you ignites. Flame spirals from the ground, blooming outward, as though the Underworld itself recognises this union. Vines coil around the altar, pulsing in rhythm with your breath. The ruby at his chest flares, and a low hum answers from beneath your skin. You are bound now. Not by force nor by fate. By choice.

That choice leads you to step closer while Sylus remains still as a statue. However, his tension is unmistakable. His knuckles are white from holding back, yet his hands do not move without your invitation.

You lift one to your lips, leaving a kiss on his palm. Sylus exhales your name like a prayer, like a curse, as you trail your fingers up his chest, letting your touch linger to tease the dip of his throat and the line of his jaw. You watch how Sylus shudders under the weight of your attention.

The power you feel is intoxicating. You realise now how far you've come.

Once, he ruled the stillness where nothing grows.

Now, you bring the bloom that breaks it.

Your lips brush the corner of Sylus' mouth—not quite a kiss, but the hint of one. In return, he tilts his head, drawn in immediately to chase more, but you retreat with a teasing smile. It wrecks him how helpless he has become, though Sylus can only laugh softly at his misery.

"You've changed," he murmurs, his voice is low and full of awe while his eyes and fingertips adore your beautiful features.

"I had to," your touch leads down his ribs. "To match the man who waited for me."

At that, Sylus sways into you, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. You guide him down onto the silk-lined altar floor, settling in his lap as the folds of your ceremonial robes slip open around your legs. When your lips meet his—tentative at first, a question, a test—he doesn't devour, only responds with slowness.

Then, the kiss deepens and shatters the last barriers of restraints.

His hands explore your waist, back, and hips as if memorising each curve. You feel his strength, not in dominance but in surrender. Sylus lets you set the rhythm and mould him into what you need.

And you do.

Your touches are not hesitant anymore—they command. You tilt his head where you want it, angle his mouth to yours, and drag your teeth along the seam of his lips until he groans, gasping your name like it's his salvation.

And still, he waits because there is no rush to this moment. He has forever with you. But the Underworld grows impatient in the way magic winds around your entwined limbs, tugging, twisting, binding. Your hips roll together in an instinctive rhythm, and the scent of burning flowers and fruit envelops you like a shroud.

You are both drunk—on love, on hunger, on power.

Sylus' mouth finds your throat, your shoulder, your ribs. He speaks your name between kisses like it is the only word he has ever learned. His restraint is thin, stretched taut with every passing breath, and when you push him beyond it when you finally press him down and whisper, "Take me," he falls apart.

The vines around your promised bodies seem to dance in a song older than the gods themselves. The flames bloom higher, flicking beautifully on the crimson depths of Sylus's eyes.

You're magnified by the molten longing pooling inside, entranced and enthralled. You watch the way he looks at you.

His mouth parts like he wants to speak but cannot. Because how does a god, a ruler, a creature of death and punishment, explain what it means to be undone so completely by love?

"My love," you whisper as your fingers guide his palm between your breasts, lower to your belly. The air around you grows heavier as he follows the trail of your skin.

His hand continues downward. Over the rise of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the curve of your hips, until finally, finally , his fingers move between your thighs, cupping your most intimate part with the size of his palm.

When you arch into his hand, and your head falls back, Sylus watches it all with greed and worship. An approving, low rumble tickles your skin upon his discovery. You're wet, throbbing, already so unbearably ready—your arousal a product not just of the intoxicating magic in the air but the weight of everything that has passed between you.

The ache, the longing. The vow that, tonight, you would be his.

He turns you then, gently but without hesitation, lowering your back into the dark grass beneath like a holy offering.

His figure looms over you—broad and protective—as if he wasn't the danger himself. Twisted horns cast long shadows that flicker in the torchlight, while silver hair cascades over broad shoulders like a waterfall spun from moonlight.

The width of Sylus' thighs parts your own effortlessly once he settles. Accompanied by a gentle touch that glides along the sensitive skin of your legs, with fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs, his gestures are worshipful as he stares down at you, naked and glistening with want. Beautiful.

Yet still—he waits.

He does not take.

You're the one to set the tone.

Your hands lead crimson eyes to follow the curves of your body, slow and shameless; you rake your nails down your chest, teasing your nipples until they pebble before dragging your touch lower over your stomach and down to the place that aches for him most. When your fingers dip between your folds, and you moan softly at the contact, you keep your eyes locked on his.

Sylus watches, transfixed and with monumental restraint, as your fingers work your slick folds. A traitorous flush spreads over his neck, across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, that almost makes him look innocent–if it weren't for the lust pooling in his eyes.

How willing you are for your husband.

And then, you reach for his hand. Smaller fingers lace around Sylus' wrist to guide him back to your body until his chest hovers just above yours. He is so close now; his breath mingles with yours, his lips barely grazing the corner of your mouth.

His eyes search yours, and what he finds leads Sylus to give in. Soft lips crash against yours in a deep, hungry kiss before his teeth nip at your bottom lip, demanding entrance and surrender.

A warmth spreads over your skin thanks to the heat of Sylus' palms sliding up your body, eager to replace every touch you have left on your figure with his own. He spoils your breasts with attention, kneading the soft mounds and tweaking your nipples until they are hard, aching peaks.

"So soft, so warm and needy…" he murmurs against your breasts before his tongue drags heavy over skin littered with goosebumps. Sylus rocks his hips forward, the hard, thick length of him pressing against your core before staining your skin with more whispers of desire.

"Tell me you want it," he mumbles while the delicious drag of his length would already be enough to make you say yes to all and any of his wishes. But he seems desperate for your consent, for your dependence on him. "Tell me how much you need me, my goddess."

Your thighs twitch from the delicious stimulation Sylus offers, the sounds following seem natural, like a sweet symphony of a tune you've never sung before. "Sylus," you sigh for him, so sweetly, so fragile, as your fingertips trace the ruby in his chest. "I want to be one with you," you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

"My love," you search his eyes with an expression so soft and tender that Sylus didn't even dare to dream of before. "Can you help me? Can you guide me? To be all for you, only you forever and always..."

It's incredible how you effortlessly play with Sylus' heartstring—a heart most people deem nonexistent. Yet here you are, toying with the God of the Underworld as though he could never be a real match to you.

This is the power you hold over him, the control you have over the darkness that dwells within. You managed to tame the untamable, to make him kneel at your feet like a loyal hound.

Sylus brings your entwined hands to his lips and presses a lingering kiss, gentle yet filled with devotion, to your knuckles. Crimson eyes remain glued to your own, as though his gaze alone could convey all the feelings he holds dear inside.

"I will guide you, mould you, make your body fit mine like it was crafted for me alone," a whisper breathed along the veins running down your arm, sealed with kisses.

When he finally sheds his tunic, it is a teasing, slow gesture meant to draw your attention to nothing but him. The silver clasps snap open under Sylus's touch, revealing a defined figure made for your exploration. Every line seems to be carved by divine hands.

But it's his length that steals your breath—thick and heavy; it stands proud and pulsing, the flushed tip glistening with need. It intimidates. It arouses. It makes something flutter inside you.

Sylus's pupils dilate as he takes in the sight beneath him: His wife, his goddess, spread wide for him, your stomach stained by his fluids.

"Beautiful creature of sin…" The words escape him in nothing but a whisper while his tip nudges against your entrance, teasing you, creating sounds of desire as he lowers himself again, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Breathe for me," he says, soft and commanding all at once, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Take a deep breath, and let me in. Let me fill you. Stretch you. Make you mine."

And you try. You truly try to obey. But the moment his thick head presses past your entrance, your muscles tense. The shock caused by the unfamiliar stretch steals your breath, and you let out a cry—not of pain, not quite.

With a gentle thrust of his hips, Sylus pushes forward, deeper into your velvety sweetness. He groans deeply, affected by the stretch of your walls when they try to accommodate him. Ah, the feel of you, so hot, so tight, so perfect .

You're so wet; he can't refuse to push in deeper, to conquer places nobody has ever been.

Sylus groans—a sound torn from deep within his chest—as your walls flutter around him, your body drawing him deeper with each slow roll of his hips. Your heat envelops him like velvet soaked in flame, your core yielding and trembling around his cock. The stretch is near unbearable, your breath caught in your throat as your body struggles to adjust to his size.

He is thick, unrelenting, the burn making tears swell at the corners of your eyes, though you never look away from him. His hand braces your hip while the other cups your jaw with infinite care, his thumb sweeping away one of those traitorous tears.

"Wrap your legs around me," he breathes with his eyes locked on yours, hunger and adoration swirling in those crimson depths. "Pull me in deeper, let me feel you clenching around me. Let me fill you like I was made for this."

Your thighs move on instinct, curling around his waist, and he catches them with both hands, holding you steady. When your hips roll—desperate, seeking—you impale yourself further onto his cock, inch by aching inch, until you're gasping from the pressure, the fullness.

"S-Sylus," you sob, your voice trembling at the edge of a moan as he stretches you deeper, wider. Your head tips back into the ground, fingernails clawing at the obsidian cloth beneath you while the tremble of your thighs highlights the effort of holding back the pleasure threatening to consume you.

"Shh, my love," he murmurs in a gentle tone even as sweat beads on his brow from the effort it takes not to move too fast, not to thrust in and claim you all at once. "Breathe through it. You're doing so well. Taking me so deeply, so perfectly."

His lips brush your temple and jaw to soothe the tension wracking your trembling form. He presses his forehead to yours, allowing his breath to mingle with yours as he grounds you, anchors you, and helps you through the storm of sensation.

"How much more?" you gasp, though you do not dare look down—too afraid of the answer.

Sylus huffs a breathless laugh, his eyes glinting with restrained mischief and adoration. "A little," he murmurs, lies, while distracting you by pressing kisses on your cheek. "I'm halfway in."

A sob melts into a moan as his mouth claims yours, a kiss that leaves no space for thoughts. Hungry lips swallow your cries while a domineering tongue explores your mouth with depraved hunger. Large hands never stop moving—stroking your thighs, palming your breasts, coaxing your body to surrender.

"Breathe with me," he pleads against your lips alongside the gentle rocking of his hips in a slow, deep roll, easing in. You feel every stretch, every throb, every heated inch as he fills you further. "Feel how your body welcomes me."

You try—gods, you try—but your breath breaks as his cock finds something inside you that makes you seize, makes your nails dig into his arms, dragging across the tense muscles of his biceps. "N-Not there—Sylus, not there—"

But that's precisely where he presses again, with deliberate force, and the high, breathy sound that escapes you is half protest, half plea.

His mouth trails down your neck, over your collarbone, with his tongue licking away the taste of salt from your tears as he groans against your skin. "There, right there," Sylus retorts with a sudden sharpness, causing his words to cut through your weak protests.

The defiant words are punctuated with a selfish, more brutal thrust of Sylus's hips. The head of his cock kisses your velvet depths as he stills, gently rolling his hips against you to spoil the spot made for you to see stars even in the depths of hell. "That's it. That's your sweet spot, isn't it? The place only I get to touch."

He sets a steady rhythm then—thrusting deeper, grinding his hips in such a way that the head of his cock kisses that spongy spot again and again until your moans become desperate, until you writhe and pant beneath him, your body burning alive with pleasure too immense to hold.

"Let it take you," he urges, his voice low and thick, laced with command and affection. "Don't fight it, my love. Allow yourself to feel; take what you need."

Your fingers scrabble across his body in search of purchase—dragging down his forearms, gripping his shoulders, clutching at his back. You can feel how he stretches you, how you pulse around him, how your arousal coats his length in slick, shameless heat. And yet still, he moves, driving into you with the kind of worship only a god could offer.

"Too much," you whimper, though your hips chase him and reveal the lie all too soon. "So deep, Sylus… you're too deep."

He groans in response, driven to madness by the way you tighten around him, by the way, your body submits and fights all at once. He watches your face, mesmerised by every flicker of pleasure, every helpless twitch of your body.

"Too deep?" Sylus breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice thick and rough, saturated with love and possession. "I'm going to fill you so deeply that you'll forget everything but me."

With that promise, Sylus begins to move harder, faster. His hips snap forward, his cock plunging so deep it feels like he carves himself into you. And all around you, the Underworld responds—flames dancing higher, flowers smelling stronger, vines curling tighter around the altar in a frenzy of magic and bliss.

His moan makes you shiver, the vibration of his voice against your throat paired with the brutal honesty of his rhythm as Sylus continues to thrust into you with devastating precision. The words, the sounds, the act—all of it ensnares you, makes you pulse around his cock in pleasure, your body clinging to him like it's forgotten how to exist without him inside.

He hits that spot again—again—and each time, your body tightens, jerks, your thighs trembling, your lips parting in a choked moan that only serves to spur him on. You scramble across your own body for support, your hands fluttering desperately over your breasts, your stomach, down the slope of your hips and thighs, fingers searching for anything to anchor you as Sylus's hips snap forward relentlessly in their devotion.

Your moans, your cries—praise wrapped in trembling complaint—are music to his ears. And every word, every broken syllable, only serves to make you wetter, to make his cock slide in with less resistance and more heat, slick and obscene.

Sylus can feel everything—your desperation, your pleasure, your helpless submission to the sensations he's pulling from you—and he welcomes it all. He welcomes the pain you mark into his flesh with your nails, the way your pussy clenches as though trying to milk him, your walls fluttering as your orgasm builds. He knows your body is teetering on the brink, stretched and overwhelmed, yet still greedy for more.

"Shh," he murmurs into the shell of your ear, his voice a low, soothing rumble barely disguising his unravelling. "Let it happen, my love. Let it take you. I'll hold you through it—I'll catch you when you fall."

He leans down to let his teeth graze your throat before finding the tender juncture where neck meets shoulder, and he bites—not cruelly, not gently, but with the kind of claiming pressure that leaves no doubt: you are his. The pain sings through you, a sharp counterpoint to the constant, throbbing pleasure.

Your body arches beneath him, shuddering violently as your nerves threaten to fray. At this moment, the only salvation seems to be proximity as your arms wind tight around Sylus's neck to tug him down, clutching him close, your face buried in his skin, your breath hot and gasping against his jaw.

The drag of his cock over your sweet spot makes you cry out, helpless against the sensations that storm through your body. You cling tighter, whimpering, shaking, your sounds muffled against the column of Sylus's throat. You don't even try to speak anymore; you only feel everything he gives you: every thrust, every grind, and every pass of his length as it fills you.

And then, your head falls back into the grass, exposing your throat to him once more, surrendering everything.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, drunk on the sight. The moment you hiccup out one word: "Faster," in a voice small and desperate, Sylus's control unravels.

He grins—a dark, wicked thing.

"Your wish is my command."

Sylus's hands tighten on your hips, and he fucks you harder. Faster. The rhythm turns punishing, perfect . Each thrust slams into you with wet, smacking force, your breasts bouncing wildly from the force of it, your moans turning ragged and sharp. You think you might scream, might beg, but all you do is fall deeper into the heat, the rhythm, the filthy sounds of your bodies colliding.

Sylus's mouth finds your throat again, his tongue dragging up your skin, tasting sweat, tasting tears. His groans echo in your ears, low and hungry.

