#there he is. the man. the myth. the... something

[ganondorf]

the thing is so many people try so hard to "understand" ganondorf but in order to do that you have to acknowledge that

1. loz is imperialist and orientalist in its themes

2. its narrative in some games functions more as propaganda rather than any sort of fairy tale-esque fantasy story

that is to say the orientalist themes wrt to ganondorf start when they decided to take the main antagonist, originally only a non-human monster, and portray him as a man from the desert with every possible caricaturization

and, a lot of the way that the hylian monarchy is portrayed is based on both medieval europe and japanese myth — the latter especially embodying the "divine emperor" ideology, which was something that was often utilized to justify imperialist aggression from japan, by inculcating the belief that the emperor was divinely ordained to rule the world

and b. what i mean that loz narratively functions more like propaganda than a fairy tale-esque fantasy in some games, is that there is no coherent moral statement to be found. particularly in ocarina of time and totk (the latter of which is sort of a revisit of the former) ganondorf does not actually function as any sort of parable. which is why any attempts to analyze and determine his goals beyond "evil guy from the desert wants to steal our grass" hits a dead end. you can't determine any sort of moral statement or anything about ganondorf's actual character just from looking at the source material alone. which is why so many people who analyze these things often come to these conclusions — not because we're trying to "defend" or ""woobify"" ganondorf, but because the writing in loz often makes it hard to come to any other conclusion with him besides this "fear of the other," that the demon from the desert will ruin everything you know and love

i'm quoting someone else on this but ganondorf as portrayed in canon is only whatever he needs to be in order to justify the fantasy of killing him

[wakeup01]

IDOL

“Babe, I’m horny. Is your mouth busy right now?”

Mike was your average 23 year old football jock. The type of vapid fuckboy that peaks in high school and whose bigotry was worn as a personality trait. His current target of ridicule was Koreans, or specifically the rise and popularity of K-pop. A source of frequent frustration when the topic arose with his girlfriend. The petty insults and flagrant xenophobia made him feel bigger, helped hide his insecurities. He was a ‘man’. Something he hoped was proved by his broad shoulders and large dick. Korean men challenged that conceit. The attention they garnered from girls was like an affront to his existence. Any opportunity to insult them and the music was one he took; ‘they all looked the same’, ‘kpoop,’ ‘is that a guy or a girl?’

“Not this shit again. What the fuck are they even saying? How do you even understand that nonsense babe?” Mike yelled, while his girlfriend Jen watched a music video of her favourite boy group. She attempted to ignore his comments but he just couldn’t pass up the opportunity. “Jesus, how do you find these twigs attractive, they’re obviously all flaming homos.” He claimed, as the group gyrated their hips at the screen. A joke he thought was original and funny enough to laugh at himself.

“God, I’ve had enough of your small dick energy!” Jen exasperated through gritted teeth as she went to pause the video.

“Bro, don’t be gay…” Mike began to say before a bright light enveloped the room.

It was a remark he would come to regret a bit too late. With a flash Mike was transported to the other side of the screen, standing alone within the set he had just seen playing in the music video. Jen was nowhere in sight. It defied explanation, particularly to someone who failed college. Or ‘failing upwards’ as he called it. It was if time had stood still around him. Looking down gave a bigger shock. Mike’s once muscled body impossibly slimmed before his very eyes; his biceps deflating like a balloon, pecs flattening, tan whitening. Within seconds his body had morphed into that of a lithe 20 year old twinky Korean idol. Indistinguishable from the ones he routinely made fun of. The stereotype he had formed.

It was nothing short of a nightmare. The hundreds of hours spent in the gym to bulk up was akin to a myth. This was a body made for fashion magazine covers and social media appeal. A diet and workout regime laser focused on being slim, unassuming and feminine. His unfamiliar face had turned cute and innocent looking, freckled with smooth, porcelain skin. Large quantities of makeup covered up any hint of a blemish. Colourful and bright clothes popped out from the greys and blacks he was accustomed to. A far cry from his rather brutish appearance as a jock.

Mike shuddered at a more shameful revelation; his ass was now alarmingly large, and his tiny waist would have made his girlfriend Jen jealous. He lowered a hand to cup and feel the heft of his right butt cheek, shuddering as the warm fullness jiggled within his palm. The feeling made him feel good in a way he didn’t want to admit, like the nerves on his body had been rewired. He had never even considered his rear as something he could deride pleasure from, the idea alone disturbed his conservative nature.

Mike looked up, peering through long dark hair that pulled down and covered his eyes seductively. His tiny button nose twitched. A scent of lavender wafted up from his skinny chest. Every part of him felt manufactured to be beautiful and flawless, like a plastic doll.

“Fuck me. What the hell bro!” He shouted out, to no response. “Babe! Jen! This ain’t funny!” Mike said with uncertainty, hoping this was all some prank, or at least a nightmare. Maybe Jen was just getting her own back somehow.

The shock of his new form was short lived, as his mind began to shift, the universe course correcting in light of his altered Asian appearance. It felt like his personality was splitting in two. Mike and…someone else. There was a new voice in his head and it was getting louder with each passing second. Unlike Mike, it was peppy and enthusiastic. It sounded like him, but also not. Perverted. It made him recoil. Mike’s mind started to fill with lyrics, and not ones in English. It was the voice, it had to be; it was just there, occupying the back of his head, like a barely heard whisper. ‘바꾸자!’ 바꾸자!’ It said. Sang. To Mike’s horror, the words that should have been nothing but gibberish were making perfect sense.

“The f…f…frick? This, this…uhh strange.” Mike stuttered, his English fragmenting.

“B…babe?” The usual swears and slang he used felt inappropriate, crude. It was unbecoming of someone like him. Like him? He second guessed, before that voice - that sickeningly positive voice, agreed. Like him. Yes. Besides, English was such a tough language to speak. Wait, was that true? Wasn’t he fluent? Kinda fluent? Well, maybe his pronunciation was a bit off. But it was cute, charming. He liked to play up the ‘Engrish’ and the confusion. People liked ‘the ditz’ and his lower intelligence was honestly a selling point.

‘바꾸자!’ The lyrics pressed upon him again, this time accompanied by a beat that looped around his skull like a record. A ritual. ‘바꾸자!’ Instinctually he started to hum along to the music playing over and over in his head, the melody was immediately catchy, it was as though he knew it off by heart. ‘바꾸자!’ It was stuck to his brain like chewing gum. Appropriately, the flavour seemed artificial, short-lived. The song was expertly produced, but soulless. Crafted to an exact science. Intended only to be played until the taste was gone. Content to consume and then dispose of when something new comes around. But that was the Kpop industry, that was his role. A short sell by date with a ticking clock. Capitalise on the looks, youth and popularity while you can. Michael attempted to argue, to fight back against the notion that he had anything to with it. That he was some meaningless cog in the Kpop music machine. That he existed to just look pretty, to drain easily swayed fans to make execs money. He was a true American, the greatest nation in the world. But the other side of him was getting stronger. The voice. They wanted the fame. The silly dances, the impersonal songs with no meaning. The weird infantilising and fetishising by fans. Impressionable, optimistic and swept up with the promise of popularity. The naive belief of his group ‘making it big’. Even though in reality, they were just one of dozens of new groups debuting each year. Unremarkable.

Mike felt himself slip, naively thinking about the attention he would get. The idea wormed itself in and gained leverage on his weakening psyche. Girls would be into it, wouldn’t they. Go all gooey at the sight of him. What’s worse, dance moves and strict choreography was starting to ingrain itself into his mind - overtaking all his knowledge and dedication to workouts and sports. Those topics were unimportant, useless to his future as a perfectly engineered Kpop boy. The facade of looking cool and confident took priority. Girls like the swagger though, he reasoned, as his cock shrank. They like the fakeness of it all. His hefty balls shrivelled.

A losing battle ensued inside Mike, he was quickly losing control. He cringed slightly as his lean body naturally moved and bounced to the song running through his head. His butt had a life of its own too, jiggling hypnotically to the beat. After all, his rear was his most notable feature, everyone understood it was the thing that set him apart in the group. He had ‘the ass’ as they said. The movements were immensely embarrassing to a ‘man’ like Mike, who prided himself on being as straight and masculine as humanly possible. This was ‘girly shit’, ‘gay ass’ behaviour. And yet he couldn’t stop himself in indulging his new Korean body. A body expertly trained for one thing. To entertain thirsty girls and gay boys. Whose worth would be measured against the other members and groups. To be ‘stanned’ - a culture Michael abhorred.

As his groin shrank, his dull and deep voice rose numerous octaves; higher and higher - with a noticeable lilt, until it was an appropriate high pitched squeak that would have people hyperventilating online. The sort of voice and accent that would facilitate shallow comments such as ‘omigosh’ ‘he serving’ and ‘high pitched fem king’. And of course comments speculating about his sexuality, his manhood. Not that there was anything to speculate about of course, Mike was as gay as a shiny rainbow with sprinkles on top. And his cock was barely worthy of mention. That much was obvious when wardrobe dressed him in those tight little shorts. Mike was…sorry, not Mike - that ugly name just didn’t fit him anymore. He was 민준 or Minjun. A gay Korean bottom. The worst kept secret among the boy group he was contracted to. A frequent point of teasing from the other members, but something they were keen to take advantage of whenever possible.

‘Mike’ internally screamed as a dreamy smile grew across his pretty manicured face, images of other men flashing across his mind. The idea of a ‘girlfriend’ - of being dominant, flittered from his memories. Servility, obedience and an eagerness to please ruled his new personality, one perfectly suited to fulfilling contractual obligations. And…other obligations, ones his more experienced group members expected from him. Huge, long, throbbing ‘obligations’. He pushed out his big bubble butt, a new feeling growing down below. Centering his whole body around his rear. A feeling of… emptiness. It elicited a whiny, girlish moan from his plump, pursed lips. A stark contrast to the low timbre voices from the groups rap line, the ones that would grunt loudly while using Minjun’s hole.

The infectious melody was getting louder, taking over his thoughts, his identity. The sound couldn’t be drowned out, it was an extension of him, his body. His PURPOSE. Minjun could feel a bubbly sense of joy rising in his chest. Unadulterated happiness. The feeling needed to escape, he needed to purge who he used to be. That foul mannish thing languishing deep inside him- like some disease. There was only one way he knew how. His eyes gleamed with youthful energy. The lights of the set flashed, cameras rolled. Music faded in from speakers. His mouth opened. Opened wide and sang. “바꾸자! 바꾸자 스위치를 켜다!” The words flowed effortlessly. Any trace of ‘Mike’ was expelled. Minjun sang and danced like there was no tomorrow. Time seemingly unfroze, the other members of the boy group jumping into the scene beside him, dancing in unison. Vocals harmonised. The kpop music video continued - with him in the centre. God he was stunning. Beautiful. An idol! He was ready for the stage, ready for the publicity, the fans, the outfits, the photoshoots, the collectable photocards with his face on them, the…the…cock. The big hard cocks that would fill him up after the filming. Excited to please the rest of the group. They all had such good…rhythm. Oh gosh, he was ready for all of it.

He shot a cheeky wink directly at the camera, no doubt setting millions of girls hearts a flutter. Including Mike’s ex girlfriend, Jen, who was happily watching her new favourite member on the screen. Enjoying their new track, titled ‘바꾸자!’ or ‘Let’s Change!’. ‘Wow, he has such a nice butt’ she thought, biting her lip, as the group did a somewhat humiliatingly suggestive twerk.

Backstage, after the cameras had stopped rolling and the horde of choreographers had all left, Minjun had another performance to ace. One that equally involved the use of his high pitched vocals and rhythmic timing. His unfocused eyes flittered and stared out across the room dimly, his lips pursed. Smiling while his back was leaned over and his feet spread into position. The other members laughed amongst themselves as Minjun felt a pressure grow behind him. Their deep voices made his spine tingle and his brain fuzzy. A pair of hands landed on his rear, kneading his bubble butt like a ball of dough. The first cock slowly lodged its way into his pillowy cheeks, before a more upbeat pace took over. A queue formed behind him, waiting to prove why they were ‘Idols’. Minjin moaned, eager to please every single member of the group.

‘Ya! The fuckable one, that’s me!’ He thought, enthusiastically while his brain melted to idiotic bliss.

[heesvnqie]

Shadows Of Desire- Shim Jaeyun!Jake

pairing: shim jaeyun!jake x Reader genre: bestfriend's pyschopatch brother x reader, dark romance, psychological thriller, horror warnings: dark themes, porn with plot, psychological tension, emotional manipulation, knife imagery, references to violence (including animal cruelty), obsessive behavior, explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes, emotional distress, and betrayal. word count: 15k (the longest fanfiction I've ever written, phew) a/n: This fanfiction has been a thrilling journey into the shadows, born from your vision of a dark, magnetic Jake and a reader torn between fear and fascination. Thank you for guiding this story through its twists—your requests shaped its haunting tone and emotional depth. For all the jakeu girlies like me, dropping a bomb!

The sun was dying, its last rays clawing through the half-drawn curtains of Hana’s house, painting the living room in streaks of blood-orange and shadow. The place always had a strange weight to it, like it was holding secrets in its walls, but today it felt heavier, almost alive with tension.

You’d been Hana’s best friend since middle school, spending years sprawled on her bedroom floor, trading secrets over bowls of popcorn or cramming for tests until your eyes burned. But today, Hana was different—skittish, her movements sharp and unsteady as she ushered you through the front door. Her sneakers scuffed against the polished hardwood, and her fingers twisted the strap of her backpack so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Keep it quiet, okay?” she hissed, her voice barely above a breath, as if speaking too loudly would shatter something fragile. Her dark eyes flicked toward the staircase, wide and glassy, like she was waiting for a predator to slink down from the shadows. “Jake’s home.”

Shim Jaeyun. Her older brother. You’d heard his name before, but he was more myth than man in Hana’s stories—someone she mentioned in rare, trembling whispers, always with a look of dread. “He’s not right, Y/N,” she’d said once, late at night during a sleepover, her voice muffled by her pillow. “He’s… I don’t know, he’s fucked up. Like, really fucked up. Just promise you’ll stay away from him, okay?” You’d nodded, more to calm her than because you understood. But the way her voice cracked, the way her hands shook when she spoke of him, stuck with you. Jake was a ghost in her life, a shadow she couldn’t escape, and now you were about to step into his territory.

You set your bag down by the couch, the soft thud sounding too loud in the oppressive quiet. The house was dim, the air thick with the faint scent of cedarwood and something sharper, metallic, that you couldn’t place. A clock ticked somewhere, its rhythm uneven, like a heartbeat struggling to stay steady. Hana grabbed your arm, her grip tight enough to bruise, and tugged you toward the hallway. “Let’s just go to my room,” she said, her voice high and thin. “We can study there.”

But before you could move, a sound stopped you cold—a slow, deliberate creak from upstairs, like someone was pacing across the floorboards, testing their weight. Hana froze, her breath hitching, her nails digging into your skin. “He’s up there,” she whispered, her lips barely moving. “Fuck, Y/N, just… don’t look at him, okay? Don’t talk to him.”

You nodded, but curiosity was a live wire in your chest, sparking with every step you took. You’d never seen Jake, not even in photos—Hana kept none of him, and their parents’ house was strangely barren of family portraits. All you had were her warnings, her fear, and the stories she’d let slip over the years. Stories of Jake coming home late, his clothes stained with something dark and sticky that wasn’t always paint. Stories of him smiling at her in a way that wasn’t kind, his eyes empty, like he was looking through her. Stories of knives—how he’d sit at the kitchen table, twirling a switchblade between his fingers, the blade catching the light as he hummed tunes only he could hear.

The staircase loomed ahead, a dark spiral leading to the second floor. Hana’s grip on you tightened as you passed it, her eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to glance up. But you couldn’t help it. Your gaze lifted, drawn to the shadows at the top of the stairs, and that’s when you saw him.

Shim Jaeyun.

He stood at the edge of the landing, one hand resting lazily on the banister, his posture deceptively relaxed. He was taller than you’d imagined, lean but wiry, his black hoodie clinging to a frame that seemed built for precision, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, casting shadows across his face, but it was his eyes that hit you like a punch—piercing, unreadable, a deep brown that bordered on black, like twin voids swallowing the light. They locked onto you, and the weight of his gaze was physical, pinning you in place. His lips curled into a faint smirk, but it wasn’t warm. It was sharp, like the edge of a blade, and it sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“Hana,” he said, his voice low and smooth, almost mocking, as he leaned forward slightly, his fingers tightening on the banister. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend.”

