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ealdormanink · 6 months ago

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Can I request one with Ivar? 💓

You, daughter of a great king, are married to him and the seer told you you will give him many children and Ivar tells you he wants to marry a second wife and you and him were together since you were only teens and you are not really happy about that idea that there maybe will be another woman .

I could totally understand if you dont want to write it 💓

Prophecies and Promises

Ivar the boneless x female reader!

Thank you for the request! I hope you like this oneshot. Content includes angst, drama, and themes of betrayal. Not exactly a happy ending, you've been warned!

The winter wind howled through Kattegat, carrying with it the salt of the sea and the promise of snow. From the great hall's balcony, (Y/N) watched the first light of dawn paint the fjord in shades of gray and silver. Her fingers traced the wooden railing, feeling the familiar grooves where she and Ivar had carved their initials years ago, back when they were barely more than children.

The sound of movement behind her made her turn. Ivar was there, dragging himself across the floor with the same fierce determination he showed in everything he did. Even now, after all these years, her heart still skipped a beat at the sight of him.

"You're up early," he said, pulling himself onto the bench near the wall. His blue eyes, sharp as always, studied her face.

"I couldn't sleep." (Y/N) pulled her furs tighter around her shoulders. "The gods were restless in my dreams."

Ivar's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. There was something in his eyes she hadn't seen before – a mixture of guilt and resolution that made her stomach tighten with unease.

"We need to talk," he said, patting the space beside him on the bench.

Those words, spoken so softly, carried the weight of an ax falling. (Y/N) knew, with the same certainty that guided ravens to battlefields, that whatever came next would change everything.

The silence stretched between them like a bowstring pulled taut. (Y/N) remained standing, her knuckles white against the dark fur of her cloak.

"The Jarl Eriksson will arrive tomorrow," Ivar said, his voice steady. "With his daughter, Sigrid."

"The shield-maiden?" The words felt like ice on (Y/N)'s tongue. Tales of Sigrid Eriksdottir's prowess in battle had reached even Kattegat's shores. Young, fierce, and above all, from a powerful family whose alliance could strengthen their hold on the northern territories.

"Yes." Ivar's fingers drummed against his leg brace. "I intend to make her my second wife."

The world didn't stop. The waves below continued their endless dance against the shore, and somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out. Yet (Y/N) felt as if she'd been plunged into the deepest part of the fjord, the cold seeping into her bones.

"I see." Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. "And when did you decide this?"

"It's not about decisions, it's about necessity." Ivar moved forward, his arms tensing as he shifted his weight. "We need the alliance with Jarl Eriksson. His ships, his men—"

"Don't." (Y/N) turned to face him fully, her father's royal blood burning in her veins. "Don't pretend this is just about alliances. How many years have we been married, Ivar? How many winters have I shared your bed?"

"Seven winters." His jaw clenched. "Seven winters without an heir."

The truth of it struck harder than any physical blow. (Y/N) remembered the Seer's words, spoken in the darkness of his dwelling: 'Your womb will give Ivar the Boneless more sons than any king before him.' She had clung to that prophecy through every moon that passed without a child quickening in her belly.

"You don't believe in the Seer's words anymore," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I believe in what I can see." Ivar's voice hardened. "I believe in securing my legacy, in strengthening Kattegat. You're a king's daughter, (Y/N). You understand the weight of duty."

"Duty?" She laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "Was it duty when you taught me to throw an ax? When we would sneak away from the great hall to watch the stars? When you promised me I would be the only queen you'd ever need?"

Ivar's expression flickered, a shadow of the boy he'd been passing across his face. "We were children then."

"We were in love then," (Y/N) corrected. She moved away from the balcony, her steps measured and precise. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps we were children. But I remember every promise you made, Ivar Ragnarsson, and so do the gods."

She paused at the doorway, her hand resting on the carved wooden frame. "I hope Sigrid Eriksdottir brings you everything you wish for."

The great hall was beginning to stir as she walked through it, servants preparing for the day ahead. None dared meet her eye. News traveled fast in Kattegat, and already they must know what was coming. The proud princess who had failed to give their king an heir would soon share her crown with another.

The arrival of Jarl Eriksson's longships painted a bold stripe of red and black across the harbor. (Y/N) watched from the steps of the great hall as Sigrid Eriksdottir strode onto Kattegat's docks, her golden hair braided with leather and bones, shield strapped to her back. Every inch a shield-maiden, every step that of a future queen.

The crowd parted for her like waves before a ship's prow. (Y/N) felt the weight of every gaze shifting between them – the two queens, present and future, as different as fire and ice. Where Sigrid wore leather and steel, (Y/N)'s dress spoke of her royal upbringing, its deep blue fabric threaded with silver like the night sky.

"Welcome to Kattegat." (Y/N)'s voice carried across the courtyard, steady despite the storm in her heart. This was the game of queens, and she had learned it at her father's knee long before she'd learned to love Ivar.

Sigrid's bow was perfectly measured – respect for a queen, but not submission. "You honor us with your welcome, Queen (Y/N)." Her Norse was clear and sharp, like the ax at her hip. "The tales of Kattegat's beauty do not do it justice."

Behind her, Ivar watched them both, his eyes calculating. He had always loved games of power, but this was no game on a hnefatafl board. These were real pieces, real lives, real hearts being moved across the board.

The feast that night was a blur of mead and music. (Y/N) sat in her place of honor, watching as Sigrid captivated the hall with tales of her raids along the Saxon coast. The warrior-woman's laugh rang true and deep, and more than once, (Y/N) caught Ivar's gaze lingering on her.

It wasn't until the moon had risen high that the first wave of nausea hit her. (Y/N) gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white against the wood. The smell of roasted meat, usually so appealing, suddenly turned her stomach.

"My queen?" Her handmaiden, Astrid, leaned close. "Are you unwell?"

"I need air," (Y/N) whispered, rising from her seat. Few noticed her departure – all eyes were on Sigrid, who was now demonstrating sword techniques with one of Ivar's warriors.

In the quiet of her private chambers, (Y/N) pressed her forehead against the cool stone wall. This wasn't the first time she'd felt ill this week. Or the week before. But she'd been too consumed by Ivar's announcement to notice the pattern.

"My queen." Astrid's voice was soft behind her. "When was your last bleeding?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. (Y/N) closed her eyes, counting back the moons. Her hand drifted to her stomach, and for the first time, she felt it – the slight firmness that hadn't been there before.

A laugh bubbled up from her throat, bitter and sweet all at once. The gods had a cruel sense of humor. After seven years of waiting, of hoping, of praying – now, when Ivar had already decided to take another wife, the Seer's prophecy chose to fulfill itself.

"Tell no one," she commanded Astrid, turning to face her oldest friend and servant. "Not a soul."

Astrid nodded, understanding darkening her eyes. "What will you do?"

(Y/N) looked out the window, toward the distant mountains where the eagles soared free. "What any mother would do to protect her child." Her hand remained on her stomach, where Ivar's heir grew stronger with each passing day. "I will ensure no one can ever use this child as a pawn in their games."

The next fortnight passed in a blur of preparations. Sigrid's presence in Kattegat grew stronger with each passing day, her influence spreading like roots through fertile soil. The warriors admired her strength, the common folk her easy manner, and Ivar... Ivar's eyes followed her with an intensity that cut deeper than any blade.

(Y/N) watched it all from behind a carefully crafted mask, one hand often resting unconsciously on her still-flat stomach. The morning sickness she hid behind closed doors, the fatigue she blamed on poor sleep. Only Astrid knew the truth, helping her conceal the signs that would soon become impossible to hide.

The night of the betrothal feast arrived with the first real snow of winter. The great hall blazed with firelight, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat and sweet mead. (Y/N) sat in her place of honor, watching as Ivar announced his intention to take Sigrid as his second wife. The hall erupted in cheers, horns raised in celebration.

"A toast!" Sigrid's father boomed, his voice carrying over the crowd. "To the alliance of our houses, to strong sons and victories to come!"

The words struck (Y/N) like a physical blow. Her hand tightened around her untouched horn of mead, watching as Ivar raised his own cup. Their eyes met across the hall, and for a moment, she saw something flicker in his gaze – regret, perhaps, or memory. But then Sigrid leaned close to whisper something in his ear, and the moment shattered like ice in spring.

"It's time," (Y/N) whispered to Astrid, who stood faithfully behind her chair. The preparations were complete, set in motion days ago with the quiet efficiency that had made (Y/N) such an effective queen.

Two trusted guards – men who had served her father and come with her to Kattegat – waited by the stables. A small boat was ready at a secluded dock, far from the usual harbor. Everything she needed was already packed, loaded under the cover of darkness.

"Wait three days," she instructed Astrid, pressing a small wooden pendant into her hand – a token that would prove the message came from (Y/N). "Then tell him what I said. Not before."

Astrid's eyes shone with tears she dared not shed. "The gods go with you, my queen."

(Y/N) stood, her movements unhurried and dignified. No one paid much attention as she left the feast – it was common for the first wife to retire early when celebrations involved the second. Outside, the snow fell thick and silent, covering her tracks almost as soon as they were made.

At the stables, she mounted her horse with practiced ease, adjusting her heavy cloak around her. The child within her was still too small to hinder her movements, but she could feel its presence like a warm flame in her belly, a secret strength.

"We ride for the eastern path," she told her guards. "Through the merchant routes, where the traders won't question another group of travelers."

As they rode away from Kattegat, (Y/N) didn't look back. The city that had been her home for seven years disappeared into the snowy darkness behind her. She thought of Ivar, still celebrating in the great hall, unaware that his firstborn child was already slipping beyond his reach.

Three days would pass before Astrid would deliver her message. Three days before Ivar would understand what he had lost. By then, (Y/N) would be far beyond his reach, carrying with her the heir he so desperately wanted – the first of the many children the Seer had promised, though not in the way anyone had expected.

Three days later, the great hall of Kattegat stood silent in the gray light of dawn. Ivar sat upon his throne, fingers drumming against the carved armrest, his mood as dark as the circles under his eyes. The celebrations had ended, but something else had ended too – something he couldn't quite name until Astrid stepped forward, clutching a wooden pendant he recognized immediately.

"Speak," he commanded, his voice hoarse. Three days since anyone had seen (Y/N), three days of searching, of questions met with silence.

Astrid's chin lifted, her voice clear despite her fear. "The queen bade me tell you this: The gods have already chosen the mother of your children long ago. The Seer did not lie."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Ivar's face remained still, but his knuckles whitened against the throne's wood. One heartbeat. Two. Then understanding crashed over him like a wave, and his roar of rage echoed through the hall. The drinking horn in his hand flew across the room, shattering against the wall.

"When?" he demanded, dragging himself from his throne with dangerous speed. "When did she know?"

Astrid stepped back, but held her ground. "I cannot say, my king."

"Cannot or will not?" His eyes blazed with a fury that had made warriors tremble.

"She carries your firstborn," Astrid said softly, delivering the final blow. "The child the Seer promised. The first of many."

Ivar's laugh was hollow, breaking like ice in spring. Of course. Of course the gods would play such a cruel joke. All his plans, his calculations, his political maneuverings – undone by the very thing he'd wanted most.

"Find her," he ordered the guards. "Search every path, every village, every—"

"She's beyond your reach now," Astrid interrupted, earning gasps from those present. "Three days' journey ahead, on routes you don't know, toward a kingdom that will protect its princess."

Ivar's hand shot out, grabbing Astrid's arm. "You helped her."

"I served my queen," she replied, unflinching. "As I swore to do."

Miles away, (Y/N) stood at the bow of a merchant ship, the wind pulling at her hair as they sailed east. Her hand rested on her stomach, where the heir to Kattegat grew stronger each day. The Seer's prophecy would come true, but not in Kattegat's halls. Her children – Ivar's children – would be born free from the politics of second wives and power plays, raised in her father's kingdom, where no one could use them as pawns in a game of thrones.

Behind her, Kattegat disappeared into the horizon, taking with it seven years of love, of promises, of a future that could have been. Ahead lay the unknown, but (Y/N) stood straight and proud, every inch her father's daughter. She was more than Ivar's wife now – she was a mother protecting her child, and in that role, she was as fierce as any shield-maiden.

The wind carried the sound of seabirds and the salt spray of the sea, but not the echo of Ivar's rage as it shook Kattegat's walls. Not the sound of his fist against wood as he realized what his ambition had cost him. Not the bitter truth that his firstborn child – the heir he had so desperately wanted – would grow up never knowing their father's name.

In the end, the gods had given him exactly what he asked for, but taken away everything he truly had.

#ivar the boneless #oneshot #ragnar lothbrok #vikings #vikings x reader #x reader #halfdan the black #the last kingdom #finan #romance #angst #drama

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sashi-ya · 4 months ago

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Hi, hi! for the emo boy event can I request a Byakuya fic? f! reader please, and nsfw 💞

𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗸 𝗿𝘂𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻. kuchiki byakuya x f! belly dancer! reader. nsfw

a/n: hi anon! sure! I hope you enjoy a sudden idea that came up while I was listening to some Arabic music to relax 💙 tw: +18 mdni. our reader is a belly dancer on a "dancing house" you can say it is something like a brothel since she can be "bought", so if you are sensitive towards prostitution or related topics please be aware of this. sexy belly dance (i'm not saying that's the whole purpose of belly dancing, please keep that it mind). masturbation. nipple play kinda. byaku becomes a little savage, so kiiiinda hard sex. creampie. wc: 3.5k masterlist

The Kuchiki clan, where powerful men decide and brag fortune. A group of men dedicated to keeping the Soul Society’s history, and to be rich… stupidly, disgustingly rich. So rich, even their clothing and accessories are worth more than a mansion…

“Get ready, you are dancing tonight… for very important people. You were personally requested… the best odalisque!” you get informed; the tone filled with both seriousness and a pinch of envy.

You roll your eyes; you don’t mind if the people you are dancing for are important or not, you are only there to dance.

Covered in fine silks, your “uniform” looks impeccable. The chains and jewels tingle with each motion, and the more they do, the better. Your exposed belly gets a little cold, as tonight winter seems to be taking over every corner of your city.

The sound of chariots and a subtle bustling outside catches your attention; you watch several men entering the dance house from your window. All of them are dressed like they are indeed very wealthy people.

You only know them as a part of history, since they don’t live in your lands, but rather far, far away. You also know their clan leader became a widower a few years ago yet still know nothing about his appearance nor any characteristic.

The drums begin to play, soft music comes from the dining room area, they must be filling their never hungry bellies with the finest delicacies your chefs are able to prepare.

You also prepare to be devoured by their lustful eyes; you are used to; men, no matter their social class, are all the same. Right?

“The clan leader will be here as well, try to please him… even if they say it is pretty difficult to do so…” one of the backup dancers whispers. Maybe she is trying to cheer you up, or maybe she is trying to put more pressure on you.

You nod, sighing. Your hips will do the best they can to follow the musicians; you are sure that “old geezer with lots of money” will enjoy the show.

The lights begin to dime; the music to slowly growth in rhythm, and the darbuka to peal. Your body drags towards the scenario, with the motions of a cobra; sexy as a deadly snake, ready to imbue their bloods with the passionate venom of a lustful dance.

You cover your face from your nose down, letting your irises scan the faces of each man watching you dance. Old guys, some wearing metallic hair accessories, and white coats.

Old guys, and a young one. From them all, he is the one whose eyes seem to be drunk in superiority and arrogance.

“He must be the youngest of them all, perhaps one day he will become the leader…” you think. “He is probably the grandson of the leader; that guy with a moustache looks like an old version of him”

In any case, you don’t care; you just need to dance. Your muscles move with the beats of the drums, your hips accompany you well, your belly like sea waves show the great expertise and why you are called “the best dancer”.

And you can tell they are indeed enjoying it by the looks of hunger and drooling dressed up as smirks. They drink while they watch you own the wooden floor with your naked feet. The anklets jingle to their movement, as well as the hip belt.

You can see every single man smirking, pleased with your performance. Every single but the youngest of them. He hasn’t smiled once, yet his eyes were unable to divert from your body. He seems to analyze, to mentally record every motion, every dance move you make.

You still have the grand finale, the sexiest dance of them all; the one where you get down the scenario and dance closer to them… so close, that, as much as you wish to, they can interact with you.

But the one who is interacting tonight, will be you. You, for some strange reason, feel the desperate need to rip a smirk from that youngster… from that handsome man.

You take some air before the last dance; slowly, slowly the music goes as slow it could go while you get down from the scenario.

Every man tenses, interested. They think you are dancing for them, but you are certainly not. Him, the one exuding haughtiness, has become the main target. The scarf around his neck will be especially useful for the grand finale.

You slither his way, shaking your hips closer and closer. So close the tip of his nose can almost touch your stomach.

That man won’t move; the more you dance next to him his eyes only focus on one single thing; your eyes. It’s almost intimidating; such serious frown, with night-coloured sharp eyes burning holes into your orbs.

But you won't let him win, you aren’t done just yet. Sexily and slowly, you snatch the scarf around his neck, entangling all your body with it as you pull. His long onyx hair graces the back of your hand… how silky…

His frown changes; his expression is now a little more on the insulted side. On perhaps, the “how dare you touch me?” side.

You giggle underneath the expensive silk you just stole from him; it smells so good, clean but still with a hint of manly bodily scent. You can tell he’s been sweating. Has he been feeling hot?

You turn your back to him, the lights filtering through your figure and in between the tiny pores of his scarf while flowing in the air.

Byakuya’s lips separate just a little; a tiny gasp comes right after. The beauty of the moment, just like a living piece of art, seems to blow his mind… she is alluring.

Your movements are like liquid gold, each step precise and deliberate, yet flowing with a natural grace that captivates every onlooker. The room is silent, save for the rhythm of the drums, guiding you every motion.

As you spin, the scarf dances along like a serpentine companion. You can sense the weight of your target’s gaze, intense and unyielding. Yet, you don’t mind, it only fuels your show; you want to see him break, to see the facade of indifference crack under the pressure of your enchanting hips.

With a final flourish, the scarf gets thrown in the air, falling on you like a veil, running down your skin. It slips, as if, that fine silk yearned to kiss all of your flesh.

You bow, stepping back right after, surrounded by the stolen stole. Your eyes are still locked with his, challenge him; invite him.

Byakuya remains still, but there's a flicker in his eyes, a spark of something raw and unrestrained.

You know, deep inside, you’ve won. You’ve struck a chord. Now, the performance was really a success.

You offer a sweet smile before turning away, leaving that man with the echo of your dance, the memory of your delicate touch, and without his scarf. Perhaps, like a trap, you use it as a bait… come and get it by yourself, Mr. arrogant.

You run to your room, flopping down your bed. Still covered by that scarf, you take a couple of seconds to inhale the perfume before it gets taken away. Because you know, you can feel him getting closer… his aura; is he a Shinigami?

The knock on the door, announces some minutes after, he is indeed there to claim what’s his. And maybe, all of the rest as well… including you.

“The scarf” he simply says, standing right by the entrance as you open the door. He seems, once again, filled with conceit and disgust towards anyone but him.

“Would you like me to clean it, sir? You see, we always try to interact with the publ-“ you want to keep on explaining something he doesn’t really care about, getting interrupted by his gloved hand lifted slowly in the air.

“And what would you know about cleaning such expensive fabrics?” he asks, visibly more annoyed than before. Even if his cheeks were becoming slowly pink the more he looks at you.

You smirk; you might be wealthy, but not -yet- my owner.

“You are most definitely right, Sir… uh, what’s your name? I’m not a cleaning lady; I am a dancer. The best from my region” you answer back, tinting your speech in at least a small amount of his arrogance.

His eyes squint, his frown intensifies; is this some kind of disrespect crusade towards him, the Kuchiki clan leader?

“You don’t know my name? haven’t you ever heard of Kuchiki Byakuya? you really don’t know who you stole that scarf from? Weren’t you informed of who was coming here tonight?” he asks, coming closer to you in a menacing, powerful way, but still calm and collected. It seems to you as if he were fighting to keep his real self, tamed.

You blink, looking up at him, taking small steps backwards.

“The Kuchiki clan leader and family” you murmur.

“And who do you think the clan leader is? Mh? Why don’t you guess?” he asks, grabbing the scarf in between his index and middle finger.

You swallow; why is he getting this mad?

“I… I don’t know, Sir… I- that man, the old man with a moustache? I know the clan leader became a widower some years ago, so it must be him? You look similar to that man, so I’d say that’s your father or your grandfather” you let him know.

Byakuya does a little head shake, confused.

“That’s indeed my grandfather, and yes, he WAS the leader. Now, I AM the clan leader; I am the widower…” he corrects you.

You gasp; a widower at such a young age? No wonder why he seems so embittered.

“I am sorry, Kuchiki-sama” you immediately change the way you refer to him. “Can I compensate you with a special, unique, private dance?” you continue, offering him something to cheer him up -and maybe, like Sherezade, a reason to distract him from wanting to kill you-

Byakuya lets the scarf go; he has been holding a pinch of it in between his fingers but never once tried to pull it away from you. He thinks; and while he does he looks at you from above and slightly to the side… ah, what an annoying -ethereal and beautiful- creature.

The noble, whose eyes show the desperate need to say yes, takes his sweet time to cover up his real desires. Yet, ultimately, he says yes to your proposal. It didn’t take much for him to accept, as your eyes became almost a hypnotic instrument to control that man.

“Sit down, please” you command, turning him around, feeling the electricity on the palms while you touch his arms.

Byakuya, impassible, sits down in your bed and crosses his legs; a clear sign of his undeniable arousal that he might want to conceal… at least for now.

An old music player from the world of the living, brought by a Shinigami that visited your lands a few years ago, starts playing one of your favourite songs; that song you use to dance alone, just to practice and to enjoy the musical notes flowing through your body like the blood in your veins. [a/n: listen to the song here]

Your hips begin to move, up and down, to the beat of the drums. It starts slow, increasing the rhythm little by little when the rest of the instruments join the melody.

With closed eyes at first, you don’t need to look at him while you dance; you can already tell he’s been bewitched by the sloughy flow of your flesh.

To Byakuya it is more than sensual; it’s daring. You dare, you challenge him to break a self-imposed celibate, to enjoy the lust of watching a woman dancing for him, and only for him.

So much he enjoys and gets lured to be a part of your sensual dance that his gloved hands reach for your body. His fingertips search for your skin in between the flowing scarf you dance with.

You get closer and closer, allowing his hands to finally land on each side of your waist. The contrast of his cold palms with your warm hips makes you get little bumps all over. Though it is most probably because of the delicate and still dominant grab of a man so handsome.

Unhurried, Byakuya pulls you closer to him, receiving you on his lap.

You straddle your hips on his legs, with his scarf on your shoulders. Stretching your arms and back, moving side to side like an ophidian woman, you throw yourself backwards as his fingertips travel from your chest down to your belly.

Oh, and how good this feels to him… you can feel his hardness growing, with the vengeance to penetrate, to impale.

Byakuya can’t hold back a minute longer; his hands pass through your waist and serve as support for your back. He bends forward, kissing right where your sternum ends. And then up and down, leaving a trail of wet pecks on your skin.

You reach his head, brushing back his beautiful dark hair. Smooth, soft, silky; you wish to witness it rain down his nude back. In fact, you wish him to be naked, desperately.

And as desperately as you, that’s exactly what Byakuya wants; to have you naked in between his arms, onto that bed, laying your delicious anatomy back for him to devour.

He turns you around, throwing you -now with less delicacy, forgetting maybe his noble status- back into the mattress.

Byakuya crawls in between your legs, spreading them, looking so manly and dominant. His eyes have become sharper, imbued in lust and desire, only focused on one thing… ripping your beautiful dancing clothes off.

Like claws, his hands pull down the semi-transparent top that only covers your breasts, exposing them. About to gloat, you can hear a manly grunt leave his silent lips. It makes you shiver; an aura of pure superiority forces you immediately to submission.

The head clan lifts your leg up to his waist, passing his hand through the cut on your harem pants.

“Is this included in the private dance?” he asks, with his lips grazing yours. You can tell he is about to break; the level of arousal in his voice, on the way he exhales so agitated…

“This might need for you, Leader Kuchiki, to buy me” you whisper back, as agitated, as needy, and desperate as he is.

Byakuya smirks; if there is something he can do is exactly that; buy you, acquire you.