You feel like you're being devoured—worshipped—and still, you crave more. With your body rising to meet his every thrust now, your walls fluttering around his cock in a rhythm that betrayed your surrender to him, to this act, to the darkness curling around your bodies.

The ritual may have begun with devotion, but now it breathes life due to the pleasure of possession and want.

Sylus watches the hypnotic bounce of your breasts with every impact of his hips, watches the way your body arches and quakes beneath him like it was offering itself to be consumed. Sylus lowers his head, his breath hot and panting as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts, his lips and tongue worshipping your skin.

"You look divine like this," he whispers. The praise is nearly lost beneath the wet sound of skin on skin and your rising cries. "Undone. Broken open by me."

You gasp when his mouth latches onto a hardened nipple. A sharp graze of teeth follows, and his tongue soothes right after. You can feel it building again—not just the orgasm, but something darker. A bloom of divine intoxication takes root in your belly. Sylus finds that spot inside you once more, and the groan he lets out against your skin sends shivers down your spine.

You're slick, swollen, trembling, stretched to the brink and somehow still aching for more. You don't need to beg; Sylus would give you everything. And he was far from finished.

"My goddess," Sylus murmurs with lips wet from your sweat and the salt of your skin. "What a perfect vessel you've become."

As his hips grind into your sweet spot again and again, the coil within you finally snaps with a sound of pleasure torn itself free of your throat. You clench down, pulsing in frantic waves as you come apart—loud, messy, utterly divine.

Sylus exhales a moan as you spasm around him, slick coating his cock whilst your cries melt into broken moans. The magic thickens in the air, the vines twist tighter around the altar, and flowers burst open in wild, fevered bloom. His hold on you becomes unrelenting, grounding you through your climax while Sylus continues to move, each motion pulling you deeper into bliss. You cling to him like your sanity depends on the rhythm of his hips.

And still, he moves inside you.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses hold a kind of hunger that strips the air from your lungs, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he owns the space, tasting every sound you try to make and swallowing them down like they are the only offering he has ever desired.

"Again," he murmurs at your throat, dragging his mouth along the damp curve of your neck. "I want to feel you fall apart once more until your body forgets everything but me."

Sylus is everything now: your altar, your sin, the ruin you've come to love—and you, soft and pliant beneath him, offer yourself with nothing left to hide.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. To admire the glow of your skin, the way your chest rises in shaky gasps, the tremble in your hands as you drag them over your own body like you can't quite believe how wrecked you have become, how much Sylus has wrecked you.

"There is nothing more beautiful than this," Sylus says, voice thick with something heavier than pride as his eyes drink you in. "Nothing is more beautiful than you."

Your lashes flutter as your body can no longer keep up with your mind, and though your limbs tremble, you manage to hold his gaze, even as his cock throbs inside you with growing need. The tension in Sylus builds steadily; his body is tense, his jaw locked, his control fraying beneath the weight of how badly he wants to finish inside you—but still, he holds back. Still, he is waiting because he needs more from you first.

"Tell me," he whispers, his lips brushing your cheek, your ear, the line of your throat where your pulse stammers beneath the skin. "Tell me what you want. Speak it, and it's yours. I only exist to please you."

Your vision blurs, your thoughts scattered by the intensity of him, but your hands still find his hair, threading through it as your legs curl around his hips, pulling him closer, offering yourself without shame.

"Show me," you breathe, your voice hoarse, and your mouth barely forms the words. "Teach me what you like."

Sylus stills for a heartbeat, something shifting in his expression into a flash of pure and empty-headed desire.

And then he moves. The shift is fluid, your world tilting as Sylus turns you onto your stomach, one hand guiding your hips back into position as if you were meant to be there, presented like an offering no god would dare refuse.

He watches for only a moment, taking in the arch of your back, the tremble in your thighs, the way you present yourself, and then he slides back inside you with one long thrust that punches the air from your lungs, steals the cry from your lips, and buries him in the heat of your body once again.

Sylus breathes your name into the crook of your shoulder as his pace deepens, your cunt clenching around him so tightly his hands have to grip your waist with bruising pressure.

"Yes… just like that," Sylus exhales, his voice rasping against your ear as your walls tighten around him. He leans over you to press himself closer, to reach around your front and embrace your breasts whole. His fingers knead your soft mounds, his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you whimper without meaning to.

Each cry feeds his hunger for more of you, for everything and everything. Your effect on him roughens Sylus's voice. "You're so soft... you take me so well..." he murmurs into your hair while he seems to drown in the sensation of your body welcoming him again and again.

You can't reply. You can only gasp and sob as each thrust pushes you deeper into the grass, into the magic wrapping around your body, into the unbearable fullness that makes your thoughts scatter.

"Sylus—, Sylus—" your voice cracks as his name escapes you like it's the only word you remember how to say. And each time you try to repeat it, Sylus pushes in harder, dragging another broken sound from your lips until you fall apart in stuttering cries.

His voice dips, hushed and dangerous by your ear. "That's it… Come again. Let me feel you break for me. Let your body beg—so I can spill inside you like I was meant to."

You shake your head, though it's barely defiance. The pleasure is too close, too sharp, and your sobs spill between whispers of longing and disbelief. "It's too good… I don't want it to stop… I c-can't—"

"All night," Sylus breathes and sinks his teeth into the curve of your neck.

Your entire body seizes as your release washes over you while Sylus's teeth stay anchored, not cruel but claiming, holding you in place as he continues to thrust, to coax every pulse of your climax from you. The dark magic around you grows in its potency and ties you together in blood, lust and devotion.

"Forever," he whispers into your flesh.

While your shoulders slump into the grass, boneless with pleasure, your hips stay high, your walls still fluttering helplessly around him. Sylus towers above you, a monument of muscle and shadow, watching your arousal drip down your thighs, the scent of your union wafts thickly in the air.

"A glutton," he murmurs, almost fondly. "Just like me."

Then, ever so effortlessly, Sylus lifts you. One hand slides between your breasts to press you flush against his chest. Your head tilts back against a firm shoulder with a gasp as his cock pushes deeper from the new angle, the stretch all-consuming.

His lips stretch into a grin against your temple, one hand slipping down to cup your breasts again, to tease your sensitive nipple until you moan, each twitch feeding his delight. "Truly insatiable," he hums in approval.

You clench around him without meaning to. He feels it—the tremble of surrender. The way your body opens for him all over again.

"Tainted skin," Sylus whispers as his lips graze your ear. "Tainted body… all mine."

And then, he slips out, slowly, unbearably so, to leave you gasping as you grow aware of the emptiness inside you. Your body aches from the absence even while Sylus eases you down among the grass as though handling something sacred only he is allowed to touch.

There are no words left in you—only a breathless nod, parted lips, trembling limbs caught beneath the weight of everything he has given and everything he now promises to take. It is not just want. It is far more consuming—need, surrender, devotion in its most unholy, exquisite form.

"Please," you whisper, a word that sounds more like a prayer than a plea.

A goddess's offering to her God, and of course, he answers.

Sylus's hand wraps around the base of his cock as he strokes himself above you, the flushed tip leaking and twitching, swollen with pressure as crimson basks in the view of your awaiting body. Your skin is kissed with sweat, the grass clinging to your curves, the darkness wrapping around you like a blanket.

And then Sylus breaks the heavy silence. The sound brushes against your ear. "Now... I will give you everything."

Fingers trail slowly down the trembling expanse of your thighs, the tips of them sink into their softness as though he means to memorise you by touch alone.

The contrast is stark—your yielding body beneath his strength, held back only by the need that you alone summon from him with every breathless sound you make.

"You offer yourself," Sylus murmurs, his voice hoarse and cracked at the edges, the kind of tone that drips not from worship but hunger. "Like a promise whispered where no god dares to listen."

He watches the way your hands lift to your chest, fingers trembling as they trace over the peaks of your breasts, your body bared to him not in submission but in power, in invitation, and he is helpless before it.

His cock twitches in his grasp, flushed and throbbing, veins thick with desire as though every inch of him aches to return to the place he knows belongs to him. Sylus's breath stutters, his eyes hooded, his body tight and straining, forged by a need that only you have ever been capable of drawing forth without lifting a finger.

"Only you," he chokes out, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep and private, "Only you could bring me here. Pull me down. Make me beg. Make me break."

Sylus sinks into you again, his mouth seeking out the marks he left behind along the curve of your shoulder, the vulnerable dip of your throat. His teeth press into the skin not to wound but to keep, to seal, to remind you that you are his. His tongue follows and drags slowly over your heated skin until your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer and dragging him back deeper.

"My beloved," you whisper, your voice thick with amusement and awe as you glance back at him, your eyes catching his like a spark in the dark. Come for me."

The words break him.

"You're a vision," Sylus breathes against your neck. Sylus drives forward with sharp, selfish thrusts, then another, and another still, burying himself to the base with a force that knocks the air from your lungs.

The pleasure ripples through him. It scorches everything he is, everything he was and thought he will ever be as if your body is the vessel he was crafted to spill himself into. His release comes in waves, each thicker and hotter than the last—a vow carved into the softest parts of you.

He cannot be gentle. Not now. Not when your walls clamp around him like they never intend to let him go. His hands are firm on your hips, his teeth press into your shoulder again, and every motion of his body tells you the same thing—you are his. His end, his beginning, his undoing.

Your name slips from his lips, whispered in need for more.

And the Underworld responds.

The altar lights with fire too bright to be natural, and the vines wind around your entangled limbs as if even the ground beneath you seeks to hold you in place.

Voices long dead hum secrets beneath the surface, recognising what has happened for what it is: a binding not made with rings or sweetly spoken promises but with desire and darkness.

Still, Sylus moves. He shifts only slightly; his hips are rocking with slow, shallow thrusts as he rides out the last pulses of his orgasm. You feel the heat of his breath, the tremor in his muscles as firm arms curl you into his chest.

Forehead pressed against forehead, you remain as one. He is still inside, thick and full and twitching as if your body is the only place that can hold him now. You feel him leaking from you, slick and warm as it drips down your thighs.

"I am ruined," he whispers into your skin, the words frayed and aching with a breathless chuckle of disbelief. "And I never want to be whole again. Not if it means letting go of this. Of you."

He presses his mouth along your shoulder, jaw, and the corner of your lips as you finally turn into him, and the look on his face is no longer that of a god. There is no king here—only Sylus— yours.

He lowers himself beside you on the shadow-kissed grass, the dark flowers blooming around your tangled limbs as he pulls you into his arms. You remain joined, still one, and then he kisses you softly.

"I won't stop," he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, deep with something he never says aloud. "Even if doomsday arrives outside this sanctuary. Even if the skies burn and the world forgets our names. I will still be yours."

Magic winds around you both like a second skin, soft and warm. It is a promise that will never fade: you are his queen, and he is your King.

And the Underworld will remember the night it bore witness to gods falling not into ruin but into something far more ethereal.

You are lost in the petals that never stop falling, the heat between you, and the spell crafted from skin and union.

And Sylus holds you like the world has narrowed down to this—just you, just now.

You are no longer something stolen, no longer taken from the world above, but something claimed—willingly, completely—and he is yours, now and always, bound to you in a way that even eternity cannot sever.

feedback & reblogs would be deeply appreciated | dividers by @/cafekitsune

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hkthatgffan · 9 months ago

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The image used in the background of the Gravity Falls logo HAS BEEN FOUND!!

It's located in France!!

I made a thread on Twitter explaining the full story and how I even asked Ian Worrel and Alex Hirsch about it, but lemme run down quickly how it was found and where it is!

After 3 years of searching with some friends on and off, we had no real luck. I've been working on a video about it for a while but decided to try one more time. My friend @trickengf suggested looking at international logos as they may have more of the image available and sure enough...we found logos like the Japanese and Russian GF logo had more visible detail of the image.

From that, Tricken made a remake of the image and used it to find it. He ended up finding the source at about 3AM for me, lol!

My friend Fried Oreos then confirmed the image was old enough to fit the criteria of pre GF pilot, by determining the image was on the Textures website it was sourced from since 2008!

Then, my friend Alex M managed to buy the HD image and we were able to analyze its metadata for more info!

Turns out, the image, called "LandscapeMountains0009," was taken by a Nikon D70 camera on April 18, 2007!

THE GRAVITY FALLS LOGO IMAGE IS ALMOST 18 YEARS OLD!!

From there, we began looking for the location. The meta data had no location, but other images taken around the same time showed signs of maybe the location being in Europe.

After over a day of searching, Tricken, Alex M and Oreos FOUND IT!!

The location of the image is a mountain range near the town of Sers, France...near the border with Spain.

Exact coordinates of the closest viewable angle of the image is 42°54'23.2"N 0°06'05.6"E

This is a major discovery and one I cannot believe we did. While this search was started by me in 2021 with some friends, it was TrickenGF, Alex M and Fried Oreos who deserve all the credit for this discovery! They were the geniuses who tracked all of this down and were able to connect the dots to get to this point.

You guys are amazing and I am beyond grateful for all of this.

Finding this image means that fans can now recreate the Gravity Falls logo as they want with anything they want. For example, Tricken made this for me using the image :D

Or, you can do this, lol

We now have it!

For 12 years as we looked at the Gravity Falls logo...we were in reality looking at a mountain in France...NOT Oregon!

So, I guess this is a major W for France but sorry, Pacific Northwest, Gravity Falls is actually French, lol!

I still can't believe we found this. I'm so happy :P

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arminsumi · 7 months ago

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Ahhh, student!Satoru, who's leaning into the palm of his hand, mouth concealed behind his pale hand, eyes stuck on you. And they've been stuck on you ever since he saw you first walk up the steps into Jujutsu Tech. Bright blue. Heart quivering. Fixed gaze.

He takes any excuse to be near you, even though he knows that you're annoyed by him — he's so cocky and full of himself. But don't you see that he's also just a lovesick boy? Look at the way he follows after you down the halls, long striding legs effortlessly meeting your quick pace.

You're just trying to get a cold soda from the vending machine after a long two hours of practicing martial arts with Satoru, Suguru and Shoko. And since Shoko promptly left with Suguru for a cigarette break, that left an overjoyed Satoru alone with you.

"Which flavor do you usually get?" he asks, grasping at any conversation starter he can think of. He just wants to talk to you, even if it's about something so dumb... even if it's while stood next to a vending machine.

"Uh, strawberry... it's my favorite."

He takes a mental note of that.

He's always trying to get your attention, even if he has to become a fool in order to earn a glance from you. Walking away, looking dumb, even his best friend shakes his head at him and tells him that he's way too downbad for a girl that doesn't even like him back.

But Satoru doesn't listen to anyone when they say that you don't like him back. He knows the chemistry is there, as awkward as it may be sometimes. He knows there's something connecting him and you, like an invisible thread.

He still brings you gifts on V-day. He still pesters you in class. He still shares one earbud with you on train rides. He still gets that accelerated heart beat when you so much as graze your hand over his while walking side-by-side.

So eagerly looking at your lips, Satoru pulls out lip balm and makes eye contact with you while applying it. He's always got chapped lips, he knows because someone made exactly 1 comment about it and now he's never forgotten to put a lip balm in his pocket.