Hana flinched, her body shrinking against yours, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “She’s… she’s just here to study, Jake,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. “We’re going to my room. Don’t—don’t bother us, okay?”

Jake’s smirk widened, but his eyes never left you. He tilted his head, studying you like you were a specimen under glass, something he could take apart piece by piece. “What’s your name?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with something darker, something that made your pulse spike.

You swallowed, your throat dry, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even though every instinct screamed to look away. “Y/N,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Y/N,” he repeated, dragging out the syllables, tasting them like they were something he could savor. He took a step down the stairs, slow and deliberate, and Hana let out a small, choked sound, tugging at your arm. But you couldn’t move, rooted to the spot by the intensity of his stare. “Pretty name,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Suits you.”

Hana yanked you harder now, pulling you toward the hallway, but Jake’s presence filled the space like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable. As you passed the staircase, he descended another step, close enough that you caught the scent of him—cologne, sharp and expensive, mixed with that same metallic tang you’d noticed earlier, like iron or copper.

Your stomach twisted, a cocktail of fear and something else you didn’t want to name. His hand moved, and you saw it then—a glint of silver in his palm, a small switchblade he’d pulled from his pocket. He didn’t open it, just turned it over in his fingers, the metal catching the dim light as he twirled it with practiced ease, like it was an extension of himself.

“Don’t stay too late, Hana,” he said, his tone almost playful, but there was an edge to it, a warning wrapped in silk. His eyes flicked to you again, and the smirk returned, sharper now. “Wouldn’t want your friend getting… lost.”

Hana didn’t respond, just dragged you down the hallway, her breath ragged as she fumbled with the doorknob to her room. She shoved you inside and slammed the door, locking it with a click that echoed in the silence. Her back pressed against the wood, her chest heaving, her eyes squeezed shut like she was trying to block out the memory of him.

“He’s so fucking creepy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I told you, Y/N, he’s not normal. He’s… he’s a fucking psychopath. I’ve seen him do things, things I can’t—��� She cut herself off, shaking her head, her hands trembling as she hugged herself. “Just stay away from him, okay? Promise me.”

You nodded, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying the encounter in vivid detail. Jake’s eyes, his voice, the way he’d moved—like a predator playing with its prey, not because he was hungry, but because he enjoyed the game.

And the knife. God, the knife. The way he’d handled it, so casual, so intimate, like it was a lover’s hand he was caressing instead of a weapon. It should’ve terrified you, and it did, but there was something else there too, something that made your heart race and your skin prickle with heat. Something you didn’t want to admit, not even to yourself.

You sank onto Hana’s bed, the springs creaking under your weight, and tried to focus on her as she paced the room, muttering about how she hated living here, how she couldn’t wait to move out. But your thoughts kept drifting back to him.

To the way he’d said your name, like it was a secret he wanted to keep. To the way his fingers danced over that blade, precise and controlled, like he knew exactly how much pressure it would take to break skin.

The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in, the air too warm. You glanced at Hana’s desk, cluttered with textbooks and sticky notes, and noticed a photo tucked under a pile of papers—one of her and her parents, smiling at some beach vacation. No Jake. It was like he’d been erased from their lives, a phantom they refused to acknowledge. But he was real, too real, and he was upstairs, maybe still twirling that knife, maybe thinking about you.

“Y/N, are you even listening?” Hana’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and exasperated. She stood in front of you, hands on her hips, her face flushed with frustration. “I’m serious, you can’t go near him. He’s dangerous. I’ve seen him—” She stopped, biting her lip, her eyes darting to the door like she was afraid he’d hear her through the walls.

“Seen him what?” you asked, leaning forward, your curiosity outweighing your caution. “Hana, what’s he done?”

She shook her head, her hair falling into her face. “I don’t want to talk about it. Just… trust me, okay? He’s not someone you mess with. He doesn’t feel things like normal people. He’s—” Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. “He’s a monster.”

You wanted to press her, to demand details, but the fear in her eyes stopped you. It was raw, visceral, the kind of fear that came from living with something dark for too long. Instead, you nodded again, forcing a smile you didn’t feel. “Okay, I promise,” you said, but the words felt like a lie even as they left your lips.

Hana exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders, and moved to her desk, pulling out her laptop. “Let’s just do this stupid project,” she muttered, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “The sooner we finish, the sooner you can get out of here.”

You joined her, spreading out your notes, but your mind was fractured, half-focused on the words in front of you, half-lost in the memory of Jake. The way he’d looked at you wasn’t just curious—it was possessive, like he’d already decided you were something he wanted to claim.

And the knife… you couldn’t shake it. You imagined him alone now, maybe in his room, the blade flicking open with a soft snick, his fingers tracing its edge, testing its sharpness. Did he ever press too hard? Did he ever let it bite?

Hours passed, the sky outside turning black, the house growing quieter. Hana’s yawns grew frequent, her head bobbing as she fought to stay awake.

You were about to suggest calling it a night when you heard it—a faint sound from the hallway, like metal scraping against wood. Your heart lurched, and Hana’s eyes snapped open, her body going still.

“It’s him,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. She grabbed your hand, her palm clammy. “Don’t make a sound.”

You held your breath, straining to listen. The sound came again, slower this time, deliberate, like someone was dragging a knife along the wall, carving a line through the silence. It stopped just outside Hana’s door, and you swore you could feel him there, his presence a cold pressure seeping through the wood. The doorknob rattled, just slightly, and Hana let out a strangled whimper, her hand crushing yours.

Then, nothing. Just silence, heavy and suffocating. After what felt like an eternity, Hana exhaled shakily, releasing your hand. “He’s gone,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. She crawled to the door, pressing her ear against it, listening for any sign of him. “You should go home, Y/N. It’s not safe here.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. You gathered your things, your movements jerky, your skin still crawling with the memory of that sound.

Hana walked you to the front door, her eyes scanning the shadows like she expected him to appear out of nowhere. “Text me when you get home,” she said, her voice urgent. “And don’t come back for a while, okay? Not until I know he’s… not around.”

You stepped outside, the cool night air a shock against your flushed skin. The street was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of a car engine, but you felt exposed, like eyes were watching from the darkness.

You glanced back at the house, and for a moment, you thought you saw a silhouette in an upstairs window—Jake, standing motionless, his face hidden in shadow. But when you blinked, he was gone.

You walked home, your heart pounding, your mind a tangle of fear and fascination. Jake was everything Hana had warned you about—dangerous, unhinged, a psychopath. But there was something else, something that pulled at you like a current, dragging you toward him even as you tried to swim away. His eyes, his voice, the knife. He was a riddle wrapped in a threat, and you were already caught in his game.

The days after your first encounter with Jake were a blur of unease and fascination, like you’d brushed against something sharp and couldn’t stop thinking about the sting. Hana’s warnings echoed in your head—her trembling voice, her wide eyes, the way she’d locked her bedroom door like it could keep him out. “He’s a psychopath, Y/N,” she’d said, her words heavy with a fear that felt lived-in, worn like an old coat. “He doesn’t care about anyone. Not me, not our parents, not you.” But her fear only fueled your curiosity, a reckless part of you drawn to the danger in Jake’s eyes, to the way he’d twirled that switchblade like it was an extension of his soul.

You tried to stay away, you really did. For a week, you avoided Hana’s house, texting her excuses about being busy with school or family stuff. But her house was a magnet, and Jake was the iron in its core. Every night, you lay awake, replaying the moment he’d said your name, the way his voice had curled around it, possessive and intimate. You saw the glint of his knife in your dreams, the blade catching the light as it spun between his fingers, a dance of control and menace. You hated yourself for it, but you wanted to see him again—to test the edge of that danger, to see how close you could get before it cut.

It was a Thursday when you gave in. Hana had texted you, begging you to come over to finish a group project for your literature class. “Jake’s not here,” she’d promised, her message punctuated with a string of anxious emojis. “He’s been gone all week. Please, Y/N, we’re so behind.” You agreed, telling yourself it was just for the project, that you weren’t hoping to hear the creak of his footsteps or catch that metallic scent in the air.

When you arrived, the house was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that felt like it was waiting to be broken. Hana met you at the door, her smile strained, her eyes darting behind you like she was checking for shadows. “Come on,” she said, pulling you inside. “Let’s get this over with.”

You spread your notes across her dining room table, the same table where you’d imagined Jake sitting, twirling his knife while Hana cowered upstairs. The thought sent a shiver through you, and you glanced toward the staircase, half-expecting to see him there, leaning against the banister with that smirk. But the house stayed silent, the only sound the scratch of Hana’s pen and the occasional rustle of paper.

Hours passed, the sky outside bruising purple as dusk settled in. You were deep in a discussion about Wuthering Heights—Heathcliff’s obsession, Catherine’s defiance—when you heard it: a soft click, like a key turning in a lock. Hana’s head snapped up, her pen freezing mid-sentence. Her face drained of color, and she grabbed your wrist, her fingers cold and clammy. “He’s back,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Fuck, Y/N, he wasn’t supposed to be here.”

Your heart kicked into overdrive, but it wasn’t just fear. There was a thrill in it, a pulse of adrenaline that made your skin tingle. You should’ve been scared—Hana’s panic was contagious, her eyes wide with terror—but all you could think about was him. Jake. The way he’d looked at you, like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve or break.

The front door creaked open, and footsteps echoed through the house, slow and deliberate, each one sending a jolt through Hana’s body. She pushed her chair back, ready to bolt, but you stayed put, your gaze fixed on the hallway. You heard the jingle of keys, the rustle of a jacket being tossed aside, and then he appeared.

Jake stood in the doorway, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a plain white shirt clinging to his lean frame. His hair was messier than last time, falling into his eyes, but those eyes—God, those eyes—were just as piercing, just as empty. He carried a small canvas bag, the kind you’d use for groceries, but the way it hung heavy in his grip made you wonder what was inside. His gaze swept the room, landing on Hana first, then sliding to you. The air shifted, grew heavier, like a storm rolling in.

“Hana,” he said, his voice smooth and low, with that same mocking edge. “Working hard, I see.” His lips twitched into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were cold, calculating, like he was already three steps ahead in a game you didn’t know you were playing.

Hana’s grip on your wrist tightened, her nails biting into your skin. “We’re just doing school stuff,” she said, her voice high and brittle. “Don’t… don’t bother us, Jake.”

He ignored her, his attention fixed on you. He set the bag down on the counter, the contents clinking softly—metal against metal. Your stomach twisted, but you couldn’t look away. He reached into his pocket, and your breath caught as he pulled out the switchblade, the same one from last time. The silver gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and he flicked it open with a soft snick, the sound sharp enough to cut through the silence. He didn’t look at the knife, didn’t need to—his fingers moved with muscle memory, twirling it effortlessly, the blade a blur of motion.

“Y/N, right?” he said, his tone casual, like he was asking about the weather. But the way he said your name was different, heavier, like he was claiming it. He stepped closer, the knife still dancing in his hand, and Hana let out a small, choked sound, pulling you back.

“Jake, stop it,” she snapped, her voice trembling but defiant. “Leave her alone.”

He paused, his head tilting slightly, the knife slowing to a stop between his fingers. He held it lightly, almost delicately, but the threat was unmistakable. “Relax, Hana,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m just being friendly.” His eyes flicked to you again, and something flickered in them—amusement, maybe, or something darker. “You’re not scared, are you, Y/N?”

Your mouth went dry, but you forced yourself to speak, to meet his gaze even though it felt like staring into a void. “No,” you said, the word coming out quieter than you meant. It wasn’t entirely true—your heart was pounding, your pulse loud in your ears—but it wasn’t just fear. There was something else, something that made your skin flush and your breath hitch. Something you didn’t want to name.

His smirk widened, sharp and dangerous. “Good,” he said, his voice a low purr. He closed the knife with a flick of his wrist, the blade disappearing into the handle, but he didn’t put it away. Instead, he slid it across the table, letting it spin slowly, the metal glinting as it caught the light. It stopped inches from your hand, and you stared at it, your fingers twitching with the urge to touch it, to feel the weight of it, to understand what he saw in it.

“Jake, stop,” Hana said again, her voice cracking. She stood now, pulling you up with her, her eyes darting between you and the knife. “We’re going to my room. Just… leave us alone.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched as Hana dragged you toward the stairs. But as you passed him, his hand shot out, catching your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you. His touch was cold, his fingers strong, and the contact sent a jolt through you, like electricity arcing between you. Hana gasped, but Jake’s eyes were on you, only you.

“You should stay,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, like he was testing you. His thumb brushed over the pulse point in your wrist, and you wondered if he could feel how fast your heart was racing. “We could have fun.”

Hana yanked you free, her strength surprising, and practically shoved you up the stairs. “Don’t talk to him,” she hissed, her voice shaking with a mix of fear and anger. “Don’t even look at him, Y/N.”

She slammed her bedroom door behind you, locking it with a trembling hand. She leaned against it, her chest heaving, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “I told you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not normal. He plays with people, Y/N, like they’re toys. And that knife…” She trailed off, shuddering, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’ve seen him cut things, hurt things, just because he can. He likes it.”

You sank onto her bed, your wrist still tingling where he’d touched you. Your eyes drifted to the door, half-expecting to hear that scraping sound again, the knife against the wood. “What’s with the knife?” you asked, unable to stop yourself. “Why does he…?”

Hana shook her head, her expression haunted. “It’s like his fucking obsession,” she said, her voice bitter. “He’s always had it, since we were kids. He’d sit there for hours, sharpening it, flipping it, carving things into the furniture. Once, I saw him…” She stopped, swallowing hard, her hands clenching into fists. “I saw him with a stray cat, Y/N. In the backyard, late at night. He had that knife, and he was… he was just cutting it, not deep, not enough to kill, but enough to make it scream. He was smiling, like it was nothing. Like it was fun.” Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I ran inside and locked my door. I didn’t sleep for days.”

Your stomach churned, a sick mix of horror and fascination twisting inside you. You should’ve been repulsed, should’ve wanted to run as far from this house as you could. But instead, you pictured it—Jake in the moonlight, his face calm and focused, the blade glinting as it moved with precision. You hated how the image didn’t just scare you; it intrigued you, pulled you in like a dark tide. “Did you tell anyone?” you asked, your voice quiet, almost guilty.

Hana shook her head, wiping her eyes. “Who would believe me? Our parents think he’s just… troubled. They sent him to therapy when he was younger, but it didn’t do shit. He’s too smart, Y/N. He knows how to play people, how to make them think he’s normal. But he’s not. He doesn’t feel things like we do. He doesn’t care if he hurts someone. He just… enjoys it.”

You nodded, your throat tight, trying to process her words. But your mind kept circling back to Jake—his cold touch, his piercing gaze, the way he’d spun that knife like it was an extension of himself. You wondered what it would feel like to hold it, to feel the weight of something so dangerous in your hand. The thought was wrong, so wrong, but it lingered, curling around your thoughts like smoke.

Hana sat next to you, her breathing uneven, her hands still trembling. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him,” she said, her voice urgent. “I know he’s… I don’t know, intense or whatever, but he’s dangerous, Y/N. He’ll pull you in, and then he’ll break you. That’s what he does.”

“I promise,” you said, the words automatic, but they felt hollow. You wanted to mean them, wanted to believe you could walk away and forget the way Jake’s eyes had locked onto yours, the way his voice had made your name sound like a secret. But deep down, you knew you were lying—to Hana, to yourself.

The rest of the night was a blur of half-hearted studying, Hana’s nervous energy filling the room like static. You kept glancing at the door, your ears straining for any sound—a creak, a scrape, anything to signal he was still there, lurking just out of sight. But the house stayed quiet, too quiet, and when you finally packed up to leave, Hana insisted on walking you to the door, her arm linked tightly through yours like she was anchoring you to safety.

Outside, the night was cool, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. You glanced up at the house as you stepped onto the porch, and your heart stopped.

There, in the upstairs window, was Jake. He stood motionless, his silhouette stark against the dim light of his room, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile, just watched, the switchblade in his hand catching the light as he twirled it once, twice, before letting it disappear into his palm.

Hana didn’t see him—she was too busy checking her phone, muttering about calling you an Uber—but you felt his gaze like a physical touch, cold and unyielding. You turned away, your heart pounding, and forced yourself to walk down the street, the memory of that knife and those eyes burning into you.