“I’ll pay anything” he answers before his lips crush with yours in such a concupiscent kiss it could scandalize the mere snake that tempted Eve in Paradise.

Ah, and speaking of paradise, that’s exactly what awaits you from now on.

Your nails carve on his neck, scratching his skin yearning for his clothes to finally slide down his body. You crave his nudity, as well as his sex deep inside your womb.

Byakuya unties the sash around his waist; it all gets loose except his muscles and dick. You are now able to pull his fabrics down, exposing what you have already been imaging; a lean, pale, perfect and velvety bareness.

You are so tempted to bite such precious flesh, but the weight of his hand getting around your neck stops you right away.

The noble’s fingers curl and carve on your mandible, holding your face down, unable to move. You lay your head and hair on his scarf, giving you a frame worthy of comparing you with “The Birth of Venus.”

“You look so beautiful resting on my Ginpaku” Byakuya murmurs, who would have thought he could be romantic during the heat of the moment?

You bite your lower lip and look to the side; it takes a lot for a man to make you flush and this one has made it possible.

“Look at me…” he continues, forcing you to fix your sight on his, while his free hand works its way towards your panties.

A tiny triangle covers your sex; a tiny triangle now dampened in arousal and sweat, exactly like Byakuya’s. He doesn’t care, in fact, all he wants is to take it off.

He does, pulling them to the side to allow his index to slide right in. He moves in and out, so painfully slow, it drives you crazy. His thumb makes his big entrance then, when it lands on your clit. It traces circles, just to push you to hell and ascend to heaven right after.

In reality, Byakuya is simply preparing your entrance, getting a little taste of what his sex will soon experience; the warmth of your insides, the spasming of your walls around his dick. All and everything at expenses of your pleasure, a perfect deal for a business man like him.

“I’m in great need of fucking you, now” he grunts, after biting your right nipple.

Your back arches; the way his beckoning fingers masturbate you, the way he nibbles on your breasts, the straightforward words coming from his delicious mouth…

Shivering, you are only able to nod. Your legs quiver, soon climax will arrive; soon, very soon.

You grasp from his black hakama, pulling them down completely the best you can, exposing an exquisite dripping hardness. Just like him, his sex is; impetuous, straight, even violent in a deadly sharp daintiness.

Your harem pants get ripped as well, that man isn’t playing about being in ��great need.” Your legs, get arranged by him to be resting on his chest; apparently Byakuya enjoys going deep from the very beginning. And who you are to contradict the Kuchiki clan head leader?

With your ankles on each side of his face, and his long hair tickling on the bridge of your feet, Byakuya guides his sex into your overflowing sex. Both moan and close your eyes during that first slide that feels so good.

You instinctively try to close your legs, but he won’t let you just yet. Byakuya’s body bends forward, going even deeper on each ram; are those hips made of what? How is he able to fuck you this hard?

Grunting and moaning mix in one; you can feel his dick reaching your limit. Yours, but not his. The slap of his thighs against your legs becomes louder as he fucks you harder.

His forehead gets bathed in sweat, your skin burns. Eventually, Byakuya allows your legs to join not before kissing the instep of your feet; only to push them to the side then and keep fucking you that way.

Your hands grip to his scarf that still lays, all wrinkled, under your head. He smirks; your cheek also gets pressed against it as you turn your face to the side in pure raptured distress.

You feel your orgasm coming, opening your eyes to let him know, only by your look of pleasure, you are about to come.

Byakuya catches it quite well, as he maintains the rhythm just the same. “Come… come” he pants, with sloppy eyelids and his own climax right around the corner.

You nod, pulling him to kiss you while you do. The kiss only lasts for as long as you can endure coming without gasping and wheezing. Panting he inhales and enjoys, as the very last drop of fuel needed for his own explosion.

And an explosion is what it is; you can feel his cum flooding your womb, filling it up with throbbing intervals of white release. Seed overflowing, with pressure and hot, hot temperature…

With not much to say, both flop into that bed that’s now covered in sweat despite the freezing winter of the outside.

“I hope this made up for taking your scarf, Byakuya-sama ~” you purr, as he pulls you to rest on his chest. “I’m not over yet… my precious dancer”

The morning after.

You wake up, still tired, with sore muscles and the scent of that man still lingering in the air. Yet, you are alone there; he’s gone.

“And here I thought he was going to buy me for real…” you mutter, turning around to discover a little surprise of what temporarily had been his side of the bed; his scarf perfectly folded with a paper on top written in perfectly calligraphy.

𝐾𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝐼 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛; 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟. 𝐴𝑙𝑠𝑜, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤. 𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦, 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤. - K.B.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ➡ TO BE CONTINUED.

yes! there is a following fic that will fulfill another request; basically the next one will be a continuation of this one! being then, the same "reader" (I know I said one per character, but you know we love byakuya here)

#byakuya kuchiki x reader #kuchiki byakuya x reader #byakuya x reader #byakuya kuchiki imagine #byakuya x you #kuchiki byakuya #byakuya kuchiki x you #kuchiki byakuya x you #byakuya #kuchiki byakuya imagine #byakuya kuchiki #bleach #bleach headcanons #bleach imagines #bleach byakuya #sashi ya #bleach x reader #sashi-ya #byakuya kuchiki smut

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ginxyy · 7 months ago

Text

On His Knees for Love

Seven months apart, but their connection never faded. When you walks back into Mingyu’s life, desire and regret collide in an explosive reunion. Will passion be enough to mend what was broken?

The bass reverberates through the walls of the club, every beat thundering in your chest like the memories of him, of Mingyu. It has been seven months since your world shattered, seven months since laughter turned into angry words, and love faded into silence. Still, as you step into the dim-lit room, a wave of nostalgia washes over you. The smell of sweet cocktails mingles with the scent of hair product and cologne, creating an intoxicating air that feels both foreign and familiar.

Your eyes scan the crowd, searching for a flicker of warmth, a trace of the bond you once shared. Moments slip by, but then you see him Mingyu, with his effortless charisma, surrounded by the vibrant energy of his bandmates. His laughter rises above the cacophony of music, a melody that once made your heart dance. He seems happy, relaxed, flirty with a group of girls whose faces are unfamiliar to you. Each smile he throws carries a dagger of jealousy into your chest, but you can’t look away. How is it that he feels so far yet still belongs to every inch of your heart?

A knot of longing intertwines with disbelief as you watch him joking, leaning into the casual touch of the girls beside him. How can he laugh so easily, when your heart is such a heavy weight? The shadow of your past flickers, reminding you of the countless nights he spent holding you close, whispering sweet nothings beneath the stars. Just then, as if sensing your gaze, he tilts his head, the light catching his features, and for a moment, the world seems to slow down. But he doesn’t see you.

Fingers trembling with uncertainty, you pull out your phone, the familiar weight of the device suddenly feeling like an anchor tethered to memories you keep trying to release. A pang of impulsiveness pushes you forward, typing out a message that speaks the ache buried within you: “I need you. Bathroom. Right now.”

Your heart races as you hit send, watching the screen as if it holds your fate. Moments later, the “typing…” indicator blinks before he responds with a single word: “Coming.” A rush of adrenaline surges through you, lifting the heaviness in your chest momentarily. You know he will come; it’s the instinct of those who have shared so much. The seconds stretch into eternity as you push through the crowded club, your heart pounding like a drum, your breath quickening.

You slip into the bathroom, the low hum of music fading behind the thick door. The walls here are grimy, the air pregnant with the scent of fading perfume and anxiety. You glance at yourself in the mirror, your reflection almost a stranger. It’s been hard to define who you are without him he other half of your heart, the comfortable warmth that felt like home.

The door swings open, and there he is Mingyu. He stands tall and striking, so impossibly handsome in the flickering light. For a moment, you are both just two souls caught in a moment, the silence between you humming with unspoken words. But the connection you shared ripples beneath the surface. His eyes widen, surprise flickering momentarily before concern brushes across his features.

“Hey,” he starts, stepping forward as if to reach for you. Yet, something raw surges within an ache that demands to be addressed, a need that goes beyond conversation. The air crackles around you, filled with the tension of emotions long unresolved.

“Stop,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but commanding enough to halt him in his tracks. “Get on your knees.” With that, you feel a rush of power, taking control in a way you hadn’t expected. He hesitates only for a heartbeat before he obeys, his demeanor shifting, submission softening the harsh edges of the breakup that separated you.

Mingyu drops to his knees, his height making him imposing even in submission. His wide, doe-like eyes look up at you, filled with a mixture of hesitation and yearning. It’s as if he knows he’s teetering on the edge of something irreversible. His lips part slightly, and you catch the faintest tremble in his jaw, a vulnerability that ignites something feral in you. You tilt your chin up, every ounce of pain and longing you’ve bottled up now sharpened into control.

“Is this how you imagined our reunion?” you ask coldly, your voice dripping with disdain. His hands hover uncertainly at his thighs, as if he doesn’t dare reach for you without permission.

“I—” he starts, but you cut him off with a sharp glare.

“Don’t speak unless I tell you to,” you command. The authority in your tone surprises even you, but it feels good, intoxicating. You finally have the power in a relationship where he had once dominated your thoughts and emotions.

Mingyu’s head lowers slightly, his eyes never leaving yours, but his submission is palpable. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, almost like a prayer.

“Sorry?” You let out a humorless laugh, circling him like a predator sizing up its prey. “You’re sorry? Do you know how many nights I cried myself to sleep because of you? How worthless you made me feel?”

His hands clench into fists, his knuckles brushing the sticky floor of the bathroom. “I know. I—”

“Did I say you could talk?” You cut him off again, your words slicing through the tension. He immediately closes his mouth, his breath shallow as he waits for your next move.

“Good boy,” you murmur, a cruel edge to your praise. You step closer, your fingers gripping his chin tightly, forcing him to look up at you. “If you’re really sorry, you’ll prove it. With your mouth. Now.”

His pupils dilate, and without hesitation, he leans forward, his hands instinctively reaching for your thighs. You slap them away.

“Did I say you could touch me?” you snap.

“No,” he mumbles, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry.”

“Hands behind your back. You’ll only use your mouth.”

Mingyu complies instantly, clasping his hands behind him as he leans in, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh. His kisses are tentative at first, testing, as if seeking forgiveness with every soft press of his mouth. You push his head closer, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him whimper.

“Pathetic,” you hiss. “Is this how you kissed them, too? Those girls at this club?”

His eyes widen in alarm, shaking his head desperately, his words muffled against your skin. “No, no one else, I swear only you,” he pleads between kisses, his voice barely audible.

“Prove it,” you demand.

Mingyu doesn’t waste another second. His tongue moves expertly, and you hate how easily he remembers exactly what you like. The warmth of his mouth against you sends shockwaves through your body, your breath hitching despite your resolve to stay composed. You tug his hair harder, forcing him to look up at you while his mouth remains perfectly obedient.

“That’s it,” you murmur, your voice softening briefly before hardening again. “Don’t stop until I say so.”

His eyes glaze over with devotion, and he doubles down, his tongue working you over with precision. You feel your legs tremble slightly, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing how close you are.

“Such a good little toy when you’re like this,” you mock, grinding against his eager mouth. He groans in response, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. “Is this what you wanted all along? To be on your knees for me?”

“Yes,” he gasps when you momentarily pull away, his face slick, lips swollen. “I’ll do anything. Please, just let me make it up to you. Let me make you feel good.”

Your laugh is cruel, but it masks the way your pulse races. “You think this is enough? Do better.”

His desperation fuels him, and he adds his fingers into the mix, slipping two inside you while his tongue continues its relentless assault. You bite your lip, fighting back a moan, but the way he curls his fingers and finds that perfect rhythm makes it impossible.

“Faster,” you order, and he obeys without question, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to push you over the edge. The control you thought you had slips through your fingers as the heat coils tighter in your core, and before you can stop it, a cry escapes your lips.

Mingyu groans against you, his pace unrelenting as you ride out your release, your body trembling from the intensity. When you finally pull away, he looks up at you, his chest heaving, his mouth still glistening with evidence of his devotion.

“Did I do good?” he asks softly, his voice filled with hope and submission.

You tilt your head, studying him for a moment before smirking. “You’re getting there,” you reply coolly, your heart still racing. “But you’ve got a lot more to make up for, Mingyu. Don’t think this is over.”

“Yes,” he breathes, nodding eagerly. “Anything for you.”

And as you adjust your dress, watching him kneel before you like the perfect picture of remorse and desire, you realize you’re not ready to let him go not yet.

Weeks pass, and you make a point to ignore every text and call from Mingyu. His messages vary some are desperate pleas, others apologies, and a few simply asking if you’re okay. Each time his name flashes on your screen, your resolve hardens. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of your attention, not yet. You want him to feel the emptiness you’ve been carrying, to yearn for you the way you’ve ached for him.

But tonight, something shifts. Maybe it’s the loneliness that creeps in during quiet moments, or perhaps it’s the memory of his hands trembling as he tried to prove his devotion in the club bathroom. Whatever it is, you find yourself walking into his practice session unannounced.

The room buzzes with the sound of his bandmates tuning instruments, laughter echoing as they mess around. Mingyu is standing in the center, his back to you, laughing at something one of them said. He looks good too good. The sight of him stirs a mix of anger and longing in your chest.

The room quiets as soon as the door slams shut behind you. All eyes turn to you, confusion and curiosity written across their faces. Mingyu freezes, his laughter dying mid-syllable. When he turns and sees you, his eyes widen, his mouth opening slightly as if to say something but no words come out.

You don’t give him a chance to speak. You stride up to him with purpose, grab the front of his shirt, and pull him into a kiss. It’s rough, possessive, and leaves no room for misinterpretation. His bandmates gasp, the sound of someone dropping a drumstick punctuating the silence. Mingyu melts into the kiss almost instantly, his hands hovering uncertainly near your waist as if he’s afraid to touch you.

You break the kiss abruptly, your eyes locking onto his. “Come with me,” you say firmly, grabbing his hand and dragging him out of the room. The stunned silence behind you is almost as satisfying as the way Mingyu stumbles to keep up with your pace.

The two of you end up in a small storage closet just down the hall, the air thick with the scent of cleaning supplies and dust. You push him against the wall, your hands gripping his hips to keep him in place. Before he can even catch his breath, you’re on your knees in front of him, your fingers deftly undoing his belt.

“Wait, what ” he starts, his voice cracking, but you cut him off with a sharp look.

“Don’t talk,” you snap. “Just stay still.”

His breath hitches as you free him from his jeans, and the sheer need in his eyes makes you smirk. Without hesitation, you take him into your mouth, your hands gripping his thighs to keep him steady. Mingyu lets out a strangled moan, his head falling back against the wall as his hands clutch uselessly at the air, unsure of where to put them.

“Oh, my God,” he gasps, his voice shaking. “You you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You hum around him in response, the vibration making his knees buckle slightly. His hands eventually find your hair, but he’s careful not to push, his fingers threading through the strands as if to anchor himself. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, and you pull back just enough to glare up at him.

“Don’t move,” you warn, your voice low and commanding.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’ll be good I promise. Please don’t stop.”

You take him even deeper, your movements deliberate and unrelenting. Mingyu’s moans grow louder, more desperate, his usual composure completely shattered. He starts babbling, his words spilling out in a chaotic mess of apologies and confessions.

“I love you,” he chokes out, his voice breaking. “I love you so much. I need you—I can’t I can’t do this without you. Please please come back to me.”

Tears slip down his cheeks as he nears his breaking point, his body trembling under your control. You feel his release building, and when it finally hits, he cries out your name, his entire body going rigid as he falls apart in your hands.

You give him a moment to recover before standing up, wiping your mouth with a smug grin. Mingyu looks utterly wrecked his cheeks flushed, his lips swollen, and his eyes glassy with a mixture of pleasure and emotion. You lean in and kiss him softly, your lips lingering against his as you murmur, “Come over tonight.”

Before he can respond, you step back, smoothing your clothes as if nothing happened. You open the door and shove him back into the practice room, where his bandmates are still staring in stunned silence. Mingyu stumbles slightly, his disheveled appearance drawing wide-eyed looks from everyone in the room.

“See you tonight,” you call over your shoulder, winking at him before walking out. The door swings shut behind you, leaving a ruined, lovesick Mingyu in your wake.

Mingyu stumbles back into the practice room, his face still flushed, hair a mess, and shirt slightly untucked. The room is silent for a moment before his bandmates erupt in a cacophony of confusion.

“What the hell was that?” one of them demands, his drumsticks clattering to the floor as he gapes at Mingyu.

“Did she just what what’s going on?” another chimes in, his wide eyes darting between Mingyu and the door you had just walked out of.

Mingyu raises a hand as if to calm them, but he’s just as shaken. “I don’t… I don’t know,” he stammers, running a trembling hand through his hair. “She just she kissed me, and then…”

“And then you left with her and came back looking like that?”

“Dude, you’re a mess,” someone mutters. “Is this the same ex you haven’t shut up about for months? Are you two back together or… what?”

“I don’t know!” Mingyu bursts out, his voice cracking. He swallows hard, his mind racing. “I mean, I hope so. I think so. She told me to come over tonight.”

“That doesn’t sound like reconciliation to me. That sounds like you’re in trouble,” one of his bandmates teases, but there’s a note of seriousness in his voice. “You’ve been miserable without her. Don’t screw this up, man.”

Mingyu doesn’t even respond. He grabs his bag and bolts out of the practice room, his heart pounding as he heads home to shower and prepare. By the time he’s standing at your door, he’s a nervous wreck.

He raises his hand to knock, hesitates, and then finally raps his knuckles against the wood. The door swings open, and the sight of you steals the air from his lungs.

You’re wearing his favorite lingerie a delicate set he always loved on you, the sheer fabric accentuating every curve. The soft glow of light from your apartment frames you perfectly, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

Mingyu’s legs give out, and he drops to his knees right there in the doorway. His hands clutch at your thighs as he looks up at you with tear-filled eyes. “Please,” he chokes out, his voice trembling. “Please, I can’t do this anymore. I love you I’ve always loved you. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… please, come back to me.”

You stroke his hair softly, letting him pour his heart out as tears spill down his cheeks. His vulnerability tugs at something deep within you, but you maintain your composure, the power dynamic firmly in your hands.

“Come to my room,” you say softly, stepping aside to let him in.

Mingyu scrambles to his feet and follows you like a lost puppy, his heart racing as you lead him to your bedroom. The air is thick with tension, and as soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you push him onto the bed. He looks up at you with wide, adoring eyes, his lips parted as he tries to catch his breath.

“Stay there,” you command, climbing onto the bed to straddle him.

His hands instinctively find your waist, but you grab his wrists and pin them above his head. “You don’t touch me unless I say so,” you warn.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice barely audible. “Anything you want.”

You lower yourself onto him slowly, savoring the way his breath hitches and his muscles tense beneath you. His head falls back against the pillow, a broken moan escaping his lips as you begin to move.

“You missed this, didn’t you?” you taunt, leaning down to bite at his neck. “You missed being mine.”

“I did,” he gasps, his voice shaking. “I missed you so much. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”

“Shh,” you whisper, cutting him off with a kiss that leaves him even more breathless.

You ride him relentlessly, your movements driving him to the edge over and over again, only to pull back just before he can fall. He’s a mess beneath you, his hair sticking to his damp forehead, his eyes glassy with unshed tears as he begs for release.

“Please,” he whimpers, his voice cracking. “Please, I need you—I can’t—”

But you’re not done with him yet. You pull away, sliding up his body to sit on his face. His hands twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t dare move without your permission.

“Make me cum,” you order, and he obeys without hesitation.

His tongue works expertly, and you lose yourself in the sensation, your fingers tangling in his hair as you ride out your first orgasm. But you don’t stop there. You move back down to straddle him again, taking him inside you once more and using him until the tension coiled in your core snaps again.

By the time you’ve reached your third climax, Mingyu is barely holding it together. His body trembles beneath you, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he holds onto the last threads of his control.

“Cum for me,” you finally whisper, and that’s all it takes. He lets out a loud, broken moan, his body shuddering as he spills inside you.

You collapse onto his chest, both of you panting heavily as the aftershocks of your passion fade. For a while, neither of you speaks, the only sound in the room the soft hum of your breathing.

Finally, you lift your head to look at him, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You’re my once in a lifetime,” you say softly, your voice thick with emotion. “I would be stupid to let this go fully. We can work on us forever and always.”

Tears well up in Mingyu’s eyes again, and he pulls you into a kiss that’s soft and full of unspoken promises. For the first time in months, it feels like the two of you are whole again.

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azrielstherapist · 2 months ago

Text

Ma Meilleure Ennemie

Pairing: Rhysand x Reader

Angst, SMUT [+18] with subplot

Themes: Angst / Bittersweet farewell; Forbidden love; Doomed mates trope; Arranged marriage; Abandonment; Reader's and Rhysand's ancestors being idiots.

TW: Oral sex (on both parts); Thigh riding; Wax play; Light breath play (consensual); Praise kink; Switch!Rhysand; Switch!Reader; Wing stimulation; Not protected penetration (p in v). [I hope I didn't forget anything else]

Inspired by Ma Meilleure Ennemie from the series Arcan, but I kinda went on my own path

https://open.spotify.com/intl-it/track/4lriIG2vNqwDWzOj2I9rtj?si=6ff44d39d476463d

The mountains kept their silence tonight.

Snow pressed itself against the wooden beams of the hidden cabin, a hush blanketing the world outside, as though even the wind did not dare to intrude. I sat by the hearth, the fire crackling low, orange light dancing in the pools of melted wax gathered at the base of the candles scattered across the room.

I hadn’t lit them for him.

That’s what I told myself, again and again, as I waited. That this light, this warmth, was for me - for the girl who would wake tomorrow and wear a stranger’s ring, offer her vows to a noble whose kiss she couldn’t remember, whose eyes never found hers in a crowded room.

But my heart had known he would come.

And when I heard the soft flutter of wings - that unmistakable grace - I didn’t flinch. I only closed my eyes and breathed him in before I even saw him.

Rhysand stepped through the doorway without knocking. As always.

The mountain cabin was too small to pretend we didn’t fill the space just by being in it. Too still to pretend our hearts weren’t beating like war drums. He was dressed in black - of course he was - though he left his leathers undone at the throat, and a few buttons on his coat hung loose, as if he’d left in haste. His hair was damp, snow clinging to his shoulders before melting against the heat of the room.

He looked… tired. Wind-tousled. Beautiful in the way broken things are beautiful, all the more painful because they’re not yours to fix.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

He only stood there, watching me from across the room like he hadn’t already mapped it in his mind, like he hadn’t kissed me against that wall three winters ago and murmured poetry into my skin until my bones went soft.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked finally, his voice a low thrum, too steady for what I knew was behind his eyes.

“No,” I said, more quickly than I meant to.

A breath passed between us.

Then another.

He walked forward, quiet as dusk, and took the chair opposite mine, the one that had once been his. That felt more like his than mine, somehow. His fingers curled over the arms of it, tense.

“I almost didn’t come,” he murmured.

“I almost didn’t wait.”

His laugh was soft, almost bitter. “You knew I would.”

I nodded. “And you knew I’d wait for you.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at me like he always had, like I was the only secret worth keeping. Like he hadn’t watched me be handed away, piece by piece, until nothing of me was mine anymore.

I wondered if he could hear it, the sound of my soul pulling taut, every second stretched too long.

“You look...” He swallowed the word before it fell.

“Like someone else,” I offered.

His eyes found mine, and it was all I could do not to crumble beneath them. “No,” he said. “Like someone trying not to bleed.”

I didn’t look away. “Isn’t that what we’ve always done?”

A silence fell over us again, heavy with things we hadn’t said. Couldn’t say.

The fire cracked, sending sparks skimming across the hearthstone. Outside, the snow whispered against the walls.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. “Do you remember Solstice in Velaris?”

I smiled despite myself. “You mean the one where you stole an entire bottle of red wine from Cassian’s private stash?”

“And you said you’d never tasted anything more vile?”

“You spilled half of it on my dress,” I reminded him.

“I took it off you,” he said, voice low.

“You burned the damn thing in the fireplace.”

“You said it was ruined,” he murmured. “I didn’t want you to be sad.”

It shouldn’t have made me ache. But it did, how much of him I still carried in all the quiet corners of myself. How even his worst decisions had been made for me.