"Whatchya starin' at my lips for? You wanna have a taste of strawberry?" he winks, puckering his kissable lips at you.

"Ough..." you cringe at him, "Satoru, it's no wonder you're single."

Okay, he has zero flirting skills. But he earns a smile out of you right then, so even if he's cringe, he's surely doing something right. Are the cogs turning in your head? Do you think he's cute? Do you want to kiss him should he lean into a kiss oh he's leaning into a kiss now aaand he nearly falls flat on his face, because you didn't notice that he was leaning in for a kiss and now he just has to play it off and look like a dumbass once again.

His feelings grow exponentially as the years pass.

You're always catching him staring and he doesn't even feel ashamed.

Though it's been on his mind all the time, it's not until after three years of knowing you that Satoru kisses you.

It happens one day during heavy rainfall. He runs to you with a grin, no umbrella, totally soaked, and like a bright-eyed bunny he bounces at your side.

He's unzipping his uniform jacket, hanging it over the two of you. The proximity has his heart thumping. Before he knows it, he's leaning down to kiss you, right there as the two of you are concealed from the world in your own little bubble — in reality, everyone knows that you two are liplocking under Satoru's jacket. Duh. His shoes click on the ground as he repositions himself, bending his knees and arching down to meet your lips, 'till his spine gets angry at him for falling for a short girl.

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teaandspite · 10 months ago

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The Great Goodreads Diss List (Part 1)

Context: For many years now, I have been collecting funny lines from Goodreads reviews to share with my coworkers. (I do collection development, reader's advisory, and weeding at a public library, so I read a LOT of reviews)

Are some of these, perhaps, rather mean? Yes, but they are also very funny, and come from a place of honest frustration. In the tradition of Bargepole threads and lists everywhere, names and titles have been censored.

"First, I want to say that I understand how hard it is to write a book and how amazing it is when it is actually published. Congrats to the author for that accomplishment. That said--"

"Warning: This review will be lengthy due to pure hatred."

"I found myself feeling really, really annoyed with the world that this book is allowed to exist. We live in a universe where the passenger pigeon is extinct but this book goes along merrily being read by unsuspecting lovers of words and ideas and stories? It just seems like too much, you know?"

"Don't do it. Don't spring the cash for the hardcover. Instead, eat an entire bag of Twizzlers, spend some money you don't have at a high-end department store, look up on Facebook the shady college boyfriend that made you cry, research the current value of your home or 401K and then read all about how the big hedge fund managers are faring during the economic crisis. You'll feel about the same stomach pain if you waste your time reading this book."

"This wretched novel begins with the mugging of an old lady and it appears I may be in the process of repeating that loathsome crime as [author] was 78 when she wrote it. It is not nice to put the boot into such a poor defenseless old creature lying there with only a damehood, a Booker Prize and a few million quid. It’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it."

"I think this is the way dead people would write, if they could."

"I am considering setting up SPABB: Society for the Protection of Accurate Book Blurb. This blurb appears to have been written by someone from the publishers who met [the author] the night before, got very drunk, lost his notes and then constructed something in a fug of hangover the next morning."

"I congratulate [the author] on the early half of his book, which was thoroughly fun and made me laugh and think. I congratulate [the author] on the second half of his book, for finishing it. It reads like that was difficult."

"…a woman whose taste in contemporary literature has roughly the same batting average as a pitcher in the National League."

"The author is a pompous windbag."

"Recommends it for: No one. Recommended to me by: A friend who apparently wished to cause me great suffering."

"Makes me wonder: is it possible to obtain similes at a volume discount?"

"The repeated phrases made me want to mail a thesaurus to the author."

"I'm disappointed in myself for finishing this book."

"if the author described [character's] eyes as "obsidian" one more time I was tempted to write her and ask if her thesaurus broke."

"They say that an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters would, if given infinite time, eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. [This book], on the other hand, would probably take the average monkey just under two hours."

"I can't imagine what the author had to do to get this nadir of Western literature printed on innocent trees, but he does seem to know a LOT about being well-connected in New York."

"This book is so bad it is almost worth reading just to make you appreciate the other books you are reading."

"Reads like it was written by a brilliant author, the night before it was due."

"raises interesting questions, like: can a book be so bad as to constitute an act of terrorism"

"has this author ever spoken to a human woman"

"This acorn has fallen so far from the tree that it can’t even see the forest."

"I’m guessing they are touted as ‘beach reads’ because no one will care if they get dropped into the ocean."

"This book begins with all the energy of a hand vacuum near the end of its battery life, and the pace doesn't quicken much from there."

"At least everybody’s eyes stayed the same color this time around.”

Part 2

Part 3

#the diss list #book review #goodreads #tumblrarians #literary criticism #library #bargepole

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piastriprincess · 2 months ago

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was your soul rediscovered (was your heart rearranged?) ⸻ lando norris x reader .

featuring lando norris , soulmate au , friends to lovers word count 2.6k author’s note thank you thank you THANK YOU for all the love on my oscar fic , this is another one i’ve been workshopping for a bit - lowkey inspired by @binisainz , i love the way she writes lando sm . i promise yall i don’t only write friends to lovers !! anyway hope you all like it , inbox is open for requests or if you wanna talk to me !! title from maine by noah kahan .

“Mate, what are you watching?” your best friend says as he steps out of his room.

You were sprawled on his expensive couch, but you practically bolt up when you hear his voice. “Nothing,” you respond, voice shaky and high-pitched as you try to pause the video, but you’re no match for Lando’s reflexes, honed over years of pushing his body to the limit. He snatches the phone out of your hand — the little gremlin — and starts giggling almost immediately. “Soulmate Theory: Understanding the Red String of Fate?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, cheeks burning as you try to grab your phone from him. Lando’s anticipating that move, though, and he steps just out of your reach, grinning at you with that annoying smile he’s perfected over your years-long friendship. “Lan, give it back.”

You can hear the narrator’s voice, tinny through your phone speakers as the video keeps playing: “The two souls connected by the red thread are destined to be lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstance. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.” You can’t stand the stupid smile on Lando’s face for a second longer, so you jump on Lando’s back. His giggle drowns out the rest of the narration as you finally manage to wrestle the phone out of his hands, stabbing the pause button like you have a personal vendetta against it.

“Not another word about it,” you warn him, smoothing your dress. He actually manages to keep his mouth shut for about five minutes.

“I can’t believe you buy into that stuff,” Lando scoffs, rolling his shoulders in that cocky way of his as you both exit his apartment building. He pulls open the passenger door, and you slide into his car as he walks around to the driver’s side. “It’s such rubbish.”

You sigh. “I can’t believe you don’t. I mean, look at all the people who found their soulmates. Look at Oscar and Lily! How can you hear all those stories and still believe there’s no such thing?”

“We can’t see it,” Lando shrugs as he hands you the aux cord without even looking. “The red string is supposed to show up if we fall in love with our soulmates, but who could prove it? I could say Tate McRae was my soulmate and no one would be able to tell I was wrong, even her. Unless she fell in love with me and didn’t see it.”

“Please,” you respond tartly, pausing before the punchline. “As if you could ever pull Tate McRae.” You know he’s about to respond, a sassy retort or a punch to the shoulder brewing in his mind, but before he can, you hit play on your ‘Make Lando Shut Up’ Spotify playlist. His eyes widen with delight as On the Floor by J.Lo starts to play, and before you know it you’re both singing along, the conversation effectively forgotten.

⸻

You’re sitting in a booth at Jimmyz, watching Charles Leclerc cross the dance floor with your chin propped in your hand. His tanned skin shines under the pulsing lights, those beautiful blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he speaks rapid-fire French to one of the other drivers. You’re not sure when you started noticing Charles the way you do now. Maybe it’s a stupid crush on one of Lando’s friends, a guy tangentially in your orbit who’s finally single. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s your —

“Just go talk to him, you muppet,” Lando says directly into your left ear, and you jump in surprise, whirling to face him. His hair is damp, a sheen of sweat on his muscular arms.

“Jesus Christ, Lando. Stop sneaking up on me.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes bright and teasing as he leans closer to you. “Eye sex tends to work better when the other person is looking back at you.”

“Charles will realize he wants my eye sex one of these days,” you counter, sitting back in the booth. “This is eye foreplay.”

Lando grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “Maybe you should get some eye experience, to know what you’re doing when the time comes. Wanna have a staring contest?”

You snort, bumping your shoulder against his. “Ew. Freak.” You don’t look back at Charles. He’s not looking at you, anyway. “Think those girls might have a problem with that,” you note, eyes flicking to the gaggle of bleach-blondes Lando left behind at the edge of the booth.

He rolls his eyes. “Please. You know you’re the only one who’s coming home with me.” You allow him a small smile at that, and he grabs your arm, pulling you out of the booth to dance.

⸻

“Oh my god,” you moan, teeth sinking into the first bite. “I think this pizza is my soulmate.” You’re at a tiny ristorante in Monza, executing your oldest pre-race tradition of taking Lando to Saturday night dinner (he insists that if you pay, it’s all even, despite the fact that he pays for your flights and hotel room and gives you a paddock pass).

Lando’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, not looking at you. “That’d be a real win for the universe, wouldn’t it?” he replies dryly.

You give him a pass. He’s still waiting for his food, and he gets fussy when he’s hungry. “I’m serious,” you continue lightly, waving a slice in his general direction. “Try some.” He doesn’t look up. “I should invite Charles here. Maybe we’ll be poly soulmates with this margherita. Do you think if we both ate some at the same time, we’d be able to see the red string going down our throats?”

Lando giggles, finally putting his phone away, and you feel a little swell of happiness in your stomach. “Oh my god, shut up, you muppet.” He reaches for the pizza, about to take the slice from your hand when he goes pale, letting it slip through his fingers. It falls face-down on his plate, untouched.

“What the hell, Lan?” you grin, but all of a sudden he looks like he’s on another planet, eyes wide and fixed on your face. “You okay?” you ask, concerned, and place your hand on his wrist. The skin burns beneath your fingers.

His eyes meet yours for another second, and then he shakes his head like he’s clearing cobwebs from his brain. “Totally. Just… zoned out for a second, I think,” he says softly.

“Okay,” you say, unconvinced and ready to press him on it, but then the waiter comes back to your table with his pizza, and that strange, charged moment passes.

⸻

You’re sprawled on Lando’s couch under a big blanket, a little wine-drunk as Notting Hill plays on the TV screen in front of you. You’ve seen it a hundred times, since Lando picks it practically every single movie night, but you can’t stop your eyes from getting a little misty when Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts look at each other in the crowded press room, the red string wrapping around the mic stands and chairs from one pinky to the other.

“See?” Lando tosses a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it in his mouth. “Hugh Grant was like, totally in love with his wife. She finds her soulmate and leaves him. And the whole time, Julia Roberts was there. His real soulmate, out in the universe, and he marries someone else.”

“That doesn’t lessen the value of the love,” you shrug, throwing a handful from your bowl at his head. He yelps, pieces hitting him in the face. “It just means the person who was made for him was somebody else. You can still be happy with someone who isn’t your soulmate.”

“God. Love’s complicated enough without soulmates messing it up,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch. “I hate soulmates.”

“How do you hate something you don’t believe in?” you ask automatically, expecting his usual anti-soulmate rant. But it doesn’t come, and when you look over at him, he’s avoiding your eyes.

“Oh my god,” you say, somewhat delightedly. “You do believe in them. You believe in soulmates.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles, suddenly very interested in his popcorn bowl.

“I thought you thought they were ‘rubbish,’” you mimic his words from weeks ago, not even bothering to hide your smile anymore. “What happened?”

“They still are rubbish,” he protests. “How terrible is it that we know someone out there is made for us, but we don’t know if we found that person until we’re already in love? Look at Hugh Grant and the ex-wife. They had to know they were dooming their soulmates if they stayed together.”

You frown. “It’s just a movie, Lan. An admittedly great movie, but a movie. Plus, they found the right person in the end.” You motion to the TV, where Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts sit in the park.

He sits up, eyes flickering over your face restlessly. “What if they hadn’t? If you love somebody who isn’t your soulmate, would you leave them to wait for the real thing? Or would you stay with the person you love anyway?”

“Me?” you ask, and he nods, his fingertips drumming against the arm of the couch. “I dunno. Who knows if I’ll ever find my soulmate, you know? I want to believe I will, but it’s a big world. I guess I’d stay with the person I love.”

He slouches back on the couch as the credits roll. “Yeah. Love’s hard enough without soulmates.”

⸻

“You’ll never believe what just happened,” you laugh. “Are you sitting down?”

“Hold on,” Lando’s voice spills through your phone speakers. He’s in Woking for testing this week, so you’re all alone in Monaco, and you hate to admit that just hearing his voice is making you smile. “One second.” You hear him close a door behind him, then the soft oof of him flopping facedown onto the couch. “Alright. I’m sat. Lay it on me.”

“Okay. So. I was on one of those park benches by the beach reading, right? And all of a sudden this little dog runs up to me.” You pause for dramatic effect. “It’s Charles’s dog. And he comes running up after him, all cute and sweaty, and thanked me for catching Leo. And we got to talking, and he asked me if I wanted to grab dinner with him tonight.” You can hear the smile in your voice, sure he’s about to tease you endlessly for it. “What?” Lando says, sharply, and you have to hold the phone away from your ear a little.

“Jesus, Lan. Volume.” You’re only teasing, but for a moment there’s nothing but silence on the other end of the phone.

“Well… that’s cool,” he says flatly. You frown. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but it’s not this.

“Are you serious?” you say, picking at your cuticle. “I thought you’d be happier for me. You’ve been telling me to talk to him for, like, ever. And this was a pretty cute first encounter. Straight out of a rom-com. Maybe I’ll see the red string tonight. Maybe he’s my —”

“Charles Leclerc is not your soulmate,” Lando scoffs dismissively.

You roll your eyes before you realize he can’t see you. “How would you even know?”

A pause. Suddenly the amorphous space between you feels charged like a live wire.

“He just isn’t. No way.” Lando says firmly, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Whatever,” you say, but your enthusiasm is somewhat dimmed. “I guess we’ll see on the date. How’s testing going?”

He launches into some story about how Oscar accidentally nearly broke the rear wing by leaning too heavily on it, but you’re not listening, not really. His words, his certainty rubbed you the wrong way. How would Lando possibly know whether or not Charles was the right one for you?

He couldn’t, of course. No one could. You wish you could just ignore it, let it go, but Lando knows you better than almost anyone, and you trust him instinctually.

Charles Leclerc is not your soulmate.

You hadn’t thought that he was, not seriously at least, but hearing Lando say it so straight-out made the butterflies in your stomach stop fluttering. An hour before you’re supposed to meet Charles at the restaurant, you text him to cancel.

⸻

“I think it’s going to rain,” you muse, taking a sip of your iced coffee. You’d dragged Lando on an adventure to some cafe overlooking the ocean; your friend had told you it had a beautiful view and the best kouign amanns in the principality. She wasn’t wrong, and although the walk was longer than you’d expected, you’d been congratulating yourself on a Saturday well spent until the sky started growing darker.