The next few days were torture. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep without seeing him—his smirk, his blade, the way he’d held your wrist like he already owned you.

Hana texted you constantly, checking in, begging you to stay away from her house. But the pull was too strong, the need to know more about him, to understand the darkness that clung to him like a second skin.

It was late one evening, a week later, when you found yourself back at Hana’s house. She’d invited you over again, swearing Jake was out, that he’d been gone for days. You told yourself you believed her, but deep down, you knew you were hoping he’d be there. You needed to see him, to feel that rush again, even if it scared you.

The house was dark when you arrived, the windows black, the air heavy with the promise of a storm. Hana let you in, her face pale, her hands fidgeting as she led you to the living room. “We’ll work here,” she said, her voice tight. “It’s… safer.”

But before you could sit down, you heard it—a soft, rhythmic tapping from the kitchen, like metal against wood. Your heart leapt into your throat, and Hana froze, her eyes wide with terror. “No,” she whispered, grabbing your arm. “He’s not supposed to be here.”

The tapping stopped, and the silence that followed was worse, heavy and suffocating. Then, slow footsteps, deliberate, echoing through the house. Jake appeared in the doorway, wearing a red stripped with white sweater, brown belt buckled on beige pants, muscled forearms, one hand holding the switchblade. He wasn’t twirling it this time—just holding it, the blade closed but gleaming faintly in the dim light. His eyes found you immediately, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar, dangerous smirk.

“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like he was savoring the surprise. He stepped closer, and Hana shrank back, her breath hitching. “Miss me?”

Hana’s grip on your arm was painful now, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. He stopped a few feet away, leaning casually against the wall, the knife still in his hand. He tilted his head, studying you, and then, slowly, deliberately, he flicked the blade open. The snick was sharp, final, and you felt it in your bones.

“Jake, leave her alone,” Hana said, her voice shaking but fierce. “I’m serious.”

He ignored her, his eyes locked on yours. “You ever held one of these?” he asked, holding up the knife, letting it catch the light. “It’s… calming. You want to try?”

Your mouth went dry, your heart racing, but you didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because part of you—some dark, reckless part—wanted to say yes, wanted to feel the cold metal in your hand, to know what it was like to hold something so dangerous, so much like him. And he saw it, that flicker of curiosity in your eyes, because his smirk grew, his gaze darkening with something that wasn’t quite amusement, wasn’t quite desire, but something in between.

“Enough, Jake,” Hana snapped, stepping between you, her body trembling but her voice steady now. “Get out.”

He laughed, a low, quiet sound that sent a chill through you. “You’re no fun, Hana,” he said, but he didn’t move, didn’t put the knife away. He just stood there, watching you, the blade still in his hand, a silent invitation hanging in the air.

Hana grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the stairs, her steps quick and desperate. You followed, but not before glancing back at Jake, just for a moment. He was still watching, still smiling, and as you disappeared up the stairs, you heard the soft snick of the knife closing, followed by a low chuckle that echoed in your ears long after you reached Hana’s room.

Jake was a specter haunting your every thought, a blade pressed against the thin skin of your restraint. Since that night in Hana’s kitchen, he’d carved himself into your mind—the way his voice curled around your name, dark and possessive, the way his switchblade spun in his fingers, a dance of menace and control. You knew he was dangerous, knew the cold glint in his eyes wasn’t just a trick of the light. But knowing didn’t stop the pull, the reckless hunger to see how close you could get to his edge without falling over.

Hana’s call came on a Wednesday afternoon, her voice rushed and frazzled through the phone. “Y/N, I’m drowning in this lit project,” she said, the words tumbling out. “Can you come over? I need you to save my ass before this deadline kills me.” She didn’t mention Jake, and you didn’t ask, but the thought of him was there, a shadow in the corner of your mind, beckoning you back to that house.

“On my way,” you said, grabbing your jacket, the decision made before you could second-guess it. You told yourself it was for Hana, for the project, but the lie was flimsy, crumbling under the weight of your curiosity, your need to feel that electric chill again.

The sky was a bruise of gray clouds as you reached Hana’s house, the air thick with the scent of impending rain. The street was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that made your own breathing sound too loud. You knocked on the front door, the sound swallowed by the heavy stillness, and waited. No answer. You knocked again, sharper, but the house stayed mute, its windows dark and unblinking. A prickle of unease crawled up your neck, but you pushed it down, fishing out your phone to text Hana.

Hey, I’m here. Where you at?

No reply. You tried the doorknob, half-expecting it to be locked, but it turned with a soft click, the door groaning open like a warning. The air inside was cold, heavy with that familiar mix of cedarwood and something sharper, metallic, like blood or iron. You stepped into the foyer, your sneakers barely whispering against the hardwood, and called out, “Hana? You here?”

Silence answered, but it wasn’t empty. It was alive, charged, like the house itself was watching you. You set your backpack by the stairs, your eyes darting to the shadowed corners, the dim hallway stretching into darkness. “Hana?” you tried again, your voice thinner now, swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

A faint sound came from behind you—a soft snick, like metal flicking open. Your heart stopped, your body going rigid as the air shifted, colder now, heavier. You turned slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, and there he was—Jake, emerging from the shadows of the living room doorway like a phantom, his presence sucking the light from the room. He was closer than you’d expected, too close, his lean frame filling the space, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a tight shirt clinging to his chest. His dark hair fell into his eyes, but they gleamed through the strands, piercing and unreadable, locked on you.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, smooth, with a lilt of amusement that sent a shiver down your spine. “Sneaking in, are we?” He held his switchblade in one hand, the blade open, glinting faintly in the dim light as he tilted it, letting it catch the shadows. His other hand rested casually against the wall, but there was nothing casual about him—not the way he stood, not the way he looked at you, like you were prey he’d been waiting to catch.

You swallowed, your throat dry, forcing yourself to stand your ground even as every instinct screamed to run. “Hana called me,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “She said she needed help with a project. Where is she?”

Jake tilted his head, the knife twirling slowly in his fingers, a hypnotic motion that drew your eyes despite yourself. “Hana?” he said, his tone mocking, like he was playing with the word. “Not here. Must’ve slipped out. She’s like that—always running off.” He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and you backed up instinctively, your shoulder brushing the wall. “But you’re here,” he added, his smirk sharpening, “and that’s so much more… interesting.”

Your pulse hammered, a mix of fear and something hotter, more dangerous, curling in your chest. He’d come from behind you, silent as a ghost, and the realization made your skin prickle—the house had felt empty, but he’d been there, watching, waiting. The air was thick now, electric, like a storm about to break, and you couldn’t look away from him, from the blade, from the way his eyes seemed to see through you.

“I should go,” you said, but the words lacked conviction, your body refusing to move. His presence was a cage, invisible but unyielding, and you were already trapped.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, a velvet threat. He was closer now, close enough that you could smell him—leather, smoke, and that sharp, metallic tang that clung to him like a second skin. The knife stopped twirling, and he held it loosely, the blade pointed down, but its presence was a pulse in the air, a reminder of what he could do. “You came all this way,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours, dark and hungry. “Might as well stay.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated how it betrayed you, how he noticed—the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his smirk deepened. “Why?” you asked, the word slipping out, a challenge you didn’t mean to issue. “What do you want from me?”

He laughed, a low, quiet sound that felt like it crawled under your skin. “What do I want?” he echoed, stepping closer, so close you could feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze. “I want to know why you’re not running, Y/N. Why you’re standing here, looking at me like you’re not afraid, when you should be.” He lifted the knife, not threateningly, but deliberately, letting the blade brush the air between you, a whisper of cold steel. “You feel it, don’t you? The pull.”

Your stomach twisted, his words too close to the truth. You did feel it—the pull, the dark current dragging you toward him, toward the danger he embodied. You knew what he was, or at least you suspected it—the emptiness in his eyes, the ease with which he wielded that knife, the stories of blood and screams that clung to him like shadows. But it didn’t push you away. It drew you in, like a moth to a flame, and you hated how much you wanted to burn.

“I’m just here for Hana,” you said, but the lie was brittle, and he saw it shatter in your eyes.

“Sure you are,” he said, his voice a purr, laced with amusement. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, the knife still in his hand, its presence a cold counterpoint to his heat. “You ever held one of these?” he asked, his tone shifting, intimate now, like he was sharing a secret. “It’s… different. Like holding a piece of the world in your hand. You want to try?”

Your mouth went dry, your eyes flicking to the knife, to the way it gleamed, sharp and perfect. You should’ve said no, should’ve backed away, but the part of you that was reckless, that was drawn to him, wouldn’t let you. “Show me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes darkened, something like satisfaction flickering in them. He flipped the knife closed with a soft snick, the sound sharp in the quiet, and held it out to you, handle first. “Take it,” he said, his tone coaxing, a dare wrapped in silk. “Feel it.”

Your hand trembled as you reached for it, your fingers brushing his, cold and steady, the contact sending a jolt through you. The knife was heavier than you expected, its handle worn smooth from years of use, and you turned it over in your palm, the weight grounding but thrilling, like holding something forbidden. You looked up at him, and he was watching you, not just your face but your hands, the way you held it, like he was seeing something new in you, something he wanted to keep.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “It’s not forgiving if you don’t respect it.”

You nodded, your heart pounding, the knife cold against your skin. “Why do you like it?” you asked, the question raw, unfiltered. “What’s it mean to you?”

He stepped closer, his body inches from yours, his eyes locked on yours, dark and unyielding. “It’s truth,” he said, his voice soft but heavy, like a confession. “No masks, no lies. Just… power. You decide how it moves, how it cuts. It’s like holding someone’s soul in your hand.” He reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he guided your hand, turning the knife slightly, the motion deliberate, intimate. “You feel that, don’t you?”

You did. The knife felt alive, a pulse of potential in your grip, and the way he was looking at you—hungry, almost proud—made your head spin. You handed it back, your fingers lingering against his, and he took it slowly, his gaze never wavering.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words sinking into you, warm and dangerous, like a spark in dry grass. He stepped back, twirling the knife once before slipping it into his pocket, but the air between you stayed charged, heavy with unspoken promises.

The front door slammed open, and you flinched, the spell breaking like glass. Hana’s voice cut through the house, high and breathless. “Y/N? I’m so sorry, I got stuck at this stupid neighbourhood meeting—” She appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face flushed, her backpack half-slung over her shoulder. Her eyes darted between you and Jake, and her expression tightened, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “Jake,” she said, her voice clipped. “What’s going on?”

He leaned back against the counter, his smirk lazy but sharp, the knife gone but its presence still lingering. “Just chatting with Y/N,” he said, his eyes flicking to you, a private challenge in them. “She’s good company.”

Hana’s gaze snapped to you, her brows furrowing. “You okay?” she asked, softer now, stepping closer. You nodded, your throat tight, your mind still reeling from the knife, from him, from the way he’d appeared behind you like a ghost.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Hana said, grabbing your arm, her touch firm but not desperate. She led you out of the kitchen, her steps quick, and you followed, but not before glancing back at Jake. He was watching you, his smirk softer now, almost knowing, like he’d seen a part of you you hadn’t meant to show.

As you climbed the stairs, the weight of the knife lingered in your hand, cold and heavy, and you knew you were sinking deeper into something dangerous, something you weren’t sure you could—or wanted to—escape.

Jake was a fucking inferno, a blaze of danger and desire that scorched your thoughts, leaving you raw and aching for more. Ever since that night in Hana’s kitchen, when you’d gripped his switchblade and felt his dark, empty eyes burn into you, he’d infected you—his Aussie drawl, his knife play, his fucking presence a drug you couldn’t kick. He was a psychopath, no question, with that cold, calculating edge, but it didn’t scare you off. It made your pussy throb, made you want to dive into his darkness and see how much you could take before you burned up.

Hana’s text hit your phone on a Friday night, the sky black as sin, thunder growling in the distance like a beast ready to pounce. “Movie night, my place, 8 sharp,” she’d typed, casual as hell. “Be there, Y/N, need you.” She swore she’d be home, and you latched onto that, telling yourself you were going for her, for some dumbass movie and snacks. But deep down, you knew the truth: you were chasing Jake, craving that electric jolt he sent through you, that mix of fear and want that made your clit pulse just thinking about him.

The house stood like a fucking haunted relic, its windows dark except for a weak, a faint yellow glow from the kitchen, flickering like a trap set just for you. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of rain and something metallic, like blood on the wind. You knocked, the sound dying in the oppressive silence, and waited, your heart jackhammering in your chest. Nothing. You pounded again, harder, but the house was a goddamn tomb, silent and watching.

Your phone showed 8:10 p.m. No word from Hana. A flicker of panic sparked, but you shoved it down, twisting the doorknob. It gave way, the door creaking open like a warning, and you stepped into the foyer, the air cold and sharp with that familiar mix of cedarwood and steel. “Hana?” you called, your voice echoing, swallowed by the shadows. “You in here?”

The silence was alive, crawling over your skin, making your nipples harden under your shirt from the chill and something else—anticipation, maybe, or dread. You dropped your bag by the stairs, your boots barely making a sound on the hardwood, and headed for the kitchen, drawn to that sickly glow like a moth to a fucking flame. The hallway was a black void, shadows pooling like ink, and you felt eyes on you, invisible but heavy, making your pussy clench with a mix of fear and need.

You hit the kitchen doorway and froze, your breath catching like a knife in your throat. Jake was there, leaning against the counter like he fucking owned the place, a vision of Aussie sex on legs. His black tee clung to his lean chest, a leather jacket draped over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to show off forearms corded with muscle. His dark hair was a perfect mess, framing those sharp cheekbones, and his lips—fuck, those lips—curved in a smirk that promised all kinds of sin. His eyes, dark and bottomless, locked onto yours, and your cunt pulsed, slick already just from one goddamn look.

He was flipping his switchblade, the silver blade catching the light as it spun, a casual, deadly dance that made your heart race. He looked like trouble, the kind of guy who’d fuck you senseless and leave you ruined, and you wanted every second of it. “Well, shit, love,” he drawled, his Aussie accent thick, dripping with charm that felt like a blade to your throat. “Didn’t expect you to walk in lookin’ like that.” His eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, making your cheeks burn, your pussy aching under his gaze.

Panic hit hard. Hana wasn’t here—she’d fucking promised, but she wasn’t, and Jake was, looking like he’d been waiting for you all along. Your instincts screamed to run, to get the hell out before he could sink his claws in deeper. “I—fuck, I gotta go,” you stammered, spinning toward the hallway, your boots slipping as you bolted, your heart in your throat.

You made it halfway to the door before you skidded to a stop, a choked scream ripping from you. Jake was there, leaning against the foyer wall, his body a sudden, impossible barrier, the switchblade still flipping in his hand, his smirk sharp as a razor. “How the fucking hell? Weren’t you just there?” you gasped, your voice shaking, your mind spinning. He’d been in the kitchen, flipping that damn knife, not ten seconds ago—how was he here, blocking your way, like he’d slipped through the goddamn shadows?

He laughed, a low, dirty sound that sent a shiver straight to your clit. “I’m quick when I wanna be, darlin’,” he said, his accent wrapping around the words, making them sound filthy, dangerous. He stepped closer, and you backed up, your ass hitting the wall, your pulse pounding so loud you could hear it. “You ran,” he said, his tone low, teasing, but his eyes were dark, hungry. “What’s got you so spooked? Thought you were tougher than that.”

Your throat was dry, your body a live wire, humming with fear and a need so intense it made you flush, your cheeks burning, you were soaking through your panties. He was right—you’d run because Hana’s absence was a fucking betrayal, because this house was a trap, because he was a predator and you were prey, and yet… you wanted to be caught. “Hana said she’d be here,” you said, forcing your voice to hold, to meet his gaze even though it felt like staring into a void. “Where the fuck is she?”

He shrugged, the knife flipping faster, a silver blur that made your cunt throb with some fucked-up mix of fear and want. “Beats me,” he said, his tone too easy, like he was playing with you and loving every second. “Probably off somewhere, doin’ whatever. You know how she is—never where she says she’ll be.” He closed the distance, the air thick with his scent—leather, cologne, and that sharp, metallic bite that was all him. “But you’re here, love,” he murmured, his eyes burning into yours, “and I’m not lettin’ you slip away that easy.”