I tucked my legs beneath me, the hem of my silk robe brushing the floor. I hadn’t worn it for him either.

And yet…

He stared at it for a moment too long, and when his eyes found mine again, they were darker than before.

“I thought I could do it,” I whispered. “Go through with it. Make peace with the politics of it all. Be… dutiful.”

“And now?”

“I keep hearing you in my head.” My throat tightened. “Saying my name like it meant something.”

He looked away then, just for a moment. Like the weight of it was too much.

His eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes,” I breathed. “I do.”

“I could stop the wedding.”

“You’d start a war.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

That silenced him.

I swallowed. “Don’t you see? We lose either way. This is the only way I can win something. My people stay safe. My family survives. The Night-your Court stays untouched.”

His hands dropped, slow and reluctant. He turned his face from mine, not in shame, but in agony.

“I still remember,” I said softly, fingers grazing the edge of his knuckles, “the first time you told me I was beautiful.”

Rhys chuckled, low and rough, like velvet dragged over stone. “You mean the time you threatened to kick me in the face?”

“You deserved it,” I replied, but I was smiling. “You said I looked like a painting and then stared at my chest for ten solid minutes.”

“That’s not true.” He paused. “It was eight.”

I laughed, the sound breaking free of my chest like a storm cracking sky. It hurt, too. Everything tonight hurt. Even the warmth.

“You had blue paint on your nose,” he murmured, eyes glittering with memory. “You were trying to blend into the mural in the Court of Nightmares, all to avoid your mother’s endless matchmaking.”

I rolled my eyes. “And then you found me. Of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed. “I couldn’t stay away, even then. Even when I didn’t know what the tug in my chest meant.”

My throat tightened.

“I thought you were the most irritating, smug bastard I’d ever met,” I said.

“And you,” he whispered, “were the most breathtaking thing I’d ever seen, like the world had finally given me something too beautiful to deserve, and all I could do was watch and hope you’d let me stay near you.”

Gods, how much I love him.

“You told me you hated art.”

“I lied,” Rhysand murmured, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “I just wanted you to keep talking to me.”

I swallowed hard.

“I still have the little sketch you gave me,” he continued, voice low, reverent. “The one you drew in the corner of my book when you thought I wasn’t looking. You sketched me asleep, and drew a crown of stars on my head.”

My heart stuttered. “I thought you’d thrown it away.”

“Never,” he said, and he meant it.

His thumb brushed my jaw. “Do you remember the first time you touched my wings?”

Heat coiled low in my stomach. I glanced away. “We said we wouldn’t talk about that night.”

“You mean the one where you dared me to race you through the Sidra river canyons and then accidentally fell on top of me while we were both soaking wet, half-naked, and full of wine?”

“You are embellishing.”

Rhys grinned, all teeth and tenderness. “You had your thighs around me, paint smeared down your cheek, and you looked at me like I was your last breath.”

I looked down at my lap, jaw trembling.

“Do you remember what I said?” he asked, voice a whisper.

I nodded. “You told me I was the only person who’d ever made you want to live forever.”

Silence.

It bloomed between us like grief.

“I meant it,” he said. “Every word.”

The candlelight flickered. Shadows danced across his face. And I knew, in that moment, that no matter what waited at dawn — this man would never stop loving me.

Not across time.

Not through marriage.

Not even through death.

I reached for his hand, pressing it to my chest. To the slow, pained rhythm of my heart.

“I used to lie awake at night,” I murmured, “and imagine us. Our home. Somewhere by the sea. A garden. You would fly in, covered in sand, carrying books and sweets and flowers you picked yourself.”

“I’d do that now,” he whispered. “Even now. Even if you only wanted one more day.”

A tear slipped down my cheek.

“And you,” he went on, “would paint me, again and again. And I’d ruin your brushes trying to kiss the color from your fingers.”

I laughed, choked and soft.

“You were always so dramatic.”

“I loved you too hard to be anything else.”

I leaned forward. “Tell me one more memory. One that no one else would know.”

Rhysand hesitated, then said, almost shyly: “You once fell asleep on my chest in the Hewn City, and snored so loudly that Keir thought I was summoning a beast.”

I blinked. “I did not snore.”

“Oh, you did. Like a little thunderclap. And I loved every moment of it. I wanted to bottle the sound.” Rhysand said softly. “Because in that moment - gods, in that moment - I believed the world might actually be kind to us.”

I buried my face against his shoulder, laughing through tears. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re unforgettable.”

We sat like that for a long time, surrounded by shadow, wrapped in memory. The past curled around us like a second skin. And in the quiet that followed, there was no war. No marriage. No curse.

Just two people.

A cabin.

A flame.

And all the moments they never got to keep.

“I hate him,” he said.

“I know.”

“I hate that he’ll never know what your skin feels like after you cry. That he’ll never taste the part of your soul that burns when you lie.”

“Stop,” I begged, voice breaking. “Please.”

But he didn’t.

He stepped behind me. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his chest against my spine, the silk of his breath near my neck.

“You were never mine to lose,” he said, just above a whisper. “But I’m going to lose you anyway.”

I turned, slow, until we were face to face.

And then I kissed him.

Soft. Just the brush of my lips on his, a whisper of a thing, trembling and unsure. And when he kissed me back, it was with hunger. A groan caught in his throat as his mouth found mine, opening, deepening. The taste of him was dizzying, night-kissed shadows and the phantom memory of summer wine.

His hands cupped my jaw, reverent and firm, and mine slid beneath his coat, greedy for the feel of him. His chest was hot beneath my palms, hard muscle shifting beneath soft linen.

I pressed my body closer.

“Gods, I missed you,” he rasped, teeth grazing my lower lip. “I dreamt of this.”

My knees gave out as he kissed down my neck, his lips skimming my pulse like a prayer. He caught me easily, one strong arm under my thighs, the other at my back. He carried me to the bed in the corner like I was something breakable.

He set me down gently, too gently.

“I want you rough,” I said, breathless. “But I want to be the one to start.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, then hunger.

I reached for him and pulled him down atop me, kissing him hard now, mouths colliding with years of unsaid things. I rolled my hips up against him and moaned at the feel of his thigh between mine, exactly where I needed it.

He stilled, just for a second, as he realized what I was doing.

And then his hands gripped my hips, firmly, possessively, guiding me.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered, voice shaking, “every night. You, riding my thigh, begging me to let you cum—”

“You’re not the only one who’s fantasized,” I said, breathless, as I ground down against the flex of his muscle.

He groaned, deep and low, and his lips found the shell of my ear. “Then show me, darling.”

I sat up slowly, straddling him fully now. I pushed his coat from his shoulders and tugged at the linen shirt underneath, revealing warm, golden skin and that perfect Illyrian strength: sculpted, sweat-sheened, already flushed.

I rocked against him again and gasped. Fuck, that felt good.

Rhysand’s head fell back against the pillows, eyes closing, a low moan escaping as I found a rhythm. His thigh flexed beneath me, giving me just enough pressure, just enough friction. I bit my lip and moved faster, rolling my hips again and again until heat pooled low in my belly.

His hands roamed my waist, my back, my breasts over the shirt, never once taking over. Just offering me the freedom to use him.

“You’re divine,” he murmured. “Watching you like this—”

I kissed his throat. “You feel so good.”

“Fuck, I want to taste you,” he groaned. “But I’ll let you have this first.”

I dragged my nails lightly down his chest, watching his body twitch beneath the touch. And then I reached for the candle.

His eyes snapped open.

“You remember this?” I said, voice low, teasing.

Rhysand swallowed, visibly. “You used to drip wax on my stomach. Just to drive me mad.”

I smiled as I leaned forward and tilted the candle slightly. A single drop landed just above his heart, and he hissed, muscles locking.

His cock jumped beneath his leathers.

“Sensitive,” I murmured, pleased.

“You’re evil,” he rasped, his eyes devouring me. “I forgot how much I liked it.”

I tipped the candle again, a slow trail of wax landing down the line of his stomach, where his shirt had been undone. His chest rose and fell fast now.

Then I unfastened the buttons at his waist.

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide as I tugged the leathers down, releasing him fully.

Gods above, he was already hard, thick and flushed and leaking. My mouth watered at the sight.

I dipped my head without hesitation, licking a slow stripe from base to tip.

Rhysand’s hand flew to the headboard.

“Fuck—” he gasped.

I closed my lips around the tip, slow and deliberate, and he shuddered. One of his wings twitched, just the slightest movement.

I paused.

And looked up at him.

His eyes burned into mine.

“Touch them,” he whispered, voice almost hoarse. “Please.”

I reached back with my left hand, sliding it up the inner curve of his wing.

His entire body arched. A strangled sound burst from his throat.

I took him deeper.

His hips jerked. One hand fisted in my hair, not guiding, just grounding.

“Stars,” he groaned. “You— I won’t last.”

My fingers dragged softly over the membrane again - another moan.

Then another.

I wrapped my hand around his base and moved in rhythm with my mouth, letting my tongue tease the ridge beneath the head. I dragged my nails lightly down the edge of his wing, and he exploded.

He shouted my name as he came, his entire body seizing, hot pulses flooding my mouth, hips trembling.

I swallowed every drop.

When I looked up, he was staring at me like I was some holy thing.

“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered. “And I’ll thank you for it.”

I crawled up his body, kissed the hollow of his throat.

“Not done yet,” I said against his skin. “Not even close.”

He laughed, still breathless, and rolled me beneath him.

And just before his mouth captured mine again, he whispered:

“Then burn me, darling. I’m yours.”

His hands were on my ribs, my thighs, my breasts, but it wasn’t hurried. Rhysand touched me like a man memorizing a map he was never allowed to keep.

And maybe he was.

He kissed the center of my chest, just above where my heart thundered in its cage.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispered against my skin. “Mark every inch of you with my mouth until your husband-to-be knows he’ll never be enough.”

“Rhys…”

“I know,” he said, eyes on mine. “I know. But just for tonight, let me have you. Let me remember what it’s like to taste you without guilt bleeding through every kiss.”

His mouth descended.

He kissed the underside of my breast, open-mouthed, then dragged his tongue along the curve. I arched. My hands threaded through his hair, tugging gently, not to guide, but to anchor myself. I needed to feel that this was real.

When his lips closed around my nipple, I gasped. His tongue swirled once, twice, before he sucked slow and firm, like he knew it would make my back arch. A sound escaped me, something utterly helpless.

“You're shaking,” he murmured, switching to the other side, kissing a slow path before taking me into his mouth again.

“I can't—” I whimpered. “You're driving me mad—”

“You haven’t even seen mad yet,” he growled.

And then he kissed down. Lower. Past my ribs, my hips.

And when he reached the waistband of my underwear, he paused.

“I want to rip them,” he said, voice dark silk. “Want you to feel how desperately I need you.”

My pulse pounded as he hooked his fingers under the delicate lace, and tore. The sound was obscene. Final.

I gasped at the cold air hitting my heat.

He groaned, like the sight of me bare and slick was enough to ruin him entirely.

“Look at you,” he said, spreading my thighs wider. “Already so wet for me. Gods, I could drown in this.”

He leaned in and licked.

A gasp tore from my throat.

His tongue was divine, slow and teasing at first, licking the length of me, before circling my clit with maddening precision. I writhed, one hand fisting the sheets, the other tangling in his hair.

Then he moaned against me, the sound vibrating through my core.

“I’ve missed this taste,” he said, voice wrecked. “Missed making you fall apart with just my mouth.”

He sucked, and I sobbed. My thighs tried to close, but his strong hands held them open, pinned me down like I was his prey. My hips bucked and he growled, the sound vibrating through me as he flicked his tongue over that spot again, again, again—

“Rhys,” I gasped. “I can’t— I’m—”

“Yes you can,” he said, breath hot. “You will. Let go for me. Cum on my tongue, sweetheart.”

And then he sucked hard and slid one finger inside me, crooked it just right—

I shattered.

White-hot pleasure exploded behind my eyes, my body trembling violently as my climax rolled through me like a tidal wave. I couldn’t even breathe, not with the way his mouth stayed on me, drawing it out, coaxing every last pulse until I was panting and gasping and boneless.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were wet with me. His eyes were near black, dilated and feral.

He kissed my trembling thigh. Then the place just above my mound.

Then my lips.

I could taste myself on his tongue as he kissed me deeply, groaning when I bit his bottom lip.

And then—

“Turn over,” he said, voice low, steady, and full of something that ached.

I moved without thinking, my chest sinking into the blankets, the cool air brushing my bare spine.

He pulled my hips up gently, reverently, like he was positioning something precious. Then he leaned in close, his breath hot against the shell of my ear.

“This is how I want to remember you,” he murmured. “On your knees. Open for me. Letting me show you everything I never got to say.”

His hand slid to the back of my neck, not rough, not harsh. Just firm. Grounding. Possessive in the way only love could be.

A quiet whimper slipped from my lips.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice a thread of silk drawn taut.

“Yes,” I whispered, breaking. “Always.”

“Then tell me,” he breathed. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

“Please, Rhys,” I gasped. “I want you. I want to feel you - deep, everywhere. I want you to make me forget the world, just for tonight. I want to remember what it means to be yours.”

His cock rubbed between my folds once, teasing, slick with precum and my arousal. I felt the thick head nudge against my entrance—

And he paused.

“Tell me you love me.”

The words shattered something in me.

I turned my face into the pillow, biting back a sob.

“I love you,” I whispered. “I’ve always loved you. Even when it hurt.”

His forehead pressed to the back of my neck.

“I know,” he said.

And then he pushed inside.

“Fucking gods,” he groaned, voice broken at the edges. “You feel like home.”

I could only gasp: the stretch, the fullness, the weight of him… it split me apart and stitched me back together in the same breath.

He didn’t move, just stayed buried deep inside, chest pressed to my back, one arm braced beside my head. I could feel the tremble in his thighs, the restraint in every muscle.

His lips brushed the curve of my ear. “Say it again.”

I swallowed, my heart battering like a bird in a cage. “I love you.”

And then he moved.

One thrust, slow, deep, grinding. I moaned, a high broken sound, and he echoed it with a groan that sounded like it was torn from his soul.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he murmured, dragging out again. “Every night. Every goddamned moment since I let you go.”

He snapped his hips, once, sharp - I cried out.

“Of you under me. Around me. Screaming my name.”

Another thrust, another breathless cry.

“You’re mine,” he growled into my skin, his teeth grazing my shoulder. “Even if I can’t have you. Even if I lose you tomorrow.”

He reached forward, hand wrapping gently, firmly around my throat.

“Say you’re mine,” he whispered, thrusting hard.

I gasped, voice caught, my pulse pounded under his fingers.

“I’m yours,” I choked out. “Always, Rhys, always.”

He growled and snapped his hips harder, faster, angling just right - and stars bloomed behind my eyes.

“Good girl,” he rasped, tightening just slightly. “Such a good fucking girl.”

I was unraveling again, I could feel it, the heat coiling tight in my belly. But then he pulled out suddenly, leaving me whimpering and empty.

“Turn around,” he ordered. “I want to see your face when I make you cum again.”

I obeyed, dizzy and wrecked. He kissed me hard, filthy, wet, and then sank back in, eyes locked on mine.

His rhythm was slower now, not teasing, but worshipful. Deep, dragging thrusts that hit every nerve ending. I clung to him, nails raking down his back, his shoulders, my thighs wrapped around his hips.

“Touch me,” he rasped, panting.

“I want you to break me.”, he begged.

So I did.

I slid my hands down, fingers trembling, until they brushed the base of those dark, powerful wings. Rhysand shuddered. His eyes rolled back as my hands traced the sensitive membrane, trailing up the curve, fingertips grazing the place he was most vulnerable.

He howled, hips jerking wildly as his thrusts grew erratic.

“That’s it,” I gasped. “Let go. Cum inside me.”

“I’m close,” he groaned, mouth open, chest heaving. “Don’t stop—”

And then I pressed hard at the center joint, and Rhysand shattered.

His entire body bowed, a cry torn from his throat that sounded more like grief than pleasure as he spilled inside me, pulsing hard, wings flaring wide. I held him through it, still stroking, kissing his jaw, his cheek, while his mouth was moaning my name like a litany.

We lay there, tangled and gasping, for what could’ve been minutes or hours.

Rhys’s hand stroked my spine. My fingers traced the curve of his wing, softer now.

He kissed my forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered. “More than any court, any law, any future.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks.

“I know,” I said. “That’s what makes this so cruel.”

He didn’t reply. Just pressed his forehead to mine, breathing me in like it was the last time. Because it was.

Then he kissed me, not with hunger, not with fire. But with goodbye in every soft, shattering brush of his lips.

I must have fallen asleep in the silence that followed, lulled by the ache of him, the scent of him still clinging to my skin.

But when I reached for him at dawn, I found only cold sheets.

He was gone.

No note. No sound. No trace.

Just the echo of his name in the hollows of my ribs. Just the ghost of his fingers on my skin.

And the bond - that sacred, fragile thing between us - didn’t break. It simply… quieted. Like a song unfinished. Like breath held forever in the lungs, waiting for a release that would never come.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

The garden was quiet.

Late spring, nearly summer, that liminal time when the world exhales, caught between the bloom and the burn. The breeze danced through the long grass and the open windowpanes, humming a song I no longer dared to name.

A child’s laughter rang out across the stones.

I turned from the window, from memory, and stepped barefoot into the sunlight.

He was sitting cross-legged on the blanket, hair dark and windswept, curls in need of cutting. He had my eyes, but everything else… everything else was him.

That angled jaw. That proud, mischievous mouth. That glint in his gaze when he smiled too wide. The tilt of his head when he listened to the world.

He was five.

His wings wide open. Power thrummed beneath his skin like the ocean beneath ice. And every time he looked at me, I saw the man I couldn’t forget.

“Look, Mama!” he called, holding up a wooden carving. It was crooked and awkward, a winged creature with two too-big eyes and a lopsided grin. “It’s a bat!”

I smiled, though something in my chest cracked.

“It’s perfect,” I said, kneeling beside him. “He looks just like someone I once knew.”

He tilted his head. “Was he a bat?”

“Something like that.”

He nodded, very serious. “Did you like him?”

I froze. Not from the question, but from the knowing way he asked it. That strange, ancient wisdom that sometimes lit his features. As if he carried pieces of a soul too old to belong to a child.

“I did,” I whispered.

“Where is he?”

I didn’t answer. Just looked at the sky.

The wind curled around us. Gentle. Like wings.

He came sometimes, I thought. Not in body, never again. But in dreams. In the way my son’s shadow stretched long at dusk. In the midnight songs the stars sometimes whispered to us, just before I woke.

I loved him. I had let him go.

And still - he was here.

In the small hands that clung to mine.

In the sharp, radiant boy who would one day change the world.

And so I leaned down, kissed my son’s brow, and held him close.

And far above us, in the high stillness of the wind-swept mountain air… I swore I felt someone watching.

A pulse. A tug. A quiet echo of the words we never got to keep.

I love you. Always.

A/N: hope you guys liked it, because I didn't. This is heavily unedited, I didn't have the time to double check it, SORRY!!!!!

If you liked it, let me know <333

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melestasflight · 7 days ago

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a @russingon-week ficlet for @hhimring, who inspired me to writing something based on @ulmondil's beautiful art.

Dancing With Endórë

There is a deep scar crossing Maedhros’ lips and spreading up into his right cheek, it is one he dislikes most, he has told Fingon, because of the way it distorts certain words when he speaks. Whatever distortion Maedhros hears in his voice is minor, perceptible only to his own ears, and Fingon rather thinks the scar makes him all the more charming, lending personality to his irresistible smile.

A cup of wine to his lips and his back resting against a willing pine, Fingon now looks across the crowd, to catch how the scar dances on Maedhros’ face as he smiles at something Beleg says. His cousin does what he has done for the past three days since their people came together in celebration at the Mereth Aderthad — tea in hand, sitting by one envoy or another, he inquires softly, he listens, nods and smiles.

This is Maedhros of Beleriand, the diplomat, whose speech is as carefully crafted as a filigree, the strands of each sentence measured, the stress of each word falling exactly where he means it. This is who Beleg of Doriath, as all their long-sundered kin, is now meeting, Maedhros the lord, the warrior. Accompanied as they are, however, by the alluring notes of the flutes and vibrant beats of the drums, Fingon longs for the other person his cousin once was: Maitimo, the dancer.

It feels out of place to see his cousin so, resistant to the rhythms that make the very ground shake, for in Valinor, Maitimo had been a marvel on the dancefloors of Tirion. His dancing was ever mesmerizing – each step its own artform, every movement fluid and precise, his feet light as a deer despite the height of him. Fingon recalls the uncountable times he has watched his cousin twirl, awed in his younger years, peeking from behind the pillars of Finwë’s halls, and later, joining Maitimo and matching him step for step. They had ever moved well together, their dance as effortless as their friendship. But Maitimo is only a faint echo in the person who now converses with Beleg; gone are the ornate gowns, intricate braids, and carefully chosen jewellery that used to flash in the Treelight; gone is the dancing. The lord of Himring is a pragmatic creature, attired formally but plainly, his hair bound in a simple braid behind his head. Not once has Fingon seen him dance in these new lands, and if Maedhros’ feet remember the old patterns, it is only when battle finds them, the sword his only partner in this new choreography.

Despite knowing this, arriving at the feast, a small part of Fingon had still hoped to meet Maitimo of old, even if for a little while, even for one dance. How he has longed to take his cousin’s hand once again, wrap his arm around the strong shoulders and let his feet follow where his partner leads. But the livelier the music gets, the further Maedhros seems to be from the dancing circle, trapped into yet another negotiation with yet another envoy of a neighboring land. Each time a familiar song comes up, Fingon seeks his cousin’s gaze, and each time their eyes meet, he is greeted by his cousin’s warm smile, a hint of Maitimo, of longing, before he looks away and composes his face in the mask that is Maedhros.

The drumbeat grows fiercer, strengthened by the voices of the singers, and Fingon is restless. He considers joining the intricate chain of elves holding hands, their stomping enriching the beat of the drummers. Several of the dancers smile at him in invitation, each wishing for the Prince of the Noldor to choose a place beside them, but Fingon has no wish to dance with any other. Quieting his heart, he turns and makes for the woods, passing unnoticed as a cat between the circles of tents and the glades where games of all sorts unfold, until he is so far away that even the deep notes of the drummers fade behind him.

If Maedhros won’t join, Fingon shall dance on his own — nay, not alone, he shall dance with Endórë, who knows every rhythm his heart may conjure. For Beleriand has her own voice, her own Music, for those willing to listen, and Fingon finds that he can hear it best here where Ulmo’s waters flow the swiftest. He needs no other music than the birdsong of night, the rustling of the wind as it weaves through leaf and grass, the strength of the waterfalls as they crash against rock. He opens his heart and fills himself with it all, breathing in the land, inhaling and exhaling with the tempo she dictates – like a thunderstorm, it shocks his body into movement, pulsing beneath his skin and Fingon begins dancing.

With each twirl, Fingon rids himself of anything that may constrict his movement, boots chucked each to their own side, long robes abandoned on a branch, hair ties and jewels strewn between the bushes. His bare feet glide back and forth on the damp ground, gently, lightly, with just enough strength to jump higher but not enough to where the plants shall be trampled. Move as one with the wind, he recalls Indis’ teachings, stir the blooms of flowers, shake the branches of trees, ruffle the blades of grass, and all will grow beneath your feet. Fingon spins and spins, caressing the greenery about him, kissing the breeze, letting himself be enchanted by Endórë, his dancing partner for the night.

“I am rather jealous.” A voice comes behind him, stilling Fingon’s feet.

Maedhros’ crimson robes stand out starkly in the night, a single blooming rose, carefully trimmed, between the wilderness of the untended greenery. For all he professes his jealousy, his eyes twinkle with mirth, the scars on his face softened by gladness.

“My companion is generous,” Fingon whispers, weaving an enchantment of his own. “Come and join us.”