“It’s not going to rain,” Lando says from beside you, voice muffled as his mouth is half-full of one of the pastries. “It never rains in Monaco.”

It’s like the storm was waiting for dramatic effect; just then, the sky opens up, and before you know it the rain is soaking through your shirt.

“Shit,” you laugh, watching the shock evident on his face. “Never rains, huh?”

As you speak, there’s a crack of thunder behind you. You’re not a child, not scared of storms like you used to be, but Lando still grabs your hand as you take off running, searching for the nearest shelter from the driving rain. He pulls you down a side alley, your sneakers skidding on the wet stone as you stop beneath an awning.

You lean against the wall, panting as you look up at him. His white tee is soaked through and his hair is plastered to his forehead, but he’s grinning at you, eyes bright, so breathtaking that you feel like the wind just got knocked out of your body. “Always an adventure,” he says cheerfully, and you realize he’s still holding your hand. You’re about to wriggle away, to wipe the water off your face, when something catches your eye. You look down at your hands and nearly stop breathing. There’s a glowing red thread, winding from your pinky to his.

The red string of fate, you think to yourself. The two souls connected by the red thread are destined to be lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstance. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.

Oh. Oh, oh, oh.

Lando was your soulmate.

You were in love with your best friend.

“You okay?” Lando asks, and you realize you’ve been silent for far too long. You want to look at him, but you can’t seem to drag your eyes away from the thread.

“Our hands look good together,” you say dreamily. You can’t keep the smile off your face. “I never realized until just now.”

“Yeah?” Lando says, his voice pitching up slightly. “What changed?”

You look up, finally, and meet his eyes, see the way his tongue darts out to lick the plush pink of his bottom lip. He’s nervous. Does he know? You’re not going to force it, if he doesn’t.

“A new accessory,” you say vaguely, shrugging your shoulders, but your cheeks are starting to hurt from beaming at him.

“Red, by any chance?” he asks, and you know.

“And joint custody,” you agree.

His smile lights up his entire face. “Took you long enough.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” you smack his arm, hard, and he just shrugs. You’re understanding his change of heart on soulmates, now. He figured out that he had one. “When did you find out?”

“When you were shoveling that pizza, in Monza.”

You grin, eyes shining with tears. How could you not have guessed it? “Played it off well, there.”

“I’m super smooth,” he agrees, pulling you closer. Your hands land on his chest, like they’ve always been meant to be there. “I’m gonna kiss you now, yeah?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up with one finger.

You’re already leaning in, and when your lips brush against each other for the first time it feels like coming home. “Took you long enough.”

#f1 #f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris fluff #f1 imagine #lando norris #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #lando norris x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #mywork.

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writesvani · 3 months ago

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dear me — jeon jungkook

lawyer! jeonjungkook x privatechef! reader

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

comment here for Dear Me taglist;

find Dear Me on wattpad!

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: angst, fluff, smut (all characters are of age), YEARNING, explicit language, pinning, misunderstandings, forbidden love, JK being torn (but so is Y/n), this is NOT a cheating fic, arguing, cursing, substance use (alcohol & cigarettes), nostalgia, happy ending (probably)

word count: 56,4k & more coming soon!

ꪆchapter index୧

— chapter one: Me VS. Me

— chapter two: It's you – well me again, UGH

— chapter three: Saturdays are for Yoongi

— chapter four: The House

— chapter five: Us & immaturity

— chapter six: The Orbits

— chapter seven: The Family Games: May the Pettiest Win

— chapter eight: Fifteen Years and a Pinky

— chapter nine: Play It Again

— chapter ten: Tethered Threads

— chapter eleven: The Secret

& more soon!

ꪆdrabbles + extras୧

— dear me moodboard

— i'm gonna be his wife; (pending...)

— the way we were; JK's pov (pending...)

— the egg yolk incident; (pending...)

the drabbles in this story are part of the DearMeVerse, so i highly recommend reading them to get a deeper understanding of the plot. as the story unfolds, new drabbles will unlock, and they’re designed to enhance the experience. i suggest reading the chapters in order, and in the author’s notes, i’ll let you know when’s the best time to dive into each drabble, as they’ll be posted after certain chapters.

but don’t worry — reading the drabbles isn’t a MUST. they won’t change the story, but they’ll add extra layers to it, helping you connect with the narrative in a more meaningful way.

DISCLAIMER:

I do not own Jeon Jungkook, BTS, or any of the real people mentioned in this story. They belong to themselves — and as much as I'd love to claim them as my own, I am not that lucky. This is purely a work of fiction, written by a fan who enjoys imagining what could happen if their lives were a bit more dramatic and a lot more fictional. Any resemblance to real-life events is purely coincidental, unless it involves them being cute, in which case, I’ll take credit for that part. This story is just for fun, and no harm was intended in its creation. Please don’t sue me, I promise I’m just here for the fic!

all works published here are created by me (@writesvani on tumblr). i own all rights to my original works, including any written content, original characters, and plotlines. copying, redistributing, translating, or posting my works on any other social media without my explicit permission is strictly prohibited. all rights reserved.

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theskywithin · 1 month ago

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Saturn in Aries - May 24 to September 1, 2025 ( for your Rising Sign )

Saturn in Aries will hit each of us in a different house, a different corner of the chart, a different chapter of the self. This isn’t just astrology. It’s pressure, precision, the part of your life that’s about to get stripped down, sharpened, and asked to grow the hell up. Wherever Aries falls in your birth chart is where the performance ends. Where you stop pretending. Where Saturn builds a wall around what you actually care about so you can stop giving your energy to what you don’t.

Here’s what Saturn in Aries is demanding from you, based on your rising sign:

Aries Rising | Saturn in the 1st House

This isn’t a makeover, this is a molting. A dismantling of every version of yourself you’ve ever thrown at the world just to survive. Saturn in the 1st doesn’t want your confidence, it wants your courage. The kind that doesn’t come from being fearless, but from being seen while still unfinished. While shaking. While covered in ash from everything you just burned.

For years, you’ve been quick, reactive, you’ve sprinted through doors just because they were open, fought battles just because they existed. But now the sky says stop. Not to slow you down, but to make sure you know who the hell you are before you charge into what’s next. This is identity on trial. This is instinct under pressure. This is the end of adrenaline-as-purpose.

You’ll feel it in your bones first, that ache that says “this version of me isn’t enough anymore.” Not because you’re lacking, but because you’ve outgrown your armor. And Saturn? He doesn’t let you fake it. He won’t let you perform confidence. He wants you naked in your becoming, sober in your desire, deliberate in your power. This is the first house. The house of I am. So the question becomes: are you?

Are you willing to be honest about who you’ve been? Are you willing to dismantle the identity that helped you survive, so you can become the one that helps you live? Because this is the fire that leaves a mark. And Saturn doesn’t give trophies. He leaves scars, the kind that prove you chose to become real.

Taurus Rising | Saturn in the 12th House

This is the sound of your own silence growing louder. The part of you that’s always known, always avoided, now knocking harder. Saturn in the 12th doesn’t arrive with a spotlight. He slips in through the crack under the door, settles into the corners of your dreams, and starts pulling threads. You won’t always know what’s being undone but you’ll feel the unraveling.

This is the house of the undone self, the memories you’ve buried under routine, the grief you numbed with loyalty, the rage you wrapped in politeness. Saturn brings them all back like ghosts who finally demand names. Not to haunt you but to be laid to rest properly.

Here, discipline isn’t external. It’s internal exorcism. You may find yourself exhausted. Disoriented. Pulled toward isolation, reflection, release. But this is not a punishment. This is sacred demolition. This is the year you stop outsourcing your healing to other people’s approval. This is where you stop pretending that being still is the same as being safe.

Saturn is asking: What part of you has been in hiding? What pain have you made peace with just to avoid feeling it? What truth have you postponed in the name of appearing grounded? Because this is the excavation of the unconscious. And no amount of control will protect you from what needs to be faced. You’re not here to be solid. You’re here to be stripped down to essence and still remain.

Gemini Rising | Saturn in the 11th House

This is the year your crowd thins out. Not because you’re unlovable, but because your vision finally sharpens.

Saturn in the 11th walks into the room and turns down the volume. Every echo of approval you used to chase. Every connection that filled time but not truth. Every dream you clung to because it made you feel busy enough to avoid the real one underneath. This is not the collapse of your community, it’s the pruning of your future.

The 11th house is where we project. Hopes, affiliations, longings too big to hold alone. But Saturn isn’t sentimental. He walks through your social life with a scalpel, asking: Which of these people actually see you? Which of these dreams still belong to you?

You’ll feel it as distance at first. As disconnection. But it’s not loss, it’s calibration. The truth is, you’ve been carrying expired visions. Ones you inherited, ones you outgrew, ones that never truly had your name on them. And Saturn is done letting you pretend you can outrun that with charm, speed, or wit.

This transit is the end of performance-based belonging. The death of the shapeshifter who only knows how to reflect the room. You’re not here to be everyone’s favorite idea. You’re here to become the blueprint no one’s seen before.

And yes, that might mean doing it alone at first. But you won’t be alone forever. Because the ones who find you on the other side of this? They’ll be the ones who were never afraid of your truth to begin with.

Cancer Rising | Saturn in the 10th House

This is where the scaffolding collapses and the bones of your ambition are left out in the open, trembling, unpainted, real.

Saturn in the 10th house doesn’t care how well you’ve played the part. The title, the posture, the curated image of strength, he strips all of it. Not to expose you, but to rebuild you from the marrow. This is legacy under x-ray. Reputation under pressure. Power without costume. And it starts at the root. The unspoken expectations. The inherited pressure. The voices of parents, teachers, cultures that said: “Be good. Be great. Be what we couldn’t.”

But Saturn doesn’t want performance, he wants authority. Not authority you imitate, but the kind you forge through friction. This is not the success story you imagined. This is the one that scorches your name into stone.

You may find yourself questioning everything: the path you’re on, the goals you inherited, the mask of being “put together” you’ve worn like a second skin. And Saturn? He’ll keep the pressure on until you crack, not to break you, but to prove that your center holds even when everything else falls away.

This is your reputation becoming honest. This is your ambition growing teeth. This is your spine learning how to stand without applause. Because the world doesn’t need your perfection. It needs your presence, raw, capable, unafraid to lead from the place you once felt small.

Leo Rising | Saturn in the 9th House

This is where your philosophy gets torn at the seams. Not because it was wrong, but because it was too small to hold who you're becoming. Saturn in the 9th is here to make you uncomfortable with your certainty. To push against every worldview you’ve wrapped around your fear and called it wisdom. The sky opens to test what you’ll cling to when the map catches fire.

You may find your beliefs shifting like tectonic plates, slow, brutal, irreversible. You may lose faith in the things that once gave you direction. But that’s the point. Saturn doesn’t build cathedrals from inspiration. He builds them from stone and silence.

This is where borrowed truths dissolve. Where secondhand doctrines fall apart in your hands. Where you stop quoting what saved someone else, and start figuring out what will actually save you.

And it’s not just spiritual. It’s personal. The dreams you thought were yours. The meaning you sought in travel, in teachers, in elevation, all of it is being stripped until what’s left is real belief, not spectacle. Not borrowed light. Just the raw heat of your own knowing, forged through experience.

Because Saturn isn’t testing your faith. He’s testing whether you can walk without a compass. Whether you can keep going when the sky doesn’t answer back. This is the architecture of meaning, built from your own reckoning. No shortcuts. No rehearsals. No borrowed lines. Only truth and the weight of living it.

Virgo Rising | Saturn in the 8th House

This is not healing, this is demolition disguised as intimacy. Saturn in the 8th doesn’t care how tidy your pain looks, or how carefully you’ve packaged your past. He wants the raw footage, the unedited version. The losses you swallowed. The debts you buried. The way you flinch when someone tries to see too much. Here, Saturn becomes the locksmith of your most private vaults. The ones where your shame sleeps. Where your control mechanisms live like bodyguards around your heart. Where closeness always costs more than you admit.

And now, he’s prying open every emotional contract, spoken and unspoken. The ones where you gave too much just to be held. The ones where silence became currency. The ones you inherited, absorbed, reenacted without consent.

This is where power gets personal. Where trust becomes a labor. Where letting someone in means you no longer get to narrate the story from a safe distance.

Saturn in the 8th will ask: Where are you still giving away your energy just to feel secure? What are you clinging to that was never truly yours? What have you survive, and what have you actually integrated?

There is no shame left to hide behind. No seduction left to perform. Only the quiet, brutal process of reclaiming what was taken and learning to hold what you never believed you were worthy of receiving. Because this isn’t about becoming fearless. It’s about becoming so honest that fear has nowhere left to hide.

Libra Rising | Saturn in the 7th House

This is the year you stop curating yourself into someone else’s comfort. Saturn is setting fire to every performance you’ve ever confused with love. The effortless smile. The art of knowing exactly what someone needs before they ask. The way you’ve built your worth around how easy you are to love, how little space you take up, how softly you leave when it’s time to go.

But this time, you’re not leaving. You’re staying. And Saturn is watching. He wants to know what happens when you stop being agreeable and start being honest. The 7th house is where we meet the Other. But Saturn doesn’t want your projections, he wants the contract. The one you signed every time you said “yes” when you meant “no.” Every time you shaped yourself into someone else’s safe place while your own boundaries quietly bled beneath the surface. Now, that agreement expires.

Relationships may break. Dynamics will shift. But nothing is being taken from you, only returned. Your voice. Your standards. Your solitude. The terrifying freedom of not being chosen by people who only loved the version of you that never made demands.

You will learn that commitment without truth is just a slow kind of erasure. That love without confrontation is convenience. And that the most intimate thing you can say is: This is who I am, even if you leave.

This is not about finding “the one.” This is about becoming someone who can look in the mirror and say: I don’t abandon myself to belong anymore. Saturn in Aries doesn’t want your charm, he wants your spine.

Scorpio Rising | Saturn in the 6th House

This is not about balance, this is about blood. About what it takes to carry a life, not in theory, but in your actual body.

Saturn in the 6th house comes like a cold dawn. No applause, no audience, just the reality of what must be done. He doesn’t care about your dreams if your sleep is wrecked. He doesn’t care about your potential if your nervous system is burning. This is not the house of magic, it’s the house of maintenance. And Saturn is here to show you where you’ve been surviving on adrenaline and calling it discipline.

Here, the sacred is in the repetition. In the unsexy, unshared, unseen parts of your life. The way your jaw clenches when you’re pretending you’re fine. The way your body keeps score when your mind stays silent. You will be asked to choose what sustains you, not what impresses them. You will be asked to stop performing functionality and live it. To make your rituals not about optimization, but about reverence.

This is the house of devotion but not the kind you learned in church. This is devotion as digestion. As scheduling your grief. As reintroducing yourself to hunger, rest, routine, not to control your body, but to listen to it.