Your skin was on fire, your clit pulsing, your whole body screaming to run but aching to stay. He was too close, his heat seeping into you, the knife a silent threat, a promise you didn’t know if you wanted kept. “I should wait for her,” you said, but it was weak, a pathetic attempt to hold onto something normal when all you wanted was him, his danger, his fucking everything.

“Fuck waiting,” he growled, his voice low, that Aussie drawl making your pussy clench. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “You don’t want Hana. You want me. You want my cock, don’t you? Want me to fuck that tight little pussy till you can’t think straight.” His words hit like a shockwave, making you flush so hard your skin burned, your cunt dripping, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

You should’ve pushed him away, should’ve screamed, but instead, you moaned, a soft, needy sound that gave you away. His smirk widened, his eyes darkening with hunger, and he pressed himself closer, his body hard against yours, the bulge in his jeans unmistakable, pressing against your thigh. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice a filthy purr. “You’re so fucking wet for me already, aren’t you? I bet that pussy’s begging for it.”

Your cheeks were scorching, your body trembling with need, and you nodded, unable to stop yourself, unable to lie. “Yes,” you whispered, the word a surrender, and he groaned, low and primal, his lips crashing into yours, a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, raw and fucking filthy. You kissed him back, desperate, your hands clawing at his jacket, his shirt, needing to feel him, to drown in him.

He shoved you against the wall, his hands rough, ripping at your clothes, tearing your shirt open, your bra pushed up to expose your tits. “Fuck, look at these,” he growled, his hands squeezing, his thumbs brushing your nipples, making you moan, your pussy clenching. “Such perfect fucking tits, made for my mouth.” He dipped down, sucking hard, his teeth grazing, and you arched into him, your clit throbbing, your body screaming for more.

His knife was out again, and your breath hitched, fear spiking but only making you wetter, your cunt aching as he flicked it open, the snick loud and final. He didn’t cut you—just let the blade trace your skin, a cold, teasing touch along your collarbone, down to your stomach, making you shiver, your hips bucking against him. “You like this, don’t you?” he said, his voice thick, dirty. “My knife on your skin, my cock so fucking hard for you. You want me to fuck you with this blade in my hand, don’t you, love?”

You moaned, your cheeks burning, your pussy dripping, and you nodded, too far gone to care how fucked up it was. He smirked, setting the knife aside, but its presence lingered, a ghost in the air as he ripped your jeans down, your panties following, leaving you bare, your cunt glistening for him. “Fuck, look at that pussy,” he said, his voice rough, his fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles that made you gasp, your hips grinding against him. “So fucking wet, so ready for my cock. You’re gonna take it all, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you stupid.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body on fire, and he groaned, his fingers plunging into you, stretching you, making you moan, your clit pulsing under his thumb. “Please, Jake, fuck me,” you begged, your cheeks flushing, your need for him a living thing, clawing at you.

He didn’t make you wait. He unzipped his jeans, his cock springing free, thick and hard, the sight making your pussy clench, your mouth watering. “You want this cock, love?” he said, stroking himself, his voice a filthy drawl. “Want it deep in that tight little pussy, fucking you till you scream?”

“Yes,” you moaned, your hips bucking, your cunt aching to be filled. He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist, and carried you upstairs, his steps silent, the house a blur of shadows and heat. His room was dark, reeking of him—leather, cologne, metal—and he threw you on the bed, his body covering yours, his eyes burning with need.

He didn’t waste time. His hands were on you, rough and hungry, spreading your thighs, his fingers teasing your clit, making you writhe, your moans loud and desperate. “Gonna fuck you so hard, love,” he growled, his accent thick, his cock pressing against your entrance, teasing, making you whimper. “Gonna make this pussy mine, make you come all over my cock.”

He thrust into you, hard and deep, and you screamed, your pussy stretching around him, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He didn’t go slow—his pace was relentless, his cock slamming into you, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your clit throbbing with every thrust. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hips, bruising. “This pussy’s fucking perfect, taking my cock like it was made for it.”

You moaned, your cheeks burning, his dirty talk making you flush, your cunt dripping around him, the pleasure building, overwhelming. “Jake, fuck, I’m gonna—” you gasped, your body trembling, your clit pulsing as he fucked you harder, his thumb finding it, rubbing fast, sending you over the edge.

“Come for me, love,” he growled, his voice a command, his cock thrusting deep. “Come all over my fucking cock, let me feel that pussy squeeze.” You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you, your cunt clenching, your body shaking, your screams muffled against his shoulder. He didn’t stop, fucking you through it, his thrusts brutal, his groans growing louder, more feral.

“Gonna fill you up,” he said, his voice thick, his cock twitching inside you. “Gonna pump this pussy full of cum, make you mine.” He came hard, his thrusts deep, his release hot and overwhelming, and you moaned, your body trembling, feeling every pulse, every drop.

When it was over, you lay there, panting, your body slick with sweat, his weight pressing you into the bed. His arm draped over you, possessive, his fingers tracing your skin, lazy but claiming. The knife was on the nightstand, closed but gleaming, a reminder of the edge you’d danced on. “You’re fucked now, darlin’,” he murmured, his Aussie drawl soft but heavy, his lips brushing your ear. “This pussy’s mine, and you’re not going anywhere.”

You flushed, your cheeks burning, your cunt still tingling, and you nodded, knowing he was right. You didn’t want to leave. You wanted him—his cock, his knife, his fucking darkness. Hana’s voice came later, frantic, calling your name from downstairs, but his grip tightened, holding you close. “Let her fucking wait,” he growled, his voice low, filthy. “You’re mine tonight, love.”

And you were. You stayed, lost in his heat, his danger, the storm outside a faint echo of the one he’d ignited in you, and you knew this was just the start—dark, filthy, and fucking unstoppable.

The afterglow of Jake’s touch lingered like a bruise, tender and raw, your body still humming from the way he’d fucked you—hard, deep, claiming every inch of your pussy like it was his to own. His cum was still warm inside you, his scent—leather, cologne, and that sharp metallic bite—clinging to your skin, marking you as his. You lay sprawled across his bed, your chest heaving, your cunt still tingling, your cheeks flushed from the filthy things he’d growled in your ear, his Aussie drawl turning every word into a weapon that made you drip. His arm was slung over you, heavy and possessive, his fingers tracing lazy, teasing circles on your hip, each touch reigniting the fire in your core.

The house was a fucking crypt around you, its silence broken only by the distant rumble of the storm outside and the faint, frantic sound of Hana’s voice echoing from downstairs. “Y/N? Where the hell are you?” she called, her tone sharp with worry, her footsteps creaking on the hardwood. You stirred, your body protesting, your mind foggy with Jake’s heat, but his grip tightened, pinning you to the bed, his lips brushing your ear, hot and commanding.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice a low, filthy growl, that thick Aussie accent making your clit throb. “She can fucking wait, love. Your pussy’s still mine, and I’m not done with you.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your cheeks burning, your cunt clenching around nothing, already aching for him again. You should’ve moved, should’ve answered Hana, but the weight of him, the promise in his voice, kept you locked in place, your body betraying you with every shuddering breath.

The knife on the nightstand gleamed in the dim light, its blade closed but heavy with meaning, a reminder of the edge you’d danced on—his blade on your skin, cold and teasing, his cock slamming into you, his dirty talk pushing you over the brink. You shivered, your nipples hardening, and Jake noticed, his smirk widening, his fingers sliding up to pinch one, making you gasp, your pussy slick with need.

“Fuck, you’re so responsive,” he said, his voice rough, dirty, his eyes dark with hunger. “Look at you, all flushed and needy, your cunt begging for my cock again. You love this, don’t you? Love how I fuck you, how I own this tight little pussy.” His hand slid lower, cupping you, his fingers teasing your clit, slow and deliberate, making you moan, your hips bucking against him, your cheeks scorching with embarrassment and want.

“Jake,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body trembling under his touch. “Hana’s downstairs—she’ll come up here—”

“Let her,” he growled, his fingers plunging into your pussy, curling, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your moan loud and desperate. “Let her see how fucking wet you are for me, how you take my fingers, my cock, like a good little slut.” His words were a shock, filthy and raw, making you flush so hard your skin burned, your cunt dripping around his fingers, your clit pulsing under his thumb.

You should’ve been ashamed, should’ve pushed him away, but you didn’t. You wanted it—his filth, his control, the way he made you feel like you were his and his alone. The knife caught your eye again, and you shivered, a fucked-up mix of fear and arousal twisting in your gut. He followed your gaze, his smirk turning wicked, and he reached for it, flipping it open with a soft snick that made your heart skip, your pussy clenching around his fingers.

“Still thinking about this, huh?” he said, holding the knife up, letting the blade catch the light, his fingers still fucking you, slow and deep, making you whimper. “You want it, don’t you? Want my blade on your skin while I fuck that pretty pussy again, make you scream for me.” His voice was a dirty caress, his accent thick, and you moaned, your cheeks burning, your body arching into him, needing more, needing everything.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word a surrender, and he groaned, low and primal, pulling his fingers out, leaving you empty, aching, your cunt throbbing with need. He brought the knife closer, not cutting, just tracing the flat of the blade along your thigh, the cold metal making you shiver, your clit pulsing, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes burning with something beyond desire—possession, maybe, or something darker. “So fucking wet, so ready to take whatever I give you. You’re gonna let me fuck you with this knife right here, aren’t you, love? Gonna let me make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

Your cheeks were on fire, your body trembling, and you nodded, too far gone to care how fucked up it was, how dangerous. He set the knife aside, but its presence lingered, a shadow in the air as he shoved his jeans down, his cock springing free, hard and thick, the sight making your pussy clench, your mouth watering. “Get on your knees,” he growled, his voice a command, and you obeyed, your body moving before your mind could catch up, your cunt dripping as you knelt before him.

“Suck it,” he said, his hand tangling in your hair, guiding you to his cock, the tip glistening with precum. “Show me how much you want it, how much you love my cock.” You moaned, your cheeks flushing, and took him in, your lips stretching around him, your tongue swirling, tasting him, the salt and heat of him filling your senses. He groaned, his grip tightening, his hips thrusting, fucking your mouth, his dirty talk relentless.

“Fuck, that’s it, love,” he growled, his accent thick, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag, your pussy dripping onto the sheets. “Take it deep, let me fuck that pretty mouth, make you choke on my cock. You’re so fucking good at this, so fucking mine.” His words made you flush, your clit throbbing, your hands gripping his thighs, needing to please him, needing to be his.

He pulled out, sudden and rough, and you gasped, your lips swollen, your breath ragged. “On the bed,” he said, his voice a low snarl, and you scrambled up, your body trembling, your cunt aching to be filled. He pushed you down, spreading your thighs, his eyes dark with hunger as he looked at your pussy, slick and ready, your clit swollen, begging for him.

“Fuck, look at this cunt,” he said, his voice thick, his fingers sliding through your folds, teasing your clit, making you moan, your hips bucking. “So fucking wet, so fucking perfect. You’re gonna take my cock so good, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you till you’re screaming, till this pussy’s ruined for anyone else.” His words were filthy, raw, making you flush, your cheeks burning, your body trembling with need.

He thrust into you, hard and deep, and you screamed, your pussy stretching around his cock, the pleasure so intense it was almost too much. He didn’t hold back, his pace brutal, his cock slamming into you, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your clit pulsing with every thrust. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, his voice rough with need. “This pussy’s fucking mine, taking my cock like it was made for it. You love this, don’t you? Love me fucking you raw, making you come all over my dick.”

“Yes,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your body trembling, your cheeks scorching as his words pushed you closer to the edge. “Jake, fuck, I’m gonna come—” you gasped, your pussy clenching, your clit throbbing as he fucked you harder, his thumb finding it, rubbing fast, relentless.

“Come for me, love,” he growled, his voice a command, his cock thrusting deep, his thumb pressing hard on your clit. “Come all over my fucking cock, let me feel this pussy squeeze me, show me how much you fucking love it.” You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking, your screams muffled against the pillow. He fucked you through it, his thrusts savage, his groans loud and feral, his cock twitching inside you.

“Gonna fill this pussy,” he said, his voice thick, his thrusts deep, his release close. “Gonna pump you full of cum, make you mine, love. You want that, don’t you? Want my cum dripping out of this tight little cunt.” You moaned, your body trembling, and he came hard, his cock pulsing, his cum hot and overwhelming, filling you, marking you.

He collapsed beside you, his chest heaving, his arm pulling you close, possessive, his fingers tracing your skin, still teasing, still claiming. The knife gleamed on the nightstand, a silent witness to the fire between you, and you felt it—the weight of what you’d done, the depth you’d fallen into. “You’re fucked now, darlin’,” he murmured, his Aussie drawl soft but heavy, his lips brushing your temple. “This pussy’s mine, and you're getting dressed now."

Your cheeks burned, your cunt still tingling, and you nodded, knowing he was right. You didn’t want to escape. You wanted him—his cock, his knife, his fucking darkness. Hana’s voice came again, closer now, her footsteps on the stairs, but Jake’s grip tightened, his lips finding your ear, his voice a filthy whisper.

Jake’s command—“You’re getting dressed now”—cut through the air like the flick of his switchblade, sharp and unyielding, his Aussie drawl lacing the words with a dangerous edge. You lay sprawled across his bed, your body still warm from his touch, your skin tingling where his fingers had been, the memory of his heat lingering like a phantom. The house was a crypt, its silence broken only by the distant growl of the storm outside and the sharp, panicked sound of Hana’s voice from downstairs, calling your name. Her footsteps creaked on the stairs, closer now, each one a hammer against the fragile moment you’d shared with Jake.

You stirred, your limbs heavy, your mind clouded with the weight of him—his piercing eyes, his knife, his presence that filled the room like smoke. His arm was still draped over you, possessive, but he shifted, propping himself on one elbow, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he watched you with that smirk, lazy but predatory. “Move, love,” he said, his voice low, teasing, the accent thick and warm, like a lure. “Unless you want Hana to see you like this, all… undone.”

Your cheeks flushed, a rush of heat that made you look away, your heart pounding as you sat up, the sheets slipping against your skin. The knife on the nightstand gleamed, its blade closed but ever-present, a silent threat that sent a shiver through you—not fear, not entirely, but something deeper, something that drew you to him even now. You reached for your clothes, scattered across the floor, your fingers trembling as you pulled your shirt over your head, the fabric catching on your damp skin.

Jake moved too, fluid and deliberate, like a panther stretching after a hunt. He stood, his fitted black tee clinging to his lean frame, his leather jacket slung over the bedpost where he’d tossed it earlier. He grabbed his jeans, pulling them on with a casual ease that belied the tension in the room, his eyes never leaving you. The way he watched you dress—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every movement—made your skin prickle, your breath hitch. “You’re quick when you’re scared,” he said, his tone mocking but soft, his smirk widening as he zipped up, his fingers brushing the knife on the nightstand, lingering there, teasing its handle.

“I’m not scared,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt, tugging your jeans up, fumbling with the button. It was a lie, and he knew it—you could see it in the glint of his eyes, the way they darkened with amusement. Hana’s footsteps were louder now, almost at the top of the stairs, her voice sharper, edged with worry. “Y/N? Are you up here?”

You froze, your heart slamming against your ribs, but Jake didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell him—leather, smoke, that metallic tang that clung to him like a shadow. He picked up the knife, flipping it open with a soft snick that made your breath catch, the blade catching the dim light like a promise. “She’s gonna lose it, you know,” he said, his voice a low purr, his accent curling around the words. “Hana, I mean. Seeing you with me. You sure you’re ready for that?”

You swallowed, your throat dry, pulling your jacket on, your eyes flicking to the door. “I’ll handle it,” you said, but the words felt fragile, like they might shatter under the weight of his gaze. He twirled the knife, the motion hypnotic, and stepped closer, the blade held loosely, not threatening but present, a reminder of the line you’d crossed.

“Handle it?” he echoed, his smirk sharp, his eyes searching yours. “You’re in deep now, love. No handling your way out of this.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek, the knife tilting in his hand, the flat of the blade brushing the air near your arm—not touching, but close enough to make your skin tingle. “You feel that, don’t you? The rush. You’re not running. You don’t want to.”

Your heart raced, his words too close to the truth. You should’ve bolted, should’ve pushed past him and met Hana at the door, but you didn’t. You stood there, caught in his orbit, the knife a cold star in the space between you. “Why are you doing this?” you asked, the question raw, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why me?”