A moment of hesitation, two, but then Fingon holds out his hand, all of him pulsing with the rhythm of the wilds, and the resistance shatters. Maedhros swiftly crosses the path between the blooming bushes, shedding his robes as he goes, and sets his fingers into Fingon’s waiting palm. Fingon draws him in, snaking his hand up the strong chest until it settles at the nape of his cousin’s neck, Maedhros in turn folds his height around him, and then they are off. None between them leads, yet they both follow; the pattern entirely new, nothing they have ever been taught and somehow still well-known, deeply familiar. Their wrists turn in sync, their fingers brush, their breathless laughter mingles; Maedhros steps where Fingon’s foot has been, Fingon spins where Maedhros’ arms have swung.

When their bodies come to stillness at last, it is against one another, skin to skin, fingers entwined. They close their eyes and listen, to the wild beating of each other’s hearts, to the singing of the land, to this music that unfolds where they have no name, where they are not Maitimo and Findekáno, nor Maedhros and Fingon, but two nameless dancers cradled in Endórë’s embrace.

#russingonweek #russingonweek2025 #fingon #maedhros #russingon #silmarillion #mereth aderthad

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fireheartwraith · 2 months ago

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From the first moment I heard the drums of liberation in an ad I thought there was something familiar about it but didn't think about it too hard, but then this week vincent confirmed it on twitter: gear 5 takes inspiration from capoeira

I just watched a video from a brazilian creator from more than a year ago talking about exactly that and i urge everyone to do the same!

youtube

It's gonna sound stupid but this video brought tears to my eyes. It brought back memories I had forgotten I had

I only did capoeira for about a month in elementary school. I sucked because I have terrible body coordination, but I remember the drums. A lot of people debate on what even is capoeira: a dance, a fighting style, a martial art, a game? The answer is yes. The rhythm of the drums and the berimbau dictate your movements and, if you’re not familiar with capoeira, it looks kinda ridiculous

The uniform is loose white pants and a sash, and, most important of all, a smile. While watching the video I remembered the words from my instructor all those years ago: "sorri, escuta o tambor e sorri. Mostra os dentes, mostra que nego não tem medo". Smile, listen to the drums and smile, show them you have no fear.

Since it was a beginners class, one thing the instructors kept trying to hammer into our heads was that rhythm. The drums are there for a reason, your movements should always follow the beat, and you should always be moving. You don’t dance capoeira standing still.

Like I said, I sucked at it, but I loved the music. I loved to sing and wanted to play the drums too. But that was more than a decade ago, and I had basically forgotten about it until now.

But Luffy is brazilian, huh? I guess that was more than just a fun fact

Guto doesn't really go into it in the video, but he mentions Zumbi dos Palmares, an escaped slave who was the leader of the Quilombo dos Palmares, the largest settlement of freed slaves, natives, and sympathizers in Brazil, that was invaded and destroyed by the colonial powers. Zumbi was killed on the 20th of november and dismembered, his body parts paraded and exposed as a warning to other slaves.

Zumbi is the origin of the word "zombie", and that's not a coincidence. And whose soul was turned into the Biggest Baddest Zombie who called himself a king? That's right, Luffy. Two zombies, two symbols of freedom and hope for the enslaved. Zumbi, like Joyboy, was punished and had his name almost erased from history, but his legacy was still passed down by those that believed in him.

I don't know where I'm going with this. Lots to think about, I suppose

#one piece #gear 5th #gear 5 luffy #joy boy #sun god nika #monkey d. luffy #brasil #capoeira #zumbi dos palmares #Youtube

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xoxorealitygalore · 3 months ago

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Hopelessly Devoted II

Roman Reigns x Multiracial OC

Part two: A Dance of Destiny

Summary: A year ago, Joe met Princess Pensri on Fook Island, and they quickly fell in love. Unbeknownst to her, Joe paid her bride price, planning to marry her. Now, he returns with his family to fulfill his promise, ready to begin their life together.

Part one: Returning to Fook Island

The evening air was thick with the scent of tropical flowers as the grand palace of Fook Island glittered under a blanket of stars. The welcome dinner was in full swing, a celebration to honor Joe’s return. Guests mingled under the sprawling open pavilion, where long tables were adorned with vibrant, colorful fruits and rich, traditional dishes from the island.

The soft murmur of laughter and chatter filled the air. As the night unfolded, Pensri found herself caught in a whirlwind of emotion. The evening had begun with laughter and light conversation, but now, as her father, King Nalu, stood before the crowd, the air shifted.

Pensri had anticipated this moment, and yet, she felt a quiet stirring in her heart. Her father’s presence was commanding, his regal bearing impossible to ignore as he raised a hand, calling for the attention of everyone in the room.

“My honored guests,” King Nalu began, his voice deep and rich with authority, “this evening is not just a celebration of Joe’s return, but also a joyous occasion for our kingdom and our family. It is with great pride that I announce the engagement of my daughter, Pensri, to Joe.”

The room erupted in applause, and Pensri’s breath caught in her throat. She turned to Joe, whose expression mirrored her own with a sense of warmth, of understanding, as though this was the culmination of everything they had shared in the past year. His eyes met hers, and at that moment, she knew that, despite the unexpectedness of it all, they had both walked this path together.

The clapping faded as the king continued, “Joe has shown his commitment to our family and our traditions, and we honor this union with love and respect. May this be the beginning of a new chapter, not just for Fook Island, but for both of them.”

Joe smiled softly, a warmth in his eyes that spoke more than words ever could. The weight of the announcement was heavy, but in his heart, there was a sense of peace, a feeling that this was where he was meant to be, alongside Pensri.

King Nalu’s smile softened as he extended his hand to his daughter. “Pensri, come, join us.”

Pensri hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, her hand gently finding Joe’s. Together, they walked to the center of the room, where the guests watched in anticipation. As they stood side by side, the musicians began to play a traditional Fookian melody, its rhythm pulsing through the air like a heartbeat.

Joe, having spent the last year learning the customs of Fook Island, knew what was expected. This was the moment when a couple, newly betrothed, would perform a traditional dance to honor their commitment and show their unity before their people. He had practiced it with Pensri, but now, as they stood together in the middle of the hall, the reality of the moment sent a rush of emotions through him.

The music began, slow at first, the deep thrum of drums accompanied by the soft melody of the flute. Joe’s heart beat in time with the rhythm, and as he moved, he felt Pensri’s hand in his, steady and sure.

They danced, their movements flowing gracefully together, a perfect balance of strength and elegance. Joe led with confidence, and Pensri followed with a fluidity that was both regal and grounded, her posture every bit as commanding as her father’s. The guests watched in awe, mesmerized by the beauty of their movements, the way they seemed to belong to each other as if the dance itself was a declaration of the love they shared.

The floor beneath their feet seemed to vanish as they swirled and stepped in harmony, their bodies speaking the unspoken words of promise and unity. The sound of the drums grew louder, more insistent, urging them on, and Pensri’s smile grew as she felt the connection between them deepen, the rhythm of their bodies in perfect sync.

For Joe, there was no greater joy than this, dancing with the woman he loved, surrounded by their family, in the heart of the island that had become home to both of them. His heart was full, his mind clear, and the future, though uncertain in many ways, felt like a beautiful journey that they would face together.

As the dance reached its climax, the music softened, and the last notes lingered in the air. Joe and Pensri stood together, their breath coming in gentle pants, their hands still entwined. The room erupted into applause once more, and the couple exchanged a quiet, intimate smile, their eyes locked in a moment of understanding.

They had just taken their first steps into the life they would build together as partners.

As the applause continued, King Nalu approached his daughter and Joe, a proud smile on his face. “This is the beginning of something extraordinary,” he said, his voice rich with emotion. “May your bond strengthen with each passing day, and may you always find joy in one another, just as the people of Fook Island find joy in your union.”

Joe nodded, his heart swelling with pride. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I will cherish and protect her with everything I have.”

Pensri, still smiling, looked up at Joe, her heart filled with a quiet sense of peace. “We will make this work,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “Together.”

And in that moment, amidst the sounds of celebration and the warmth of their shared joy, Pensri knew that, despite the surprises and challenges ahead, this was where she was meant to be by Joe’s side, as they embarked on the next chapter of their lives.

The night stretched on with laughter and dancing, but for Joe and Pensri, the evening was about more than just a celebration, it was the beginning of a new life together, one built on love, tradition, and the promise of forever.

Masterlist | Part three: The Pride of Fook Island

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chroniclesofskz · 4 months ago

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Untouchable Desires 18+

Felix's eyes fluttered open with the first light of dawn, his chiseled abs rising and falling in rhythm with his steady breaths. The city below his penthouse was just beginning to stir, but he had already conquered his morning run and returned to his sanctuary. The gleaming chrome fixtures and floor-to-ceiling windows were a stark contrast to the chaos of the city that never slept. As the hot water from the shower rained down on him, he couldn't shake the image of her from his thoughts. Y/N, the untouchable goddess whose voice ruled the airwaves and whose beauty was celebrated across the globe. She was his secret obsession, a siren whose melodies had captivated him from afar.

Y/N, on the other hand, felt suffocated by the very thing that made her so revered. The walls of her glamorous world were closing in, painted with the tiresome strokes of scandal and heartache. Tonight, she had decided to take control. The leather of her stilettos hugged her feet like a second skin, and the black fabric of her dress clung to her curves like a second thought. She stepped out of her sleek Mercedes, the sound of her heels echoing through the night as she approached the club, a beacon of rebellion in the city's pulsing heart.

The bouncer nodded respectfully as she approached, the velvet rope parting like the Red Sea for a biblical figure. The club's neon lights played across her face, highlighting the fierce determination in her eyes. Inside, the bass vibrated through her body, setting her soul on fire. She danced with wild abandon, her movements a silent declaration of independence from the shackles of her carefully crafted image. Each sip of champagne brought a hint of bitterness to her lips, a taste that mirrored the anger brewing within.

Felix had seen enough. The tabloids had painted a picture of a girl on the edge, and now he had to intervene. He barged into the club, eyes searching the sea of bodies for the one that mattered most. When he found her, his heart lurched. Y/N was grinding against a stranger, her dress riding up to reveal the lacy promise beneath. The sight of her, lost in the music and the moment, filled him with a rage he hadn't felt in years. With a deep breath, he stepped into the fray, ready to pull her from the abyss she was dancing towards.

He approached her, the beat of the music thumping in his chest like a war drum. When he finally had her in his arms, her eyes searched his, a mix of surprise and something else—desperation? He didn't have time to ponder as he whisked her away from the ogling eyes of the club-goers. The paparazzi outside were a frenzy of flashes and shouted questions, but he ignored them, his focus solely on her. He could feel her tremble as he guided her into the safety of his car, the scent of her perfume and the faint tang of alcohol enveloping him.

The tension in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife. Each bump in the road sent a jolt of need through Y/N's body, and she couldn't ignore the ache between her legs. Without a word, Felix carried her into his penthouse, the opulence a stark reminder of the world she was trying to escape. He laid her on the velvet couch, his eyes roving over her disheveled form with a mix of anger and desire.

Without warning, he began to strip, his clothes falling away like armor as he revealed the raw power beneath. His cock stood tall, a silent declaration of his need for her. "Strip for me," he said, his voice thick with lust. Y/N's trembling fingers obeyed, the fabric of her dress peeling away to reveal her black lace lingerie. She watched as his eyes darkened, his pupils dilating as he took in her naked form. The air between them was electric, charged with a passion that had been building for years.

Felix stepped closer, his hands tracing the lace of her bra. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet room. He took his time, savoring the moment as he removed her lingerie piece by piece, revealing the soft curves and sensitive flesh beneath. Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned in, his mouth brushing against her skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

He pushed her back onto the couch, his body hovering over hers, and claimed her mouth in a kiss that was as much a battle as it was a declaration of love. His tongue danced with hers, his teeth nipping at her lower lip as his hands explored the terrain of her body. He slid his fingers into her wetness, making her gasp into his mouth, and she felt herself clench around him, begging for more.

With a groan, he pulled away and knelt before her, his eyes never leaving hers. He took her pebbled nipples into his mouth, one by one, sucking and teasing them until they were hard and sensitive. Her moans grew louder, her hips bucking as his mouth moved down her body. When he finally reached her soaked cunt, he paused, his breath hot against her skin.

"You're mine," he growled, his voice low and demanding. And with that, he plunged his tongue into her, tasting her sweetness and savoring every drop. Y/N's back arched as pleasure shot through her, her nails digging into the velvet cushions. She had never felt so wanted, so consumed by someone else's desire.

Felix didn't stop there. He lapped at her clit, his tongue swirling and flicking until she was writhing beneath him. He inserted two fingers into her, pumping in and out in time with his tongue, and she couldn't hold back the scream that tore from her throat as she came, her body convulsing around him.

But the night was far from over. With a fiery look, he stood up, his cock jutting out before him. "It's my turn," he said, and she knew she had no choice but to submit to his desires. He pulled her to the edge of the couch, and she took him in her mouth, her tongue swirling around his shaft as she took him deeper, her cheeks hollowing with each suck. The salty taste of his precum coated her tongue, and she felt her own arousal building once again.

Felix's hands tangled in her hair, guiding her movements as he grew closer to the edge. His hips began to thrust, his rhythm matching the beat of the music that still thumped in her ears. His grip tightened, his breathing grew ragged, and she felt the beginnings of his climax. But before he could come, he pulled away, leaving her panting and needy.

With a smirk, he flipped her onto her stomach, pushing her legs apart to expose her glistening cunt. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, "You're going to scream my name, Y/N." And with that, he plunged into her, filling her completely. The force of his thrusts made her breasts bounce against the couch, the fabric rubbing against her sensitive nipples. Her screams of pleasure were muffled by the cushions, a symphony of passion that only the two of them could hear.

The room was a blur of flesh and fabric as they moved together, their bodies in perfect harmony. His hands roamed her back, his nails digging into her skin as he claimed her, each stroke a declaration of his love. He reached around and found her clit, his thumb pressing down as he continued to pound into her from behind. The dual sensation was too much, and she felt herself soaring over the edge again, her walls clenching around him as she came with a ferocity that shook them both.

He didn't let up, though. He flipped her over again, his eyes never leaving hers as he entered her once more. This time, he was gentle, his movements tender as he made love to her, his cock sliding in and out of her with a sweet agony that made her heart ache. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, her nails raking down his back as she matched his rhythm.

Their orgasms melded together, a crescendo of passion that seemed to last forever. As they lay there, their hearts pounding in unison, the reality of what they had just done began to sink in. They had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed, a line that would change their friendship forever. But in that moment, all that mattered was the feeling of his skin against hers, the taste of him on her lips, and the knowledge that she had finally found refuge in his arms.

Felix rolled off her, his body slick with sweat. He gazed down at her, his eyes filled with a mix of love and fear. "What happens now?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of their ragged breathing. Y/N didn't know how to respond. The walls of their friendship had crumbled, and in their place stood a bridge of desire that spanned the gap between them.

Her hand reached up, tracing the contours of his chest as she tried to find the words to express what she was feeling. "I don't know," she whispered, her eyes searching his. "But I do know that I can't go back to the way things were."

Felix nodded, his thumb brushing against her cheek as he wiped away a stray tear. "Neither can I," he said, his voice filled with a determination that was as solid as the steel beams of his penthouse. "We'll figure it out together."

Their eyes locked, and in that instant, the world outside their bubble ceased to exist. They were no longer just friends, no longer just colleagues in the music industry. They were lovers, bound by a passion that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

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mayahours · 5 hours ago

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7 minutes

A stupid game of Seven Minutes in Heaven cracks you both open. In the dim light, confessions slip out—and so does the hunger. It pulls you together, quiet and undeniable.

18+ mdni! sylus x reader. mean and jealous sylus. exhibitionism. mentions of alcohol. MENTIONS OF YOUR EX.(tw for the traumatized ones! me too) sex with panties on. reader helps sylus put it in. hair pulling. neck biting.

give it a listen while reading!

Your peers, drunk and jubilant—shove you and Sylus into a dim, empty room. A single bed sits like an altar in the center, bathed in the flickering light of scattered candles. Shadows dance along the walls, mocking the childish ritual everyone insisted on reviving.

“Have fun, you two.” A friend giggles, their face like a menace as they close the door behind them.

Seven Minutes in Heaven. A game for teenagers, not the ghosts you’ve all become.

Your breath catches in your throat. Sylus doesn’t move, but his neck twists with an audible crack, his gaze snapping toward you, like a compass finding north.

“We’re not in fucking college,” he spits, venom curling in every syllable. His tongue clicks sharply against his teeth as his hands drag down his face, frustration etched into every line. “This is pathetic.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already continuing, voice edged in scorn.

“Why the hell did you even agree to this? What are you, fifteen?” His crimson eyes bore into you, not with fury, but something colder. He’s irritated, exhausted, and you’re the misfortunate target standing in his line of fire.

You falter, trying to explain, trying to find the words to deflect the heat of his stare. “My ex,” you whisper, throat dry. “They—”

He cuts you off, stepping on your words like a death match. “You wanted to make them jealous?” His tone rises with disbelief. “Is that it? You thought dragging someone in here would have them fuming?”

You can’t meet his eyes. You look down instead, as if the floor might open up and swallow you whole. “Even if I hadn’t agreed... they still would’ve played. Everyone wanted to. I—it was a majority win.”

He scoffs, disgust curling his lips as he rakes his gaze down your frame like judgment. “But you did agree,” he says, bitterly triumphant. “So that’s on you.”

A beat. Then, with a cruel twist of the mouth, he adds, “Didn’t your ex cheat on you? Why the hell are you still performing for them?” He gestures vaguely toward the door, disdain thick in his voice. “Why give them anything?”

You fumble for words. “My ex ain’t the only reason,” you murmur, nerves unraveling. The air between you grows hot, charged. You bite your lip, fingers tangling around each other, betraying you.

“Oh?” He tilts his head, something darker gleaming in his eyes. “Let me guess. There’s someone else here you’ve got a stupid little crush on?” His voice drops, laced with mockery. “Someone you’re hoping will notice?”

You look up at him, heart hammering like war drums in your chest, the nerves rushing through your veins like wildfire. Your mouth parts, but your voice stumbles out in fragments. Your mind knows the truth before your lips are ready to speak it.

He was the reason. The man who kept you company through silent nights, the one whose words you read between, searching for meaning in the quiet spaces. At times, he is the sweetest soul you’ve ever known; tender, gentle, impossibly kind. And at other times, he burns with a distant anger, as if he’s trying to forget you ever existed, just like right now. You ache for the sweetness you once held close, now drifting like distant galaxies, silent and unreachable.

“Um... yeah,” you murmur, eyes flicking to the floor like it might save you from your own confession. Shame sears through you. What the hell did you just say? Your chest tightens. You feel foolish, small. You dare not look at him again.

“I know you like me too, Sylus.” The words leave your mouth before you can take them back. Your heart stops. Time shudders. You want to vanish.

Sylus stares at you, stunned; like you’d just slapped him. His expression twists, not in kindness, but in incredulity.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snaps, recoiling. “Why can’t you just be normal and say how you feel, instead of pulling stunts like this?”

Your shame hardens into something else; indignation. You rise with it, fists curling. “What are you even talking about? At least I try. At least I shoot my shot.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a bitter laugh. “Well, you missed.”

The words strike you like a gun to your chest. You flinch internally, but wear your pain in silence. His sarcasm coils around your body like a snake, suffocating.

You take a step back. The distance feels safer. Your legs give in, and you sink to the edge of the bed. The candles around you flicker with your breath, with your defeat. You look anywhere but at him.

He follows.

Still burning, but his fury ebbed, dissolving into something more tender.

“You know,” he says, standing over you, arms crossing over his chest but his voice softening, “I did feel the same way. I do. But this? This was the wrong move. I didn’t want to be dragged into some childish game.”

You let out a frustrated groan, pressing your forehead to your knees. “Me neither,” you say, muffled. “I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

But of course, it had to get worse.

Because the rules of the game weren’t just a joke; they were a trap. The pair inside the room wasn’t meant to just sit and stew in awkward confessions. No, the bare minimum was a kiss, not just a sweet peck on the cheek, but something deeper. Erotic. Lingering.

And now here you were. The bed behind you. The candles around you. The weight of your words hanging between you like thunder.

And Sylus is still watching you. Breathing hard. Trying to decide whether to walk out that door or reach for you.

“I wanted to see where things might go with you,” The man mutters, his voice striked with frustration, but beneath it, something almost soft, almost real. “But not like this. Not in some idiotic party surrounded by people I don’t even know.”

The words hit like a balm. A cracked bandage pressed against the wound of your heart. You blink up at him, tears glassing your eyes, your lips trembling into a deeper frown.

He scoffs, suddenly averting his gaze, almost as if your sadness embarrasses him. But then, unexpectedly, his hand rises to your cheek. Not in comfort, not quite — just enough to stop your spiral. His palm is warm, rough, fleeting.

“Ugh, don’t give me that look,” he mutters, annoyed. “Let’s at least make this believable.”

You sniff, confused. “What do you mean?”

“They want a show, right?” he says, fingers tapping his chin in mock calculation. “Then we give them one. Kissing… maybe more, I don’t know. Whatever sells the fantasy.”

Your breath hitches again.

“When the seven minutes are up, the door swings open, boom! They catch us mid-makeout. Scene complete. Unless…” He raises a brow. “You’d rather chug a bottle of Don Julio and end the night with a blackout instead?”

You grimace. The thought of liquor burning your throat and your dignity doesn’t appeal in the slightest. You shake your head, then reach up and brush his hand away, heart thudding louder.

“I thought you didn’t want to do this,” you snap, voice sharper now, raw.

He rolls his eyes, and then suddenly, the air changes.

In one swift motion, he grabs the hand that had pushed him and slams it down against the bed, pinning your wrist to the mattress. You fall back with a startled gasp, the softness of the comforter doing nothing to cushion the tension that flares between you. He’s above you now, eyes dark, jaw clenched.

“You think I do?” he growls, his voice low, tight with restraint. “I’m trying to do you a favor. Keep your pride intact and avoid a drunk-driving charge all in one move. So the least you could do is stop acting like I dragged you in here.”

You squirm beneath him, stunned, breathless. His grip is firm, but he’s not hurting you; just holding you in place, forcing you to listen. Then, just as quickly, he lets go.

He straightens, running a hand through his hair as if to dispel the moment.

“This sucks,” he mutters, stepping back, pacing like a caged animal. “But it’s what we’ve got.”

The candles flicker behind him. The clock ticks down.

And still, something in your chest, even after everything aches toward him.

You sit up slowly, the mattress sighing beneath you. Disbelief still coils in your chest like smoke; heavy, unshakable. You stare at him, at the storm still settling in his bones, his shoulders, his silence. For a while, you say nothing. You just breathe.

But then, finally, a nod. Barely there. Barely brave.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word nearly swallowed by the knot in your throat. You bite down on your lower lip to steady yourself, but it only tightens the anticipation curling in your stomach.

Sylus exhales, low and guttural, like this costs him something too. “Then c’mere,” he murmurs, voice cracked and rough at the edges.

But his eyes, god, his eyes; they betray him. There’s no disdain in them now, no frustration. Only heat. Only hunger. They look at you like a dream he never asked to have, but can’t stop chasing.

You rise, tentative, your steps slow, delicate, almost hushed. But the slowness makes something inside him snap.

He groans, frustrated, desperate. In one sudden pull, he grabs you, hands flying to your face, fingers threading through your hair and cradling your jaw as he drags you forward.

His lips crash against yours like a storm meeting the shore. Fierce. Unforgiving. Starved. Your breath catches in your chest, your eyes wide for a moment, stunned by the intensity. But then the world fades. The candles blur. The silence grows loud with your pulse.

Your lashes flutter shut. You sink into it.

His grip tightens slightly, anchoring you to the moment. And instinctively, your hands reach for his wrists, fingers curling around them, not to stop him, but to keep him there, to hold onto the fire he’s giving you.

He’s kissing you; deeply, hungrily, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your breath. His hands keep you in place, but his mouth... his mouth moves with growing urgency, like he’s slipping, losing control in the worst and most delicious way.

But even as your heart races, your cheeks flush warm. You go soft, not from disinterest, but from the overwhelming tenderness flooding through you. You kiss him slower, gentler, lips molding against his like a confession you can’t speak aloud.

A sound escapes him; low, guttural. A groan pulled from somewhere deep. Then he pulls away, exhaling hard, his hands releasing your face like you’re made of fire.