Saturn will show you where you betray your wellness in the name of responsibility. Where you serve out of resentment instead of remembrance. Where your helpfulness has become a cage disguised as competence. This is where humility becomes holy. Where your healing becomes logistical. Where you stop reaching for transcendence and begin staying with yourself through the uncomfortable hours. Saturn doesn’t want you to glow. He wants you to endure, beautifully, honestly, and without apology.

Sagittarius Rising | Saturn in the 5th House

This is the year your performance dies. The applause fades. The spotlight cools. And you’re left standing onstage with nothing but your own heartbeat and the echo of everything you once did just to be loved.

Saturn in the 5th doesn’t want your charm. He wants your core. Not the curated personality, but the feral truth beneath it, the messy, unfiltered wanting you’ve learned to tuck behind laughter and light. Because this house isn’t just about creativity. It’s about creation. And creation requires risk. Not the kind that thrills, but the kind that strips. That exposes you not as you imagine yourself to be, but as you actually are when no one claps, when no one validates, when no one says "more."

This transit is a reckoning with your need to be seen. Where you confuse attention with connection. Where you’ve built a persona just sturdy enough to keep your real self hidden behind it.

Love becomes a mirror now and Saturn won’t let you flinch. He’ll show you where you perform desire instead of inhabiting it. Where you make art from longing but refuse to stand inside it. Where your joy depends on being witnessed instead of being lived. This isn’t about being liked. It’s about being willing to stand in your full fire, awkward, raw, unrehearsed, and say: This is me. Even if no one stays to watch.

And when you create from there? When you love from there? It won’t be easy. But it will be real. And Saturn, that hard, relentless teacher, will finally nod. Because that’s the moment you stop performing your life and start living it.

Capricorn Rising | Saturn in the 4th House

This is the quake beneath the floorboards. The slow, guttural sound of a life you built on inherited silence beginning to split at its seams.

Saturn in the 4th doesn’t knock. He rattles. He sinks into the foundation of your being and starts asking questions your family never let you ask. Why do you hold your breath when you speak your needs? Why does safety feel like surveillance? Why does love feel like labor?

The 4th house is not just where you come from, it’s what you carry. The myth of strength. The legacy of self-denial. The house rules no one wrote down, but you still live by. And now, Saturn is burning the blueprint.

You may feel the walls shift. You may feel rootless. Disoriented. But that’s the point. Because this isn’t about returning home, it’s about realizing you’ve never actually felt at home in the first place. This is where loyalty becomes a leash. Where survival strategies start to rot. Where "family" becomes a question, not a given.

You’ll be asked to excavate the grief you normalized. To question the caretakers you mythologized. To finally define what belonging means when it’s not based on endurance or erasure. Saturn here demands structure from within. Not the scaffolding of duty, but the spine of self-trust. Not the house you inherited, but the home you build, slowly, honestly, brick by emotional brick.

Because this time, the foundation has to hold you. Not your lineage. Not their expectations. You.

Aquarius Rising | Saturn in the 3rd House

This is where the noise gets dangerous. Where every thought you inherited, every script you swallowed, every belief that colonized your mind without consent begins to crack under its own weight.

Saturn in the 3rd house doesn’t just ask you to speak. He asks you to discern. To pull apart the voice you use to survive from the voice that’s actually yours. Here, the mind becomes a haunted house. Full of sentences that sound like you, but taste like shame. Ideas passed down like heirlooms. Opinions you wore like armor because clarity felt too vulnerable.

You may feel mentally constricted. Like every word you try to form gets stuck in your throat, like the page is blank because your thoughts are on trial. But this isn’t punishment. It’s purification. Because the 3rd house is not just how you speak, it’s how you think, narrate, repeat. It’s the tone of your inner monologue. And Saturn doesn’t want chatter. He wants truth.

You’ll begin to notice what no longer fits. The small talk that drains you. The constant mental multitasking you use to avoid silence. The ways you intellectualize pain so you don’t have to feel it. And then Saturn will hand you a scalpel and ask: What stays? What dies? And who are you without the noise?

This is the discipline of clarity. The reclamation of your mind as sacred space. And once you speak from that place, clean, slow, certain, there will be no going back.

Pisces Rising | Saturn in the 2nd House

This is the year you stop calling survival a personality trait. Saturn in the 2nd doesn’t care how generous you are, how adaptable, how endlessly available. He comes for the ledger. The one no one sees but you. The one where you keep track of what you’ve given, what you’ve tolerated, and how often you’ve undercharged your own spirit just to feel wanted.

This house isn’t just about possessions. It’s about thresholds. About how much depletion you normalize. About whether your boundaries are made of doors or doormats.

You’ve lived too long thinking value is earned through sacrifice. That worth is proven by becoming useful, needed, desirable. But Saturn rewrites the pricing of your energy. And this time, your self-abandonment is too expensive to keep buying. You’ll feel it in the hunger first. A hunger not for food or touch, but for rest, for enoughness. And then the grief comes. The grief of realizing how many years you mistook being chosen for being cherished.

This transit isn’t here to punish you, it’s here to teach you how to own yourself. Not in the way capitalism demands, but in the way your inner child always wanted: with consistency, protection, and space to stop apologizing.

Saturn in the 2nd doesn’t just show you what you have. He shows you what you will no longer betray yourself to receive. You are the resource now and you’re done being mined.

Whatever house it touches, it doesn’t ask, it demands. It strips the story down to bone. It builds from the burn marks. You will be made honest. You will be made real. You will be made new, not by grace, but by grit. And once you pass through this fire, you will not fit back into who you were before.

So don’t try. Saturn didn’t come to fix you. He came to forge you.

#astrology #astro community #astro observations #astro notes #natal astrology #birth chart #astrology tumblr #astrology blog #saturn #planetary transits

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theeartuaist · 2 months ago

Text

The App

It started with the app.

You never downloaded it. You never saw it download. It just appeared on your phone one grey Tuesday afternoon nestled between your weather app and your calendar like it had always belonged there. It wasn't sleek or modern but oddly anachronistic, with an interface that reminded you of Windows 95 and an icon that seemed to shift slightly when you weren't looking directly at it.

"TrueMate" it was called, in soft pink font, glowing gently, innocuous. You told yourself it must’ve come from an ad you accidentally clicked. Maybe during that 3 a.m. scroll through horror subreddits or that article on cursed love letters.

You should have deleted it immediately. Instead, you shrugged. Curiosity is always the first thread pulled. You opened it. You swiped once and that was all it took.

"Match found," the screen declared without requiring a profile, photo, or even your name.

Just one match: Raye.

Just Raye, no last name, new to the area. Picture: pale skin, high cheekbones, lips too red, eyes too dark. His profile picture had an uncanny quality to it, as if several photographs had been mercilessly stitched together by an algorithm with unusual ideas about human faces.

Then, a message pinged from Raye:

Hello. I would like to meet you.

Yoy should have closed the app. Instead, you found yourself typing back:

That's a bit forward. You don't even know me.

I know you are the one I want to meet. Tomorrow? Coffee? I have researched the proper courtship ritual. I will arrive with flowers. You will be impressed.

The oddness of his phrasing made you smile. A foreigner, perhaps, or someone on the spectrum with an endearing directness?

He picked the café. It was one of those cosy tucked-away places with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu filled with ironic puns.

Raye greeted you the next day. You weren’t catfished at least - he was tall and almost aggressively ordinary, with a face you'd forget while still looking at it. His suit was impeccable but somehow wrong—like it had been chosen by carefully studying magazine ads without understanding context. He clutched a bouquet of flowers that still had the price tag attached.

"These are for you," he announced at a volume slightly too loud for the quiet café. "I have purchased the traditional courtship flora."

You accepted them with murmured thanks, noticing how his fingers seemed to bend at odd angles when he released the stems.

"I have secured beverages and circular sweet bread items. Please sit so we may progress to the next stage," he said, watching you with unblinking eyes.

You chatted. It was normal. Almost. Raye had opinions about everything that seemed quoted directly from somewhere else—movie reviews, political commentaries, song lyrics—all delivered with the same intense sincerity. He laughed exactly three seconds after you made jokes, his head tilting at precisely the same angle each time. When he reached for his coffee, his movements were fluid but somehow rehearsed, as if he'd practised in front of a mirror.

"Your species fascinates me," he said after you mentioned your job.

"My species of [your job]?" You replied with a laugh.

"Yes. That." He leaned forward suddenly. "I have observed that after the initial meeting comes the small talk, then the revealing of childhood traumas, then the physical connection. We have completed two stages. Tell me about your childhood disappointments."

Something in his expression made you change the subject to movies instead. His knowledge was encyclopedic yet strangely hollow, as if he'd memorized IMDB entries without watching the films.

"You enjoy stories where humans overcome obstacles and form mating bonds," he observed.

"That's one way to describe romantic comedies, I suppose."

His eyes seemed to recalculate something. "Yes. Human romantic comedies. I enjoy them as well, as a human."

The conversation continued like that for an hour—moments of almost-normality interrupted by statements just odd enough to make you wonder if you was being pranked. But there was something compelling about Raye's attention, the way he absorbed your words as if they were precious.

You were halfway through your drink when, with the abruptness of someone following a script to the letter, he placed his hand on yours and said:

"Let's get married."

You choked. Tea went up your nose. “Sorry, what!?” you said, coughing and wiping your mouth.

Confusion flickered across his face, and his eyes had gone completely flat. "What do you mean? I'm not a stranger anymore," he said, his voice modulating into something softer. "I'm your fiancé. I just proposed."

The café seemed to grow quieter, the background noise fading. You pulse quickened as you pulled your hand away.

"There must be some misunderstanding - that's not how anything works - this is our first date. We literally met like an hour ago. People date for months, years even, before getting engaged."

"Incorrect," Raye replied, producing a small notebook from his pocket. He flipped through pages filled with what looked like screenshots. "In 'The Proposal,' Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds become engaged after knowing each other for 3 years, 2 months as work colleagues. But in 'Leap Year,' Amy Adams decides to propose after 4 years of dating. In 'Sweet Home Alabama,' they were married in childhood. And in 'The Bachelor,' multiple women compete for one marriage proposal in a matter of weeks." He looked up triumphantly. "The data is inconsistent. I have chosen the most efficient option."

Something cold slithered down your spine. "Are you... quoting movies to me?"

"I have conducted extensive research on human mating rituals," he said, tilting his head at that familiar angle. "I have watched 247 romantic comedies, 183 dramas involving romance, and 62 reality television shows about finding mates. I have identified the pattern. First meeting, then coffee, then proposal. We are proceeding correctly."

"That's not real life. Those are stories, fantasies."

His expression shifted again, this time to something you couldn't quite place—disappointment mixed with the concentration of someone recalibrating complex calculations.

"I see. I have misunderstood." He blinked rapidly. "Then we must proceed to the next step where one of us runs through an airport to prevent the other from leaving, or perhaps stands outside with a music-playing device held overhead, or perhaps, we should wait for it to rain and exchange a kiss-”

That's when you noticed his reflection in the window behind him—or rather, the place where his reflection should have been. Instead, there was a shimmer in the air, vaguely human-shaped but rippling like heat waves off summer asphalt.

"What are you?" You whispered.

"I am Raye," he said with a smile that showed too many teeth. "I selected this name because it contains 50% of the same letters as 'mate.' I have been studying humans for what you would measure as 3.2 Earth years. You are the first specimen I have selected for my personal research."

He reached across the table again, his fingers elongating slightly as they approached yours. "The app was merely a formality. I have been observing you for 76 days. You are perfectly ordinary, which makes you extraordinarily perfect."

You stood up so quickly your chair clattered to the floor. "I need to go."

"Are you…rejecting me?” He tilted his head, frowning. "I have proposed marriage. You are supposed to say yes after initial reluctance. That is how the story proceeds."

"This isn't a movie, Raye."

"No," he agreed, "Movies end. What I propose is much more permanent."

As you backed away, heading for the door, Raye remained seated, watching you with those unblinking eyes. Just before you reached the exit, your phone chimed with a notification.

A new message in the app that shouldn't exist: The courtship ritual is not complete. We will try again with the correct sequence. I have much to learn, and you are the perfect teacher.

You deleted the app the moment you got home. It reappeared the next morning—nestled between weather and calendar, as if it had always belonged there. Because of course it did!

(Because for some beings, a story doesn't end until they understand the proper way to tell it. And Raye seemed determined to get this story right. However, many revisions it might take.)

next chapter

#yandere #my writing #writeblr #fantasy #male yandere #yandere x y/n #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere alien #dark humor

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starmaidengarden · 3 months ago

Note

I would like to make a request! To tell you the truth, this is my first request, so I'm a little worried about it, because the explanation will be a little long. I have a headcanon that twst has an unusual way of declaring love, namely giving a pomegranate or half a pomegranate! I've read that in the underworld, pomegranates are the fruit of the dead in Greek mythology, and perhaps you know about the myth where Persephone ate a few pomegranate seeds, concluding a kind of marriage contract. But what if, in the twst world, this fruit is the fruit of lovers and it is very often given to declare love and our MC shares the twst character with him? It can be any character you want! If you don't like it, then it's okay, and I hope you won't feel burdened by my request! I hope the text came out clear, because I still use a translator.

Oh, I absolutely love your headcanon! I had a fun time writing this too!! I add more than one character, I couldn't decide on just one!! I hope I did a good job!

Context:

In Twst Wonderland, the pomegranate is an ancient fruit with magical significance, often referred to as the fruit of lovers. Offering half of a pomegranate is a sacred way to declare one's love. Each seed consumed represents a vow accepted, creating a magical connection that is not binding but resonant. This magic only awakens if the feelings are mutual.

Malleus

As you approach him beneath the vast, shimmering expanse of the night sky, the pomegranate cradled delicately in your hands, something shifts within him. The soft glow of the moonlight illuminates your offering, and he catches the unmistakable meaning behind it. His eyes widen in astonishment, and for a brief moment, he falls silent, the world around him fading into a distant hum. In that instant, he bears an uncanny resemblance to a cat—wide-eyed and still, attuned to a sense of wonder and curiosity.

“you wish to bind our hearts?” he asks, his voice tinged with hope and disbelief as if he is trying to grasp whether this is reality or a dream conjured by his longings.

You can see he is moved—more than you have likely ever witnessed in him before. His fingers hover above the ruby-red seeds, treating the fruit like a sacred relic.

As he plucks the first seed and tastes it, an ancient fae magic begins to stir in the air around you, a palpable warmth enveloping the space between your bodies. It is not a bond forged from chains or shackles, but rather golden threads of luminescence, soft and vibrant, gently wrapping around your hands as if sealing an unspoken pact.

He does not consume all the seeds; instead, he thoughtfully sets some aside. “So that I may continue to vow myself to you,” he declares, his voice steady yet filled with emotion, “again and again.” The commitment in his words hangs in the air, as resonant and timeless as the magic that swirls around you both, binding you in a moment beyond the ordinary.

Rook

He has always been captivated by the rich symbolism of the pomegranate, a fruit imbued with meaning and mystery. Each one celebrates its beauty and significance. In moments of quiet reflection, he often finds himself daydreaming of an ideal scenario in which someone presents him with this fruit.