He tilted his head, the knife pausing, his eyes narrowing like he was peeling you apart, layer by layer. “Why you?” he repeated, his tone softer now, almost curious. “Because you see me, Y/N. Most people don’t. They see what they want—a brother, a son, a fucking monster. But you…” He stepped closer, the knife twirling again, slow and deliberate. “You see the blade, and you don’t flinch. That’s rare.”

The door rattled, Hana’s fist pounding against it, her voice muffled but urgent. “Y/N? Open the door! What’s going on?” You flinched, the spell breaking, and turned toward the sound, but Jake’s hand caught your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, holding you in place.

“Let her wait,” he said, his voice low, commanding, his eyes burning into yours. “We’re not done here.” He released you, stepping back to grab his leather jacket, sliding it on with a grace that made your stomach twist. The knife disappeared into his pocket, but its presence lingered, a weight in the air, a promise unspoken.

You moved to the door, your hand on the knob, but you hesitated, glancing back at him. He was fully dressed now, leaning against the bedpost, his arms crossed, his smirk softer but no less dangerous. “Go on,” he said, nodding toward the door, his accent thick, teasing. “Face the music, love. But don’t think this is over. You and me—we’re just getting started.”

You opened the door, your heart in your throat, and Hana nearly fell into the room, her face pale, her eyes wide with panic. “Y/N, what the hell?” she hissed, grabbing your arm, pulling you into the hallway. Her gaze darted to Jake, and her expression hardened, fear and anger warring in her eyes. “What are you doing here, Jake? I told you to stay away from her.”

Jake didn’t move, his smirk unwavering, his eyes flicking between you and Hana. “Just having a chat,” he said, his tone light but laced with that mocking edge, his accent curling around the words like smoke. “Y/N’s good company. Better than you, sis.”

Hana’s grip tightened, her nails digging into your skin, and she pulled you toward the stairs, her voice low and urgent. “We’re leaving. Now.” You followed, your legs unsteady, your mind reeling from Jake’s words, from the way he’d looked at you, from the knife that wasn’t in his hand but might as well have been.

The house seemed to watch as you descended, the shadows deeper now, the air colder, heavier, like it was pressing against you, urging you to stay. You glanced back, just once, and saw Jake standing at the top of the stairs, his silhouette stark against the dim light, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t follow, didn’t need to. His presence was a tether, pulling at you, even as Hana dragged you outside.

The storm had broken, rain pelting the pavement, soaking your clothes as you stepped into the yard. Hana was shaking, her hands fumbling with her phone, muttering about getting you home. “You can’t come back here,” she said, her voice breaking, raw with fear. “Not while he’s around. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

But you did. You knew, or at least you were starting to, and that knowledge was a dangerous and a spark in your chest. You nodded, letting her lead you to her car, the rain washing away the warmth of Jake’s touch but not the memory of it. As you drove away, the house loomed in the rearview mirror, its windows black, and you swore you saw him again—Jake, standing in the doorway, a shadow in the rain, watching you go.

You didn’t speak, didn’t tell Hana the truth: that you were already too deep, that his knife had cut you in ways you couldn’t explain, that you weren’t sure you wanted to escape. Jake was a poison, a psychopath, a blade, and you were drawn to him, to the edge he offered, to the darkness you couldn’t resist. And as the city blurred past, you knew you’d be back, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, ready to burn.

The rain was a relentless curtain, hammering your house for three days straight, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and shadow. Since fleeing Hana’s house, Jake had become a specter in your mind, his presence a cold weight that pressed against your every thought. His voice—that thick, teasing Aussie drawl—haunted you, whispering through the cracks of your resolve: You’re in deep now, love.

The memory of his switchblade, its cold steel in your hand, his dark eyes watching you like you were his to unravel, clung to you like damp air, stirring a dangerous mix of fear and fascination. You’d promised Hana you’d stay away, but the promise was a fragile thing, crumbling under the weight of your own curiosity, your own need to understand the void that was Shim Jaeyun.

Your house was a sanctuary turned prison, its walls too thin to keep him out of your thoughts. Your parents were gone for the weekend, leaving you alone in the quiet, the silence broken only by the storm’s growl and the creak of settling wood.

You sat on your bedroom floor, surrounded by scattered notes for a literature project you hadn’t touched, your laptop screen dimmed to a faint glow. The clock read 12:47 a.m., the witching hour, and the air was thick with the scent of rain and something else—something sharp, metallic, like a premonition.

A knock at the front door shattered the stillness, three sharp raps that echoed like gunshots. Your heart stopped, your breath catching as you froze, your eyes darting to the window. The curtains were drawn, but the porch light flickered through the gaps, casting jagged shadows across the room. Another knock, slower this time, deliberate, like whoever was out there knew you were listening, knew you wouldn’t ignore it. Your phone buzzed on the bed, Hana’s name flashing, but you ignored it, your feet moving before your mind could catch up, carrying you downstairs, your pulse a frantic drumbeat.

You paused at the door, your hand hovering over the knob, the rain’s roar louder now, mingling with the thud of your heart. You peered through the peephole, and there he was—Jake, standing in the storm like he was born from it, rain streaming off his leather jacket, his black tee plastered to his lean frame, his dark hair slick and falling into his eyes.

The porch light carved his face into sharp angles, his cheekbones stark, his lips curved in a faint, unsettling smirk. His eyes—those black, bottomless voids—locked onto the peephole, like he could see you through it, and your stomach twisted, fear and something hotter curling together. In his hand was the switchblade, open, its blade gleaming wet, the rain sliding off it like blood.

You should’ve locked the door, called the police, done anything but what you did. But your hand turned the knob, the door creaking open, and the cold rushed in, carrying his scent—leather, smoke, and that metallic tang that was his alone. He didn’t move, just stood there, the knife twirling in his fingers, his smirk widening as he tilted his head, rain dripping from his hair onto your doorstep.

“G’day, love,” he said, his Aussie accent thick, his voice low and smooth, laced with a manic edge that sent a shiver down your spine. “You gonna invite me in, or make me stand here like a drowned rat?” His eyes flicked over you—your oversized hoodie, your bare legs, the way your hands trembled—and his smirk sharpened, like he was already peeling you apart.

“What are you doing here, Jake?” you asked, your voice steady but thin, the door still half-open, a barrier you weren’t sure you wanted to maintain. “It’s the middle of the night.”

He laughed, a low, jagged sound that vibrated through the air, his knife pausing, held loosely but with intent. “Middle of the night’s when the real shit happens,” he said, his tone almost playful, but his eyes were cold, calculating, like he was measuring how far he could push you. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you, Y/N. About that spark in your eyes when you held my knife. You felt it, didn’t you? The power.” He stepped closer, the toe of his boot crossing the threshold, and you backed up, your heart racing, the air between you charged like a storm about to break.

“You need to leave,” you said, but the words were hollow, your body rooted to the spot, your eyes drawn to the knife, to the way he handled it with such ease, like it was part of him. “Hana’s been texting me. She’s worried. She’ll know you’re here.”

His smirk didn’t falter, but something flickered in his eyes—amusement, or maybe something darker. “Hana,” he said, dragging out her name like it was a curse. “Always sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. She doesn’t get it, does she? Doesn’t see what I see in you.” He stepped fully inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click, trapping you in the dim light of your living room. The rain was muffled now, but the house felt alive, its shadows shifting, its walls holding their breath.

“What do you see?” you asked, the question slipping out, raw and unguarded, your back pressing against the couch as he moved closer, the knife twirling again, a silver blur that drew your gaze like a magnet. You hated how you wanted to know, how his presence was a blade at your throat and a lure you couldn’t resist.

He stopped, inches from you, his heat seeping into the cold air, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “I see someone who’s not afraid of the dark,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent, his accent curling around the words like smoke. “Someone who looks at a monster and doesn’t run. You’re like me, love—just a little. You’ve got that hunger, that need to know what it’s like to break things, to feel the world bend under your hands.” He lifted the knife, not to threaten, but to show it, the blade catching the light like a mirror to his soul. “You felt it when you held this, didn’t you? The truth. No lies, no masks. Just you and the edge.”

Your breath hitched, his words sinking into you, stirring memories of that night—the knife’s weight, the way it had felt like holding a piece of him, the way his eyes had seen you, really seen you. “You’re wrong,” you said, but your voice trembled, the denial weak against the truth he’d laid bare. “I’m not like you. I don’t hurt people. I don’t… enjoy it.”

He tilted his head, the knife pausing, his smirk twisting into something almost pitying. “Don’t you?” he said, his tone soft but cutting. “Ever wanted to hurt someone, Y/N? Not with a knife, maybe, but with words, with silence, with something sharp inside you that you didn’t let out? Ever wanted to see how far you could push someone before they broke?” He stepped closer, his boots silent on the carpet, his eyes burning with a manic intensity. “That’s what I do, love. I push. I cut. I find the truth. Pain’s the only honest thing in this world—it strips away the bullshit, shows you who someone really is. You ever felt that? The clarity when it’s just you and the void?”

Your stomach churned, his words a blade twisting in your gut, because you had felt it—not his kind of violence, but moments of anger, of wanting to lash out, to shatter something fragile just to hear it break. You’d buried those impulses, called them wrong, but he saw them, named them, and it terrified you how close he was to the parts of yourself you hid. “That’s not me,” you said, your voice shaking, your hands gripping the couch, your eyes flicking to the knife, to the way it gleamed, a silent promise.

He laughed, a low, chilling sound that filled the room, his knife twirling faster now, erratic, like his thoughts were unraveling. “Keep telling yourself that,” he said, his accent thick, his eyes glinting with something wild. “But you’re here, Y/N. You opened the door. You let me in. You’re not screaming, not fighting. You’re listening, because deep down, you know I’m right. You want to know how far it goes, how dark it gets. You want to feel it—the rush, the control, the moment when nothing else matters but you and the blade.”

The room felt smaller, the walls closing in, the air heavy with his words, with the weight of what he was offering. You backed up, your legs hitting the coffee table, your hands trembling as you steadied yourself. “You’re insane,” you whispered, but it lacked conviction, your eyes locked on his, unable to break free.

“Insane?” he said, his smirk sharpening, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Maybe. But insanity’s just truth without the filter, love. It’s seeing the world for what it is—raw, ugly, beautiful. You ever felt empty, Y/N? Like nothing matters, like you’re just going through the motions? That’s where I live. That’s where the knife comes in. It makes things real. It makes me feel.” He lifted the knife, tracing the air with it, not close enough to touch but close enough to make your skin tingle. “I think you’re empty too. I think you’re looking for something to fill it.”

Your heart was a wild thing, pounding against your ribs, his words cutting deeper than any blade could. You wanted to deny it, to scream that he was wrong, that you were normal, that you were nothing like him. But the pull was there, undeniable, the way he saw you, the way he spoke to that hidden part of you, like a key turning in a lock. “Why me?” you asked, your voice raw, the question spilling out like a confession. “Why do you care?”

He paused, the knife still, his eyes softening for a flicker, something almost human breaking through the madness. “Because you’re not afraid to look,” he said, his voice quieter now, his accent raw, unguarded. “Everyone else—Hana, my parents, the fucking shrinks—they see me and they flinch. They see the monster, a psychopath, something to fix or lock away. But you… you see the man behind it. You held my knife, Y/N. You looked at me like you wanted to know me, not change me. That’s why.”

His words hit you like a blow, stealing your breath from your lungs, your eyes wide, your chest tight. You remembered that night in his room, the way his gaze had held you, not with cruelty but with hunger, with need. He wasn’t just playing with you—he was searching for something in you, something you hadn’t realized you’d given him. And now he was here, in your house, his knife a silent question, his presence a challenge you couldn’t ignore.

The doorbell rang again, shrill and jarring, cutting through the tension like a scream. You flinched, your head snapping toward the door, and Jake’s smirk returned, his eyes stayed cold, unreadable, as he stepped back, giving you space but not release. “That’s her,” he said, his tone casual, almost amused, his knife flicking closed with a soft snick. “Hana, come to save you. Question is, love—do you want saving?”

You moved to the door, your legs unsteady, your mind a storm of fear, fascination, and something you couldn’t name. You opened it, and Hana stood there, soaked from the rain, her face pale, her eyes wide with panic. “Y/N, thank God,” she said, her voice trembling, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve been texting you for hours—why didn’t you answer?” Her gaze landed on Jake, and she froze, her expression shifting to raw terror. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Jake leaned against the wall, his leather jacket glistening with rain, his smirk lazy but sharp, his eyes flicking between you and Hana. “Just dropped by for a chat,” he said, his Aussie drawl thick, mocking. “Y/N’s been a great host. Better company than you, sis.”

Hana’s hands balled into fists, her fear giving way to anger as she stepped toward you, grabbing your arm. “Y/N, we’re leaving,” she said, her voice low, urgent, her eyes darting to Jake like he was a snake ready to strike. “He’s dangerous, you know that. You can’t be around him.”

You pulled your arm free, your heart pounding, your eyes flicking to Jake, to the knife in his pocket, to the way he watched you, waiting, testing. “Hana, wait,” you said, your voice shaking but firm, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I need to say something.”

Hana’s eyes widened, her mouth opening to protest, but you held up a hand, your gaze locked on Jake, your chest tight with a truth you couldn’t hold back any longer. “I see you,” you said, your voice raw, trembling, the words heavy with meaning. “I see what you are, Jake. The darkness, the… the monster. And I’m not afraid. I should be, but I’m not. I feel it too—the pull, the emptiness, the need to know how far it goes. And I hate it, but I… I can’t stop wanting to understand you.”

The room was silent, the rain a distant hum, the air thick with the weight of your confession.

Jake’s smirk faded, his eyes darkening, something raw and unguarded flickering in them—surprise, maybe, or something deeper, something that looked like recognition. Hana gasped, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wet with tears. “Y/N, no,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You don’t know what you’re saying. He’s not—he’s not someone you can save.”

Jake stepped closer, his boots silent on the carpet, his eyes never leaving yours, his presence a force that filled the room. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice low, his accent thick, almost vulnerable. “You see me, and you’re still here. You’re not running.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out the knife, but he didn’t open it—just held it, the handle worn, a piece of him offered to you. “That’s more than anyone’s ever given me, love.”

Hana grabbed your arm again, her grip desperate, her voice shrill. “Y/N, stop this,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “He’s a psychopath. He’ll hurt you, he’ll break you—I’ve seen it, I’ve lived it. You can’t do this.”

You turned to her, your heart aching at her pain, at the fear in her eyes, but you couldn’t lie anymore—not to her, not to yourself. “I know he’s dangerous,” you said, your voice steady now, the truth a weight you were ready to carry. “I know what he is, Hana. But I feel something when I’m with him—something real, something I can’t ignore. I’m not trying to save him. I just… I need to know who I am when I’m with him.”

Hana shook her head, her sobs choking her words, her hands trembling as she let go of you, stepping back like you’d burned her. “You’re choosing him,” she said, her voice barely audible, raw with betrayal. “You’re choosing a monster over me.”

“I’m not choosing,” you said, your eyes stinging, your throat tight. “I’m just… I’m just being honest. I’m sorry, Hana. I’m so sorry.”

She stared at you, her face a mask of grief, then turned and ran out into the rain, the door slamming behind her, the sound echoing like a gunshot. You stood there, your chest heaving, your eyes burning with unshed tears, the silence heavier now, suffocating.

Jake was still, his knife in his hand, his eyes on you, softer now, almost human. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, his voice quiet, his accent warm, like he was seeing you for the first time. “You could’ve gone with her. Could’ve left me behind.”

You shook your head, stepping closer, the distance between you shrinking, the air charged with something new—something fragile, something real. “I meant it,” you said, your voice steady, your eyes locked on his. “I see you, Jake. And I’m not running. Not yet.”

He studied you, his eyes searching, the knife slipping back into his pocket, his hands empty now, open, like he was offering you something more than steel. “You’re braver than I thought,” he said, his smirk returning, but it was different—less sharp, more real. “Or crazier. Either way, you’re mine now, love. No going back.”

You nodded, your heart a wild thing, your mind a storm of fear and truth and something you couldn’t name. The rain pounded the windows, the house a witness to the line you’d crossed, to the darkness you’d chosen to face. Jake was a blade, a psychopath, a danger you couldn’t escape, but he was also a mirror, showing you parts of yourself you’d never dared to see.