“Okay,” he breathes, stepping back a half-pace. The golden light of the candles flickers against his skin, painting him in a glow that makes him look unreal. You stare, dazed, lips parted, still tasting him, still feeling the imprint of his palms on your jaw.

But then his voice cuts through the stillness, sharper now, dissatisfied. “No. You’re too soft.”

Your brow furrows, raising. “What?”

“It’s not convincing,” he says flatly, eyes scanning your face, as if searching for something he can’t quite find. “You’ve gotta do better if you want to get out of here.”

You look around the room, confused. “What do you mean?”

He leans in just enough for the weight of his next words to fall heavy. “Kiss me like you’ve been waiting for it all night.”

Your breath catches. The way he says it, like a challenge, like a plea, like a dare. He takes a step closer, and his voice drops firmly.

“Kiss me like we’re a couple who lives together—and we're about to have some insane sex and then suddenly we get dragged to this stupid party, and now we’ve got to wait until we get home to finish what we started.” He looks at you dead-on. “That kind of kiss.”

The specificity cuts through you like a blade wrapped in silk. It’s too exact. Too vivid. Too lived-in. Had he thought about this before? About you in that way?

You can barely breathe.

His tone is stern, almost reprimanding, but his eyes forsake him again. They're intense, yes, but not cruel. There’s heat behind them. Yearning. He’s not just talking about acting anymore. And you know it.

You swallow hard, your body still, your heart otherwise. His words echo in your mind like a dare you don’t know if you’re brave enough to meet. But part of you wants to. You move before you can think, the silence between you thick and electric.

You grab him by the collar, pulling him down to you, and your lips crash into his with a hunger that's been simmering beneath your skin for weeks. Your arms wrap tight around his neck, your fingers tangling into his silver hair like you've wanted to for far too long.

Sylus stumbles slightly, caught off guard by the sudden urgency, but only for a breath. Then he groans, low and deep, and melts into you. His lips match yours beat for beat, heat for heat. His hand snakes around your waist, fingers tightening with a possessive grip, pulling your hips against his until there's nothing left between you but the thrum of need.

Your body acts before your mind can stop it. You jump into him, legs wrapping tight around his waist. He catches you instantly, like he knew you would do it, like he's wanted you to. His hands shift down, gripping beneath your thighs, and his nails scrape your skin just enough to make you gasp.

The air around you is thick with heat, the candlelight gleams against the walls like it's trying to keep up with your pulse. His breath is ragged against your cheek, and his forehead rests against yours for half a second, his chest rising fast.

"Just like that, baby… Why were you holding out on me, huh?" he mutters, voice rough, almost accusing, but there's wonder in it too. A dazed kind of awe.

You don't answer. You just look at him - flushed, trembling, eyes locked like this is the only moment that's ever mattered. And then you kiss him again, slower this time but deeper, like you mean it.

With careful steps, Sylus comes closer to the bed, sitting down on the soft cushions with you now sitting on his lap. He tugs at your hair, making your head tilt back for his access. His lips separate from yours, trailing down your neck with kisses.

“Been wanting to do this to you,” he growls against your skin, his lips brushing just below your ear, his breath warm, his touch lingering. It sends a shiver down your spine. Your knees threaten to give away, and your fingers press instinctively to his chest, where his heart pounds wild and unrestrained against your palm.

You whimper, the sound escaping before you can even think to hold it back. He’s too close, too intense, and yet, not close enough. The heat of him, the sheer presence of him, drowns everything else out.

“Why’d you have to be dumb about it, though?” he mutters, almost like he’s scolding you but there’s something softer buried beneath the edge. Something that sounds like disappointment, not just in you, but in the time wasted.

“S–sorry… didn’t kno—” you try to answer, but the words tangle in your throat, unraveling as his hand slides into your hair; gripping, tugging, the pressure just shy of pain, just sharp enough to make your breath hitch.

Then, in one smooth, commanding motion, he drags you back down to the bed.

Your back hits the mattress, the room spinning in adrenaline. He hovers over you now, silver hair falling into his eyes, his breath mingling with yours. His gaze pins you in place, heavy, unreadable, but full of something fierce, something that makes your stomach knot and your pulse sing.

“Could’ve made it so special for you,” he murmurs, the regret in his voice slicing between the lust. “If you hadn’t turned it into a childrens’ game.”

His words sting; not cruelly, but truthfully. And they settle somewhere deep in you.

You swallow hard, caught between guilt and solemn, your lips parting like an apology is about to slip out again, or maybe even a plea.

You don't even know if the door is locked. Time has slipped through your fingers like smoke, you've been in here with Sylus for too long, and he seems just as lost in it.

"Sylus... the time," you whisper, your hand falling limp beside your head as your gaze drifts toward the door. Voices hum on the other side, laughter and music bleeding in through the crack beneath it.

"Fuck the time," he breathes against your skin, his lips brushing your jaw, soft and burning. His hips press into yours, slow and deliberate, grinding down with a hunger that makes the room feel smaller. His hand sliding up your wrist and into your hand, fingers intertwined with yours.

"Gonna remind your pathetic ex exactly what they lost," he growls between clenched teeth, each word seething with something deeper than lust; a promise, a fire.

Sylus' mouth trails along your skin, the scrape of his teeth sending a shiver down your spine. A quiet moan escapes you, unbidden, as your hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt, fingers fisting just to stay grounded.

"God, Sylus—" you breathe, hips rising to meet his in a slow, aching rhythm. Desire hums low in your chest, unsteady.

But your eyes flick toward the door—a whisper of fear, the world pressing in. The risk of being seen. The weight of being caught.

His hand finds your face, thumb pressing beneath your chin, lifting, forcing your gaze back to him.

"Look at me," he says, voice low, rough with something no amount of water can quench. “Let’s at least have some fun with this.”

You swallow, your throat tight as you watch his brow knit with raw, aching desire. His gaze holds you captive, those crimson eyes, dark and endless, drawing you in until you're drowning in them, willingly lost.

You finally give in. Your lips find his again, crashing together with a desperate urgency. Tongues meet in a feverish tangle, tasting the need that's been building between you. The risk of being caught fades into nothing, replaced by something far more dangerous; thrilling, intoxicating, you’re almost rushed with excitement.

His hands are on your hips, large and sure, lifting you effortlessly against him. The space between you disappears as he pulls you in, chasing the release he's been aching for with every touch, his cock trembling underneath the fabric of his pants, and you can feel it on your clothed cunt as the pressure hardens.

The kiss never breaks. Neither do you. But your hands move downward with purpose, fingers curling around his waistband, tugging hard in your impatience. He groans into your mouth, helping you with one hand shoving his trousers down, hips shifting as he kicks them off the bed without care.

You follow, shimmying out of your shorts beneath him, discarding them with a toss. There's nothing left between you now, just heat, breath, and the promise of what's to come.

The man pushes your panties to the side, the lace wet and warm against his digits. He keeps it in place with his thumb.

“You’re soaked,” Sylus says, finger gliding up your slick. “Barely even touched you.”

Your cheeks flush at his words, leaving you momentarily speechless. In the silver hush of moonlight, his arm glows, every curve of muscle sculpted in shadow and light. Drawn by something tender and magnetic, you reach out, your fingers gliding along his skin. Where you touch, goosebumps rise beneath your palm, a silent response to your closeness.

“Gonna have my way with you, baby.” His arm cages you in, braced over your head. He leans close, eyes dazed, a wicked grin curving his lips, desire crackling off him, aching to be unleashed, to pour itself into the girl fevered beneath him.

Your hand trails downward, slipping between your tightly pressed bodies. The space is narrow, but your touch finds his cock; tough as bark, pulsing in your grasp. You curl your fingers around him and give a slow, teasing tug. His breath catches, lips parting with a quiet gasp of pleasure. His eyes lock onto yours, silently urging you to go on.

After a few slow strokes of your hand along his length, you guide him to your entrance, your breath catching, body strung tight with need. Your free hand finds the curve of his shoulder, clutching for balance as your anticipation sharpens into ache. With his tip resting at your core and your fingers still wrapped around him, he begins to press in, slow and deliberate.

A gasp escapes you both, shared and unguarded, as he stretches into you. You wince through clenched teeth, the sudden fullness drawing a deep, ragged groan from his throat. His hands grip your thighs, dragging you closer with a desperate pull, needing to feel every inch, to lose himself in the heat of you.

He begins to move with you, every thrust heavy with desire. Your back arches instinctively, breath hitching as your hips surrender, melting into his rhythm. You let him take control, slowly succumbing to the heat between you.

His hand glides from your stomach to the small of your back, pulling you tighter, his body pressing down, grounding you both in this moment. His breath brushes your ear, urgent, as a low groan slips past his lips, raw and bare.

Your moans rise and fall together, a perfect, wordless harmony. Outside, the world fades, the distant noise softens and dims until it's just silence wrapped around you. It's only you and Sylus now, skin to skin.

"Too good, Sy..." Your voice falls away, soft as a sigh, trembling on the edge of breath, head falling back as he pulls you closer under him. He nods, gentle fingers tracing the shimmer of sweat upon your skin, cool and tender against the heat still rising from within.

"Yeah, I know, baby," he murmurs low, a teasing edge curling his words like smoke. "Your ex can’t make you feel this good, right?" His voice wraps around you, both challenge and caress, setting your core aflame. You bite your lip, nails digging lightly into his shoulder, holding on as if to tether yourself to this burning moment.

Your eyes, heavy and glazed with desire, lock with his, silent and unyielding. You shake your head at his rhetoric, and his grin deepens at the sight, fierce and wild, as he drives into you with relentless rhythm, drawing from your throat a moan that trembles, into the charmed air between you.

He chuckles, teasing sound slipping past his lips as his pace quickens, his length driving past that tender spot where pleasure consumes you whole.

"I'll make sure they know," he breathes, voice thick with possession, "you're mine now, baby. Completely."

But his words dissolve into the haze clouding your mind, slipping past comprehension, swallowed by the relentless rush of sensation. Your lips part, uttering nothing but soft, tangled murmurs. Your eyes flutter back, lost in the depths of pleasure, and with every powerful stroke, your fingers lift the sheets below you, clutching them tighter, grasping for something solid amid the sweet, shattering chaos.

“Y-yeah… mmngh—like that. Just like that.” You're babbling now; soft, broken sounds slipping past your lips like prayers, half-formed and breathless.

Words no longer belong to you; they've melted under the weight of sensation, dissolved in the rhythm of his body claiming yours. Sylus watches you closely, and a quiet coo escapes him, sweet, laced with mock affection, like he's savoring the way you fall apart for him.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a velvet hum, thick with pride. "So fucking pretty when you're gone like this..."

His gaze lingers on your face, studying every twitch, every quiver of your mouth, the dazed glassiness in your eyes. You look utterly undone, beautifully ruined, and entirely his.

Inside you, that familiar coil tightens; sharp, burning, exquisite. Each thrust pushes you closer, each stroke dragging across your sweet spot, a velvet trigger that makes your spine arch and your breath catch. You're trembling beneath him, muscles tightening, hips trying to meet his every motion even as your strength fades into the waves overtaking you.

"You're close, aren't you?" he growls softly, more a statement than a question. His words curl against your skin like heat. "Gonna give it to me, baby? Gonna come just for me?"

The sound of your slickness echoes between your bodies, your arousal coating him, wet and shameless.

His lower belly is slick from it, the friction only stoking his hunger. Your walls begin to flutter around him, grasping greedily with every thrust; like your body already knows what it needs, what it craves. The pleasure is white, hot now, swelling, cresting. Sylus feels it too. His breath hitches, a rough, primal growl rising from his chest as your heat clutches him tighter, pulling him deeper into your unraveling.

"That's it," he hisses, voice low and reverent. "Let go for me. Give me all of it."

And just like that, you do. Your body gives in with a shudder that rocks through you, eyes rolling back, hands clawing at the sheets as you're swept under.

He doesn't move.

He just watches you; eyelids heavy with something deeper than lust as your body slowly rides the last waves of your release. You're draped across him, glowing and breathless, hips still rolling in soft, instinctual motions, as though your body refuses to let the moment end.

And you look divine like this.

He sees it all; the way your skin glistens, how your chest rises and falls in shaky, uneven breaths, how your lips part with quiet gasps, trying to recover from the high that still clings to your bones. You're not even aware of the way you move, chasing the echo of what he gave you, but he is.

So he stays still. Buried deep. Letting you take from him what you need, letting your body speak its own language as it trembles around him. He could thrust, could claim more, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he gives you the space to feel, to come down, to revel in your own pleasure.

His hands slide to your hips, just enough pressure to remind you he's still there, still holding you. Not controlling. Just present. Anchoring.

"You don't even know what you do to me," he murmurs, voice low, rough with restraint. His eyes drink you in like you're something sacred-something to be worshipped. "Just look at you... so perfect f’me.”

You can't answer, not yet. You're still floating, your body loose, your muscles clenching around him without rhythm, like aftershocks in a storm.And he takes it all in; the way you surrender, the beauty in your unraveling, and stays there with you, deep and still, like he belongs nowhere else.

Your breath is still uneven, your body still pulsing faintly with aftershocks when the weight of reality suddenly crashes back in. Panic flickers in your chest like a spark catching flame. You sit up quickly, scanning the bed, sheets tangled around your legs as your hands fumble for your phone.

“The time,” you breathe, urgency rising in your voice. “How long have we been in here?”

Sylus glances lazily at the watch on his wrist, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “I’d say… ten minutes. Maybe.”

“Ten?” you echo, eyes wide in disbelief.

You leap out of bed, tugging your shorts back on with hurried hands, fingers shaking with the twisted fabric of your shirt as you try to smooth it back into something that resembles presentable. Sylus chuckles quietly behind you, already slipping into his trousers, still entirely unbothered as he trails after you.

You push open the door. Silence.

The low hum of conversation in the hall dies as heads turn, eyes flicking toward the two of you with a knowing gleam. The air hangs heavy.

“You guys are like… twenty-three minutes past the clock,” someone calls out, tone teasing, laced with amusement.

You stop short. Slowly, you turn your head to Sylus, who stands just a breath away from your side, looking down at you with that same infuriating calm. You do the math.

Ten minutes, he said.

But thirty have passed.

Your heart sinks. Heat floods your cheeks, not from desire this time, but embarrassment, tinged with disbelief.

Thirty long minutes.

“Yeah, alright. Bye, everyone,” Sylus calls out with a casual wave, completely unfazed. His hand slips around your back, drawing you close with that effortless confidence he wears like a second skin.

You keep your eyes low, cheeks burning as you walk beside him, letting him guide you through the quieted crowd. The buzz of whispers trails behind you like a shadow, but Sylus carries you both through it with his usual cool indifference.

Once you’re outside, he glances over at you, that ever-present grin still tugging at the corners of his lips. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, mischief lacing his voice, “I think your ex noticed.”

You let out a groan, nudging him hard in the side. “You’re the worst.”

He laughs, the sound warm, and then leans in to press a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, so soft it makes your heart catch. You smile, despite yourself.

No more eyes on you now. No more pressure. Just the quiet hum of the night as you both slide into his car, the door closing behind you like the punctuation at the end of a chapter.

“What I said earlier, before, you know…” he murmurs, the car shifting into reverse, easing both of you out of the neighborhood.

“Yeah?” you reply, your head resting against the seat, body melting into the cushions like you’re trying to disappear into the moment.

He glances at you, just once; quick, sharp, but his eyes return to the road.

“You want to finish what we started?”

author's note: wrote this with one hand and the other in my pants—WHO SAID THAT?

also, would you guys appreciate some goth music recs too? or just rnb, let me know :)

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shamanfox · 1 month ago

Text

“The Ones Who Didn’t Come Home”

by Nicole Dyer (Shamanfox)

They don’t march in parades.

They don’t wave from floats.

No medals gleam on their living chests,

no beer cans clink in throats.

They are the silence behind the anthem,

the holler that never came back whole,

boots half-sunk in foreign dust,

a flag stitched into a soul.

These are the ones we honor—

not just soldiers, but ghosts in skin,

the fallen whose breath became thunder,

whose bodies broke to let peace in.

They are the last breath in a foxhole prayer,

the cracked dog tag on the floor,

the blood-soaked photo of a baby girl

kept close until no more.

Viscera and valor.

Mud mixed with marrow.

One blink of fate,

and the bullet flies narrow.

Did you feel that?

That ripple in your chest?

That’s the echo of a seventeen-year-old

who gave you their best.

Their ribs were drums.

Their hearts kept beat.

They danced with death

on blistered feet.

And they did not come back—

but they left something whole.

A price so steep,

we dare not measure it in gold.

We wear their names

on monuments,

but they wore ours

on breath.

On every shout,

each whispered vow

they carried

unto death.

This poem is for the ones

who never got old.

Who never saw their children grow,

nor fingers wrinkle, nor coffee cold.

They were boys—

barely beard, barely bone—

but when the call came,

they made it their own.

And so on this day,

when the grills are hot

and the lawn chairs bloom like flags,

pause.

Feel the beat beneath your feet.

That’s them.

The earth remembers.

Let us never forget.

We eat. We laugh. We sing—

but owe a debt.

To the ones who fell.

The ones who stayed.

The ones whose silence

built this day.

Amen.

And thank you.

#shamanfox #poetry #poets on tumblr #memorial #memorial day

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memoria-99 · 10 months ago

Text

My answers to "What do you think about dating this guy in real life?"

The "prince you would date" poll ended with Leon 33.9% Clavis 19.5% Yves 16% (Act 1) and Rio 39.9% (Act 2).

The "prince you would not date" poll ended with Jin 31.1% Chevalier 24.6% Nokto 20.2% (Act 1) and Gilbert 64.9% (Act 2).

... So, here's my opinion about dating them.

Jin: He'd be a good older brother. I don't think it's totally impossible to date him though.

Chevalier: NO. I mean, the relationship itself won't make any sense. I'm no good at breaking the ice and this guy won't talk at all. Well, I like reading too, so I could make some connection through that but... what if he gets annoyed and points his sword at me?

Clavis: With him I'd encounter tons of weird stuffs and troubles, which would probably stress me out... But at the same time, he's fun. Also, I'm pretty free-spirited myself, so I think I could get along with him quite well?

Leon: Perfect boyfriend material for everyone including me. Though to be frank, I'd be kinda shocked when I find out he's not real him but pretending to be one.

Yves: Boy who can cook, is a gem. He might be a tsun but he'd care for me a lot. And he's cute. But on second thought, cuddling him as younger brother would be nice too.

Licht: Sorry, I know he's a good boy but his trauma is too much for me to handle. And I don't wanna find my boyfriend dead in his room one day. So yeah.

Nokto: He's charming. I'm more than aware. But in real life, I can't guarantee if he's really liking me or just hanging out with me a bit longer than his ex-partners before moving on to other girls.

Luke: Haven't thought much but I'd prefer him as a younger brother.

Sariel: Stick up his butt type isn't my cup of tea. Nagging about my laziness is enough with my mom.

Gilbert: Honestly I'm not sure. He has a cute side, so maybe he'd be better than many would think, but first of all I'm sure I'd be terrified if he suddenly points his gun at me, and second of all I fear that my flesh won't last if I'm with him.

Keith: Ummm... Whose drum am I supposed to dance to the beat of. Would feel like I'm dating two guys at once.

Silvio: I think he'd be surprisingly okay if I get used to his hellish tongue. I really would wanna punch him sometimes though. Still, he won't leave me alone, which would be quite fun... I assume?

Rio: Loyal and devoted, without any parental issues. Realistically the best boy.

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insomniac4000 · 7 months ago

Note

56 - George Clarke

you’re so warm.

George Clarkeey wasn’t exactly an outdoorsman, but when ChrisMD invited him to join a camping-themed video, he couldn’t say no. The idea was simple: a group of creators would face a series of survival challenges in the wilderness, earning points for their efforts, with the loser stuck cleaning up the campsite.

The twist? Among the guests was Sophia Hale, a fellow TikToker whose laid-back charm and killer dance moves had stolen George’s attention long before this trip. He was usually confident in front of a camera, but something about Sophia left him fumbling for words like a nervous schoolboy. In his head he chastised Chris for also inviting her on the shoot, the little hobbit knew exactly what he was doing.

They all arrived at the campsite in high spirits. Chris had gone overboard, as always, bringing props like oversized marshmallows, ridiculous tents, and an inflatable kayak. Alongside George and Sophia, the group included Theo Baker and Calfreezy, who quickly started bickering over who could build the best fire.

George tried to play it cool, cracking jokes and keeping the group laughing, but he couldn’t help glancing at Sophia. Her laugh was contagious, and every time she smiled at him, he felt like his heart was doing backflips.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the temperature had plummeted. The group huddled around their not-so-roaring fire, bundled in hoodies and jackets.

Chris announced the next challenge, which involved cooking a proper meal using only what they could forage nearby. George and Sophia were paired together.

“I guess it’s you and me, Clarkeey,” Sophia said with a grin.

“Dream team,” George replied, hoping his voice didn’t crack.

They ventured into the woods with a flashlight, picking through leaves and bushes. George couldn’t resist trying to impress her with his limited wilderness knowledge.

“See this?” he said, holding up a leaf. “Totally edible. Probably.”

Sophia laughed, rolling her eyes. “Let’s not end up in the hospital tonight, yeah?”

Despite the cold, George felt warm just being near her. They managed to gather a few berries and some questionable mushrooms before heading back to the group, where Chris deemed their haul “barely passable.”

The night dragged on, with more challenges, jokes, and a fair share of teasing from Cal and Theo about George’s inability to make a tent. By the time everyone finally turned in, the air was freezing.

George crawled into his sleeping bag, which was laid out in the shoddy tent he’d managed to erect. He could hear the others settling in, their voices fading into the night. Just as he was starting to doze off, he heard the zipper of his tent being pulled open.

“George?” Sophia’s voice was soft.

His eyes shot open. “Sophia? What’s up?”

She crouched down, shivering. “My tent’s like an icebox, and I’m freezing. Can I crash here? I promise I won’t steal all the space.”

“Uh, yeah! Of course!” George scooted over so she could slide in beside him.

Sophia zipped the tent back up and slipped into his sleeping bag. George’s heart was pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it.

As she adjusted, she let out a content sigh. “You’re so warm,” she murmured, snuggling closer.

George froze, unsure what to do with his hands or his breathing—or his entire existence, really. He could feel the weight of her head resting lightly on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck.

“Thanks, George,” she whispered sleepily.

“No problem,” he managed to croak out, though inside, he was anything but calm. Every beat of his heart felt like a drum solo.

As Sophia drifted off, George stared up at the tent’s ceiling, unable to sleep. The cold didn’t matter anymore. All he could think about was how close she was and he tried to calm the thumping in his chest.

#george clarke #george clarkey

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downbad4yoongi · 8 months ago

Text

Bound By Magic | Chapter One

🪄Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

🪄AU/Genre: E2L, Magical AU, smut

🪄WC: 11,698

🪄Warnings: smut, minor character death

A/N: This is for @lo1k-diamonds as a part of @bangtanwritershq Sweet Tricks and Wicked Treats exchange.

Thank you to my betas: @colormepurplex2, @moonleeai, and @pars-ley

Summary:

In a world of magic, a centuries-old rivalry exists between two powerful witches. Their mutual animosity is intense, fueled by their constant competition and clashing personalities. Despite their hatred, they are inexplicably drawn to each other's power.

When a dark force threatens the magical realm, they are forced to unite against a common enemy. As they work together, a reluctant respect and attraction grows between them. A pivotal moment, where the witch heals the injured warlock, ignites a powerful connection.

Realizing their intertwined destinies, they embrace their love and combined magic to defeat the darkness. Their newfound unity proves that love can conquer even the deepest-rooted hatred, forging a powerful bond that will shape the future of the magical world.

Chapter One

You stood across the staged area of the arena from your longstanding adversary. You and Namjoon have been at each other’s throats for as long as you can remember. The two of you had been in a constant competition of one-upmanship that others may have considered friendly, but in reality, it was anything but.

The two of you were raised to view the opposite faction as the enemy due to superiority complexes, a mindset that hasn’t budged much for either of you despite those stereotypes being broken down decades ago. Witches’ magickal abilities were rooted in elements and nature, contradicting warlocks' more arcane-based magick.

Eventually, witches and warlocks slowly began collaborating and breaking down the barriers that formerly held strong. This collaboration proved that great things could happen when the two factions worked together instead of against each other. However, you and Namjoon were stubborn and locked in a continuous battle of wills. Every year, you were allowed to best the other at the annual magickal competition, The Spellbound Tournament.

You were fully prepared to show Namjoon who the better spellcaster was when a deafening blast tore through the air, searing heat and blinding light engulfing you. Instinctively, you lifted a shimmering shield against the shock wave that slammed into your body. Chaos erupted around you - panicked screams mingling with the crackle of flames and crumbling stones. As the ringing in your ears subsided, you blinked away the spots dancing before your eyes. The magickal stadium lay in ruins, ancient seats reduced to rubble. Acrid smoke stung your nostrils. Your heart raced wildly, pounding fiercely against your ribcage as if trying to break free, each beat echoing like a war drum in the silence of the moment.

Scanning the destruction, you spotted Namjoon staggering to his feet, robes tattered and face smudged with soot. His sharp gaze locked with yours, a flicker of concern behind the hardened exterior despite his often declared hatred of you. You nodded curtly, conveying a silent check - I'm alive, if not unscathed.

Haneul's voice, a sage wizard that everyone listens to without hesitation, cut through the din, commanding attention. "Quickly! Over here!" They stood atop a jutting stone slab, silver hair whipping around their face.

You and Namjoon picked your way over the rubble and debris, joined by other dazed survivors of the blast. Haneul's eyes, usually placid pools of wisdom, now churned urgently. Aching and battered, most gather in front of Hanuel as others take care of the ones who are gravely injured… or worse.

"This was no mere explosion," they declared gravely. "Wooshik has made his move. Even now, his dark forces mobilize to seize control."

A chill shivered down your spine at the mention of that name - the warlock whose ambitions threatened the very fabric of your world. You exchanged a tense glance with Namjoon, animosity temporarily forgotten in the face of this revelation.

"We...we have to stop him," you managed, voice rough from inhaled smoke. "Whatever it takes."

Haneul nodded solemnly. "Indeed. And it will require the two of you working together." They pierced you and Namjoon with a knowing glare, a glint in their eyes as if seeing a future only they could perceive. "Only your combined strengths can thwart Wooshik's scheme."

Namjoon's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. You could practically feel the waves of reluctance rolling off him, mirroring your own hesitation. Years of rivalry, of traded barbs and clashing magicks, hung between you - a chasm not easily bridged.

But Haneul's words rang with an ominous finality. The fate of everything you held dear hinged upon this tentative alliance with your sworn adversary. Failure was not an option.

Slowly, deliberately, you extended a hand to Namjoon. His obsidian eyes delved into yours, searching for any hint of deceit. You met his probing gaze unflinchingly, willing him to see the grim resolve within.

After a moment that stretched for an eternity, his larger palm enveloped yours. His skin, warm and callused against your own, sent a jolt of awareness through you.

"For the covens," he gritted out. "And the realm."

You squeezed his hand, sealing the pact. "For the realm," you echoed.

As you stood amidst the smoking ruins, hands clasped with your erstwhile enemy, a sense of destiny settled upon your shoulders. The path ahead promised peril and unknown challenges.

But one truth crystallized in your mind, sharp and unassailable - you would face them together or not at all.

A piercing shriek cracked through the air, shattering the newly formed yet fragile peace. Your head snapped up, instincts screaming of imminent danger. Beside you, Namjoon tensed, his hand falling from yours to the hilt of his blade.

From the depths of the swirling clouds of dust and debris, a ghastly creature emerged, its form writhing and shifting like a shadow in the dim light. Its eerie silhouette loomed larger as it stepped forward, eyes glinting with a malevolent glow. Gnarled limbs reached out, each movement echoing the horrors of forgotten nightmares. Its scales shimmered like polished obsidian, capturing and refracting the light in jagged glimmers. Each thunderous step echoed ominously, as razor-sharp talons drove deep into the earth, leaving behind jagged furrows that spoke of its immense power. Those menacing eyes, glowing with a sinister intelligence, locked onto you and Namjoon, radiating an unsettling awareness that sent chills coursing down your spine.

One of Wooshik's twisted creations unleashed to test your newfound alliance.

"Flank it from both sides!" Namjoon barked, his voice ringing with authority.

You moved to obey, along with everyone else, muscle memory overriding the strangeness of taking orders from him. As you circled the beast, your magick hummed beneath your skin, yearning for release.

The creature lunged, a blur of shadow and fury. You lunged aside, feeling the whisper of its claws mere inches from your face. Namjoon retaliated with a blast of arcane energy, but the beast shrugged it off, its hide impervious to single attacks.

"We need to strike together!" you yelled, understanding eventually dawning. "Combine our magick!"

Namjoon's eyes met yours, a split-second of perfect understanding passing between you. You began to weave an intricate spell, your power intertwining with his: fire and ice, light and shadow, two opposites melding into a devastating whole.

The beast charged again, its roar shaking the very ground you stood on. You held your position. Namjoon moved behind you, a solid presence at your back, his arms bracketing yours. At the last possible moment, you released your spell, a searing bolt of energy that struck the creature head-on.

It stumbled, howling in pain and rage. Namjoon pressed, using the advantage, his blade flashing in a deadly arc. The creature's blood sprayed across the shattered earth, black and viscous.

But it wasn't enough. The beast rallied, its wounds knitting together with unnatural speed. It lashed out with its tail, catching Namjoon across the chest and sending him flying.

With a wordless shout, you unleashed the full might of your magick, pouring every ounce of your strength into a final, desperate assault. The air crackled with power, your veins burning with its force.

The creature staggered, its defenses crumbling beneath the onslaught. Namjoon, battered but unbroken, surged to his feet, his blade finding the beast's heart in a single, perfect thrust.

As the creature fell, its dying scream echoing across the battlefield, you sagged to your knees, spent. Namjoon limped to your side, his hand finding your shoulder as he stood over you, hunched forward but managing to stay on his feet.

"We did it," he rasped, his voice tinged with something akin to wonder.

You nodded, too exhausted for words. But as you knelt there amidst the carnage and the chaos, you felt the first stirrings of something new, fragile, and profound.

A connection forged in the heat of battle. A partnership tempered by shared peril and sacrifice.

The dust settled around you, the eerie silence broken only by the ragged sound of your own breathing. Namjoon's hand tightened on your shoulder, his touch a lifeline in the aftermath of the chaos. You met his gaze and saw your own exhaustion and relief mirrored in those fathomless depths.

But there was no time to rest, no moment to savor your victory. The battle was far from over, and Wooshik's forces wouldn’t be far behind. They would need more support if they were ever to defeat Wooshik successfully.

As if summoned by your thoughts, three figures emerged from the shadows, their faces grim with determination. You instantly recognized them - Bae Suzy, Min Yoongi, and Hirai Momo. Momo and Suzy are members of your coven, the Daughters of Gaia, while Yoong is a member of Namjoon’s, The Inkwell Society.

"We came as soon as we heard," Suzy said, her voice low and urgent remorse laced through her voice from not attending the tournament in the first place. "Wooshik's creatures are everywhere, and his power grows by the moment."

Yoongi nodded, his cat-like eyes narrowed. "We have to stop him before it's too late."

Beside you, you watched Namjoon struggle to remain on his feet, but his jaw is set with determination. "Then we will," he said, his voice ringing with conviction as he straightened to his full height. "Together."

Momo stepped forward, her hands already glowing with the telltale shimmer of her healing magick. "Let me help," she murmured, her touch moving over Namjoon, caring for his injuries, before turning her attention to you. She ran her hands over you gently, mending your minor wounds and bruises.

You felt the warmth of her power flowing through you, knitting torn flesh and easing the ache of bruised bones and muscles. But even as your body mended, your mind raced with the enormity of the task before you.

Wooshik was a formidable foe, his mastery of the dark arts unmatched. And yet, as you looked around at the faces of your friends, at the determined set of Namjoon's shoulders, you felt a flicker of hope.

"We can do this," you said, your voice soft but certain. "We have to."

Suzy nodded, her green eyes glinting with resolve. "We'll stand with you," she said, her words a solemn vow. "Until the end."

Yoongi's lips quirked in a wry smile. "Well, let's just hope the end isn't today," he drawled, his dry humor a welcome respite from the tension.

Namjoon's hand found your shoulder again, gripping it firmly in a silent promise. "It won't be," he said, his voice low and fierce. "Not if we have anything to say about it."

And as you stood there, surrounded by your friends and temporary allies' strength and loyalty, you felt a surge of determination. Wooshik may have been powerful, but he had underestimated the true might of your covens.

🪄🪄🪄

You, along with Namjoon and your friends, infiltrated a coven of acolytes known to be loyal to Wooshik and overheard a hushed conversation between two of Wooshik’s most dedicated followers. The witches spoke in hushed tones, their words barely audible over the nearby crackling fire.

“Have you heard the latest from Wooshik?” one of the witches asked. “He’s been searching high and low for that ancient artifact. It is said that it holds the power to reshape reality itself.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” the other replied. “They say it’s hidden deep within the ruins of the Shadow Keep, a place long forgotten by time.”

Hearts pounding with excitement and dread, you knew you had to act quickly. The artifact was the key to stopping Wooshik. From the overheard conversation, you understood that the journey would be full of treacherous terrain, ancient curses, and the watchful eyes of Wooshik’s minions.

Undeterred, you set off on a quest to beat Wooshik to the artifact. The trek was grueling, filled with challenges at every turn. With determination, you all brave numerous treacherous mountain passes, crossed raging rivers and fought off attacks from monstrous creatures lurking in the shadows.

Finally, after days of arduous travel, the ancient ruins appeared before you. The once-grand structures were now crumbling, their spires reaching skyward like skeletal fingers grasping at the churning clouds. The stone walls were now covered in overgrown vines. The legends are undeniable. Seeing it before you, the walls pulsed with the immense power you all knew lay within.

As you drew closer, an unnatural hush fell over your band, a sense of foreboding washed over all of you. The air was heavy with a strange, almost palpable energy, and the ruins seemed to watch you with an eerie silence. A chill ran down your spine as you realized you were not alone. Unseen eyes followed your every move, their presence lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Namjoon moved at your side, his presence comforting in this eerie stillness. Since your battle against Wooshik's beast, a subtle shift had occurred between you - an unspoken understanding, a shared purpose that transcended your rivalry. His gaze met yours, dark eyes reflecting your own unease even as his jaw set with determination.

“We’re almost there,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. “Just a little further.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. The ruins loomed ahead, their ancient stones casting long, menacing shadows. You shivered as you recalled the words of the acolytes who had led you here.

As you drew closer, the air grew even more oppressive. The once-vibrant colors of the forest seemed to fade, replaced by a sickly pallor. A low, guttural growl echoed from the depths of the ruins.

“Something’s wrong,” Namjoon said with his voice low. He tightened his grip on his sword, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of danger.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness ahead. It was a monstrous creature, its body a grotesque amalgamation of human and beast. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural light, and its claws dripped with a foul, green substance, yet traces of its origin alluded to its fall from grace.

“A fallen guardian,” Namjoon hissed. “We have to be careful.”

With widened eyes, Momo gulps, “That doesn’t look like any guardian I’ve ever seen.”

Namjoon’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Unfortunately, this one has been possessed and twisted into this demented creature.”

The creature let out a blood-curdling roar and lunged at your group. Namjoon met it with a flurry of sword strikes, his movements swift and precise. But the creature was incredibly strong, and it knocked Namjoon off his feet.

Before the creature could strike again, you leaped forward, your blade glinting in the moonlight. You managed to deflect the creature’s attack, but the force of the blow sent you reeling backward.

Yoongi, Suzy, and Momo joined the fray. As the creature was about to strike again, Yoongi unleashed a barrage of fireballs, forcing it to retreat. Suzy jumped in with her agility to dodge the creature’s attacks and landed a few blows of her own. Stepping up, Momo released her unique powers - just like she could heal with kind hands, she could use that same magick to find even the most minor injuries and transform them into gaping wounds.

The battle raged on, with the clash of metal on flesh and whizzing blasts of magick echoing through the ruins. You fought with everything you had, fear fueling your determination. Namjoon, Yoongi, Suzy, and Momo also fought valiantly, their combined skills a formidable force against the monstrous creature.

You all fought with a ferocity that surprised even yourselves, the bond between your alliance growing stronger with each passing moment. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, you managed to land the critical blow that brought the beast to its knees. With a final agonizing roar, it collapses to the ground, finally dead.

The air was now thick with the stench of blood and sweat, and the ruins were bathed in a haunting silence. Now exhausted but triumphant, you leaned against each other, struggling to remain on your feet. You braced yourselves and prepared for what lay ahead, sure this would not be the last hurdle.

Yoongi’s rasp finally broke the silence, “We did it.”

You all moved deeper into the ruins, hearts pounding anxiously. You knew the artifact was close and were determined to retrieve it before Wooshik could get his hands on it.

The path led you through a series of winding corridors, each one more labyrinthine than the last. The air was thick with dust, the faint smell of decay, and strange, alien symbols carved into the walls.

Finally, you came to a large, circular chamber. In the center of the chamber was a pedestal, upon which rested a glowing orb. The sphere pulsed with an otherworldly energy, and a sense of awe washed over you and your friends as you gazed upon it.

“This must be it,” Suzy breathed, her voice filled with wonder.

Before you could touch it, a sinister chuckle echoed through the chamber. A figure emerged from the shadows, his form shrouded in darkness. Wooshik. His eyes glowed with a malevolent light.

“So, you’ve finally found it,” he taunted, his voice dripping with venom. “But it is too late. The artifact is mine now. Thank you for finding it for me.” You glower at him, the links clicking into place that you were used. A pawn in his game to find what he had sought for years since his corruptness prevented him from knowing where to find it.

Namjoon stepped forward, placing himself between you and the dark warlock, a former member of his coven. No one had seen hide nor hair of him since he disappeared a few years ago after absconding away with The Crimson Grimoire, an ancient tome containing dark magick. "Your schemes end here, Wooshik," he snarled, power crackling around his clenched fists.

Wooshik raised his hand, a wave of dark energy seeping from his palm. The air seemed to vibrate with the force of his malice as several more warlocks stepped out from the shadows behind him.

Namjoon's hand found yours, gripping tightly. You met his gaze and saw the grim determination etched into every line of his face. In that moment, you understood each other perfectly - no matter what came next, you would face it together.

As one, you grabbed your wands, power surging through you like a raging flood. Suzy, Yoongi, and Momo fell into formation beside you, their magicks intertwining with yours until the very stones trembled beneath your feet.

Wooshik's face contorted in a rictus of rage, his eyes twin pits of obsidian madness. "You cannot stop me!" he roared, his voice reverberating through the chamber. "I will tear the power from your broken bodies and ascend to godhood!"

"Never!" Namjoon gritted out. “We will fight you to our last breath!"

Wooshik raised his hands, dark energy coalescing around him. The ground beneath your feet began to crack and splinter, the ancient ruins groaning as if in agony.

Namjoon's eyes met yours, a wealth of understanding passing between you in that split second. You knew what needed to be done, the sacrifice that victory would demand.

“Fine. Go ahead and cosign your death certificates. I am destined for godhood, for glory eternal.”

You prepared to defend yourselves but weren’t ready for the immense power emanating from Wooshik. Before you could strike first, a wave of energy threw everyone to the ground, adding to the injuries on your already battered and bruised bodies.

Just as Wooshik was about to seize the artifact, a blinding light filled the chamber. Looking up, eyes squinting and hand thrown up to lessen the intense light, a figure stood before them, clad in shimmering robes and radiating an aura of pure power. It was the ancient guardian of the artifact, awakened from its slumber by Wooshik’s intrusion.

The guardian raised his hand, and a beam of pure energy shot forth from his palm, striking Wooshik with a devastating force and sending him flying backward.

With a groan, Wooshik achingly moved to sit up. “This…is impossible,” he gasped, his once commanding voice reduced to a wheezing rattle. “I am destined for godhood, for glory eternal…”

Namjoon shook his head, grim satisfaction in his eyes as he watched his foe crumble before the guardian here to defend the obscure artifact. “Your only destiny is oblivion, Wooshik. You’ve sown nothing but suffering and ruin. Now, you’ll reap the consequences.”

Wooshik’s eyes bulged, his handsome face contorting into a mask of pure hatred. With a final, desperate howl, he lunged to his feet and rushed at your group, hands outstretched like claws seeking to rend and tear.

But his strength was spent, his power broken. Yoongi’s blade flashed in a silver arc, biting deep into the dark warlock’s chest. Wooshik staggered back, a look of almost comical surprise on his face as he glanced down at the blooming crimson stain.

Before Yoongi could strike the killing blow, the remainder of Wooshik’s men grabbed the injured foe and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

The guardian turned to the remaining witches and warlocks, his eyes filled with a serene light. He gestured towards the artifact, and a gentle, unseen force lifted it into the air. The orb hovered above the guardian for a moment, then descended into his outstretched palm.

“Take it,” the guardian encouraged, his voice echoing through the chamber. “It is yours to protect.”

With wide, blinking eyes, you took the mysterious artifact from the guardian’s hand. A wave of power surged through you, filling you with a newfound strength and determination.

The guardian faded away as you stepped away from the dais. You turned back to the group, your eyes meeting theirs. A silent understanding passed between you. All of you knew that this fight was far from over.

🪄🪄🪄

Hours later, you all settled around a campfire, nursing your wounds.

Namjoon looked at you as you both stood off to the side near where your tents were set up—something unreadable flickering in the depths of his dark eyes. “Well, at least we managed to injure him gravely. That should buy us time to recoup and end him for good,” he rasped, his voice hoarse from shouting.

You nodded, your heart heavy with a mixture of relief and dread. The battle had been exhausting both physically and emotionally. You were unsure if you had the strength to face Wooshik again, especially not after almost losing today.

His large hands cupped your shoulders, gently running his palms down your arms. “You’ve been quiet.”

You looked up, sadness echoing in your eyes. “I’ve been thinking about what happened. About how close we came to losing.”

“I’m scared, too,” Namjoon admitted. “Scared that we won’t be able to stop Wooshik. Scared that we’ll all die.”

You reached up, pulling his hand from your shoulder and cupping it in yours. “We won’t die,” you reassured, your voice firm. We’re too strong, too determined.”

A small smile spread his plump lips. “You’re right. We are.” A flicker of hope returned to his eyes.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Namjoon leaned down, his forehead coming to rest against yours. His breath ghosted across your lips, and a gasp caught in your throat, a sudden swell of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. The walls you had so carefully constructed, the barriers you had erected to keep him at a distance, crumbled in the face of his raw honesty.

"Namjoon, I..." Your words trailed off, lost in the depths of his gaze.

And then, before you could think and he could second-guess himself, he was kissing you. His soft and insistent lips pressed against yours with a desperate urgency, a need that mirrored the ache in your own heart. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you surrendered to the sensation, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

The kiss was electric, a spark that ignited a fire within you. Years of tension, of unspoken longing, poured into that single, searing moment. You could taste the salt of his sweat, the coppery tang of blood, but beneath it all, there was something else: something sweet and intoxicating, a promise of what could be.

"Ahem." A pointed cough shattered the spell, and you jerked apart, your cheeks flushed and your heart racing.

Suzy, Yoongi, and Momo sat a few feet away, their expressions a mix of surprise, amusement, and concern. Suzy's eyebrows were raised, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. Yoongi's face was carefully neutral, but you could see the calculations whirring behind his eyes. And Momo... Momo looked torn. Her gaze darted between you and Namjoon with a flicker of worry in her eyes.

"Well, that was... unexpected," Suzy drawled, her voice laced with barely contained laughter.

You felt heat rising in your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and defiance. "I... we..."

"It's not what you think," Namjoon said, his voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders. "We were just... caught up in the moment."

Yoongi's eyes narrowed, his gaze probing. "And what, exactly, is this moment going to mean for our mission? For our team?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. You swallowed hard, your mind racing. What did this mean? For you, for Namjoon, for the battle that lay ahead?

"It means," you said slowly, choosing your words carefully, "that we're stronger together. That we'll face whatever comes, side by side."

Namjoon nodded in silent affirmation.

The peace you all had found as you rested, recouping from the long day, for the night was short-lived. A sudden, searing pain lanced through your skull, driving you to your knees. Distantly, you heard Namjoon cry out and felt his hands on your shoulders as he, too, crumpled under the onslaught.

Images flashed behind your eyelids, vivid and disjointed. A towering citadel, wreathed in shadow. Wooshik, his face contorted in a rictus of mad triumph. And a figure, cloaked and hooded, standing at the dark warlock's side.

As abruptly as it had come, the vision receded, leaving you gasping and disoriented. Namjoon's face swam into focus above you, his eyes wide with concern and a reflection of the same haunted knowledge.

"What… what was that?" Suzy demanded, her voice shaking slightly as she helped Momo to her feet.

"A warning," you managed, your tongue thick and clumsy in your mouth. "Wooshik… he's not alone. He has an ally, someone powerful."

Namjoon nodded grimly, his hand finding yours and gripping tight. "I saw it too. A dark citadel and a figure in the shadows..."

Yoongi's brow furrowed. "Another warlock? Or something worse?"

You shook your head, frustration welling in your chest. "I don't know. But whatever it is, we're running out of time. We need to get back to the others and warn them."

Chapter Two

#bangtanwhq #bts fanfic #bts ff #bts #bts fanfiction #kim namjoon #witches #kim namjoon x reader #min yoongi #hirai momo #magical au

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roseazura · 2 months ago

Text

𝑺𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄

Knights of the Zodiac: The Beginning – Seiya

Summary: In a gritty setting charged with tension and music, two opposites collide in a dance of sharp wit and undeniable chemistry. What starts as playful banter ignites into a connection neither expected, leaving them with a spark that lingers long after parting—hinting at the beginning of something extraordinary.

Genre/Tropes: Romance, Opposites Attract, Strangers to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Push-and-Pull, Fateful Encounter.

Pairing: Seiya x Fem!Reader.

Warnings: Emotional vulnerability. Ambiguous ending. No mentions of (Y/N). Non-native English speaker. Before the events of the film. Mention of: violence, homelessness, cursing words.

Words count: 9.7k

A/N: Hello there, sweeties! A promise is a promise, and here's another little story. I've had this idea for a long time, and I'm glad I finally got it to shape. There will probably be more parts. I hope you enjoy it!

The city pulsed with a mix of grit and life, its narrow alleys etched with invisible tracks and unspoken secrets. Neon lights, worn out from years of relentless flickering, blinked like a perpetual invitation to the dreamers and the lost. Above it all, the air hung heavy, laced with the unmistakable tang of burnt oil from nearby workshops, smoke, and that bitter aftertaste of spilled beer seeping into old concrete. This was the kind of place that didn’t ask for permission to be loud—or let chaos move right in.

The loft where the band crashed was an improvised haven amidst the outside bedlam. The walls were tattooed with years of gig posters and random doodles, every corner carrying echoes of unrestrained music nights. The light came from hanging bulbs and strings of fairy lights draped across the ceiling beams, casting a warm, raw glow.

In one corner, the drum kit sat next to an amp, guitars propped against the walls, and a microphone ready for action—evidence of last night’s jam session. Across the room, a central table, forever cluttered with sheet music, half-written lyrics in beat-up notebooks, and the occasional empty can, formed the heart of the practice-and-home combo. Around it sat mismatched garage-sale-rescued chairs where a bunch of improbable dreamers banded together under rock’s renegade flag.

You sat cross-legged on the worn leather couch—the biggest one—idly twirling a strand of hair around your finger while your gaze drifted from one bandmate to another. Tonight’s mood had been shaken, courtesy of the proposition laid down by Caleb, the drummer, whose boisterous personality filled the room like one of his powerful yet endearing drum solos.

“We need the cash, guys! This gig could cover two months of rent!” Caleb’s voice boomed as he paced back and forth, his deep brown eyes blazing with hope. His wild curls framed a face that practically radiated sincerity, his excitement practically spilling out into the room.

“Playing at an underground fight ring? I mean... that’s... odd,” Elise, the bassist, muttered, scrutinizing the plan with her usual sharp eye. With her wavy, fire-red bob and defined cheekbones, Elise was the group’s pragmatic anchor. Her piercing blue eyes analyzed every risk on the horizon. “How do we even fit a gig into that kind of scene?”

Perched beside her was Jonah, the lead guitarist, his calloused fingers lazily strumming his battered acoustic guitar while he listened. His laid-back demeanor was a stark contrast to Caleb’s firebrand energy; Jonah was calm, his messy blond hair and hazel eyes giving him an air of effortless cool. “Not saying I’m out… but fight-ring acoustics? That’ll butcher our sound.”

You leaned forward, thoughtful, your chin resting on your hand as you pursed your lips in a slight pout, locking eyes with Caleb. As the band’s frontwoman—the magnetic vocalist who could sweep an audience into the music with a single note—you’d become the glue holding the group together.

“It’s a tough sell, Caleb,” you admitted, skepticism threading through your voice. “But are you sure this promoter is legit?”

Caleb sighed but refused to let the spark in his eye fade. “Guys, I get it’s not exactly Madison Square Garden, but think about it—street fights pull in crowds, and those crowds spend money. What’s stopping us from turning those adrenaline junkies into fans? Plus, the promoter promised extra cash if we bring our usual fire.”

Your drummer’s relentlessness was unyielding, and even though doubt lingered in the room, you couldn’t help but admire his fighting spirit. Caleb was the band’s heart—on stage and off—and tonight was no exception.

Elise folded her arms, arching a skeptical brow. “Alright, but what about our gear? Those rings aren’t exactly... gear-friendly environments.”

“Got it all figured out!” Caleb shot back, pulling out his phone and frantically scrolling. “The ring’ll be sectioned off for us, and the promoter guaranteed a safe spot for our equipment. Come on, Elise, trust me for once!”

Jonah chuckled, leaning back with a smirk. “You say that like you’ve ever given us a reason to.” From his corner, he let his guitar rest across his lap and exhaled. “Not saying it’s the worst idea you’ve ever had...” he started, leaving the thought dangling before adding with a sly grin, “but it’s definitely in the top five.”

“You wound me,” Caleb declared dramatically, clutching his chest as if struck by a mortal blow. The band couldn’t help but laugh, despite themselves, the mood lifting ever so slightly.

Caleb’s pitch hung in the loft’s air like a suspended chord, thick with tension and potential. A fight ring where punches set the tempo each night—it was everything you’d never envisioned for your music. And yet, there it was: raw, unapologetic, hitting you with a mix of fascination and discomfort. You forced yourself to think straight while the rest of the band buzzed, their voices weaving together like different tones in the same song.

On one hand, you got Caleb’s point. The cash situation wasn’t exactly rosy, and any chance to crawl out of the pit was worth considering. But at the same time, your dreams of glowing stages and crowds drawn purely by the music—not the spectacle of punches flying—clung too deeply to rebel. Were you betraying the vision, or just adapting to survive?

Your thoughts drifted to Elise. She was the band’s anchor, steady and always on point when it came to sniffing out risks. Her stance while tuning her bass spoke louder than words—she was breaking down every angle, every potential disaster Caleb’s wild idea could bring. Sharp and cutting as her tone sometimes was, you got it. Elise wasn’t a pessimist—she was protective. What both frustrated and charmed you was her knack for stripping down decisions and tackling the parts everyone else preferred to leave untouched.

Jonah, by contrast, was a softer puzzle. His way of handling this was so quintessentially him: chill, detached yet quietly deep. His light laughs and casual remarks cracked smiles across your face, but you knew those jokes masked his perpetual evaluating. Jonah was one of those rare types who stayed right in the middle—not too quick to jump nor too rigid to close off. He was a silent but solid pillar.

And then there was you, smack-dab in the eye of the storm, trying to untangle which part of you was right. The dreamer who wanted bigger things, refusing to settle for anything less than what felt worthy of your music—or the realist who knew dreams didn’t pay the bills, and that maybe it wasn’t about where you played, but how. The answer was in all of you, in how you chose to face this moment. Whatever happened, your voices, your decisions—that would be the melody shaping your path forward.

When you finally made the call, the loft’s rhythm shifted, like an invisible beat marking what was to come. You sat up straight on the couch, your posture a silent act of resolve, and let the words everyone had been waiting for spill from your lips: “Alright,” you said, cutting through the noise with the authority of a born frontwoman. “Let’s break it down. Caleb, you’ve laid out your case: money, exposure, and the chance to turn this street-fight crowd into fans. Elise, Jonah—what are the downsides?”

Elise leaned forward, ticking off points on her fingers. “Potential damage to our gear. Sketchy venue. Crappy acoustics. And it’s risky—our music might totally flop with that crowd.”

Jonah nodded, picking up where she left off. “We could alienate our current fans, and if it bombs, we’re stuck with the ‘fight-ring band’ stigma.”

You chewed your lip, letting the weight of their concerns sink in. Your gaze locked on Caleb, who stood steadfast in his belief. “Alright—what are the upsides?”

Caleb seized the chance. “Money to keep us afloat. A one-of-a-kind venue—imagine the buzz! Plus, I’ll personally make sure everything goes smoothly, even if I have to charm every street-fight fan in there to pull it off.”

Jonah smirked, leaning back with that signature grin of his. “You? Charm them? That’s a fight night in itself.”

Your laughter broke out, melodic and contagious. It spread through the room like sunshine after a storm, slicing through the tension in the air. You turned to your bandmates, your gaze serious but brimming with determination.

“Here’s the deal: Caleb’s got a point—we need the money. And if it works, this could be the kind of story we tell for years. Worst case? We shake it off and keep moving.”

Elise, who had been sitting on the floor, froze mid-motion. Her meticulous adjustments to her bass strings stopped cold, her hands resting on the instrument as if your words had knocked the wind out of her. She looked up, raising an eyebrow—the kind of look only Elise could pull off, a mix of doubt and warning.

“Just hope you know what you’re doing,” she said, her voice sharp but measured, kicking the little tuner by her side with the toe of her boot. She pushed her hair behind her ear, a tell she’d never admit to—one that gave away her nerves every single time.

Jonah let out a light chuckle, the kind that dismantled any lingering tension with effortless ease. His gaze found yours, his eyes gleaming with playful defiance. “Knew you’d say yes,” he commented, his fingers idly teasing a loose guitar string, his laid-back rhythm borderline irritating. But the way he tilted his head, the spark in his eyes—it hinted at more than his words let on. Jonah had a knack for reading the vibe better than anyone, and maybe that’s why he hadn’t put up much of a fight. He was watching, waiting.

Caleb was all action. He shot up, throwing his hands in the air like he’d just won a title match. “That’s what I’m talking about!” he shouted, so full of energy you half-worried he’d accidentally strike the drum behind him.

He strode toward his drum kit with big, deliberate steps, his grin stretching so wide it was almost ridiculous. But you caught the subtle tension in his movements—the way he tightened the cymbal screws just a little too hard, like he was trying to keep a lid on emotions he couldn’t fully show. Caleb was always the guy who acted like anything was possible, but this time, his body language told you he was betting more than he let on.

As for you, your body moved almost on autopilot. You rose slowly from the couch, crossing the loft toward the corner where your microphone rested on its stand. Each step was a bridge between doubt and decision, every movement a reminder that there was no turning back now. Your fingers brushed against the cold metal of the mic, and a shiver ran up your spine. You stood there for a moment, taking it all in—the loft that had been your home. The dim lights, the worn-out furniture, the posters from past gigs lining the walls… all of it seemed to be watching you, waiting to see what you’d make of this chance.

Elise let out an audible sigh, breaking the quiet spell in the room. Jonah tipped his head back, the chair creaking under his weight as he exhaled with unhurried calm. Caleb was already tweaking his drum set with fast, precise moves, each hit sounding like the heartbeat of something new beginning to unfold. And you… you tightened your grip around the mic, feeling the cool metal under your skin like a silent promise. The choice was made, and the fire igniting in your chest started to spread, turning into a resolve you couldn’t deny.

The flickering city lights never reached this forgotten corner, where voices roared louder than the music and the steel of the cage reflected the rawest emotions. There were no fancy stages or polished crowds here—just the frantic pulse of a crowd starving for spectacle, for adrenaline, for something to shake the monotony of the night.

This wasn’t the place where musicians dreamed of playing. This was the place where they were tested.

Shouts and the tang of rusted metal mingled with the murmur of hushed bets. The venue didn’t promise glory—just a shot. And sometimes, a shot was all you needed. For you and the band, tonight wasn’t about contracts or prestige; it was about survival, about forcing the world to listen—even if just for a few minutes. In this cage, among sweat and uncertain expectations, your music would be your weapon, your battle cry.

Everyone knew it: once the first note hit, there was no turning back. You’d either own this ring or drown in the noise.

The old, rickety van wheezed to a stop in front of the venue, its engine coughing out one last gasp before falling silent. Just a glance at the place made it clear—this wasn’t the kind of spot that hosted strictly legal business.

You climbed out first, the synthetic fur of your dark coat shielding you from the night’s chill. Beneath it, your outfit struck a perfect balance between chic and rebellious. The cold night air tugged at your hair as your eyes scanned the area, bracing for what was coming—what was already inevitable.

One by one, your bandmates clambered out, each hauling gear and instruments. Caleb moved with the energy of someone who didn’t know fear. His faded tee sported the design of a drum set engulfed in flames—a pretty accurate omen of his explosive style on stage.

“This is it,” he said with a dazzling grin, his eyes gleaming as he took in the building. “This is where legends are made.”

Elise, on the other hand, radiated skepticism. Adjusting her cardigan over her worn-out tee and ripped jeans, she wrinkled her nose at the scent of the place: a mix of sweat, metal, and old grease. “More like where questionable decisions get made,” she muttered, her sharp eyes sweeping the area with a critical glare. The strap of her bass rested securely over her shoulder—the only sign she was game to play, even if the vibe left her unimpressed.

Jonah strolled with an easy, unbothered pace, his battered guitar case slung across his back. His scruffy style fit him like a second skin: faded jeans, half-buttoned flannel shirt, and sneakers that had definitely seen better days. He eyed the structure of the ring with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Well, it’s got… character,” he offered, his signature lopsided grin firmly in place.

“Character? That’s what we’re calling get tetanus now? Because that’s exactly what it looks like… well, that,” Elise shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm and doubt as she pointed toward the ring with pursed lips, clearly regretting every step closer.

Inside, the venue was even more intimidating. At the center, the ring stood like a caged beast, its metal fences glinting under the dim lighting. The air was heavy with sweat, cheap beer, and the tang of rust. The noise was deafening—shouts, bets, and loud, animated conversations filled the space with a raw, unfiltered energy.

As you ventured further into the room, the crowd’s sounds grew louder—a chaotic hum of rising and falling voices, rough laughter, and the occasional sharp clang of someone adjusting the metal fencing. This wasn’t a place built for music, but there was something raw and real about it that started to settle deep in your bones.

There’s no turning back now, you thought. Time to face it.

You felt every gaze from the crowd piercing through you as you moved toward the ring. Some faces showed nothing but curiosity; others sparked with skepticism, maybe even a hint of mockery, like they were silently asking what the hell you were doing here. But wasn’t that the challenge? Earning a place in a space that was never meant for you. The idea was absurd, sure—but it was thrilling, too. And though your mind kept grappling with uncertainty, a flicker of pride began to surface. This place didn’t belong to you, but you were about to make it yours.

Caleb led the charge, heading up the little procession with the same boundless enthusiasm he'd had since pitching this whole plan. His stride was quick, deliberate, practically buzzing with energy. You could feel it even from behind him. Still, his movements were just a little too rushed, like he was trying to mask any nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You knew he was hyped, but you also knew this was his gamble—and he couldn’t afford to lose.

Jonah walked beside you, his pace relaxed, almost like he didn’t care about the chaos surrounding him. But you knew him too well to buy into that front. His eyes were taking in every detail—the dim lights dangling over the ring, the faces of the closest spectators, the vibe of the entire scene. There was something about the way Jonah observed things, always finding music in the most unexpected places, and it gave you a sliver of calm.

Trailing behind, Elise was pure focus. She didn’t say much, but her silence spoke volumes—she was calculating, assessing, ready for anything that could go wrong. You didn’t expect her to enjoy being here, but you knew that once she stepped into the ring, there’d be no room for doubt in her steady hands.

Before you reached the ring, Cassios—the host—emerged from the shadows, his presence impossible to ignore. He was a mountain of a man, with a piercing glare that could cut right through anyone who dared cross him.

“The ring’s clear, like I promised,” he said in a gravelly, controlled tone, his gaze scanning each band member. “You’ve got one hour. Make it count.” There was respect in his voice, sure, but also a clear demand: prove you deserve to be here.

No pressure, buddy.

When you reached the center of the ring, time seemed to slow down for a moment. The lights hanging above you were way too dim, colorful, and the glint of metal transformed the space into something even more chaotic. You dropped your gear, each of you moving with clear purpose.

Caleb dove straight into setting up his drums, his hands darting across cymbals and bolts while his feet tapped out a soft rhythm, almost like he was mentally gearing up for what lay ahead. Jonah adjusted his amp, his fingers gliding over his guitar strings with the ease of someone who knew exactly what they were doing, even in uncharted territory. Elise, methodical as always, crouched to double-check every cable and connection, ensuring nothing would fail in the critical moment.

As for you, you approached the mic already waiting at the center. You ran your fingertips over the stand, letting the cold metal anchor you in the present. Taking a deep breath, you raised your gaze toward the metal cage separating you from the crowd. The faces were still there—expectant, some impatient, others just curious. Your heartbeat quickened, but you let it ride. This was your moment, and there wasn’t time for hesitation.

As the final adjustments came together, the noise of the crowd morphed into a sort of background rhythm—a restless energy feeding into everything you were about to unleash. Caleb’s drum taps echoed like heartbeats, steady and full of promise, signaling the start of something new. Jonah tested a chord, the crisp sound slicing through the air, while Elise ran her fingers over her bass strings, checking the depth of her tone. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the sounds fuse together inside you, forming the bedrock of what was to come.

When you opened them again, everything was in place. It didn’t matter that you were standing in a fight ring, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and an air thick with skepticism. The only thing that mattered now was the music—and you were ready to let it do the talking.

Time stretched as you adjusted the mic in front of you. Beyond the metal cage separating you from the crowd, the energy buzzed—a mix of vibrant anticipation and overlapping shouts, filling every corner of the space. A rush of adrenaline shot through you, grounding you in the surreal intensity of the moment. This wasn’t the stage of your dreams—it was a fight ring, a place built for confrontation, not harmony. And yet, standing there, you felt every fiber of your being bracing itself to claim it as your own.

Your breath was slow, deliberate, as you scanned the audience. You could feel the weight of all the emotions riding on this: the uncertainty, the doubt, the pressure to make it work. But when you wrapped your fingers around the mic, something shifted. The firm grip drew in all the scattered energy around you, focusing it into one electric point. Your eyes burned with an internal fire as you stepped forward, the proximity to the crowd sending your pulse into overdrive. This wasn’t fear. This was challenge. This was hunger—the drive to prove what you were made of.

“A wild crowd, I see,” you began, your tone magnetic, alive. “Tonight, this ring isn’t just a battlefield—it’s a stage. A stage of fire and freedom. You came here for a fight, but what you’re about to witness is… a revolution.”

Your words stirred a ripple of intrigue through the audience, pulling them toward the show about to unfold. Even Elise, doubts and all, couldn’t help but admire the way you held the room captive with just a line.

Alright then. Showtime.

The first chord tore through the air like unexpected thunder. Jonah was the one to strike it, his fingers sliding over the strings with precision while the amps magnified the sound into something bigger than the space itself. For a moment, that ring—so used to screams and blows—stood suspended, caught in the echo of that opening note.

Caleb’s drumming kicked in instantly, each beat landing with the force of a heartbeat full of life. Elise’s bassline followed, deep and grounding, anchoring everything to solid ground even as the ring’s walls continued to hum with the voices of the crowd.

You, standing at the mic, felt it all start to click. The energy from your bandmates surged into the air, flowing toward you like an invitation, a call to rise to the moment. Your breathing steadied, your body alive with adrenaline and purpose. Then, as you opened your mouth and let the first note fly, everything changed.

Your voice pierced the air like lightning—clear, charged with raw emotion. It was strength, it was fire, but it was also a bridge. Each word you sang felt like a lifeline connecting the band to the audience, who began to stir, slowly at first, like they were waking from a deep haze as the music pulled them in.

The skeptical faces you’d noticed earlier were now tinged with surprise; some crossed arms loosened, and murmurs gave way to focused attention. You felt it—that connection. It coursed through you like electricity, from the soles of your boots to the tips of your fingers, surging out through your voice and wrapping around the crowd like an invisible current.

The sound was a chaotic symphony of control and expression. Jonah and Elise were loosening up, letting the music guide them back to their comfort zone. Caleb was utterly in his element, each crash of his drumsticks carrying a weight and intention that seemed to fill the entire ring.

And you… you were somewhere else entirely. As the lights flickered above you and the metal’s glint seemed to dance in sync with the rhythms, you let everything you felt pour into every note. Your stance grew stronger with every line, your voice not just singing but speaking directly to the crowd, as if tearing down the metal barricades separating you from them.

The audience began to shift, little by little—first in subtle movements, then in shouts echoing your choruses. Someone in the back threw their hands up, and it was enough to set off a chain reaction. Arms lifted, heads nodded, and individual voices fused into one collective roar, an energy that pulsed through the room and back into the band like some invisible fuel.

You let your emotions lead. You could feel the heat of the lights, the roar of the crowd, the vibration of every instrument. It was a moment that consumed and freed you all at once. The space was no longer a fight ring—it was yours. Every note, every drumbeat, every lyric was a declaration that you could turn any space into something unforgettable. And as the music soared toward its first climax, you felt something new: you weren’t just playing anymore. You were creating magic in a place no one expected it.

This was art—chaotic, unrestrained, and undeniably alive.

The streets had been his home for so long that Seiya could no longer tell the difference between a refuge and a prison. Every step felt like a fight against the concrete beneath his feet, against the invisible weight he carried since the day his life shattered. That night, his body still bore the ache of blows from the ring hours before, his skin marked by the memory of a battle fought not for glory but survival. His muscles throbbed, sure, but the real burden sat elsewhere—in that corner of his mind where desperation twisted into routine, creating a storm with no end in sight.

The fight, the ring, the shouts—they were all part of his world now. He didn’t enjoy it, but he accepted it, because there wasn’t anything else. Seiya didn’t fight to win; he fought because it was the only way to fill the silence, to scrape together enough cash to keep going. Life on the streets had taught him one thing: time didn’t wait for anyone, especially not for someone like him—someone who’d mastered the art of building invisible walls between himself and everyone else.

As he wandered the edges of the venue, his gaze swept across the faces in the crowd—a patchwork of expressions he’d trained himself to ignore. Thrilled faces, hyped for the next brawl with a mix of eagerness and cynicism. Lonely souls, like him, who didn’t belong but stayed because they had nowhere else to be.

He was ready to leave, fed up with the endless cycle of this scene, a life that felt stuck on repeat. His mind worked on autopilot—head for the exit, find some corner to crash in for the night, rinse and repeat tomorrow. That was his routine, a relentless engine that never missed a beat.

And then something happened. The first strum of a guitar ripped through the air, freezing him mid-step before he reached the exit. His stride faltered, and almost against his will, his eyes drifted toward the center of the ring. A band? Here? The thought hit him like a punch. It was an unexpected intrusion into the chaos he knew so well, and something about that discord—the sheer audacity of bringing music into this place—kept him rooted in place. Seiya shifted to the back, blending into the shadows, watching cautiously as it unfolded.

For a moment, his focus wasn’t even on the band. His gaze roamed the space, trying to figure out how this anomaly fit into a world he thought he understood. The lights burned brighter than usual, throwing jagged shadows across the metal fences. The crowd was split—some watching with anticipation, others clinging to their doubt. The air crackled with tension, with some unspoken challenge hanging in the balance. And so, Seiya stayed where he was, waiting, not yet ready to commit.

And then he saw you. When the people ahead of him shifted, granting him a clear view of the ring, his breath hitched. You stood in the center, gripping the mic with a confidence that clashed sharply against the gritty backdrop. In that instant, the noise, the voices, even the exhaustion weighing him down—all of it faded into nothing. The curiosity that had been absent moments ago sparked to life, slow but undeniable, tugging Seiya away from his indifference.

There was something magnetic about you—something he couldn’t brush off. His mind, conditioned to survive and move on, came to a screeching halt. For the first time in forever, the noise, the fights, even his own fatigue fell away, eclipsed by something else.

And then you began to sing. Seiya felt a wave unlike anything he’d ever known. Your voice crashed through the invisible walls he’d built around himself, filling him with something he didn’t know how to name. Every word you sang, every note that left your lips, felt like it was directed straight at him, daring him to look past his daily grind. His emotions stirred—a chaotic mix of awe, curiosity, and something dangerously close to relief. For the first time in what felt like years, he was witnessing something worth stopping for.

As the first song rolled on, Seiya realized his reactions weren’t following the script he knew. At first, he stood stiff, observing from his pocket of shadows. But as the music poured into the space, swelling with the band’s raw energy, something began to shift inside him. His arms fell from their tightly crossed position, his stance loosened, and at some point, he even found himself wanting to get closer. He nudged a couple of people out of the way to clear his line of sight. Your energy—combined with the band’s unique blend of defiance and authenticity—seemed to catch on like wildfire. Even someone like him, who rarely let himself feel much of anything, began to sense a spark of something close to comfort in the middle of all this chaos.

You glanced at the crowd every now and then, and though your gaze never landed directly on him, Seiya felt as if each glance carried something meant for him. It was strange, almost surreal, but it was grounding in a way he hadn’t experienced before. In this unexpected, chaotic corner of his world, he’d found a fragment of something that felt… like hope.

The final chord rang out, fading into the air and leaving an awkward silence behind, quickly filled by the crowd’s applause. Seiya, still tucked into the shadows, felt the realization hit like a sucker punch: he’d enjoyed it. But the problem wasn’t the music, or the band, or even the sudden shift in the atmosphere. The problem was that he knew it. Damn it.

He berated himself internally—there was no room for this in his world. Music was a luxury, something that belonged to other people, to those who had the time and freedom to be moved by chords and voices filling the air. Seiya wasn’t part of that. His life was built on hits—those he took in the ring and those the city hurled at him every day without mercy. He didn’t have the luxury of holding onto anything because nothing stayed, nothing was his. And the one person who had managed to stay had been ripped away from him long ago, leaving scars deep enough to shape his very soul. So no, this couldn’t get to him. But it had. The fucking truth? He’d felt something.

The crowd was waking up now. The energy that had been hesitant at first was now flowing freely, like a dam bursting and unleashing its pent-up fury. Seiya watched as the people—those same people who’d ignored the first chords with casual indifference—now threw their hands up, shouted, gave themselves over to the scene unfolding in the ring. Some sang along to the chorus without hesitation, others simply nodded in rhythm, letting the music sweep them up without a fight. It was ridiculous. This transformation, this complete surrender to something no one expected ten minutes ago… but Seiya couldn’t deny it. It was happening. And the worst part? He was caught in it too.

He looked to the ring—at you—and found the real problem. You didn’t seem surprised by the crowd’s reaction. There was no trace of uncertainty, no hesitation about whether you belonged here. You just knew. You knew your voice would flip the script, that your music would carve out a new space in this chaotic, gritty atmosphere. Seiya watched as you gave a slight nod of thanks, paired with a smile—not triumphant, but certain. Against all logic, he found himself stuck in that moment.

Don’t get used to it, he told himself, like some kind of survival mantra. Don’t fall for the euphoria, the sound, the way these musicians seemed to command the air with every note. But his body had other ideas. His feet didn’t move toward the exit. His arms, still crossed, didn’t feel as tense anymore. Something had shifted, and even as he tried to convince himself this meant nothing, he knew he was lying.

You stepped forward, mic in hand. “Wow, the adrenaline in this room’s no joke. Or maybe it’s the beer talking?” you teased, your tone a perfect mix of challenge and charisma. “If you’re still here, we’ll take that as a sign we’re not too bad, right?”

The crowd answered with cheers and whistles, as if accepting the band’s presence instinctively rather than out of total conviction. From his corner, Seiya rolled his eyes, exasperation creeping into his thoughts. Great. Now they’re interacting. Guess they’re officially part of the ring ecosystem.