When that moment finally arrives, and you offer him the pomegranate, he becomes utterly motionless—strikingly still for someone so accustomed to expressing himself through poetry and movement. The surprise washes over him, and he gasps softly, the weight of the moment settling in. "Mon ange…," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, "you bring me this fruit not as prey, but as a partner. A soulmate! Quelle beauté..."

As he takes the pomegranate into his hands, he is not in a rush. He insists on savoring each of the seeds one by one, pausing thoughtfully between each bite. "Each seed tastes like a different verse of your love," he describes, his eyes sparkling with wonder. His words linger in the air, turning the shared experience into a performance—an intimate routine that feels profoundly sacred.

In this delicate moment, he gazes into your eyes and tenderly calls you “mon cœur partagé,” which translates to “my shared heart.” It’s a phrase that encapsulates the deep connection he feels for you, as if the very act of sharing this fruit unites your souls.

Vil

Vil’s awareness of the symbolism surrounding the pomegranate is profound. He has seamlessly woven its significance into countless photoshoots and advertising campaigns, fully understanding its layered meaning. So when you handed it to him—without any dramatic flair, without any grand declarations—just a moment of quiet sincerity—it felt like time stood still.

He freezes, his gaze fixated on the fruit, a blend of astonishment and understanding flickering in his eyes. “You... do you even understand what this means?” he inquires, his tone steady yet tinged with an undercurrent of vulnerability. He doesn’t reach for it immediately, instead choosing to absorb the weight of the moment, his eyes darting from the pomegranate to your face.

a soft smile gradually spreads across his features, melting away the tension. “Then I accept,” he murmurs, his voice softer than it has ever been, as if he’s sharing a cherished secret. With reverent care, he delicately selects a single seed, lifting it as though it were a rare gem, and brings it to his lips. He closes his eyes, savoring the taste as if it holds the essence of something sacred. “Thank you… for this,” he breathes, the sincerity of his gratitude resonating deep within you.

Idia

You hand him the half-pomegranate, its vibrant red seeds glistening in the soft light, just as he’s half-lost in the glow of his screen, animatedly muttering about the latest dungeon drops in his game. The world around him fades momentarily as he focuses on leveling up, but at the gentle press of the fruit against his palm, he looks up, blinking in surprise. A flush spreads across his cheeks, turning a deeper shade of crimson.

“W-Wait—wait, wait, wait!” he stammers, his wide eyes darting between the pomegranate and your earnest expression. “Is this… that?” A warm smile tugs at your lips, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to break into laughter at his bewilderment.

"You want to bind your heart to mine? Me? The guy who only steps outside when his brother practically drags him into the light?" The doubt in his voice hangs in the air like the sound of a distant bell, echoing the disbelief swirling in his mind.

You remain silent, offering the fruit with a gentle nudge, encouraging him to take it. He swallows hard; his throat bobbing as he processes the moment, and then, hesitantly, he picks out one single, perfect seed. His fingers tremble as he holds it up, staring at it as if it might burst into flames at any moment.

With eyes closed, he pops the seed into his mouth, savoring it like a climactic moment in a long-awaited cutscene, and you catch a glimpse of his soul laid bare in that simple action. The silence stretches, filled with the promise of something new and beautiful.

#twst #twst wonderland #twst x reader #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader #malleus x reader #rook hunt #rook hunt x reader #rook x reader #vil schoenheit #vil shoenheit x reader #vil x reader #idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #idia x reader

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alchemistc · 3 months ago

Text

"We're friends, right?"

Eddie watches Tommy tense from the bar stool next to him. Hard to notice, when he's trying not to make direct eye contact, when he's catching Tommy in his periphery only, but there's something about the set of his shoulders that tips his hand.

Buck's still jabbering away with that probie from the 136 they met three weeks ago on the 401 and somehow already knew too much about Buck. The fact that Buck doesn't find it weird, and absolutely isn't clocking the starry-eyed admiration in the kids eyes, is not technically his problem, but it's a good launching point.

Hopefully the kid'll ask Buck about some obscure bit of Buck Lore and keep him distracted for the next few minutes.

Tommy fiddles with the label on his bottle. Tries and fails miserably to hide a gulp. "Of course," Tommy says, and Eddie watches him notice Eddie's disbelieving brow lift in the grimy mirror over the whiskey display.

When they'd met, Eddie had been so fucking pleased to find such an easy connection with someone. In a different way than he'd clicked with Buck, because Buck was a handful on a good day and Buck hadn't been having a good day that first one. They'd had so much in common, and that thread had continued the entire time he and Buck had dated. It'd been nice, to have reinforcements against Buck's flights of fancy. It'd been nice not to have to say the hard part out loud, when Tommy could tell he wasn't having a great time of it. It had been nice to be a little overeager and not worry about Buck getting territorial in either direction.

Turns out it wasn't Buck he needed to worry about.

"We can be honest with each other," Eddie says, and takes a little delight in seeing the panic shining through in Tommy's entire body. Just a little, though. He is trying to resolve this whole thing Buck definitely hadn't meant to admit to him three days ago. He tips his head sideways to indicate Buck and the 136 probie. "So what's the difference between me, and that kid over there who would definitely try to take you out at the ankles if he realized you were the crazy pilot Buck's been seeing?"

Tommy eyes the opening of his bottle like it holds the answers to life.

"Could have come up with a cooler nickname. Hot pilot. Brave pilot. Talented pilot."

"All accurate but not what the rumor mill is calling you. I know a deflection when I see one. So we're just never gonna talk about it?"

Tommy sighs. He makes a concentrated effort to roll his shoulders back, extend his jaw, stop picking at the label of the bottle. There's already a pile of strip-thin paper beginning to pool on the bar top between his forearms.

"I can't believe he told you."

"If it's any consolation, he definitely didn't mean to."

Tommy blazes past that like he's spent the length of the comment gearing himself up to spit this out all at once.

"Evan's a flirt. He likes the attention. He likes making connections. I've been jealous of dogs he pets long enough to flirt life stories out of their owners. That kid is a flash in the pan. Evan will come back over here wagging his tail about making a new friend, sit down next to me, and I'll spend the next few hours feeling like a third wheel until you order an Uber."

Yeah. That's what Eddie thought he'd say.

"You're so messed up, man," Eddie says, and Tommy's grin is wry, a little pained. "You know I'm straight."

The number of times he's had to actually think about that in the last few months is still shocking. Apparently it's very heteronormative of him to have never questioned it before now. Like Buck ever had. Like Tommy didn't fight tooth and nail to not have to examine it.

"I'm less worried about you suddenly discovering you like dick than I am about you suddenly discovering you and Evan have been codependent freaks about each other since the day you met."

"I already know that, dumbass."

Eddie may not be the most perceptive man in the world - he's not out here dissecting every interaction with another human a thousand times in two seconds, unlike someone here - but he knows what he has with Buck isn't your standard fare of friendships. He's always likened it to brotherhood, although he's got no idea if that fits. Or how Buck sees it. He just knows those weeks in El Paso we're just as miserable for not having Buck around as they were for all the strife with his family, with Chris, with his job or lack thereof. They'd sucked. Missing Buck had made the top five of terrible things about Texas.

He's also aware enough to know that neither he nor Buck had any desperate desire to do more than clasp each other's shoulders and have a staring contest for thirty seconds when they reunited.

Definitely hadn't wanted to fuck him on a bare mattress and then sleep on that mattress.

He knows too much about Buck's sex life.

Probably his own damn fault for going to the self-proclaimed former sex addict any time he felt weird about sex with whatever woman he was distracting himself with at the time. Opened that door and left it wide on its hinges.

Not that he cares that it's a dude, now. Just. Buck's always had a problem separating the details from the overarching issue.

He can feel Tommy's eyes on the side of his head.

"I'm working on it," Tommy says, like Eddie's got a hand shoved up beneath his ribcage and he's squeezing.

"So we're cool," Eddie pushes, just to catch a glimpse of Tommy rolling his eyes. Buck's not the only one who enjoys how bitchy Tommy is. Different reasons, same result. Eddie likes Tommy. He'd been annoyed with him as much for Buck's sake as his own, because following the Bros Before Hos code had sucked. Eddie doesn't have a whole lot of friends, and Tommy had been a good one. Reliable. Generous. Legitimately interested in the minutiae of Eddie's life. Easy to talk to. Easy to get out of your head with.

"We were never not cool."

"You blocked my number after the breakup, dude." He never told Buck that part. He'd figured it was self-preservation, up until he realized Tommy hadn't bothered to block the man he'd actually dumped.

"I said I'm working on it, not that it's already worked on. I did unblock you. Eventually."

A week before Buck caved and told Eddie the story of their ill-advised hookup. The text he'd gotten had just said "Hope El Paso's treating you well." and Eddie hadn't responded to it for a week and a half.

He's hoping for a little more. Some insight into where Tommy's head is at, what he could do to convince Tommy that's not a direction his and Buck's relationship will ever take.

Maybe that's not the point, though.

Maybe Tommy's more worried about the one they already have.

Well, Eddie's not giving that up. If Tommy wants to stick around, he's gonna have to fucking deal with it. Get out of his own head long enough to realize there's plenty of room in Buck's heart for the both of them.

Buck doesn't notice the lingering gaze of Probie (Derek? Damien? Dick?) on his back as he makes his way back towards them. He plasters himself to Tommy's side and swipes the bottle right from Tommy's hand to take a swig. Plants a lingering kiss under Tommy's ear and murmurs something that turns Tommy's ears pink.

"Kiefer says hi," he tells them both, and Tommy soaks in the moment. Eddie's paying closer attention this time around - doesn't miss the way he tries to wipe the smug satisfaction off his face. "He was very interested in both of you, for some reason," Buck continues, already flagging down the bartender for refills on all three of their drinks.

"Scoping out the competition," Tommy mutters, a little caustic, and the three of them all freeze for a moment.

Eddie's the first to raise his new, sweating bottle to cheers them both, but Buck surprises them both by dropping an arm over Tommy's shoulders, hand squeezing at one of Tommy's bulking muscles. "I'll protect your ankles, baby," he says, and when Eddie's sip of beer ends up coming out his nose onto the bar top, Tommy's the one yanking napkins out of the nearest dispenser to clean it up.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #the shifting dynamics between a man his best friend and the dude they're both a little obsessed with for very different reasons

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zkg2318 · 7 months ago

Text

Corporate Life pt 3

genre/tags ✶ MDNI office!au, sunghoon x afab!reader x heeseung, smut, cursing, not proofread, polyamory (surprise)

synopsis ✶ working in corporate was supposed to be boring, not a guessing game of whether your two coworkers were eye fucking you or not.

smut warnings ✶ unprotected penetrative sex (no!), spitting, thigh riding, oral male!receiving, msm (frottage, oral, kissing), double penetration, overstimulation, use of pet names, squirting, ass slapping, threesome

corporate life taglist/ppl that wanted pt3: @17ericas, @hyuukas, @jakeslvt, @heesimp, @hooniedips, @yuniesluv, @yvnempire, @anoranorastar

permanent taglist: @kittys00, @ikaw-at-ikaw

read part 1 here | read part 2 here

A/N sorry for reposting, i think tumblr may have messed up the tags

Waking up was always a challenge for Heeseung, preferring to sleep in rather than wake up at 5:45 a.m. for work. He was, inherently, not a morning person based on the way he fought with Sunghoon every morning before going to work, begging for just five more minutes. Luckily, it was the start of a long weekend, which meant Heeseung could sleep in till nine if he wanted, ten if he was feeling lucky. But Sunghoon was an early riser and often dragged him out of bed by 8:30 a.m., something about enjoying the morning rays together. On a rare occasion like today though, the two men were together in bed with their limbs entangled beneath the comforter. “Heeseung,” Sunghoon mutters, pressing his face into Heeseung’s naked chest.

“What is it, baby?” he hums, threading his long fingers through his boyfriend’s black hair.

“We have to clock in some overtime this weekend.”

Upon hearing the words ‘overtime,’ Heeseung pops upright immediately, a sour expression appearing on his face at the mere mention of work slipping from Sunghoon’s mouth. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, we’ve been a bit distracted at work. You know, with a certain someone.” He mutters, nuzzling into Heeseung’s lap now.

That much was true- they were distracted. Heeseung and Sunghoon weren’t exactly non-monogamous; but the idea of adding another person into their relationship never really crossed their minds, until you showed up. The second you joined their team at work a few months ago, there was a mutual attraction between the boys that neither of them could ignore.

At first, it was casual. They agreed to approach you with the sole intention of having a no-strings attached sexual relationship with you. It wasn’t supposed to go beyond that- just fuck and work. After the second hookup, Sunghoon and Heeseung revealed to you that they were dating and let you know that they wanted to keep things with you purely physical- even if they secretly wanted something more, but neither of them would admit it in fear of ruining things. That was fine with you- the stress of your job was already building up and you needed a quick fix.

But as the months went by, the lines between casual and something more began to blur. Your impulsive, adrenaline induced hookups were beginning to feel more than that. You found yourselves sharing inside jokes and personal secrets over post-sex meals- conversations you wouldn’t be sharing with fuck buddies. But despite that growing connection, none of you pushed for anything more. Whether it was in fear of complicating things or just wanting to keep emotions out of it, the status quo remained.

Your friendship between Sunghoon and Heeseung remained completely separate from your sexual relationship while your budding romance stayed buried under six feet of dirt.

“I didn’t think we were that behind, what’s a little fucking got to do with our work?” Heeseung jokes, stroking Sunghoon’s cheek while ignoring the aching alarm bells ringing in his head.

“We’re behind on our financial report, Namjoon sent an email saying we have to get it in to him on Monday evening.” Heeseung groans at the idea of working over the long weekend, but Sunghoon continues, “And Y/n was cc’d on the email.”

A mix of amusement and stress stirs onto Heeseung’s face, and he tugs on the back of Sunghoon’s shirt, signalling for him to sit up. “I guess we’ll have to invite her over, work on that report all together.” Sunghoon’s lips curl into a smirk as he places a lazy kiss on Heeseung’s mouth.

Letting out a soft chuckle, Heeseung roughly pulls Sunghoon onto him, falling back into bed. With a tug, Sunghoon’s briefs are pulled down and he’s settled onto Heeseung’s lap. “Use me, I’m all yours.” He mutters, peppering kisses across Sunghoon’s neck.

Grinding down into Heeseung’s lap, Sunghoon lowers his head to attach his lips to Heeseung’s neck, sucking around his pulse point. When his tongue flicks over the sensitive skin just below his ear, Heeseung lets out a loud groan and bucks up into Sunghoon, his growing erection rubbing into his boyfriend. “Fuck, you know I’m sensitive there,” he purrs into his ear, licking against the lobe.

“Hyung, I need you,” Sunghoon whispers, swiveling his hips in Heeseung’s lap.

With his hands gripping Sunghoon’s thighs, Heeseung draws a steady breath in through his teeth, “Tell me how you want me,”

“In my mouth.”

Without wasting any time, Heeseung flips them over and presses Sunghoon into the plushness of their mattress. With a few quick pecks to the lips, Heeseung strips out of his sweats, leaving him bare and half-hard in front of Sunghoon. “Bet you wish Y/n was here to keep your fucking mouth busy while I suck you off, hm?” he says, lowering himself to the bulge that was presenting itself so perfectly to Heeseung. His hand ghosts over the imprint of Sunghoon’s cock, the heat of his arousal radiating against his palm.

Sunghoon stifles a moan before squirming beneath Heeseung, “Don’t say stuff like that-”

“Not so confident now that Y/n isn’t here to play dumb under you, Hoonie?” Heeseung teases his boyfriend as he toys with his cock, but there’s no heat behind his words. Laughing quietly, he presses open mouthed kisses against his briefs, earning a breathy moan from Sunghoon.

“S-shut up,” he gasps, grinding up into his face.

Heeseung only smiles against Sunghoon’s cock which was straining beneath him, letting his tongue flick out against the fabric, “It was your idea to approach her in the first place, I’m just fulfilling your fantasies since she isn’t here right now.”

“Stop bringing her up,” he whines, pulling his briefs down himself until his cock springs free, “She’s not dating us, so just keep her out of his.” His words are desperate now as he pushes Heeseung’s face against his pelvis, keeping it to himself as he totally imagines you rubbing against him.

Heeseung knows Sunghoon better than he would ever admit, and he can tell from how he acts around you just how much his boyfriend likes you- far more than Sunghoon would ever let on. And it’d be a lie to say Heeseung didn’t feel the same, so he leans into the teasing knowing Sunghoon was secretly thriving on the idea of you being here with them again. “Cut the act, I know you want Y/n here sitting on your face so you can eat her out, maybe shut you up for a bit.”

Finally, he takes him into his mouth, first dragging his tongue up the shaft and feeling the length of Sunghoon’s vein reach the tip. While his mouth moves up and down Sunghoon’s cock in a rhythmic motion, Heeseung lets his hand travel underneath Sunghoon’s shirt, finding his nipples. A moan escapes from Sunghoon’s lips once Heeseung starts to rub his nipples with the back of his fingers, “Heeseung-” he whines, cock twitching upwards in his boyfriend's mouth.

While Heeseung plays with Sunghoon’s cock in his mouth, he rubs himself into the bed, slowly grinding into it as he imagines it’s your ass underneath him. He shamelessly pictures you moaning below him, begging him to just stick it in and stop teasing you. Memories of your slicked up folds flash across his mind and he groans around Sunghoon’s cock, a chain reaction that sends Sunghoon into a fit of moans himself. Heeseung goes ahead and starts to flick Sunghoon’s nipples, looking up at his boyfriend as he swirls his tongue around the shaft.

Under the control of Heeseung, Sunghoon fights the urge to fuck up into his throat, but heeseung the all-observing boyfriend seems to notice his turmoil, “Fuck my throat baby, give it to me.”

Sunghoon doesn’t need to be told twice, bumping his hips into Heeseung’s face quickly and relishing in the way the tip of his cock rubs the back of Heeseung’s tight throat. The sudden change in pace has Heeseung gagging, forcing him to focus more on keeping his throat open and his breath steady than decorating his boyfriend’s cock with his tongue.

With Sunghoon’s cock filling his mouth, Heeseung’s mind wanders to the thought of you crying out while he thrusts into your quivering heat, clenching his dick like a vice while Sunghoon’s gaze fixed on every thrust. Heeseung had always known Sunghoon had a thing for watching; it was part of the reason why he had been given the green light to fuck you first. But you didn’t need to know that.

“Mmph, fuck-” Sunghoon cries, holding Heeseung’s wrists as they play at his nipples, the added stimulation bringing him closer and closer to the edge. “Relax your throat, Seungie- fuck, that’s it.”

When Sunghoon’s pace begins to fall off, Heeseung moves his hands back down to rest on his pelvis, pushing him down into the bed so he can control them now. He continues his assault on his boyfriend’s dick, going at it for a minute more before pulling off, moving to use his hands instead of his mouth now to finish him off. Sunghoon grips at the bedsheets like a vice, clutching them like his life depends on it as he thrusts into Heeseung’s hand, the saliva from his mouth acting as the perfect amount of lube.

Heeseung adjusts his position so that he can hold both his and Sunghoon’s cock together, spitting into his hand to share the lube-like saliva between the both of them. “Fuck, imagine Y/n was sitting here, bouncing up and down our cocks at the same time. Stretching her out so fucking good, hm?” Heeseung pants, finding himself close to the edge as he pumps their shafts quickly.

“I’m cumming, fuck!”

Heeseung tightens his grip slightly, right as the slit on Sunghoon’s dick opens to release streams of cum. The first few are strong, reaching as far as his blissed out face. The following spurts of arousal are less strong, some hitting his chest and the rest hitting his stomach, eventually slowing down to a slow dribble leaking out of his tip.

Heeseung follows just a second after, his own stream of cum leaking out at a less intense volume, shooting straight up. The two of them pant in tandem together, catching their breaths as their cum falls down the divots of their bodies and onto their sheets.

“Thank God it’s laundry day.” Sunghoon says finally, moving around Heeseung.

Heeseung gets off to help Sunghoon, throwing their pillows off and ripping the top corners of the bedsheet off while Sunghoon does the bottom. The two men work together in a comfortable silence, a rhythm they’ve fine tuned after years of being together. “When should we contact Y/n?” Heeseung asks, breaking the silence.

Sunghoon tenses, but it’s barely noticeable as Heeseung takes the hamper from his hands. “Maybe tomorrow?” he says, letting Heeseung take the laundry, “We can meet her at the cafe near our place.”

Heeseung shakes his head, hiking the hamper up on his hip, “I think it’s best we invite her here. The documents are kind of sensitive, best we don’t bring them to a place we could lose them.” Sunghoon doesn’t get the chance to offer a second opinion, watching his boyfriend's back disappear around the corner.

Sunghoon stays rooted in his spot, standing in the middle of the bedroom of their shared apartment they moved into at the beginning of the year. A part of him was torn, wondering if they were taking things too far by bringing you into their sex life when you weren’t even there. It was one thing to keep this friends with benefits facade up at work, but to think about you outside of that relationship, outside of work without your knowledge- had they crossed an invisible line?

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For the rest of the day, Sunghoon mopes around the apartment, his usual warm self dulled by the weight of his guilty conscience. Heeseung had tried to pull him out of it, making silly animal origami out of the freshly laundered towels, or sneaking kisses in while they were cooking, but Sunghoon’s responses remained colorless. “Is everything alright?” Heeseung finally asks, settling onto the couch as they prepare to watch a movie, a night time ritual they have on the weekend.

Sunghoon hesitates, “Do you think we should call things off with Y/n?”

Heeseung sets aside the popcorn that was sitting in his lap, the large blue bowl clashing with the muted decor they had chosen together at Ikea. “What makes you think that?” His hand rises to cradle Sunghoon’s cheeks, his thumb gently rubbing at the soft plushness.

“We’re in love with her,” he says, like dropping a bomb, “Right?”

Heeseung’s thumb stops moving, and he thinks his heart skips a beat. Sunghoon wasn’t wrong, but he truly thought that they were just going to remain blissfully unaware of that fact, for the sake of their job- and their relationship. “I- Sunghoon, I don’t-”

“It’s ok, I think I’m in love with her too,” Sunghoon clarifies, capturing Heeseung’s hand with his, “I don’t think we respected our own boundaries with Y/n. We let ourselves get too close, and now we’re breaking the easiest rule of the game.” He sighs, running his free hand through his hair as he thinks, “I think it’s best we call this off. Y/n didn’t sign up for two men pining after her, and if we keep this going, we’ll just ruin what we have.”

Heeseung leans forward to press a kiss to Sunghoon’s cheek, “Ok,” he pauses for a moment before continuing, “I’m fine with that. But I do want to ask- are you telling me you wanted to date her? Like, add her to this relationship?”

“I don’t know, and honestly we’ve never really discussed this. I trust you with my life, Heeseung. But it’s clear the both of us felt something for Y/n, which is why I felt comfortable enough to let my feelings for her grow. I think in an ideal world, where we got to know Y/n instead of hooking up with her through work, I would’ve liked to discuss polyamory with you.”

Heeseung’s lips crack into a smile, “God, I love you.” he says, pulling Sunghoon in for a hug, “You always know what to say, I just hope Y/n understands what we mean.”

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Like the boys had agreed, they invite you over to their apartment the following evening to work on the financial report. They insisted things would be casual- just some takeout and a table full of documents is what Heeseung had said to you over the phone. You were hesitant though, the idea of dinner at their place felt strangely intimate, sharing a meal with a couple in their own home felt like an intrusion you weren’t ready to risk.

You find yourself pacing in front of their building, clutching at the end of your jacket for a moment longer than necessary. You debate whether or not to text them, to tell them that something urgent had come up- but your body was moving faster than your mind, pressing the buzzer before you could follow through. It’s Heeseung that responds, his cheerful voice crackling through the speaker as he recites the code for the door.

32 floors is how long you have until you face them, and you spend the entire time fidgeting with the hem of your blouse, the tension mounting with each passing second. Elevators were such an awkward place for you now, considering your history with them; only amplifying your anxiety as memories of being pressed up against Sunghoon resurface. By the time you’re knocking on their door, you’re about to turn on your heel, second-guessing everything you’ve done until the door clicks open.

Sunghoon is the one that opens the door, an easy smile on his face that has you temporarily relaxing your shoulders, “Hey, glad you made it,” he says, stepping to the side to let you in.

You notice the way he’s dressed immediately- an oversized t-shirt displaying a band you don’t recognize and wide-legged sweats, a far cry from the usual sharp suits he sported at the office. You look down at your own outfit, a short fleece jacket zipped over your pink blouse and a pair of wide-legged slacks, nothing special but formal enough to pass in. Still, standing before Sunghoon while inside of his humble apartment, you suddenly felt overdressed.

Slipping in to enter, the first thing you notice is the scent- the faintest hint of lavender laundry detergent that discreetly smelt like Sunghoon whenever he pressed up against you too much in the office. Their apartment was also surprisingly neat; its muted tones accented by pops of their personality- colorful figurines on their shelves, a keyboard in the corner, some figure skates near the closet, etc…

Sunghoon points at a pair of house slippers for you to slip into, holding his arm out for you to hold onto as you kick your shoes off. “Thanks,” you say quietly, stepping into the slippers and following after him. He briefly gives you a tour of their place, showing you the dining room, then the kitchen, where the bathroom is, and then ultimately the living room.

The coffee table centered in front of their two couches was already set up, half of it full of takeout boxes and plastic bags and the other half neatly organized with folders and stacks of paper. Heeseung is already sitting, his legs tucked under the table while leaning against the base of the couch. When he sees you and Sunghoon enter, he brings a hand up to wave at you before patting the space beside him. “I hope Chinese is okay, Sunghoon forgot to hit the order earlier so this was the only place that would deliver in time before you got here.”

“Chinese is perfect, thanks,” you reply with a soft laugh, placing your bag down beside you as you sit next to him.

With Sunghoon sitting across from you, dinner passes quickly. Small talk is shared between the three of you over some noodles and several side dishes you can’t remember the names of. The conversation feels uncomfortably familiar- office gossip and discussion of your weekend plans being a routine banter you shared with them in the break room, and disconcertingly immediately after hooking up as well, like it was second nature.

It unsettles you how natural it feels, the camaraderie that forms so easily between you three. All the laughter and shared touches pulling you in deeper before you even realize. It almost felt wrong to feel this comfortable with them, sitting in their apartment and intruding on their personal lives all while knowing their bodies inside out. This intimacy you shared with them feels so wrong but so right, but it was an imposition on their personal relationship and was a clear violation of their friends with benefits boundaries.

This- this was why you didn’t want to come here, because you didn’t want to blur these lines any further.

“Did you want anymore?” Heeseung’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, his hand gesturing over your plate.

“No, I’m okay, thank you.” You push your plate away as a signal to show him you’re full. “What was the name of this place?”

“Bao’s Kitchen.” Heeseung says as Sunghoon begins to clear the table. “Did you like it?” You nod, piling the trash near you in one stack before handing it to Sunghoon.

“Alright,” he says, pulling out his laptop and placing it in front of him, “Namjoon said he wanted the financial report in by Monday. But I spoke to Jin on the phone earlier today and there are a few leftover tickets we need to finish for Monday’s meeting. Our annual conference is coming up soon, so we should get a head start on preparing our speaker notes for that, too.”

Nodding along with his words, you shove the unease down your throat and pull out your own laptop, mimicking Heeseung’s motions as you pull up your workspace. When Sunghoon returns, he distributes portions of the documents and the three of you settle into a comfortable rhythm, bouncing ideas off of each other and sharing progress reports every few minutes.

In the quietness of your work, you can’t help but notice the shuffling limbs under the table. With a slight glance downwards, you see Sunghoon and Heeseungs legs rubbing against one another, a motion of affection shared between just the two of them and you can’t help but feel a little empty on the inside. A hollow ache gnaws on the inside of your chest. Was it jealousy? Longing for someone else to have all to yourself? You couldn’t tell, but you knew that seeing them together made your heart flutter in a way you weren’t sure you wanted to define.

Shaking your head, you scold yourself internally for fantasizing about a dynamic that wasn’t yours to claim. There were rules- simple rules that were so simple a child could follow them: don’t get attached. And here you were, breaking every single one of them like they didn’t even matter.

By the time you’re about to finish the end of your report, you’re thinking of saying something, maybe telling them that it was time for you to go home. You were suffocating under the ruse of pretending everything was fine when everything was in fact, not fine. You couldn't keep pretending not to notice the subtle glances Sunghoon and Heeseung shot each other, or the gentle praises Heeseung gave his boyfriend when he completed parts of his work. Before you can even begin to pack your things though, Sunghoon breaks the silence.

“We need to talk,” he says, seriousness laced in his voice as he shuts his laptop.

A lump forms in your throat and you begin to hope they can’t hear your heart thump outside of your chest as you struggle to maintain your composure, “Ok, what’s up?”

Sunghoon and Heeseung exchange a glance before he speaks again, his gaze lingering over yours, “Heeseung and I have been talking… about the arrangement,” he gestures between you and the two of them, now avoiding your gaze before continuing. “We think it might be best if we stop seeing each other like this.”

The words are like a punch to the gut and you almost find yourself out of breath, instinctually bracing against the coffee table, “What?” is all you manage to say.

Heeseung leans forward, resting his arms on the table, “We just think it’s getting too complicated. We’re falling behind in work, and we don’t want you to get hurt- or us.

You let out a scoff before you realize it, “Complicated?” you argue, “It’s just sex, right? That’s what we agreed on.”

Sunghoon looks down, his expression pained with guilt, “It’s not just sex anymore, not for us.”

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Heeseung continues, which Sunghoon cannot.

Your mind reels with confusion as you listen to them, panic surging through you as you begin to pack your belongings. “You’re not, so let’s just keep things like it is,” you place your laptop into your bag, fumbling around with the zipper, “I don’t see any issues, I like things how they are.”

“Y/n,” Heeseung reaches out to you, brushing a hand against your shoulder. His touch stills you temporarily, but it only works for a second before it adds to your resolve to start ignoring everything that comes out of their mouths after that. “Y/n, we’re in love with you.”

You’re not listening, too busy still fumbling with the damn zipper on your bag to hear him clearly. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t in the fucking rule book of fucking with your coworkers. Finally, with enough force, the zipper on your bag closes and you stand up, “If we just follow the rules, our arrangement should be fine. I’ll finish the rest of my part tonight-”

Sunghoon and Heeseung stand up with you as well, the latter reaching for your shoulder to ground you, “You aren’t listening, Y/n. We broke the fucking rules, we fell.”

The finality of his words eventually crashes over you, clicking in your head what he means, “So what do we do, then?” you whisper, braving an inch and letting your gaze match his.

“W-what?” Sunghoon steps around the table to stand behind you.

“I- never mind.” you stammer, stepping back only to walk into Sunghoon when you do. He catches you by your arms, holding you in the middle of the living room now. “I’ll send you guys an email once I finish my report-”

“Y/n, you need to talk to us.” Sunghoon says sternly, turning you around to face him.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, the truth clawing its way out, “I broke the rules too, so now what?” your voice is hardly above a whisper, and if Sunghoon weren’t standing so close to you, he probably wouldn’t have even heard you.

Sunghoon’s grip on your arm goes firmer as he takes in your words, processing the weight of them while glancing over at Heeseung, “You- you broke the rules too?”

Avoiding his gaze, you nod, feeling tears well up in your eyes. “I didn’t mean to,” you start, your voice trembling with shame, “I couldn’t help it, being around the two of you. I didn’t want to hope for anything out of something that already has enough love, and that scared me.” Your throat runs dry at your confession, but you swallow anyways, an award attempt at distracting yourself from the tension ruminating around you.

Heeseung lets out a sharp breath and moves to step around you so that he stands beside Sunghoon, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because that’s the rules?” you say, blinking away your tears, “I’m just an extra, an afterthought to your guys’ relationship. Isn’t that why you approached me? For sex?”

Sunghoon bites his lip, your words crashing over him like a tsunami. It killed him because you were so right, but you were also terribly wrong, “We thought we were protecting our own dynamic by not talking about these feelings we had for you, but we were wrong. You’re not an afterthought, Y/n. We want you in our lives, but we approached the situation all wrong. We got greedy and told you it was all about sex when it was more than that, and for that we’re sorry.”

“I think that knowing you share the same feelings for us now changes things though,” Heeseung adds, reaching to hold your hand in his.

“What do you mean? Like, I’d date you guys? But- you’re already together? I don’t understand, it’s-”

Heeseung squeezes your shoulder with his freehand, pulling you out of your rambles, “It doesn’t have to make sense, Y/n. All that matters is that we’re all happy, and if that means including you in this relationship, then we’ll do that- if you’re open to that.”

“If you want this- us.” Sunghoon says, gesturing between him and Heeseung.

You let out a shaky sigh, a breath of tension you didn’t know you were holding, “I just want things to work out,” you say.

“So we’ll figure it out.” Sunghoon reaches for your face, a gesture so intimate you almost cry. “No rules or arrangements, just the three of us- together.” His dark eyes bore into your own for what feels like an eternity, and for the first time since you’ve started your job, you feel like you belong somewhere. His hands are warm against your cheek as he uses his thumb to rub against the skin softly.

“God, someone kiss me already,” Heeseung interrupts, rolling his eyes.

Sunghoon only laughs, moving his hand from your cheek to the back of your neck so he can guide you over to Heeseung. When you're close enough, Sunghoon gently pushes your face into his until you’re kissing, but this time it felt different. It was gentler, more intimate than all the other kisses you shared with Heeseung during work hours in the stairwell and conference rooms. For the first time since you started this sexual relationship, you take the time to feel him out, acknowledging the way his heart-shaped lips meld against yours perfectly.

Heeseung opens his mouth after a few seconds, swiping his tongue across your bottom lip to ask for permission to enter. You gladly accept, meeting his tongue with your own. As the kiss between you deepens through the connection of your tongues, Sunghoon begins to gently caress your hair while trailing warm kisses down your neck. The heat of his breath in your neck has you moaning into Heeseung’s mouth, resulting in a smile dancing on the latter’s face as he presses another kiss on you.

Overtaken with love and desire, you let one hand go to wrap around Heeseung’s neck as if he can’t get any closer to you while the other hand threads into Sunghoon’s hear, tugging at it when he nips at your neck. Sunghoon starts to unbutton your blouse, assisting you in shrugging it off completely, followed by your lacey black bra that they don’t even spare a second glance at. The younger boy is quick to attach his mouth to your tits, loudly sucking on them. “You like when Sunghoon sucks on your tits, baby?” Heeseung asks, breaking away from the kiss.

You nod desperately, moving your hand from his neck down to his sweats. He doesn’t break eye contact when you start to palm him through the thin fabric, feeling him grow under your touch. It’s not until your fingers wrap around his length completely that he closes his eyes and throws his head back, a guttural groan following right after.

When he’s decided he’s had enough of your teasing, Heeseung moves backwards until he’s sitting on the couch, reaching out to pull you right onto his lap. “Grind on me, let me see you use me,” he pants, replacing Sunghoon’s mouth with his hands, grabbing firmly at the mounds.

As you begin your ministrations against his erection, Sunghoon comes to stand behind you, rubbing his bare hard on against your back. He doesn’t say anything, just rubs against you as he watches you and Heeseung rut on each other. Eventually, he leans down to help guide your hips over Heeseung, establishing a rhythmic pattern which has Heeseung fighting back a moan with every forward stroke.

When his hands depart from your hips, you look up to see why but Sunghoon quickly captures your neck, tilting your chin back even further and motioning for you to open your mouth. Following his instructions to a tee, you not only open your mouth but stick out your tongue, watching as he pushes a wad of spit from his pink lips and let the string of saliva drip down onto your tongue, “Good girl, can you swallow?”

You swallow obediently, licking your lips for extra measure, “Fuck, more…”

While you’re distracted with Sunghoon, Heeseung takes his top off and throws it somewhere across the living room. Sunghoon notices, “Take his pants off,” Sunghoon whispers, leaning down to lick into your mouth before tearing away from you.

Nodding absentmindedly, you get off of Heeseung enough to pull his sweats down along with his underwear, revealing an angry red cock dripping with precum. “He needs someone to take care of him, jerk him off a little. Can you do that for us, baby?” Sunghoon asks, moving to flick his fingers against your nipples.

Before you can respond, Heeseung interrupts, “Strip first.”

A furious red flashes across your face and you quickly kick off your slacks along with your panties, leaving you just as bare as Heeseung is. When you go to sit back on top of him, Heeseung curses, “You’re getting me wet, slut.” He says, pointing at the glistening patch on this thigh, right where you sat on him.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, looking down in embarrassment.

“Make it up to me by letting me fuck up into your fist.” He moves your hand for you, placing it around his member. After a quick adjustment, he starts to thrust upwards and you watch in awe as the top half of his dick goes in and out of your first, “I can feel you getting wetter. Are you getting off to this? Watching me fuck into your first, imagining it’s your pussy?” he gasps, losing his rhythm slightly, “So fucking tight, all for us, right?”

You nod just as Sunghoon moves to sit next to Heeseung, completely bare as well with his pretty pink cock resting against his abdomen. “You can touch yourself, baby.” Heeseung says to Sunghoon, sticking his tongue out for Sunghoon to suck on. His hand immediately flies down to his member, stroking it quickly as his lips wrap around Heeseung’s tongue, lewd noises emitting from their connected mouths.

Watching them share themselves with each other so willingly as you ride Heeseung’s thigh has you letting out a gush of arousal, drenching Heeseung’s thigh in even more slick, “Y/n likes that Hoonie. Likes watching us kiss, seeing you stroke yourself.”

With Heeseung talking like that and Sunghoon stroking himself in front of you, you lose yourself. Your hips stutter to a stop as you press down on his thigh, your orgasm ripping through you as you cum all over his leg, “Baby… couldn’t even wait till she was riding on of us before cumming,” Heeseung mocks, staring at your pussy. “Lay down for me, Sunghoon.”

Following his instructions, Sunghoon moves to lay down on the couch and Heeseung pulls you to sit on top of him, ��Go ahead, put it in.” He gestures towards his dick, and you nervously obey him, blindly reaching behind you until you feel Sunghoon’s shaft. It takes a bit of time, but eventually, you feel Sunghoon’s shaft pressing against your entrance and the two of you moan at the same time when his tip penetrates you, “That’s it, pretty. Doing so well.”

You take your time sinking down, which is apparently too slow for Heeseung because he’s moving towards you, tapping your shoulders. “You’re taking your sweet time, aren’t you?”

“He’s big,” you whine, wincing as you go down another inch.

“I know, baby,” he laughs, smirking at Sunghoon who blushes a furious red, “What’re you gonna do when there’s two of us inside of you?”

Shock grapples you and you let yourself completely sink down on Sunghoon by accident, the burn from the stretch bringing tears to your eyes, “Fuck!” you cry out, slamming your hands down on his chest as an anchor right as Sunghoon brings his hands to your hips to keep you still.

Heeseung backs off when he sees the pain on your face, pity and arousal gracing his features while he watches you take Sunghoon’s cock. He moves to sit down on the couch, lifting Sunghoon’s head just enough so he can slip under it and lay him on his lap, “You look so good, Y/n. Taking Sunghoon’s cock like a good girl.” He looks down at Sunghoon, “You gonna fuck her yet?”

You roll your eyes once the stretching of his member finally becomes bearable, lifting off of him halfways before plopping back down. Eventually, you find yourself going faster and faster until your ass is slapping against his hips with every bounce. You move your hands from his chest, one going to your tit while the other going to your clit, “Fuck, you’re so damn tight.” Sunghoon curses, moving his hands to your ass as he takes over the pace. He fucks into you at a savage intensity, reeling when his balls slap against your cunt with each thrust.

You feel the drag of his cock so well in this position, rubbing against your walls as if they’re molding to the shape of him. As time drags on, you feel yourself getting closer and closer to a second orgasm, clenching sporadically around his length which earns a rough groan from Sunghoon, “I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that, baby.” He whines, speeding up his pace.

You don’t listen to him, instead letting yourself go completely when you see Heeseung lick his fingers and then stick them inside Sunghoon’s mouth. When Sunghoon starts to swirl his tongue around Heeseung’s digits and suck on them pathetically, a massive wave of pleasure washes over you and you swivel your hips around Sunghoon, riding out your high.

Sunghoon is quick to follow, your pussy squeezing him in a way that’s milking him of everything he’s got. “Good boy, fucking her full of your cum.” Heeseung says, stroking Sunghoon’s hair as his dick twitches inside of you, your walls painted with his cum.

When you finally let yourself relax around his softening member, Heeseung moves to stand beside you, gently pushing you forward until your chest is pressed against Sunghoon’s. With a few pumps of his cock, he lines himself up with your entrance, “Heeseung!” you gasp, feeling his tip push into your entrance while Sunghoon is still inside.

“It’ll be much easier for me to slip in now that your pussy is drenched in Sunghoon’s cum,” he says, finally breaching your entrance with one final push. The rest of him slides in easily, just like he said, and both you and Sunghoon let out a moan of overstimulation as he stretches you out in ways you’ve never been stretched.

It’s barely bearable, likely because Sunghoon is soft now, but that temporary feeling doesn’t last long. “Hyung-” Sunghoon gasps, hands running up and down your back frantically, “It’s too much!” Whether he intended to or not, he quickly hardens up again, stretching you out even more. The feeling of his boyfriend’s cock rubbing against his own was just too much for him to handle, quickly arousing him.

The burning sensation returns at ten fold and you cry out, feeling like you’re being ripped in half as Heeseung very slowly moves around, “Mmph, Sunghoon-” you cry, tucking your face into his neck as he begins to desperately hump upwards.

“I’m sorry-” he says, gripping your sides tightly, “Fuck, I can’t help it. It feels really good, baby.”

Whichever ‘baby’ he’s referring to, you don’t care because Heeseung doesn’t waste a second more before he starts moving. He has the decency to stay slow, patiently moving back and forth to let you adapt to the sheer size of two cocks stretching you out; but you don’t feel any pleasure at all, just the feeling of being ripped to pieces. “It-it hurts!” you whimper, but your body moves on its own, barely grinding against the two men as they move in tandem together.

A sharp slap to the ass has you reeling in both pleasure and pain, temporarily distracting you from the penetration, “If it hurts so much, you wouldn’t be rutting against Sunghoon and I like a dog in heat,” Heeseung hisses, picking up his pace as he starts slamming his hips into you.

Coincidentally, the burning starts to go away gradually once he starts moving into you faster, eventually becoming pleasurable all together. You can’t control the sheer volume of your moans as their cocks move against each other while inside of you rubbing your walls and coating them with precum. They’re hands squeeze at your body in desperation with every clench of your pussy, the fit already tight enough. Your lower abdomen boils with a pleasure you’ve never felt, blossoming with more and more arousal with every thrust.

You can’t feel your legs and sobs wrack your body in the best way possible as they continue to fuck into you like a toy, Sunghoon supporting your entire upper body weight while Heeseung holds onto your hips while drilling into you. Heeseung’s got more leverage from behind, snapping his hips in and out of you like a beast. You’ve lost how many times you’ve orgasmed at this point, your entire body shaking as the boys fight for their own highs while using your pussy as their vice.

“Touch yourself, baby,” Heeseung says suddenly, “I need to feel your pussy clenching around me when I cum,”

“I- I can’t, it’s too much. So…tired.”

“You can do it baby, you’ve got one more left in you,” Sunghoon coos into your ear, dragging his fingers up your back all while thrusting his hips into you from below.

With slow movements, you lift yourself off of Sunghoon just enough to reach your arm between the two of you, going for your clit. When your finger starts rubbing circles around the sensitive bud, you immediately begin to shake as the extra stimulation has you nearing the edge rather quickly, “Mmph, I think I’m gonna cum again!” you sob, the coil in your stomach having snapped completely as the boys continue to drill their cocks into you.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Heeseung pants, “Gonna fill your pussy up with so much cum,” his hips stutter to a stop as he fills you up with his load, Sunghoon quickly following in suit. You’re too fucked out to notice the end of their chase towards arousal, continuing to rub at your clit absentmindedly as they work through their highs. With a slight of hand, you feel a rush of liquid spurt out of you as a tsunami of pleasure rips through you.

The velocity of your arousal forces both of their cocks out, liquid spraying everywhere as you continue to rub yourself through it, moaning and screaming through every after shock of pleasure. Sunghoon and Heeseung hold you up together as you go limp, weeping quietly and barely processing Heeseung’s soothing words, “So good, baby. You did so good for us, Y/n.”

“We’re so proud of you, we’ll take care of you now. Just rest, Y/n.”

You think it was Sunghoon’s voice you heard last before passing out, the smallest smile on your tear stricken face.

#enhypen #enhypen x reader #heeseung #enhypen smut #sunghoon

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