The rain battered your house, a relentless howl that swallowed the silence left by Hana’s departure. You stood frozen, your confession to Jake—a raw, jagged truth—still ringing in the air, your chest tight with the weight of what you’d done. The living room was a cage of shadows, the dim lamp casting Jake’s silhouette against the wall, his leather jacket slick with rain, his black tee clinging to his lean frame, his dark hair damp and framing his sharp cheekbones. His eyes, those black voids, held yours, softer now, almost human, but still laced with that dangerous edge.

He moved before you could speak, closing the distance in a single step. His arms wrapped around you, sudden and strong, pulling you against his chest, the scent of leather and metal enveloping you. His embrace was warm, grounding, but it carried a current of something wild, like a storm trapped in his skin. “You’re not alone, love,” he murmured, his Aussie accent thick, his voice low and raw, vibrating against your ear. “Not anymore.”

The words broke something in you, a dam you hadn’t known was there. Tears welled, hot and unstoppable, spilling down your cheeks as you pressed your face into his jacket, your hands clutching his shirt, trembling. You cried—for Hana, for the line you’d crossed, for the darkness you’d seen in him and in yourself. Jake’s hold tightened, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath steady but heavy, like he was anchoring you to him, to this moment, to the truth you’d both named.

And as you stood there, the storm raging outside, you knew this was the end of one story and the beginning of another—one you’d write together, in shadows and steel, in truth and terror, in the space where monsters and mortals met.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

TAGLIST:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

@heeevangelizesme

@gvni-eve

@yourmomni

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog

[rico-hyuuga]

Rico had never seen a wacp sit atop a deer, much less one as noble as that. It held meaning in that it seemed he was yet to fully understand. The form of his father faded as the locust transformed back and returned to the forest that it called home. Ryu was not likely to continue training with Shikamaru at his side. A small buzz filled the air as the nearby wasps began to fade, having eaten their fill of biting and stinging insects. Though it wasn't their mission, it was a service to those who lived in the area.

" Aren't you supposed to be resting?"

The Shiningame heir looked back at the stag, then to the Nara, and when he looked up again, it was gone, prompting a smile that he did not see coming. The white stag was thought to be a myth, something that he associated with Shikamaru as well. The man moved like the shadows that he commanded. He had got a bit of training in, but not as much as he had expected, as he focused on his technique and now saw the leader of his team forcing the realization of the mission coming to an end..

" I guess it is time to head out. I thought I would be more tired."

NARU: Sound of Hidden Pain

[halcyon-writings]

nav.

iasip style title card: His real name is Rafayel "attached at the hip" Deepspace. may the rafayel girlies pull the new myth in the least amount of pulls!

You know that the reason you're at this art show is because Rafayel had asked you to come with him. Several times, actually, in the span of the days that had come before it. You weren't usually a fan of such spaces, given the fact that the last time you went to one, it was only through the combined efforts of Thomas and Rafayel, that you didn't punch some critic for being far too rude.

"Pleaseeeeee," Rafayel had begged even. The artist had come over that morning with breakfast from the cafe you both liked to go to. The scent of hot cakes and the warm syrup had made your mouth water. But no... you must stay strong...

Of course, such a thing is easier said than done when you hear your stomach growl rather loudly. You had gotten home pretty late last night, so dinner wasn't on your mind as much as falling into bed and immediately passing out was.

Rafayel's pleading expression becomes smug. But he slides over a latte, and you know that your fate is sealed as the scent of coffee floats towards your nostrils. You don't even playfully swat at him when he presses a kiss to your cheek, thanking you with a melodic like laugh that once again proves how much you let him get away with.

"I'll make sure you have everything ready for later, you don't have to worry about a thing," You can't help but squint as he lists off what you'll need. An outfit (one that is matching his, obviously), accessories to match said outfit, and just registry into the guest list. Given who Rafayel was, all of that was easy to acquire.

The gallery's venue was the rented out rooftop of some restaurant, one whose waiting list was both impressive and intimidating. Another part of you found it ridiculous when you looked up their menu out of curiosity and saw the portion size.

Thomas, looking relieved that Rafayel appeared at all, is quick to greet you too, bringing you some of the appetizers that were catered, that you gratefully accept.

"Finally made it?" A familiar voice asks behind you, sneaking a piece from your plate as Rafayel's eyes twinkle with mirth.

You hum, chewing thoughtfully, "Of course, I was invited by the gallery's star of the show."

Rafayel laughs, a sound that makes you smile as well.

"Come on," A familiar touch of his hand rests at the small of your back, his palm is warm. You'd almost think he was a completely different person with the charming smiles he gives, when you think about the past instances of Rafayel not wishing to attend galas or events, where Thomas had to all but drag him along.

Even when guests wanted to speak to him in regards to work and what not, somehow, someway Rafayel always managed to turn the conversation towards something else. Before excusing both him and yourself to a more secluded part of the upper floor.

His arm was now wrapped around your waist, keeping you at his side.

"You know, Thomas is going to get on you for not mingling," You sing-song quietly, bringing your glass to your lips as you drink some water. "He's probably looking for you right now."

Rafayel huffs, but doesn't let go, instead, somehow you think he found a way to stand even closer within your personal space. "He'll be fine, I already mingled enough. I would rather spend my evening with you, then be around these snobs."

You shrug, but your own hand rests against his leg, giving his hip a small pat in comfort. "You poor, poor thing," The faux comfort isn't lost on him, but Rafayel plays it up anyway. He nods along, sniffing at the "indignity" of it all.

"But you will have to let go eventually, I can't save you from an irate Thomas if he gets to that point." You say, watching as Rafayel puts a hand to his heart, blinking.

"Oh, you hate me, cutie." He bemoans. "To be apart from you is like asking a man to stop breathing."

This time you do laugh. Which makes his gasp of mock outrage even funnier.

"Oh, hello Thomas!" You chirp, just to watch Rafayel jump, hiding behind you, only to peer over your shoulder to find... nothing.

He squints at you. You wink at him. He's quick to forgive after a kiss on the cheek, or a couple.

[imagination-mess]

A Second Chance at Life (Touya Todoroki X Fem!Reader) Chapter 8

Summary: For the past five years, you’ve been raising your son as a single mother. You’ve successfully avoided questions about his father by claiming that he died during the Paranormal Liberation War. From what you believe, this isn’t a lie. The last time you saw him was when he personally escorted you to U.A.’s shelter amidst the chaos in the streets.

Unbeknownst to you, he has been alive all this time, clinging to life in a facility working to keep him alive. His father, Enji, has been desperately searching for someone willing to heal him. After his presumed death, a single photo of you and Dabi began circulating through the underground, hinting at the nature of your relationship. To protect yourself and your child, you had to pay someone to stop the pictures from spreading further.

The photo provided answers to a long-standing question: who was the healer Dabi had been protecting? It identified you as the healer who had been deemed untouchable, but it also brought unwanted attention.

A/N: Sorry for any grammar or spelling errors in advance.

Word Count: 1.9K+ Masterlist of ASCAF Previously Chapter Seven

The soft beeping of machines was the only sound Touya could hear as he slowly woke up, surrounded by the sterile, familiar smell of the hospital.

His eyes fluttered a few times before his vision adjusted. Above him was a plain white ceiling and a fire sprinkler. His gaze drifted to the sides, spotting two windows on opposite ends of the room, curtains drawn for privacy. His attention landed on a whiteboard with a large, clearly printed message:

Please press the button in your left hand when you are awake.

Was this a dream?

Or…

Was he dissociating again?

The last thing he remembered was being rushed through hospital halls, the lights overhead blurring past as they pushed him in urgency. He couldn’t make out what they were shouting. His body had been shutting down against his will.

He used to think it was a myth — that your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die.

But it wasn’t a myth for him. He saw it and felt it. Terrifying and painful, moment after moment replayed. And at the end of it all, there was you , walking someone back to the U.A. shelter. The last thing he remembered was your smile, but even that was hazy. Your face wouldn’t come clearly. Just a blur. A voice he barely held onto.

He could hardly remember your face now. Too many years spent dissociating during confinement, using it as a shield from the pain that came when even the strongest meds stopped working.

Now, he didn’t feel pain.

Now, though, there was no pain…only a strange weight in his limbs.

He tried moving his fingers. They trembled. Slowly, he felt the small object in his palm. It took every bit of focus to curl his fingers around it.

His thumb brushed over the button as he clenched his teeth, focusing all his effort on making his body obey.

A soft chime rang through the room.

His body gave in, muscles relaxing, too exhausted for anything more.

A few minutes passed before a familiar face entered the room.

Kaito, your father stepped in, offering a soft, reassuring smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Todoroki. I am Dr. (L/N). Let me run a few quick examinations before we get you some soup to start with. Then, we'll work toward solid foods. I’ll also catch you up on everything that’s happened, alright?"

The white-haired man came beside him and wrote something on his clipboard, glancing at the machine beside the bed.

"You’ve been unconscious for over a month now. It took longer than expected for you to wake up. You’re going to be disoriented and sluggish for a little while, and probably confused. It’s normal. Nothing to worry about." Kaito said, putting the clipboard down and hearing the water faucet turn on.

"I'm just going to test your strength. I'll place my hand in yours, and I want you to squeeze as hard as you can. After that, we'll see if you can move your toes and fingers. Then we'll get you some soup. You need to be on a liquid diet for a bit."

Kaito moved closer and placed his hand within Touya's grip before glancing up at the doctor.

"Squeeze my hand as best as you can. I’m just testing how well the operation connected your nerves to your muscles. After that, you can try moving your toes whenever you wish," he explained.

Touya did as he was told but struggled. He could barely manage it, but he did it. That was the best he could do. He had to try again with his right hand, the one he had believed was destroyed. His right hand was much harder to move, and he realized just how much heavier it felt compared to his left.

Kaito was watching him carefully, but his expression remained unreadable. He walked away, grabbing his clipboard once more. He returned to Touya's bedside and flashed a light at his eyes, prompting him to follow it. As he did, Kaito wrote something down.

"One last thing. Can you speak for me? One word would be enough. Even a curse word would count," Kaito asked with an amused smile.

Touya’s throat felt painfully dry, as if he hadn’t spoken in years. Despite the discomfort, he forced the words out, even though it felt like sandpaper scraping against his throat. A hoarse rasp escaped, and he tried to swallow, barely managing it due to the lack of saliva.

"W-what had-hap-pened?" His voice was weak and strained barely above a whisper. "You were taken in as a case study to see if someone with severe burns and near-death injuries could survive if their body was healed. It was done with your father's permission. No one wanted to take your case until Dr. Remedy was contracted by your father as a last resort." Kaito lifted his eyes from the clipboard, briefly meeting Touya's gaze.

Touya’s eyes widened at the mention of her name— your hero name, which was also the name you went by as a doctor.

"She’s the only reason you’re alive right now. If she hadn’t gathered doctors from across the nation to help you, you wouldn't have made it. The others, along with her, are dealing with the consequences, even after over a month. Many of them ended up in the hospital and have been banned from using their quirks for the next few months, for their own safety. All because everyone who worked on your case was treated as a case study. They overused their quirks."

Kaito paused before continuing.

"They all did it for scientific reasons, ignoring the fact that you were a high-profile criminal. They were doing it to help future patients with burns like yours. But the cost was too much for those doctors, who are now facing the consequences. In other words, you’re going to be the only person in this nation to undergo this dramatic transformation." Kaito looked directly into Touya’s eyes.

"Take this opportunity. Another chance at life. Your body costs the well-being of 15 doctors and 5 nurses. You better take care of it. Otherwise, you're wasting Dr. Remedy’s belief that people like you deserve second chances." ____________________________________ The next few weeks, Touya cooperated with the physical and occupational therapists, walking through the hospital with a walker. He felt like a baby deer learning how to walk again. The only reason he went along with it was because he was sick of feeling like a damn baby.

Due to his physical condition, his stay was extended until he could move on his own, after which he’d be transferred to the rehabilitation facility. He rejected visitation from his family. He felt too vulnerable like this. Too exposed. He didn’t want to see their pitying stares.

He heard the arguments outside his hospital room. His father, Enji, tries to see him, getting rejected every time. The old man had nothing but time to waste, showing up day after day, just to be told no.

As much as Touya hated getting help from strangers, the staff had been patient with him. They didn’t push him too hard. Some nurses definitely judged him, but at least they kept their comments to themselves. The hospitality was… normal. He was treated like any other patient.

They didn’t look at him with pity. They encouraged him, even when he told them to shut up and mind their own business. They just ignored his outbursts and kept going.

His quirk-canceling cuffs rotated between ankle and wrist restraints. Military grade, due to his classification as a high-profile criminal. The staff rotated the cuffs regularly to prevent weakening or discomfort while he regained strength. They were far more advanced than the ones he’d seen before. He remembered snooping through your apartment out of boredom, finding backups of your hero costume and the old quirk-cuffs tucked away in the closet. Those things looked like toys in comparison.

Once he was able to speak normally again, a therapist from the rehabilitation center started visiting daily for his sessions.

If he could, he would’ve jumped out the window by now.

He knew he’d agreed to his younger brother’s rehabilitation plan. Something that would hopefully work in the court system’s favor. But in truth, he didn’t care about all that. He just wanted out. Out of confinement. Out of pain. Out of this miserable limbo.

He did think of you, a couple of times.

After he regained his voice, his lawyer began visiting twice a week. What he didn’t expect was for your mother, Reika, to actually keep her word that if he left you out of the chaos, she’d represent him. She planned to take his case, even in the event that the League was taken down.

She was a terrifying woman who demanded respect. If you didn’t give it, she’d drop you as a client without hesitation. Well known in both the legal world and the underworld under a different name and a different mask.

She may have been a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. When she made a deal, she kept her word so long as you kept yours.

“Touya, your father is a piece of shit.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. The expression on her face told him everything. 

If she could kill the old man herself, she would.

“What did he do this time?”

“Acted like a misogynistic prick,” Reika snapped, her voice full of disgust. “Like I haven’t defended more high-profile criminals than most lawyers ever dream of. He pulled that ‘I’m the dominant man in the room’ garbage gave me that stare like I was supposed to flinch. Tried talking over me like I was his damn secretary.” Her tone shifted into a mocking imitation of a deep, gravelly voice. “ ‘I’m the alpha in the room.’”

She scoffed and leaned back in her seat.

“Honestly? I was one bad moment away from stabbing him in the neck with my pen.”

She clicked that same pen in her hand, her fingers twitching with irritation. "Anyways, none of that old geezer. I wanted to review what I have so far with you to ensure that you aren't surprised if it gets brought up in the court." Anyway, enough about that old geezer. I wanted to review what I have so far with you—to make sure you’re not surprised if it gets brought up in court.”

"How is (Y/N)?" Touya whispered, loud enough for her to hear.

 He knew it was out of the blue.

He’d eavesdropped a few times. Doctors and nurses mention how this would be the longest leave of absence you’d ever taken.

He knew he had a better chance of getting an answer from Reika than from Kaito. Kaito was always accompanied by someone. Touya couldn’t show that he knew him personally, and he understood why. It would launch an investigation, especially with all the pro heroes and police constantly walking around.

Reika paused for a moment, glancing up from the leather folder she always carried to jot down her notes.

“She’s doing better. Got discharged about a week ago,” Reika said, tapping her pen against the folder. “She’s being forced to take a six-month leave, but other than that, she’s okay. You’re not the reason she was bedridden. There was just an incident with Endea—”

“Did he hurt her?” Touya cut in sharply.

“No. It was indirectly... surrounded by other factors,” Reika replied, shifting into her lawyer voice. Touya shot her a look, but Reika didn’t flinch. She simply flipped to a new page in her folder, her tone shifting coldly as she dove into the notes and legal strategy for his upcoming plea hearing. --------------

Anyway, how are we feeling about Touya being awake now? He already hates feeling weak, and now he has to talk about his feelings? He’d rather jump out of a window, especially if it means talking to a stranger.

This chapter was going to go differently, but I decided to delay a certain scene. There’s actually another deal Reika and Touya made, which is the main reason she’s representing him during the war. The chaos happening in these streets is no joke.

The next 2 chapter will explore how Touya and Remedy met as teenagers: one struggling to survive in the streets, and the other trying to help people with nothing but good intentions. Spoiler alert: Touya is the stray cat, skeptical of the preppy cat.