You laughed lightly, playing off their response. “See? Stepping out of the routine’s not so bad. No offense, but I think I’d rather hear this than the noise of fists flying, right? Same chaos, just… more in tune.” You arched a brow, your words dripping with playful daring.

Seiya snorted. Sure. Like this place needs motivational philosophy now. He glanced around, noticing how, against all odds, some people seemed genuinely responding to your words. What’s next? Self-help speeches between rounds?

But deep down, something about your words unsettled him—not because they were false, but because they rang true. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but tonight felt different. What had always been a predictable grind—a cycle of fights and losses—now had an unexpected layer. He refused to acknowledge it and settled back into his usual stance of indifference.

“We’re making tonight count,” you said, your voice steady but light. “If you came here to forget it all for a while, then let’s do it right.”

The night rolled forward, the next song on the brink of starting. Seiya let out a long sigh—the kind of sigh you give when you realize you’ve already lost the fight. Fine, he thought with reluctant acceptance. I’ll stay. But not because I want to. Just to see if this keeps being good.

Yeah, right. Like he didn’t already know the answer.

The last chord faded into the air, leaving behind a chaotic euphoria. The crowd—who’d initially eyed the band with the same suspicion reserved for a sketchy street vendor at dawn—was now roaring with applause, whistles, and shouts that mingled admiration with raw adrenaline. The ring, once a space ruled by fists and wagers, had transformed into another world—one where sweat and sound fused into something unforgettable.

Still holding the mic, you let the night’s energy course through you before speaking. You took a deep breath, your body still vibrating with the intensity of the final song, and when you spoke, your voice carried strong, steady. “That was amazing—thank you!”

The crowd answered with louder cheers, some even banging on the metal fences in a makeshift round of applause. The band exchanged glances—Caleb glowing with pure adrenaline, Jonah as chill as ever, and Elise somewhere between relief and satisfaction.

“We came here to play, but you made it worth it,” you continued, your voice tinged with the thrill of the moment. “See you soon, and remember: art can be just as loud and fierce as the punches.”

Jonah chuckled at your words, Caleb lifted his arms in triumph like he’d just won a championship match, and Elise leaned into her bass, eyes closed for a second, a smile tugging at her lips—a clear, resigned ‘you were right’. Turning to them, you let the rush settle in your chest, your heart pounding like Caleb’s drumming, the energy still echoing on your skin.

Amid the uproar, while you and your bandmates started packing up, something shifted. A gaze, from the crowd—different from the rest, pulling at your attention. Instinctively, your head turned to find it, but the dim light and packed space worked against you. You shook it off, deciding it was probably just another fan drawn to the band’s presence.

Still, you knew. You felt. This wasn’t just anyone.

When most of the gear was packed, you gave your band a subtle signal—a motion they knew well. Their nods came quick, silently granting you a moment to yourself: you needed air. Space. That breath between chaos and calm where scattered fragments could knit themselves back together, grounding you anew.

You threaded your way to the building’s outer wall, stepping into shadows that wrapped around you like a familiar embrace. Leaning against the rough concrete, your spine unwound just enough, the solid contact anchoring you to reality. Your hands, still tense from gripping the mic, gradually unclenched, the phantom feel of metal lingering against your fingertips.

Closing your eyes, you let the night speak. The distant hum of the dispersing crowd, the muffled music still pulsing from inside, the soft crackle of leaves brushing against the breeze—it was your private concert of serenity, the exact rhythm you needed to balance the lingering fire in your chest.

Your thoughts spiraled like looping notes in a tricky melody. Memories of standing in the center of the ring, absorbing every vibration, every look, every emotion, filled you with a controlled kind of euphoria. You’d never been one for cliché expectations or the chaotic rebel archetype often stapled to rock musicians.

For you, every note had a purpose; every word sung stretched deeply rooted truths. It wasn’t just noise—it was art, impact, connection. But these moments of calm mattered just as much, the spaces where you questioned whether you’d reached every soul you aimed to touch, whether your music had truly delivered something real.

Your breath came slow, deliberate, your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Beneath it, though, a faint tremor thrummed, a current refusing to fade completely. You’d done what you came to do—that much was clear—but you couldn’t deny the restless charge still coursing through you. Your legs shook just slightly—not out of weakness, but a surplus of energy seeking release. With a smooth, deliberate motion, you tilted your head, letting the night air kiss your neck, clearing your thoughts.

Faces from the crowd flickered in your mind—some brimming with doubt, others curious, at first. Now, those same faces had sent you off with cheers and applause, their echoes still thudding faintly in your chest. It wasn’t vanity driving your reflections, but a hunger to understand. Had they seen what you intended to show? Had they grasped that music wasn’t just chaotic noise, but something capable of turning even the harshest spaces into living, breathing transcendence? You weren’t looking for easy answers—you knew real connections didn’t happen in an instant. They lingered. Grew. Took root.

And then you felt it. Not a sound, not a sudden movement—but a presence. The kind of energy that pulls your senses to alert before your thoughts catch up. Instinctively, you turned toward the shift, scanning the dim air for what had unsettled it.

And there he was.

He emerged from the side door with a natural ease that felt almost too perfect—like it had been practiced. His steps were firm but unhurried, a casual confidence radiating from the way his zip hoodie hung loosely over his shoulders and how the messy strands of his dark hair caught the faint moonlight filtering through the shadows. There was something about him you recognized before you even understood why. Maybe it was the way his expression balanced exhaustion and self-assuredness in perfect harmony, like someone who’d mastered the art of survival.

He's handsome, though.

He didn’t seem to have noticed you yet, but every fiber of his being reacted to your presence, as if drawn to it without choice. You stayed still, keeping your gaze locked on him—no retreat, no hesitation. And when his eyes finally found yours, it happened: that spark, that small friction between two worlds that weren’t supposed to touch, but somehow did.

It was him, you thought, the realization hitting as you remembered the feeling from earlier in the ring. That sensation of being watched, of someone seeing you differently from all the others, lingering in your chest like an echo.

Seiya, on the other hand, had already decided it was time to go. He’d been there longer than planned, and staying any longer would mean admitting that something about all of this had gotten to him. And no thanks.

His feet carried him more by habit than conscious decision. There were too many reasons to leave and zero to stay. Routine was all he knew, and even though tonight had been different, it wasn’t going to break him out of it.

He was adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder when he saw you.

Just a glimpse at first, a figure half-lost in the shadows. His brain told him to keep walking, but something made him stop. His gaze, which usually avoided lingering on anyone, locked onto yours, and he couldn’t look away. There was something in your eyes—an intensity mixed with calm, a contradiction that somehow matched the chaos of the world around you. For a moment—and for the second time that night—everything else disappeared.

The moonlight brushed against you in soft streaks, just enough to outline your figure and amplify that aura around you, that thing that couldn’t be named but demanded attention. It wasn’t just the way your hair fell or the relaxed posture you held, marked with an almost defiant confidence. It was how you occupied space, like the night itself bent to fit around you.

Simply beautiful.

Seiya wasn’t the type to get caught up in someone else’s gaze. His life was built on walls no one got through, and he liked it that way. But this time, the walls didn’t go up. This time, it felt like there was no “before” or “after”—just the moment you both shared in that exact second.

“Escaping the noise too?” you asked, your voice slicing through the quiet with a mix of curiosity and challenge.

Seiya tilted his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on you like he was trying to figure you out. “Something like that. Though some people seem… fascinated by it.”

You let out a small laugh, leaning forward just enough to signal you were sizing him up too. “So, are you the type who watches from a distance, or do you like to be part of the show?”

“Depends,” Seiya replied, his tone dry but laced with humor. “Which one causes less trouble?”

You raised an eyebrow, a half-smile curving your lips. “Well, you stuck around till the end. Maybe you’re more part of the show than you like to admit.”

Seiya exhaled sharply through his nose, the slightest betrayal of amusement flickering across his face. “Seemed less pathetic to stay than to leave halfway through,” he shot back, his tone flat, though his stance betrayed the cracks in his indifference.

Your laugh came again, the kind that felt deeper than it sounded, carrying a weight of genuine amusement. “You’ve got a real talent for making a completely normal decision sound like a personal tragedy.”

Seiya turned his head slightly, eyeing you with a mix of disbelief and faint amusement. Is this really what we’re doing right now? “I just keep expectations low,” he countered, like it would somehow help him regain footing in the exchange.

You tilted your head, faking a thoughtful expression. “Smart move. Too bad you watched the show—that kind of ruins the whole ‘not interested’ vibe you’ve got going.”

He clicked his tongue but couldn’t stop the slight smirk tugging at his lips. Alright. She’s good at this. “I don’t like leaving without knowing how something ends. Call it professional curiosity.”

“Professional, huh?” you shot back, your smile playful, almost feline, your eyes gleaming with genuine yet calculated interest. “Alright then, Simon Cowell, what’s your verdict? Did we survive the ring, or did they let us stay because kicking us out would’ve been more effort?”

Seiya, amused by the nickname, stifled a laugh and tilted his head slightly, pretending to think, his face the picture of neutrality. “It was... a decent attempt. I was this close to telling them never to let you back, but I figured I’d be generous.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile stretching just a fraction. “Wow. Thanks for your mercy. A true act of generosity.”

Seiya shook his head, trying to mask the humor flickering in his eyes, but it was no use—she’d already seen through it. Alright, I can play along, he thought, rolling his shoulders slightly to loosen the tension he hadn’t realized he was holding.

You stretched lazily, shaking off the remnants of adrenaline still humming in your muscles from the performance. Then, without warning, you turned slightly toward him, your energy calm yet charged with intent.

You didn’t push him. Didn’t stare like you were expecting some dramatic confession. You just looked at him, studied him, like you could see past the walls he’d spent years perfecting. The sensation sent a quiet electric shock down his spine. Shit. I liked that.

Finally, he let out a short sigh—the kind that marked a partial surrender. “It wasn’t bad.”

Satisfied, you laughed softly, the sound short but triumphant. “That’s probably the closest thing to a compliment you’ve given all night.”

Seiya shook his head, planting his hands on his hips as his lips curled into a laugh he couldn’t quite contain. “A compliment? Wow, sweetheart, if that’s your standard, someone needs to get you into a crash course.”

You didn’t hold back your own laughter, the entire exchange skirting the edge of ridiculous yet undeniably charming. “A crash course? Oh, please. Tell me you’re not volunteering to teach it, because with that level of compliments, I can already guess the syllabus: Lesson one—How to Be Barely Acceptable.”

He dropped his gaze to the ground, shaking his head and biting his tongue lightly to keep from grinning too widely. When his eyes lifted to meet yours again, the glint in them was mischievous.

“What do you want? More elaborate compliments?” he said, his voice dry but laced with a quiet challenge. “Hate to break it to you, but those aren’t part of the basic package. If you want the deluxe, you’re gonna have to work a little harder.”

One eyebrow shot up, incredulous but amused. This was shaping up to be more entertaining than you’d expected. Crossing your arms over your chest, you tilted your chin up, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, really? So that’s your way of asking me to come around here more often? Kind of an odd approach, I’ll admit, but hey, it's fair.”

Seiya let out a short laugh, more a sharp exhale through his nose than a real sound, as he raised his chin slightly, meeting your gaze with a mix of steady defiance and a flicker of arrogance. His posture stayed loose—relaxed, shoulders barely leaning back, as if the entire conversation was a game he already knew how to win.

You noticed that careful confidence radiating off him, and something inside you stirred—a spark of intrigue laced with amusement. You tilted your head slightly, matching his calm intensity, studying him like you were deciding whether to give him the edge in this verbal duel. His smile, which had started as just a hint, grew wider, slower, more dangerous—like a playful threat.

Seiya broke eye contact for a moment, letting the silence stretch like it belonged to him, before looking back at you, his eyes glowing with something balanced between quiet certainty and effortless magnetism.

“Who said I was asking?” he repeated, his tone light enough to seem casual, but sharp enough to leave no room for doubt.

You feigned a gasp, your eyes never leaving his. “Oh, my bad. I thought I caught a trace of vulnerability there for a second. But of course, I should’ve known—definitely not your style.”

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to bring his presence closer without crossing the line into invasive.

“I’m just stating the obvious,” he added, letting the pause between his words hang in the air like a taunt. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he raised an eyebrow and let a faint, almost imperceptible smirk play on his lips. “You’ll be back.”

Both your eyebrows lifted this time, as if you were genuinely surprised, but your smile sharpened—an edge to it now, like someone who’d silently accepted the challenge without needing to declare it. Your arms stayed crossed, your back pressing into the wall like you’d decided to settle in and enjoy the show.

“I’ll be back, huh?” you repeated, letting his words hang provocatively in the space between you. “I’d love to hear your argument if you weren’t so… desperate to convince me.” Your tone danced between disbelief and playful mockery, your gaze locked onto his like you’d just uncovered something fascinating. “For someone who claims they stayed till the end out of courtesy, you seem awfully invested in whether or not I return.”

As you spoke, a slow smile curved your lips—the kind that said you were enjoying calling him out but leaving him just enough room to fire back. Come on, impress me. Show me you can keep up, you thought, studying every subtle shift in his expression.

Seiya’s eyes narrowed just slightly, as if weighing each word before throwing it back. His smile unfolded with deliberate ease, a brief flicker that didn’t bother hiding how amused he was by your comment.

“Awfully invested?” he repeated with mock surprise, his voice dripping with irony but tinged with something warmer—almost flirtatious. He stepped closer, the movement slow and impossibly smooth, closing the gap between you with the kind of ease that felt calculated. “Well, if something doesn’t add up, maybe you’re looking in the wrong place. Maybe the problem isn’t my interest—maybe it’s how much you’re thinking about it.”

The spark in your eyes brightened, a silent challenge reflected in your expression. Your smile turned mischievous, and you leaned in just enough to shrink the space he’d bridged, meeting him head-on.

“Oh, sure,” you said softly, your tone bordering on conspiratorial. “Blame the observer. Interesting tactic. But if you’re so good at pointing out other people’s flaws, why not start with your own? Because, so far, it looks like you’re enjoying this way more than you’d ever admit.”

Seiya let out a quiet laugh, though this time it carried something different. It wasn’t any less playful, but it felt more restrained, like part of him had decided to pump the brakes without drawing too much attention to it.

“You know, Star,” he said, his voice infused with that signature light irony of his, “for someone who keeps insisting they’re not interested, you seem pretty dedicated to challenging me.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, your smile sharpening with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“Star?” you repeated, letting the word hang between you like you were deciding whether to accept or reject the nickname outright.

Seiya tilted his head, unhurried, clearly savoring the moment.

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, as though no further explanation was needed. Then he let loose a lazy smile, one loaded with intention. “You shine. You draw attention. And admit it—you love being the center of the stage.”

You let out a low chuckle, dropping your arms and resting them behind you.

“Well, aren’t you poetic,” you said with mock innocence. “But tell me—is that an observation or a veiled compliment?”

Seiya held your gaze, his smirk sharpening just enough to reveal the glint of a challenge. “I’ll let you figure that one out.”

And there it was again—that flicker of intrigue that lit up his dark gaze. It was the spark that had kept you engaged, responding to every word he threw your way, keeping you entertained in his presence longer than you’d intended. It was curious, striking, unique. Though, of course, you’d never admit that out loud—least of all to him.

His confidence was fascinating, sure, but you weren’t about to fan the flames of his ego. Not yet.

“You know,” you began, your tone playful but sharp, “I appreciate that you at least care about putting on a show. It’s the least I’d expect from someone with an ego the size of yours.”

Seiya let out a theatrical sigh. “There you go again with the ego. It’s fascinating how that’s always the first thing you go for—like you’re trying to convince me of something. Do you want me humble, or do you just enjoy the effort?”

You grinned, unapologetic. “Convince? Not really. That’s your job—you seem pretty good at it. I’m just saying you’ll keep thinking you’re irresistible no matter what, so I might as well make use of it.”

“That sounds like a confession. Careful, Star, you might end up admitting you find me charming,” he teased, arching his brows, his smirk lazy but razor-sharp.

You laughed, placing a hand over your chest. “Let’s not exaggerate. Pleasant? Maybe. Entertaining? Sure. Stubborn and in denial? Absolutely. Charming…? Let’s stick with ‘interesting.’”

Seiya pretended to mull it over, then snapped his fingers. “I’ll take it. ‘Interesting’ has potential—kinda mysterious, kinda promising. I’m keeping it.”

The air between you still vibrated with that magnetic tension neither of you seemed willing to break. You looked at him with a mix of amusement and scrutiny, enjoying how, even in his apparent ease, he kept that edge in every word.

He was... interesting. The way he played without losing too much ground, balancing sass with caution, like someone who wanted to dive in but kept one foot on the shore. Curious, you thought. Is he always like this, or is it just with me?

A mystery worth unraveling, wasn’t it?

Straightening up slightly, you kept that fierce yet effortless energy wrapped around you. “Maybe I should keep coming back. Who knows—maybe you’ll outdo my ‘interesting’ expectations and prove you actually know how to give a decent compliment.”

“And maybe you’ll prove you really don’t need them, Star,” he shot back, his tone lighter, more amused now. Touché.

The two of you stayed there, caught in that small bubble the rest of the city seemed to have forgotten. Neither of you moved right away; neither filled the air with needless chatter. It was simple—but not empty. There was something about sharing this space, this moment, that left a mark, like the universe had decided this wasn’t just a random encounter.

The silence wasn’t awkward—it felt like a third participant in your interaction, filling the gaps with everything left unsaid. The words you traded were charged with double meanings, but it wasn’t just the words that carried the moment. It was the details: the way Seiya tilted slightly forward when he spoke, the gleam in your eyes when you responded, the calculated pauses both of you seemed to have mastered.

The closeness between you wasn’t overwhelming—it was just enough to make every movement, every gesture, carry weight. A challenge in itself, a game where neither of you was willing to back down, but neither was rushing forward too quickly. The air felt charged, brimming with unspoken possibilities and unacknowledged expectations.

This balance—between heat and control, between hidden intensity and playful banter—was what made the moment so unique. Neither of you had crossed any lines, but you both knew you were toeing the edge, and that edge was enough to keep you hooked in the game.

“Maybe,” he finally said, his grin small but almost conspiratorial. “And just maybe, if you skip the Glam Metal in your next set, you might actually score higher with me.”

The comment hung in the air, trailing his laid-back but deliberate tone. You raised a hand, cutting off any incoming replies, before leaning slightly to one side, adopting a theatrically relaxed posture.

“Glam Metal, huh? What’s the deal, Cowell? Not a fan of the genre?” you shot back, raising a single eyebrow with exaggerated surprise.

Seiya paused for a moment, feigning serious consideration, then shook his head. “Too much flash. Too much hairspray,” he admitted flatly.

You puckered your lips in faux disappointment before they curved into a conspiratorial smirk. “Shame. Guess I’ll have to work on changing that.”

One of his brows arched, curious and slightly amused. “Oh? That desperate to get a better compliment out of me? Ambitious, Star.”

You clicked your tongue and rolled your eyes, but the playful smile stayed firmly in place. “I just like a good challenge, that’s all. Maybe the mistake was making you feel important,” you retorted, narrowing your eyes with a teasing edge. “You just focus on staying interesting, and it might work out better for you.”

Seiya let out a disbelieving but thoroughly satisfied laugh—this was all turning out so much better than he’d expected. It outshined any expectations that might’ve crossed his mind from the second your gazes had locked.

The night felt like it was slowly wrapping itself around you both, but neither of you seemed quite ready to call it quits. The conversation hadn’t been mere banter—it was a challenge, a duel camouflaged in playful sparring.

But now the challenge was unmistakably on the table. The promise of a next encounter lingered in the air, and though neither of you said it aloud, you both knew this wouldn’t be the last time you shared the same stage.

“You definitely have a flair for the dramatic,” he said at last, his crooked smile settling firmly as he stepped back, deliberately creating distance. “Just don’t let it go to your head when you find out I’m easier to impress than I look.”

“Easy? Ow, and here I thought I’d found a challenge,” you complained, dropping your shoulders in mock disappointment. “Guess I’ll take comfort in the fact you just admitted you’re easy to impress. Takes the pressure off.”

Seiya took another step back, raising both hands in faux surrender, though the spark in his eyes said he wasn’t done yet. “Ah, don’t mistake honesty for weakness, Star. I’m just setting the stage for what comes next.”

You watched as he stepped further away, the reality sinking in that your paths would soon split again. Somewhere deep inside, a part of you wished you could stretch this moment just a little longer, that fate might conspire in your favor and keep him there. But another part of you buzzed with excitement for what was ahead—the anticipation of everything you’d both silently promised would happen next time.

You might’ve been about to part ways, but you carried the unspoken certainty of meeting again.

“How thoughtful,” you called out before he could leave, crossing your arms. “I just hope your memory’s as good as you claim. Wouldn’t want you forgetting your own words.”

Seiya paused to give you one last glance, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he walked further away. “What’s this? Doubting how unforgettable you are? Where’d all that confidence go, sweetheart?” he teased, finishing with a wink that lit a slow fire in your chest. “Relax, though—it wouldn’t be so easy to forget something like this, Star.”

Finally, he turned his back and continued on his way. His words left a strange flutter in your stomach, one you couldn’t quite pin down. Surprise, butterflies, or the leftover cold pizza you’d scarfed down before hitting the stage—any of those could’ve been the culprit.

What you did know was that this guy, with his disheveled charm and effortless aloofness, carried something—a something—that pulled at you, like opposite poles of a magnet. He was interesting, you hadn’t been lying about that. There was something about him that kept you on edge, intrigued, drawn in. It was too soon to jump to conclusions, though—you’d need more than a teasing smile and a challenging gaze to figure out what was really going on.

And of course, you were willing to find out.

The space itself seemed to hold on to a piece of you both, a spark that hadn’t quite fizzled out. Neither of you had fully realized it yet—not entirely. The connection was there, subtle, just an idea flickering at the edges of your thoughts, shapeless but persistent. And yet, you both felt it: there was something in the air tonight, something that made the moment resonate longer and louder than expected.

At first, you’d been full of doubts. Something about this place hadn’t quite clicked with what you wanted to project. Was the crowd the right fit? Would this gig be worth it? You’d considered keeping it simple, not overcomplicating things in a venue that didn’t entirely feel like yours.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t about the place or even the music anymore. It was the challenge, the meeting of minds, the chemistry that seemed to weave itself into the air in so little time. Now, the idea of avoiding this place didn’t even cross your mind. Instead, you found yourself searching for a reason to come back. The venue hadn’t changed, but the reason had.

For Seiya, nights like this always seemed fleeting. They started with a clear purpose: keep moving, don’t put down roots, don’t linger longer than necessary. Sticking around hadn’t been his plan; in fact, he hadn’t even seen the point in staying.

But something shifted when he heard you, when he saw you in that ring. Your sharp comebacks, your mischievous smile, your gaze, your energy. It hadn’t just kept him alert—it made him wonder, What if I stayed a little longer? Every word exchanged with you etched itself into his mind, not as a casual conversation, but as a spark that kept quietly fueling a fire within him. It wasn’t the place, the music, or the moment. It was you.

Both of you, from your own angles, had landed on the same realization: the other had turned an otherwise forgettable night into something that refused to fade. The early doubts—about staying, or even coming back—had been erased by the constant charge of your interaction.

Seiya, someone who avoided looking back as much as possible, had found a reason to hold onto the memory. And you, someone who never let a place dictate your presence, now had a reason to return—and it wasn’t the lights or the stage.

The contrast between where you’d both started and where you’d ended was unmistakable. That invisible connection, like an unseen bridge built with each word, each glance, kept you tethered. And though neither of you would admit it out loud, you both knew this wasn’t a connection that would easily fade.

You’d always believed true connections didn’t happen instantly—that they lingered, spread, took root. But maybe, just maybe, this was the exception. Maybe it still needed time to grow, to catch fire, but the spark was there.

And sometimes, all it takes is a spark to start a wildfire.

#Seiya x reader #saint seiya #knights of the zodiac #Knights of the Zodiac: The Beginning #mackenyu #Mackenyu Seiya #pegasus seiya #live action #fem reader #x reader #romance #strangers to friends #friends to lovers #reader insert

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