Any thoughts or theories? I’m all ears! I’d love to hear them. Thank you so much for everyone who commented on the previous chapter! You guys are the reason why the chapter got posted earlier than expected. Your comments seriously mean the world to me. 💖 I’m so grateful to know there are people who want to read more. Next Chapter 9

[sunandflame]

Alber "King" MODERN AU: Government Experiment Survivor | Underground Fighter

Alber, who was taken from an orphanage at just 3 years old, labeled "unclaimed" and selected for a government experiment that erased his identity before it ever formed.

Alber, whose childhood was replaced with laboratories and locked rooms, trained like a weapon and shaped through years of genetic editing and violent physical conditioning.

Alber, whose body was designed to endure what others could not — with muscle density beyond normal, reinforced bones, suppressed empathy, and a nervous system that learned to silence pain before it could reach his brain.

Alber, the most successful prototype they ever created — silent, obedient, inhumanly resilient — until he disappeared at 17 during a transport blackout, killing two handlers and vanishing into smoke and silence.

Alber, who no longer existed in any system, who gave himself a new name — King — not as a title, but as a shield. A way to hide in plain sight while the government still hunted ghosts.

King, who stands at 2 meters tall — that’s 6 feet 7 inches of broad, quiet mass. A man built like a fortress, with a presence that fills any room he walks into, even when he says nothing at all.

King, who fights in illegal underground circuits, cash-only, off-grid, nameless — known only by bruised mouths and broken ribs.

King, whose reputation carries further than his voice ever has: undefeated, silent, merciless. A myth in the flesh. Rumors say he doesn’t feel pain. No one knows where he goes after the match ends.

King, who moves like he’s still being watched. Who fights with brutal efficiency — a fusion of military kill-strikes and raw street brawling. There is no waste in his motion, only intent.

King, whose back is carved with a massive black wings tattoo — spanning shoulder to hip, inked with precision and grief. A monument to what he was supposed to be, and what they tried to take.

King, who lives above a junkyard in an abandoned apartment, walls stained with oil and silence. A mattress on the floor. Taped-over mirrors. A punching bag swinging like a pendulum in a room that never changes.

King, who eats the same meals. Who trains every morning. Who fixes bikes and cars for cash and does side security at a bar where no one makes eye contact.

King, who doesn’t let anyone close. Who doesn’t speak unless it matters. Who makes every word feel like a loaded gun.

King, whose body is all survival but whose soul still flickers behind burned-out eyes. Who isn’t cruel — just disconnected. Emotionally shut down, because nothing inside him was ever allowed to grow.

King, who watches the door even when it’s locked. Who never sleeps through the night. Who wakes up mid-fight, fists clenched, breath caught in a memory that doesn’t belong to this world.

King, who carries phantom pain and names he doesn’t say out loud. Who remembers the screaming, the silence, the training rooms painted red.

You, who didn’t flinch when he walked in bloodied and silent. Who didn’t ask for explanations. Who didn’t treat him like a threat — or a myth.

You, who spoke to him gently. Who handed him a clean towel. Who called him by name like it wasn’t something stolen.

You, who kept showing up. Who never pried, never demanded. Who looked at him like he was human, not haunted.

He never thought he could want. Not anything real. Not softness. Not warmth. Not you.

He doesn’t know how to touch gently, but he learns. Slowly. With still hands and shallow breath. He learns to stay when everything in him says run.

He tries to keep you away. Puts up walls that don’t speak, closes doors that never truly lock. You find your way in anyway. And that’s what terrifies him most — not that you’ll leave. But that you’ll stay. And someone will find you. And someone will hurt you. And it will be because of him.

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

This is another AI assisted story. I had to do a lot of guiding ChatGPT, but finally got something to work with. The photo is also ChatGPT. The funny thing is that it had difficulty with jock straps, and it wouldn't create a photo with the trucker's arm holding the top of the door frame saying that it was sexual. Anyways: ______________

The Trucker in the Doorway

______________

The motel room is still, heavy with the thick, stagnant air of a fading desert night. The temperature’s dropped to 91 degrees—a bitter mercy after the 106-degree inferno just hours earlier. The wall-mounted A/C unit clunks and hums like it’s about to give up. It doesn’t help. The air smells of mildew, old carpet, and something sharp and pissy, like a gas station bathroom left to rot.

The door is open—not out of carelessness, but necessity. There's no circulation in the room. Just stifling, stagnant heat and the low hum of trucks on the highway, distant but steady, like a reminder of where you are and how far from anywhere it is.

He smells the room—the heat-soaked fabric, the body-salt of strangers, and the grime of the road baked into the air. But it’s honest. Familiar. This isn’t a place for tourists. It’s the kind of motel people forget even exists. No manager at the desk. No other cars in the lot. Just a room, a bed, and a window facing nothing.

Exactly what he was looking for.

And in that open doorway—he stands.

One hand grips the top of the frame, arm stretched high and still, muscles like industrial cable under sun-worn skin. The other hand rests by his hip, holding a dented can of beer. He doesn’t drink it—just holds it like a man used to the weight of tools, or weapons.

He’s massive. 6'6", 280 pounds. Fifty-five years old and built like a working myth. Not gym-trained or cut from vanity—just a body forged by decades of lifting, hauling, digging, driving. Heavy shoulders. Thick neck. Barrel chest. Every inch a man made to do hard things the hard way.

His skin glistens under the weak glow of a flickering lot light overhead. Sweat dried into salt. Hair clinging to chest and arms like burlap to oil. He hasn’t changed since the last leg of the drive and doesn’t intend to. The tank top he wears—solid brown, stretched damp across him—reads: Zigmont Trucking.  The slogan of “Delivering Big Loads” is barely legible through the sweat and fading cotton.

Below that: a jockstrap.

The old, nearly transparent jockstrap clings to him — a favorite piece that’s become part of who he is. The white fabric—no longer white due to the sweat stands and the brownish-yellow spots in the front—is worn so thin that the fibers are barely holding together, the pouch slightly see-through, stretched from years of use. It’s molded to him, both from memory and recent wear — he hasn’t taken it off in three days, the last time he showered. He wears it when he drives, when he sleeps, when he stalks lonely rest stops and rundown motels in the middle of nowhere like this one. It’s not just another piece of clothing — it’s a second skin, a symbol of his identity. Holds everything in place. Keeps him grounded. Familiar. Like the steering wheel under his palms or the scent of diesel in his nostrils.  He doesn’t feel fully himself without it.

He stands motionless, silent, staring into the room.

Behind him, the night stretches empty—no civilization for 25 miles. Just cracked asphalt, a lone overhead light, and his semi—black and beastlike, purring low in shadows. In the distance, trucks hum down the highway, miles away. But they’re just noise. Not here.

This place isn’t for tourists or families or anyone seeking a clean night’s sleep. Most avoid it—and that's the point. No front desk to ask questions. No guests to notice. No one to complain. No cops.

Not that he plans to do anything wrong.

He’s here for his 10-hour DOT rest. He’ll spend it how he wants: quietly, privately, for himself. His time. His rules. His peace.

He smells the motel’s stink—the pissy, foul heat mixed with mildew and old carpet. But it doesn’t bother him. It’s familiar. Honest. The smell of nowhere. Of no one watching.

His back itches under the tank. The jockstrap bites gently at the hip—a welcome pressure. Sweat soaks everything. Dried, salty, stiff. Clinging to chest hair, trailing down his back, rimmed at his waistband. He could change, shower. He won’t.

He earned this sweat.

He doesn’t announce it. Just stands in the doorway, one boot inside, bathed in lot light’s glow. Watching.

He’s not smiling. Not scowling either. Just there. Present. Unmistakably real. Like rusted steel left out too long weathered but unbreakable. Not a man who makes conversation. Not one who invites it. 

But he’s watching, studying the naked man before him.

And inside, a naked man in his 20's sleeps—face down, stretched across the bed, one arm draped off the edge, the whole room humming with leftover heat and silence.  The sight is more the norm than not at this motel.  Only men seem to stay here, and clothing is minimal if not completely absent.

He's naked but not posed—just collapsed, surrendered to the heat. Breath rising and falling in shallow, slow waves. A college kid, maybe. A loner on the edge of something. Or someone running from a place too loud. You see all kinds on the road.

The trucker doesn’t move. Just studies the figure silently. The curves of his back, the spread of his hands, the sun-dark line along his shoulders. The kid’s young. Definitely a man, but soft in the way the trucker hasn't been in decades. The trucker doesn't leer—he takes it in the way a man notes weather before a storm. A scan. A study. Youth, not too far from grown, but still untouched by hard labor or long days behind the wheel.

He watches. The slow rise and fall of breath. Maybe the kid thought the place would be empty. Maybe hoped it wouldn’t be.  Most likely the kid knew where he was, what he was doing, and who would most likely come to him.  This last one made the most sense.

That makes the trucker’s lip twitch.

The A/C hums weakly inside. Pointless.

He knows how he looks—standing there, soaked in heat and salt, boots planted wide, beer hanging like punctuation. He knows the effect—silence, size, stillness. Not arrogance. Not pride.

Truth.

He takes one step in, slow and heavy. Boot against carpet. The door creaks slightly behind him, swinging inward with the weight of gravity and silence. He glances toward the window—dim light from the lot barely reaching the far wall. The shadows eat most of the room. Just the boy’s shape across the bed and the echo of his breath.

The trucker doesn't speak. Doesn’t plan. He’s just here to shut the world out for ten hours. The Department of Transportation says he has to rest. So he will. His way.

But this motel doesn’t ask questions. Neither does he.  He doesn’t want company. Never does.  

But if someone lies naked in a place like this with the door wide open… that’s not company.

That’s opportunity.

Not violence. Not chaos.

Just what the road owes him.

Whatever happens in the silence of this nowhere room will happen with no audience. No consequences. No questions.

He steps forward—one slow, heavy bootfall into the room—and feels the soft give of carpet underfoot. The air inside is hotter. More human.

He sets the beer down on the nightstand with a quiet clink. The room is still.

He reaches behind him to the door to close it.

Soft.

Automatic.

Final.

[warsofasoiaf]

Opinions on Zohran Mamdani winning the Democratic nomination for NYC Mayor?

I think Cuomo is a disgusting human being, so I'm not sorry to see him lose. That being said, I don't think Mamdani will govern very well and I think he'll largely fail in the vein of Chicago's Brandon Johnson.

Progressive economics is largely a contradiction in terms, and reminds me a lot of MAGA economics (unsurprising in that they are both populist programs) in a few key respects - chief among them being the steadfast belief that all economic woes are the result of the malfeasant activity of an undesirable caste. In MAGA's case, it's usually foreigners and immigrants, and in the progressive case, it's corporate greed. Any economic pain must be the result of actions by this caste. This is a belief that is held true regardless of empirical truth, and the more studies produced that directly contradict it, the more the populists dig themselves into conspiratorial thinking.

Nowhere is this more evident that his absurd proposal for government-run grocery stores. According to the belief, this *must* be because of corporate greed, distress at food prices must be the result of "price gouging" to bleed the poor, hardworking people. The fact that profit margins in grocery stores are among the lowest across all commercial sectors is functionally irrelevant - the people are feeling the pain so the corporations must be to blame. Forget that in poorer neighborhoods in New York City, people primarily get their food from corner stores and bodegas, the majority of which are run by poor immigrants - so this policy will largely compete with them. It has to be because of those price-gouging grocery stores, because otherwise, something else is to blame. If the data doesn't support that conclusion, it doesn't matter. It's the simplification of economic policy to a shallow morality play. Which is a really *bad* place to base economic policy off of.

Similarly, his steadfast support for rent control, which has been overwhelmingly confirmed by economists to be policies that exacerbate housing supplies and increase rents do not functionally matter. The policy has to be to stick it to the evil landlords, because they're part of the undesirable caste. Rent control is popular, but counterproductive. But it does help the politically well-connected who donate to progressive causes. Because it's hard to govern effectively, but it's easy to make a scapegoat.

He's also planning on the standard subsidies to progressive rent-seekers, increasing the overall cost of housing production while not increasing the rate at which housing is built. This is relatively bog-standard fare for progressives; it's actually a big part of the Abundance movement articulated by Ezra Klein that progressives largely pad costs to their political backers via subsidies and counterproductively hamper state capacity.

His foreign policy perspectives do have an underlying alarming quality to it. His support for the Palestine movement is relatively normal by progressive standards, and I believe that there's a large movement on the right who try their best to falsely conflate support for Palestinian nationhood with support for Hamas and PIJ. But for a man who articulates a "universal support for human rights" and yet maintain his membership in the Democratic Socialists of America, who steadfastly produce pro-Putin apologia and minimize Russian genocide of Ukrainian people. This extends to the point where Russia actively brags about using FPV's to hunt civilians in Kherson - it's a genocide pure and simple - yet the DSA *needs* to believe in NATO expansionism myths and mandate the right for Russia to export instability to its near-abroad because otherwise a non-Western nation is a bad actor (shock and horror!). This is a significant problem - normally I wouldn't expect an NYC mayor to have foreign policy positions - but he's decided to have foreign policy perspectives and thus opens himself up to criticism. The simplest explanation of his position is hypocrisy, but I actually don't believe that mere hypocrisy sufficiently explains his positions. The DSA has really twisted themselves into knots justifying Putin's aggression, and the real throughline seems to stem from a place of severe anti-CEE racism, that Central and Eastern Europe deserve the sword for abandoning socialism. This isn't to say that Mamdani believes this explicitly, but that he supports a group that maintains this position and has been so far unwilling to separate himself from it. That he maintains his membership and doesn't so much as make a token statement against it is quite troubling.

-SLAL

[sahashbelvanie]

Demons of Elden Ring

I noticed that the Japanese script for Elden Ring is more specific about what it labels as a “demon.” I don’t speak or read Japanese, nor do I have any significant insight into the various spiritual cultures involved, so forgive me for my lack of detail—this is based on quick internet searches.

Okina

A samurai of renown from the eastern Land of Reeds. Okina means “old man,” a name he earned for the mask he wore, which depicted a snarling elder. Okina is referred to as a 修羅 (shura or asura). The word can refer to slaughter, carnage, or killing—a scene of bloodshed and violence. An asura can also be someone whose natural inclinations become destructive, growing cruel, arrogant, hateful, and thus demonic in nature. Asura are said to live by sense rather than mind, engaging in jealous conflict with heavenly beings.

The meanings can go on and on, but the core idea is of a less-than-virtuous entity, driven by conflict. Mohg, the Lord of Blood, offered Okina the life of an asura after feeling his blade—a life that endlessly thirsts for blood. That is why Okina’s cursed katana is known, at least in the Japanese script, as “mountains of corpses and rivers of blood.” Forever cutting down others, he sharpened his mind until all else lost meaning, leaving only himself and his blade—to forever be perfected.

Anastasia

The “Tarnished Eater.” Anastasia is referred to as a kijo—a woman who has become a demon (oni) as a result of harboring deep resentment and possessing a hideous heart. The term typically refers to female supernatural beings, often malicious in nature.

Anastasia wields a butcher’s knife, which she uses to neatly carve the human body. She has killed and eaten many Tarnished by disguising herself as a Finger Maiden (miko—a shrine maiden or young woman of divination at temples). Landing an attack with her knife also restores her health.

Shabriri

In Elden Ring, Shabriri was a madman whose eyes were gouged out by the people for the crime of slander. He would go on to become the most reviled man in history, as the originator of the Frenzied Flame disease—which took root in his mutilated eyes as he smiled faintly.

The name Shabriri refers to a demon of blindness, whose name means “dazzling glare”—a creature said to rest on uncovered water (such as pools or rivers) at night, afflicting those who drink from it with blindness. One way to undo or mitigate his curse is to recite an incantation in which a letter is removed from his name with each repetition.

Rakshasa

The unrelenting katana-wielding cannibal berserker. A Rakshasa is a being born of both hunger and anger—creatures who consume human flesh and appear on battlefields with glee when slaughter is at its worst. Although myths vary, and like many popularly malicious spiritual beings, there are both “good” and “bad” kinds.

In Elden Ring, the nameless warrior woman became a Rakshasa after killing and consuming countless others ceaselessly—so much so that her armor and sword are stained red with blood and exude a vile aura. She has lost all sense of self, becoming a creature of pure instinct. Her armor and blade cut through bone at the cost of her own flesh—attack damage is greater, but so is damage received.

The Fell Omen’s title, as a fun side note, can mean something like taboo or abominable oni (demon, ghost, etc.). Morgott isn’t a demon, but it is the “folk name” by which his alter ego is known. The Fanged and Long-Tongued variants of the Imp golem are also modeled after “oni” or demons.

There are a number of other spiritual entities I may have missed, and others I won’t go into—such as faeries, marebito(Numen), kami (gods and outer gods), wraiths, rancors, those who live in death, and many more. Or Revenant herself.

Libra

But oh, how could I forget Libra? The equilibrium demon of Night. Libra is referred to as 魔 (ma), which seems to be a generic term for a demon or some kind of malicious entity. It can also refer to sorcery or magical power. He’s the demon of “tuning.”

When I look up 調律 (chōritsu), musical tuning comes up. The word itself can be broken down into “adjust/tune” and “law/discipline,” so equilibrium makes sense—it’s about balance. The Golden Order is a “law” or regulation, after all, the opposite of chaos. Libra is “tuning” it, I suppose, to incorporate elements of chaos or Frenzy.

Libra is a goat-like creature obsessed with the idea of an impartial force—hence his allegiance to the Night—and uses alchemy to create a false gold that has a holy effect but results in frenzy buildup.

[hellowyellow1]

Rewriting Adam from Hazbin Hotel

( Go check out the series it's not the best written but I do like it for all of its faults )

Okay, I’m going to be honest—the writing for Adam really pisses me off.Why does he talk like a frat bro? Adam is supposed to be the first human, and yet he speaks like a cocky twenty-something who just stepped out of a college party.

This man has existed since the beginning of humanity. He’s encountered every culture, every language, and yet his dialect is stuck in “wannabe alpha male” mode? That makes no sense.His language should be jumbled. He should be mixing Victorian English with British slang, maybe even tossing in some Australian or dead languages.

Instead, he sounds like a dude who sells protein powder on Instagram.And why does he act like he’s still in his twenties with zero wisdom? He’s literally been around since the dawn of mankind. The way he behaves—immature, arrogant, shallow—is a disservice to the potential depth his character could have. He should be unsettling, unrelatable, a man who has seen too much. Instead, he’s just… annoying.

So yeah. I’m rewriting him. Umbrella? Gone. Ingenue? Not happening. Let’s start fresh—with a new backstory.

✦ Adam’s Backstory ✦

Adam and Lilith were created from the same clay, meant to live together in the Garden of Eden. At first, everything was peaceful… until God gave them instructions on how to reproduce. Adam, being obedient, went along with it. But Lilith refused to lie beneath him during sex, arguing that they were created equal—why should she be submissive?

Adam believed disobedience to God was dangerous, even sinful. Lilith didn’t care. She fled the Garden in pursuit of independence.Adam reported her disappearance to God. In response, God sent three angels—Senoi, Sansenoi, and Semangelof—to retrieve her. But Lucifer intervened, helping Lilith escape. The two grew close, even forming a bond.

Fueled by bitterness, Lilith snuck back into Eden. She was shocked to find Adam with a new partner: Eve. In a twisted act of revenge, Lilith disguised herself as Eve and seduced Adam. During sex, she convinced him to eat the forbidden fruit, manipulating him with promises of love and happiness.Shortly after, she vanished. Adam and Eve were cast out of Eden for their "crime."

(Yeah, I took creative liberties here. I made Lilith a bit of a villain—not because I hate her, but because I think it’s unfair to vilify Adam while completely ignoring what she did. Plus, in many versions of the myth, Lilith isn’t even human. And beside eve is right there for a sympathetic woman who will get her own arc and personality.)

Everyone knows the story of Cain and Abel, so I’ll skip most of that. But I imagine Adam was severely traumatized after Cain murdered Abel. I think both Adam and Eve fell into deep depression—Adam more so, blaming himself for everything, especially for eating the apple that cursed them with mortality.He was abusive.

Let’s be real: he was the first man raised under the belief that sin deserves punishment. Given how many religious societies still justify abuse today, it’s not far-fetched to imagine Adam being harsh, even cruel.Cain bore the brunt of this.

Feeling unloved and burdened by guilt, he eventually took his own life in hopes of reuniting with Abel in the afterlife. Adam and Eve were devastated. This loss drove a final wedge between them—and between Adam and his daughter, too. (Deservedly.)

Eventually, Adam died. When he woke in Heaven, he and Eve slowly drifted apart. They had never truly wanted to be together, and Eve left. Adam was relieved, but also quietly sad. He cared for her—but he had never loved her. (He’s aroace, though he won’t realize that until much later.)And that’s Adam’s backstory: messy, tragic, and complex. Poor baby. (Kind of.)-

✦ Adam’s Personality ✦

Adam is ancient—wise, but emotionally stunted. He suppresses his trauma, believing Heaven should be paradise, and he should be grateful.He's the old.man that says “Sinners deserve punishment. God says so.” yeah he's that guy.

He refuses to question it.

He can’t question it.

On the surface, Adam is charming and diplomatic. As the first man, he often has to act like a gracious host to other humans in Heaven. He’s good at playing nice, even when he wants to be left alone. He can be sweet, but he’s also deeply passive-aggressive, especially toward Lilium (Charlie’s rewritten name in this version).

He’s learned dozens of languages over the centuries. His original language has long been forgotten, but he gravitates toward Arabic and English. Arabic reminds him of something ancient and comforting; English is just convenient. Still, he mixes up modern slang, old Latin phrases, and archaic idioms all the time. He needs Lute (an angel character) to help translate and guide him through modern conversations.

Adam has, in many ways, forgotten who he really is. He’s spent so long trying to please others—especially God—that he’s lost touch with his own identity. He’s paranoid about making mistakes again. He genuinely believes that if someone sins, they deserve Hell. He doesn’t consider that Hell might be unjust—he just trusts God’s judgment blindly.But underneath that blind faith is someone deeply insecure and afraid.Adam is persuasive. He seems confident. But really, he’s constantly deflecting, invalidating others, and denying his own guilt.

✦ Character Arc ✦

His arc starts with him as a villain—a man who enforces divine punishment without remorse—but slowly shifts. Through his interactions with Lilium, he begins to question things.He starts to see moral grey areas. He reflects on his mistakes—not just the apple, but his cruelty to his children, especially Cain. He realizes how toxic and abusive he was.

He starts secretly helping Lilium achieve her goals, even as he struggles with guilt and self-hatred.Eventually, he reconciles with Cain and becomes a wiser, more compassionate figure. Not perfect—but trying. He becomes his own person and a mentor to Lilium and others, learning alongside them.

✦ Final Thoughts ✦

I want Adam to be sympathetic, but let’s be clear: he was a terrible person. His story is about how even someone awful can grow. It’s a reminder that good people can do bad things, and bad people can be redeemed.Adam was corrupted by faith, guilt, fear, and centuries of pressure. But he was also a victim—of divine expectations, trauma, and his own ignorance. That duality makes him interesting.If I can write him properly, he’ll show that even the first man was broken—and that people like him still deserve the chance to heal and change

[charmed-redemption]

" Spanish class... English... Should I go on? "

Though Rico would never say that Fin was not telling the truth, he did know more than a few times that he was unable to keep it in his pants. His family's fundraiser, the pair had to disappear for a few hours, and Rico still didn't fully forgive him for his actions there. He taped it down, something that he should never have to do, though he wasn't the biggest fan of the stairs, it bothered him to think of Finn being uncomfortable.

" Good point though she is your mother I dont thing that he noticed that. "

With the man's sex drive, he wondered how many times a door was not locked and someone walked in. Thankfully, his staff avoided the main parts of the house when Finn was around, but they had seen a little more than they should at some point. With the pair growing up, Rico would likely need to move into a new place. He likely would stay close to Finn, but the thought of buying a house was on his mind more and more. Finn had big feet, and with the myths being what they were, it probably crossed the minds of her friends, and they likely came over to check on Finn to validate the rumors.

" I take it as you are not going to walk around the house naked no need to torment her with something falling out at the wrong time."

GLE: A Posh Tale

[everytimewetouch-dot-mp3]

cang qiong dragon god shen yuan is probably like so old that time doesn’t have meaning? like he transmigrated into pidw as a dragon and and the system gave him a few missions that functionally amounted to ‘claim this mountain range as your territory and defend it from demons’

sy didn’t realize that he was actually laying the foundation for cang qiong mountain sect before its creation. some terrifying demon demigod (one of the first heavenly demons, maybe?) pursues a band of cultivators to his mountain range, and he protects them. they settle his mountains and start cultivating, and because they’re protected by a literal god (who they call lord canglong, and they name the mountains after him) people want to study there.

so cqms is born, and sy takes a nap. when he wakes up, those cultivators he saved bring another group of cultivators, all named 'wen' to his mountain, and they ask his permission to lead the peaks next. another nap, and he wakes up to the wen generation asking his blessing for the ming generation, so on and so forth up until the qing generation. this time he recognizes names: qingge, qingfang, qingqi. this generation's leader, qingyuan. and the one whose bow is shallow and perfunctory, qingqiu. ofc sy isn't super pressed about standing on ceremony or whatever—he's only experienced like six years in this world, and most of them were spent either establishing the mountain as his territory or helping his little cultivators fight off some world-ending cataclysm or other. but he remembers the scum villain’s name, and he’s not a huge fan of the way sqq’s already proving himself to be an arrogant old shit

just like every other time, after he’s met and blessed this generation of peak lords, shen yuan falls asleep. shit!!! he meant to stay awake this time, but the system putting him to sleep is just too powerful! he’s probably missed luo binghe, damnit!!! what’s the point of transmigrating into this shitty novel if he doesn’t even get to meet the only character worth the pixels it took to type him into existence??

but as soon as he sees that fluffy-haired boy curled up in one of his caves, bruised and weeping and wondering what he’s done to be so universally hated, shen yuan knows. that’s his protagonist, and he’s really too pathetic like this. he’s really just a child. and shen yuan might have been easily annoyed by the concept of kids in his first life, but this isn’t just some whiny kid. this is the protagonist. so he does his best to calm tiny lord luo down.

and at first when lbh realizes it’s the fucking dragon god canglong speaking to him, the poor kid falls on his face kowtowing and apologizing for the intrusion, but lord canglong just…asks him what’s wrong. and then listens. and then he allows binghe to…to touch his hand???? not only that, he pats binghe’s head?? and tells him it isn’t his fault??? that one little head-pat is filled with so much spiritual power that binghe almost passes out, and soon after he recovers, lord canglong sends him back down the mountain with a renewed sense of purpose. lord canglong said binghe wasn’t stupid, wasn’t incompetent, wasn’t a failure, and binghe was determined to prove himself worthy of the sect’s guardian deity’s kindness.

and when luo binghe turns to walk down the mountain back to qing jing peak, that google translate voice pipes up in shen yuan’s ear with an update he hadn’t realized he was waiting for.

[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Important things must be said three times! USER_002 has completed the quest {From the Ground Up}! B-points +500 USER_002 has initiated the quest {Master of Masters}! New skill [Shapeshifter] has been unlocked! Would USER_002 like to activate [Shapeshifter] now?]

shen yuan slammed the bright glowing [YES] faster than any quest the system had ever given him. that’s how he learned that he was, in fact, just naked in front of luo binghe, and the [Shapeshifter] skill didn’t come with an auto-clothed setting. thank fuck he’d already sent the protagonist away!

[runaria]

吃得苦中苦，方为人上人。

"If you can swallow the bitterness, you can become one above another."

"Enduring deepening pain is how man ascends."

Two translations for a similar sentiment: it is through pain and hardship that we can learn and become better-- and eventually, overcome. No pain no gain, as they say.

Though, that doesn't mean it doesn't suck the entire time.

(Version with no words below the cut)

[gingermintpepper]

In my Zeus bag today so I'm just gonna put it out there that exactly none of the great Ancient Greek warrior-heroes stayed loyal and faithful and completely monogamous and yet none of them have their greatness questioned nor do we question why they had the cultural prominence that they did and still do.

Jason, the brilliant leader of the Argo, got cold feet when it came to Medea - already put off by some of her magic and then exiled from his birthland because of her political ploys, he took Creusa to bed and fully intended on marrying her despite not properly dissolving things with Medea.

Theseus was a fierce warrior and an incredibly talented king but he had a horrible temper and was almost fatally weak to women. This is the man who got imprisoned in the Underworld for trying to get a friend laid, the man who started the whole Attic War because he couldn't keep his legs closed.

And we cannot at all forget Heracles for whom a not inconsiderable amount of his joy in life was loving people then losing the people around him that he loved. Wives, children, serving boys, mentors, Heracles had a list of lovers - male and female - long enough to rival some gods and even after completing his labours and coming down to the end of his life, he did not have one wife but three.

And y'know what, just because he's a cultural darling, I'll put Achilles up here too because that man was a Theseus type where he was fantastic at the thing he was born to do (that is, fight whereas Theseus' was to rule) but that was not enough to eclipse his horrid temper and his weakness to young pretty things. This is the man that killed two of Apollo's sons because they wouldn't let him hit - Tenes because he refused to let Achilles have his sister and Troilus who refused Achilles so vehemently that he ran into Apollo's temple to avoid him and still couldn't escape.

All four of these men are still celebrated as great heroes and men. All four of these men are given the dignity of nuance, of having their flaws treated as just that, flaws which enrich their character and can be used to discuss the wider cultural point of what truly makes a hero heroic. All four of these men still have their legacies respected.

Why can that same mindset not be applied to Zeus? Zeus, who was a warrior-king raised in seclusion apart from his family. Zeus who must have learned to embrace the violence of thunder for every time he cried as a babe, the Corybantes would bang their shields to hide the sound. Zeus learned to be great because being good would not see the universe's affairs in its order.

The wonderful thing about sympathy is that we never run out of it. There's no rule stopping us from being sympathetic to multiple plights at once, there's no law that necessitate things always exist on the good-evil binary. Yes, Zeus sentenced Prometheus to sufferation in Tartarus for what (to us) seems like a cruel reason. Prometheus only wanted to help humans! But when you think about Prometheus' actions from a king's perspective, the narrative is completely different: Prometheus stole divine knowledge and gifted it to humans after Zeus explicitly told him not to. And this was after Prometheus cheated all the gods out of a huge portion of wealth by having humans keep the best part of a sacrifice's meat while the gods must delight themselves with bones, fat and skin. Yes, Zeus gave Persephone away to Hades without consulting Demeter but what king consults a woman who is not his wife about the arrangement of his daughter's marriage to another king? Yes, Zeus breaks the marriage vows he set with Hera despite his love of her but what is the Master of Fate if not its staunchest slave?

The nuance is there. Even in his most bizarre actions, the nuance and logic and reason is there. The Ancient Greeks weren't a daft people, they worshipped Zeus as their primary god for a reason and they did not associate him with half the vices modern audiences take issue with. Zeus was a father, a visitor, a protector, a fair judge of character, a guide for the lost, the arbiter of revenge for those that had been wronged, a pillar of strength for those who needed it and a shield to protect those who made their home among the biting snakes. His children were reflections of him, extensions of his will who acted both as his mercy and as his retribution, his brothers and sisters deferred to him because he was wise as well as powerful. Zeus didn't become king by accident and it is a damn shame he does not get more respect.

[captainjanewaylovespuppies]

I have yet to watch what I’m sure is an excellent video by Verily, but I remember watching The Cage before watching any other episode of Trek, with minimal knowledge of the series. I knew that Pike would be replaced with Kirk, but I was so excited by the original Number One and I loved that the women wore pants.

I was actually a bit disappointed when I watched the actual first episode of TOS, because I felt that the show had become less progressive when Number One was gone and all the women wore miniskirts. Also, The Man Trap is a campy good time, but it’s not as interesting as The Cage (in my opinion). I fell in love with TOS after watching The Naked Time, but The Cage is still one of my favourite episodes of Star Trek.

Grace Lee Whitney (Yeoman Rand) was apparently the reason for the miniskirts because they were her idea. She made the suggestion to the costume designer William Ware Theiss, and he loved it. I’m glad that Verily dispels the myth that miniskirts were progressive in the 60’s, but I want to point out that Theiss does something truly progressive in TNG:

I know that early TNG is disliked, but THIS was Roddenberry’s vision! It’s honestly a bit depressing that this would still be progressive today… The miniskirts weren’t progressive then and they aren’t progressive now, but they walked so that the skants could run.

Thank you Grace Lee Whitney and William Ware Theiss for the skants in Star Trek.

really good sci-fi fashion video from Verily!

on the topic of TOS mini skirts, and the oft-repeated idea that they were sooo progressive for their time: