There is a place on Sage’s Island that no map dares to remember.
A hidden glade buried deep within the island’s ancient heart, known only to those who still walk the old ways. It sleeps beyond the reach of mortal eyes, veiled between secret paths that came before the schools, before the mages, before even the fae first pressed sacred names into the bones of the land. Ancient oaks and weeping willows bow over it in silent devotion, their branches woven together like the ribs of a living cathedral, turning the moonlight into threads of silver so delicate they seem spun from dreams. Beneath them, shadow and radiance shift with every breath of wind, weaving and unweaving a tapestry no mortal hand could ever imitate.
That wind carries the perfume of night-blooming jasmine, of rain-dark earth, and of something older than memory itself; a faint, electric trace of magic in its purest and most primordial state, winding through root and leaf, through stone and water, through the skin and breath of those blessed enough to stand within its presence.
Small luminiscences drift upon unseen currents, slow and weightless, as though the glade itself has exhaled stars. Perhaps they are spirits or perhaps they are wishes too tender to remain buried in the heart any longer. Their glow stains the night in impossible shades of emerald, sapphire, and amethyst, fluttering among lilies of the valley and beneath the green celestial dome of leaves above.
At the center of the clearing, moss covers the earth in a velvet so soft it feels like walking upon the resting place of the first fae, where sleep itself was born and laid down to dream. There, a perfect circle of water lies still and black as obsidian, that does not reflect the canopy above, but another sky entirely: vast, impossible, and endless, where a million stars turn in solemn silence, dancing to a music too ancient for mortal ears.
Here, time is no sovereign, and here, time is only a guest.
Here, in this mirror of eternity, in the hush between one heartbeat and the next, you stand beside him.
The glade’s beauty, ethereal and fragile enough to vanish at the softest sigh, fades into something distant beneath the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his hands over yours; words, those brief and mortal vessels, tremble beneath the burden of what the heart already knows. The I love you is not merely spoken; it is breathed into being, sacred and trembling, shared between two souls as a promise older than any tongue shaped by man, and destined to endure long after language has returned to dust.
His kiss is a vow sealed in the tongue of stardust. It is an oath offered before powers too vast for fleeting beings to name, before ancient witnesses woven into the hidden seams of the universe. Powers that do not merely hear such devotion, but bind it, and command the stars themselves to honor its terms. His arms around you become a border no sorrow may cross, a fortress raised in the stillness of that miraculous night, built from moonlight, devotion, and the burning heart of Antares, one glimmer at a time.
In the dark mirror of the water, there are no longer two figures. Only one, a single silhouette, joined and crowned in light.
The luminiscences draw nearer in their silent dance, circling you both with curious, benevolent grace. Their colors soften from deep blues and jeweled violets into warm golds and tender rose, as though even the ancient glade blushes before the whispered vows, the trembling hands, the reverent tenderness of two souls finding one another beneath the gaze of eternity.
The grove, ancient and patient and filled with ancestral magic, gathers the moment into the cup of its unseen hands. It cradles the union as something long foretold, something awaited through root and stone and starlight, sealing it with the absolute authority of a world that has slept for millennia only to wake for this precise instant.
When dawn arrives, the luminiscences cease their dance, the stars withdraw from the water, and the grove closes its eyes once more, returning to its eternal slumber, its purpose fulfilled.
Yet the covenant, written in starlight and sealed with devotion, remains unbroken.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ [ Summary ]
There are certain names that travel through the desert like folklore.
Rehman Dakait is one of them.
To some, he is a criminal carved from violence and whispered warnings. To others, he is a protector whose shadow stretches across forgotten villages where law and mercy no longer exist. Men fear him, children run after him with joy, and entire communities place their trust in his hands with a devotion that borders on faith.
No one truly knows where the man ends and the legend begins.
One evening, beneath the glow of lantern light and the echo of music, Rehman Dakait sees her dance.
Ashraf Khair’s daughter was never meant to cross paths with a man like Rehman. Intelligent, guarded, and trapped within a world built on power and loyalty, she knows better than to trust dangerous men — especially one whose name carries bloodshed in its wake.
But some people arrive in your life like color against ruin. In a world where betrayal hides behind every act of love, even the softest feelings can become the most dangerous of all.
And some men would burn kingdoms before letting go of what they cannot bear to lose.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ [ Sneak Peek ]
The courtyard glowed beneath amber lanterns suspended from carved archways, their light swaying gently against sandstone walls as music drifted through the night like smoke. Rehman had attended gatherings far grander than this.
He had sat across politicians dripping in gold and men whose wealth could buy entire cities. He had witnessed dancers adorned in jewels rare enough to blind kingdoms.
Yet none of them had ever managed to silence a room merely by moving.
She did.
The moment she stepped into the center of the courtyard, conversation dissolved into stillness. Ivory fabric flowed around her like liquid moonlight, delicate gold threaded through the edges of her dupatta catching against the firelight each time she turned. But it was not beauty alone that held him captive.
It was the sound.
The soft chime of ghungroos against marble. A thousand tiny silver bells singing beneath every graceful step she took.
Rehman had heard gunfire echo through mountains. Had heard men scream, had heard prayers whispered by dying mouths, had heard storms tear through villages in the dead of night.
Yet somehow, nothing had ever reached him quite like that sound.
His gaze remained fixed upon her ankles as the bells answered every movement with impossible melody, delicate and haunting all at once. It unsettled him more than violence ever had.
Beside him, Uzair muttered something beneath his breath, though Rehman did not catch the words. Because the woman dancing before him did not move as though she wished to be admired.
She moved as though she belonged somewhere far beyond the walls surrounding her. There was longing in every turn of her wrist.
Freedom in every measured step. And grief—quiet, hidden grief—woven into the elegance of her expression.
Rehman felt it like a blade beneath his ribs. Then, as though sensing the weight of his stare, she lifted her gaze.
For one suspended heartbeat, the world narrowed entirely.
The music... the lanterns... the people surrounding them.
Everything disappeared.
Only the sound of her anklets remained. Beautiful enough to make a dangerous man forget himself entirely.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ [ Authors Note ]
Hey y'all its me aka avatar aka Alice, back again with a rehman fic.
There are some stories that are written for spectacle, and there are others that are written for feeling. O Rangrez belongs to the latter.
This is a slow-burn story filled with yearning glances, unspoken devotion, grief, forgiveness, and the quiet moments that exist between chaos. There will be softness alongside violence, poetry alongside heartbreak, and love woven carefully through every chapter like thread through fabric.
Updates might keep fluctuating as I'm still trying to balance everything irl as I type this out.
Thank you for reading O Rangrez.
I hope it leaves a little color behind
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ [ Disclaimer ]
This is a work of fiction. I have only used the characters from the film Dhurandhar. This is not in any way shape or form related to the actual terrorists behind the attacks. I am not gloryfing terrorism, I am simply writing about Akshaye Khanna's character in the film.
Banner art by me. Dividers by @thecutestgrotto
P.S. comment below if you wanna be added to the taglist! Tysm for the love! Ily guyssss
໒꒱ You are angelic in the way that stops time. The kind of beauty that silences rooms and makes people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. Your glow is not of this world, it’s kissed by light and sculpted by something greater. You are the warmth of sunrise and the mystery of a full moon wrapped in one impossibly breathtaking body. You don’t try to enchant. You are enchantment. Every flutter of your lashes feels like a soft command. Every tilt of your head is a poem. People walk away from you, dazed, wondering if they just saw a vision. You are not the type to be stared at, you’re the type to be devoted to.
໒꒱ Your beauty is not loud, but it is commanding. It’s the kind of beauty people dream about, the kind that lives behind their eyes long after you’ve left the room. They don’t just notice your looks, they feel you. In their spine. In their breath. In the heat rising to their cheeks. Your presence is velvet and rose petals, soft but unforgettable. They want to protect you, adore you, worship you. And yet you need no protection, your grace is your power, your poise is your armor. You are an angel in silk. A goddess in human skin. The reason people believe angels walk among us.
໒꒱ There’s something unreachable about your beauty. Not because you try to be above anyone, but because you were born otherworldly. You don’t move through the world, you float. You wear light like a second skin. You speak and people lean in like they’re hearing prophecy. You smile and their chest tightens with something they can’t name. You are not just gorgeous. You are legendary. Mythic. The kind of person artists cry over, the kind of face that rewrites history and starts wars over the chance to love you.
໒꒱ You are the epitome of divine beauty. Your eyes hold galaxies and promises. Your lips are made for verses and reverence. Even the wind slows down to touch your skin, and strangers wonder if they should thank the universe just for existing on the same timeline as you. You’re not delicate, you’re deliberate. Every move you make is soft power. Every look you give is a spell. They don’t even care if they get your attention. They just want to exist near you. To feel that sacred, impossible, angelic glow.
໒꒱ You are a masterpiece of light and soul. A walking miracle. Even the stars envy the way you shine, because you do it effortlessly. You don’t need filters or approval. You’re truth. Beauty in its rawest, most powerful form. A kind of beauty that feels like standing barefoot in a field of lavender under golden sunlight. Safe. Hypnotic. Dreamlike. You are what poets try to capture and always fall short of. You are heaven in high heels. The softest dream with the sharpest impact. A divine contradiction, sweet and impossible to forget. They look at you and think: "There goes the closest thing to a miracle I’ll ever see."
໒꒱ You are angelic without trying. Not just in your face, which looks like it was sculpted from stardust and silk, but in your energy, warm, soft, glowing. You don’t walk into rooms; you bless them. People feel peace when you're near, like the chaos of the world pauses to catch its breath. Your aura feels like a prayer answered. And without saying a word, you heal hearts.
໒꒱ Your beauty is divine, like the sunrise after a storm. Gentle, quiet, but undeniable. You don’t chase attention; attention falls to its knees in front of you. Your soul glows brighter than any light they’ve ever known. To be near you is to feel chosen. Like the universe is whispering: This is who you’ve been waiting for.
໒꒱ You are what love would look like if it had a face. Delicate, radiant, and wrapped in the softness of something holy. You carry yourself like grace itself, never demanding, always commanding. Your laugh is sunlight. Your presence is a lullaby. You make people feel safe just by existing. You are divinely protected, universally adored. A living symbol of purity and power in the same breath.
໒꒱ You were born under a cosmic alignment too beautiful to repeat. You are soft but magnetic, pure but untouchable. You are the type of beauty that doesn’t just turn heads, it turns hearts. Even the cruelest people pause in reverence at your glow. They don’t just see you. They feel you, in their chest, in their silence, in the way they remember you forever.
໒꒱Your aura glows in a way mirrors can’t even reflect properly. You don’t need to speak to be felt. You are the calm after war, the warmth before tears. You move like a memory people never want to forget. Even nature bends gently around you, flowers bloom quicker, light hits you softer. You are beauty in its highest form: quiet, sacred, and undeniably angelic.
໒꒱ You are beauty sanctified. The kind of beauty that’s not just seen, but felt, in the hush that falls over a room when you enter it. Your presence is sacred. Like an ancient hymn written in light. You don’t walk, you glide as if the ground knows better than to challenge your steps. There’s a softness to you that could quiet thunder. A grace that makes even time hesitate, unsure whether to move forward without your permission. People don’t just look at you, they witness you. Like a miracle. Like a dream that shouldn’t be real. Your face is delicate in the way porcelain is, but it’s your aura that leaves the deepest mark. You don’t even have to speak. Just your existence alters the atmosphere. You're the person they think about when the night gets too loud and nothing feels holy anymore. You’re the prayer that the lost whisper, the memory that strangers chase in the shape of every soft thing.
໒꒱ You are angel-coded, but dangerous in how divine it is. You radiate warmth, but it’s the kind of warmth people fall in love with and never recover from. You give off that rare energy that feels like sunlight, pure, soft, ethereal, but anyone who’s basked in it too long? They’re ruined for anything else. You make people kinder without trying. You make the cruel feel unworthy. Even the most heartless men, the ones who don’t bow for anyone, start offering you the world without being asked. And it’s not just because of how you look. It’s because you remind them of everything they wish they hadn’t lost. You are softness that cuts deep. You are purity laced with power. You are the gentle storm, the kind that reorders everything it touches, without raising your voice once.
໒꒱ You are not meant to be understood. Only worshipped. You're the moment the clouds break and the light spills through, turning everything gold. Your laugh sounds like forgiveness. Your eyes hold galaxies. Your lips could end wars or start them, depending on how you curve them. And when you cry, oh, when you cry, it feels like a sacred mourning, as if the sky itself is weeping for the injustice of your tears. People don’t move on from you. They orbit you. Forever drawn to the gravity of something too beautiful for this world. And even if they never touch you again, they carry your echo in everything they try to love after. Because you’re not just a person. You’re the closest thing to divine they’ve ever known.
໒꒱ You are heaven’s favorite masterpiece, dipped in silk, kissed by stars, carved from light. People don’t just notice you, they pause. Because your beauty halts things. It disrupts thought. It silences the world for a second. You are the kind of beautiful that makes people question, what dimension did she fall from? What god allowed something this sacred to roam among mortals? Your glow isn’t loud, it’s reverent. It’s in the way your skin catches light like a halo, the way your lashes sweep like whispers from another realm. You carry a softness that isn’t fragile, it’s royal. The kind of softness that is protected by armies. The kind of softness people die for. There’s nothing performative about your elegance, it’s your natural state. You were born bathed in grace.
໒꒱ Not just pretty. Not just hot. You are divine. Angel-coded but not fragile, lethal in allure. Your lips are temptation. Your eyes? They don’t just look, they know. And once someone’s seen your face, they see it everywhere, in their dreams, in songs, in the curve of moonlight on water. It’s not just beauty. It’s impact. The kind that makes people talk softer when they speak to you. The kind that gets doors opened before you even approach them. The kind that creates rumors just because no one believes you’re real.
໒꒱ You are the universe’s chosen. Everything bends for you. Lines part. Timing aligns. Strangers help. Crowds part. You’re always the favorite, even when you don’t speak. Even when you don’t try. You were written into fate like royalty. And life bows accordingly. The world wants to spoil you, because how could it not? Cash appears in your bag like confetti. People hand over their time, energy, hearts without expecting anything in return. You don’t chase, you exist, and everything chases you. Even your silence feels expensive. Even your tears feel holy. Even your presence feels like it should be behind velvet ropes, with cameras flashing and choirs humming in the background.
໒꒱ You’re not the main character, you’re the myth. The one that stories are written about. The girl so magnetic she becomes a rumor that turns into legend. You’re the reason they believe in soulmates. You’re the one they’ll always compare everyone else to, and no one will come close. Because no one else could ever wear your aura.
໒꒱ You are the universe’s chosen. Everything bends for you. Lines part. Timing aligns. Strangers help. Crowds part. You’re always the favorite, even when you don’t speak. Even when you don’t try. You were written into fate like royalty. And life bows accordingly. The world wants to spoil you, because how could it not? Cash appears in your bag like confetti. People hand over their time, energy, hearts without expecting anything in return. You don’t chase, you exist, and everything chases you. Even your silence feels expensive. Even your tears feel holy. Even your presence feels like it should be behind velvet ropes, with cameras flashing and choirs humming in the background.
໒꒱ Not just pretty. Not just hot. You are divine. Angel-coded but not fragile, lethal in allure. Your lips are temptation. Your eyes? They don’t just look, they know. And once someone’s seen your face, they see it everywhere, in their dreams, in songs, in the curve of moonlight on water. It’s not just beauty. It’s impact. The kind that makes people talk softer when they speak to you. The kind that gets doors opened before you even approach them. The kind that creates rumors just because no one believes you’re real.
໒꒱ You are the kind of beauty that rewrites reality. When you enter a room, something shifts. Not just glances, but air, gravity, intention. People don’t just notice you, they reorient around you. You become the new north. The only direction. Your beauty isn’t earthly. It doesn’t scream, it glows. It’s the hush of snowfall at midnight. The burn of sunset on water. The ache in a love song that never names its muse. You are the image everyone holds behind their eyelids when they blink too long. And your presence? It haunts, in silk, in gloss, in grace.
໒꒱ You are both angel and fantasy, untouchable, unforgettable, entirely unreal. The way you walk is its own language. Your steps speak in verses. Divine. Hypnotic. Measured like a metronome made of lust and light. Men hate watching you leave, but they crave the view. You don’t walk. You float. You glide. Like your feet have never touched anything unworthy. Your beauty is not just visual, it’s visceral. It strikes. It lingers. It tastes like something forbidden, like sugar dusted in sin. Like a dream people fight to wake from only to fall back in, desperate for another glimpse.
໒꒱ You were not born, you descended. With glitter in your bloodstream. With velvet in your voice. With a gaze that baptizes and burns. Even your enemies hesitate before they speak your name, because it feels too pretty to hold in their mouths. The universe conspires in your favor, because how could it not? Streetlights hit you like a spotlight. Every breeze seems curated for your hair to fall perfectly. The world wants to spoil you. To please you. To praise you. You don’t ask, you exist, and they give. Money appears. Seats open. Strangers help. They say yes before you even ask the question.
໒꒱ You are an era. A phenomenon. The moment. You’re not trendy, you’re timeless.You’re not one in a million, you’re the only one. You’re the origin of every heartbreak ballad. The blueprint for every goddess ever whispered into poetry. People don’t get over you. They archive you. Paint you in their memory. Worship your shadow. Even if they never touch you, they’ll ache forever just to have been near you.
໒꒱ You are a vision carved from starlight and sanctified air. There’s something sacred in the way your features align, too symmetrical, too soft, too perfect to be accidental. Your face doesn’t belong to this world. It belongs in stained glass, in golden frames, in whispered prayers and songs that ache. You don’t just enter rooms, you descend, like light through cathedral windows, quiet but impossible to ignore.
໒꒱ People don’t know whether to fall in love with you or fall to their knees. Your beauty doesn’t scream, it breathes. It hushes the noise, stills the chaos, makes the world look like it’s holding its breath for you. And it is. You’re wrapped in that soft, unplaceable glow that follows angels and old money heiresses. Your skin looks like it was kissed by heaven and lit from within. Your eyes hold galaxies, yet speak only in gentle promise. Your presence is warmth, but never heat, calm, never cold. Divine.
໒꒱ Every movement you make feels like a blessing. The sway of your hips, the curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, it all feels intentional, even when it’s not. Even when you’re just being. Because your beauty isn’t just about what people see. It’s about what they feel. That warmth, that longing, that hush in their chest like they’ve witnessed something too holy to touch. They don’t even know why they’re watching, but they can’t stop. You have that magnetic, angel-coded energy. Ethereal. Enchanting. Serene, but unshakable.
໒꒱ You’re the kind of pretty people remember for the rest of their lives. Even those who only saw you once. Even those who wanted to forget you but never could. Even those who know they’ll never touch you, but still count themselves lucky just to have existed on the same planet. You don’t just turn heads, you turn hearts inside out. You’re the muse every artist begs for. The girl written into lullabies and high fashion dreams. The gentle storm that ruins a man’s standards forever. And you don’t even try. You don’t have to. You just… are.
໒꒱ Your beauty is a holy thing. You don’t just walk into a space, you grace it. Like the first light through chapel windows, soft and golden, refracted through the quiet awe of those who dare to look at you. You’re not just beautiful. You’re heaven-breathed. The kind of face you pray to without realizing. The kind of presence that humbles even the proudest hearts.
໒꒱ You are the hush before the hymn. The sigh in the soul. Your skin carries the warmth of candlelight, golden, soft, eternal. Your eyes? Galaxies in orbit, ringed with light and ancient secrets. One look and it’s like the world forgets its chaos. Time slows. People feel you before they see you. When you smile, it’s divine intervention. Lips like roses blooming at dawn. Dimples like angelic fingerprints. The kind of smile that heals, seduces, and haunts all at once.
໒꒱ You are purity wrapped in allure, soft, but never weak. There’s grace in your every movement. Even your stillness glows. Your hair falls like silk spun by seraphim, catching light like halos. Your presence smells like jasmine, honey, and peace, and yet there’s something dangerously magnetic beneath all that softness. A power too delicate to hold, but too sacred to let go of.
໒꒱ You are what poets see when they speak of angels. Not cartoon wings or fairy dust, but raw, reverent beauty. The kind that makes strangers gentle. Makes sinners pause. You have the kind of face people travel lifetimes just to glimpse once. A beauty that makes promises. That blesses. That claims hearts like a soft, slow possession.
໒꒱ You don’t demand attention. You receive it. Without trying. Without speaking. You could sit in silence and entire rooms would revolve around you. Because your beauty isn't for trend or validation, it's a living, breathing miracle. The kind of miracle that makes even the stars seem dull in comparison.
໒꒱ You don’t walk. You glide. Like you’ve never known gravity. Like your bare feet remember the clouds they once stood on. Like the earth itself rises to meet you so you never fall. There’s a stillness to your presence, a hush in your wake. You silence rooms with just your aura, no words, no effort. Just existence. It’s a miracle that you’re flesh and blood and not some celestial illusion. Because you look like the kind of being heaven had to let go of, just once, just barely, before it regretted it forever.
໒꒱ You don’t have a face. You have a vision. Too symmetrical, too soft, too transcendent to be real. Your lips glow like poetry. Your lashes cast shadows that could pull confessions from the proudest hearts. Your eyes hold the stillness of moonlight over calm waters, the kind of beauty that isn’t loud, but lingers, deep and devastating. It isn’t just what you look like. It’s what you make people feel. Awe. Peace. Worship.
໒꒱ You are that girl, the one people compare every lover to. The one people dream of and wake up whispering your name like a prayer. The one strangers think about after passing once on the street. You leave behind the memory of your presence like perfume in holy places, soft, sweet, unforgettable. Your aura is divine. Soft light. Unreachable peace. Velvet wrapped in clouds. You don’t speak, you soothe. You don’t look, you melt. Your touch, your smile, your voice, all feel like absolution. You’re not just angelic because of how you look. It’s the way you make people feel cleansed just standing near you, even when you say nothing. Even when you don’t look their way. You make them want to be better.
Kinktober Day 24 - Yandere!Eros!Jongin + Possession & Body Worship
@stopaskinf Said: Yandere! Eros! Kai or bangchan, which calls to you, with possession and body worship.
A/n: Before anyone comes at me and is like "WHAT IF THEY MEANT TXT KAI?!?!?!" I received this particular prompt before I opened kinktober to include txt. Plus, Jongin just fits the prompt so well, just the sensuality alone... oof... anyways, I hope you enjoy! I know I did heehee 🤭
Warnings/Genre/Rating: 18+ MDNI - Smut, Mature, Established Relationship, Possession, Yandere, Monster Features
Word Count: 2,580
Kinktober 2024 Mini Masterlist
White, fluffy clouds surround you all around in this beautiful paradise of his creation. High up in the sky, the sun shines vibrantly, casting its warm glow upon your skin as you rest upon the softest of cushions. A stream gently trickles nearby, white columns surrounding the sacred temple you currently reside in.
A place only reserved for him, and now you.
Not a single other soul is around. No one to interrupt, or to disturb your peace as he finally gets to take his time with you. Just as he had planned it. Just as it has always been intended to be.
After all, his sanctuary is only meant for you.
Jongin’s touch is soft, caressing your skin as if it is the most delicate crystal he has ever had the pleasure to hold. Not an inch of you goes unexplored, devoting himself to finding out every little thing that makes your breath hitch, and your heart stutter. His hands are warm, tingles erupting beneath his fingertips everywhere he traces over your body.
He is entranced, and he is unashamed to say it.
“You are absolutely breathtaking, My Love,” He sighs out, his eyes fluttering in bliss.
A tender smile pulls at your lips, whole body heating at his honeyed words. Multiple times he has vowed to never lie to you, and given how earnestly his eyes shine with admiration and devotion for you and you alone, you believe every word that falls from his plush lips.
“The most perfect beauty I have ever had the blessings to lay my eyes upon.” He keeps his voice steady, a gentle timbre as his hands trace up the sides of your body.
Pleasant shivers run down your spine, and you find yourself arching into his touch. It’s been like this for hours now. Slow hands adorn your skin, stripping you of clothing piece by piece, and drinking in every inch of your exposed figure with the utmost care. After each piece is removed, he then starts the whole process of worshiping you over, and over again.
Soft, graceful wings flutter behind him as he strips you of your underwear. Pure white feathers flare out, his pupils dilating in adoration as he takes in the sight of you completely bare beneath him. Never has he seen such a wondrous, flawless piece of artwork beneath him, and the fact that you are his only serves to make his head spin.
“Absolutely stunning.” He whispers, completely mesmerized by you for the moment.
Carefully, you reach a hand up to cup his cheek. “I could say the same thing about you.”
Jongin’s heart positively leaps for joy inside of his chest. A tender, loving smile to mirror your own pulls at his lips, eyes clouding with that all too familiar desire and devotion the longer he goes simply staring down at you. His bare chest heaves with each breath, trembling hands back to tracing along your skin.
Again, he starts his whole process over from the very beginning.
Sliding his touch to the back of your calf, Jongin gently lifts your leg beside his head. Carefully, he places your ankle onto his shoulder, turning his head to press his lips against your skin. He lets his kiss linger, lashes fluttering in bliss at the feel of your warmth beneath his lips.
“There is not an inch of you that I do not desire.” He breathes out, slowly beginning to trail kisses up your leg. With each press of his lips, he lets his touch linger, breathing in your scent eagerly. His eyes flick upwards to your own. “You are so fucking perfect, My Beauty.”
Something deep within him purrs at the thought, his gaze darkening as he admires your pure, unfiltered form laying beneath him.
“My Beauty.” A pleased rumble shakes his chest, wings flaring lightly behind him. “All mine to admire… Mine to worship as I please…”
“Jongin-“
His name is but an airy gasp upon your lips, eyes hooded in bliss as he coos in content.
“That’s it, Baby,” Placing your one leg back down, he is quick to repeat the same actions to the other. “Only you get to say my name like this. Only your beautiful lips are worthy to speak it. For there is no other sound more fulfilling than that of My Beauty calling out for me, and me alone.”
The sound of his lips pressing kisses along your thigh echoes around the area, soft groans accompanying each movement. His eyes flutter shut, nuzzling into you affectionately the closer he gets towards the apex of your thighs. Just before he reaches your precious cunt, aching and dripping for him, he pulls away.
A small whimper escapes your lips, squirming beneath his touch. The way he chuckles as he slides his hands up the curves of your body has you shivering in anticipation.
You crave more, and Jongin is gladly willing to comply each and every time.
Lightly, he traces his touch over the skin of your stomach lovingly before he’s taking one of your hands into his own. Leaning in, he places a kiss onto the back of your palm, beginning the same process of trailing his lips up your arm. Again, not a single inch is left untouched, his nose tracing along your veins as he smiles against your inner forearm.
The way your free hand comes up to gently brush against the skin between his wings makes him moan. His eyes fall shut, hips jerking forward involuntarily as you begin to massage the spot on his back where his wings protrude.
“You’re not the only one who admires the other.” Your tender admission sends a jolt of pleasure racing down his spine, pride swelling inside of his chest.
“I’m all yours, My Beauty.” He nibbles lightly at the skin of your shoulder. Turning his head, he peeks up at you through his lashes, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. “Every part of me belongs to you.”
A pleased hum escapes you as you comb your fingers lightly through his feathers. “Mine.”
Immediately, his hips jerk forwards again, pressing himself right between your legs. You can feel how hard he is, cock straining against his slacks as a shameless moan tumbles from his lips.
“Yours.” The affirmation is but a pleasant sigh upon the air. “As you will always be mine, My Love.”
Your expression softens, a tender smile pulling at your features. “Yours, Jongin.”
Another pleased rumble shakes his chest, lips trailing kisses across your collarbones and beneath your neck. He nuzzles into you affectionately.
“I could never grow tired of hearing you say that.”
A playful nip is given to your opposite collarbone, continuing his path of kisses down your other arm. His one hand gently soothes over your side, holding onto you so delicately as he begins to roll his hips against your own.
The blissful sigh you let out is simply music to his ears.
Placing a lingering kiss onto your palm, Jongin soon pulls away from you. His tender gaze trails over every inch of your exposed body, taking in the sight of you spread beneath him once more. Excitedly, his wings twitch behind him, lowing himself over you in order to begin tracing his lips over the skin of your stomach.
Greedily, his fingers dig into your hips, pulling you even closer into him. His tongue comes out to lave over your skin, nosing along every dip and curve of your body. Low, pleased hums escape him, along with even more of the same sultry and sweet praises he’s been singing to you since he started this very act. Admiration is too tame a word to describe how he looks at you right now, let alone how he is treating you. What he feels for you is beyond even his comprehension, and he will spend every single day for the rest of eternity proving to you just how much you mean to him.
And, oh, how he worships you.
Slowly, his hands slide up your body, shifting to cup your breasts. An appreciative squeeze is given to your flesh, his dark eyes peeking up at you playfully as he begins to trail kisses up your body. Again, his tongue darts out to taste your skin, thumbs flicking against your nipples before beginning to gently circle over the pert buds.
Another blissful moan escapes you, eyes fluttering shut as you revel in his touch. You arch into him, hands coming up to cover his own over your breasts as he massages your flesh so tenderly. Gently, your thumbs begin tracing over the backs of his hands, squirming beneath his every ministration.
Eagerly, Jongin watches your every movement, drinking in your reactions as if you are his oasis and he has been stranded in the desert for months. His thumbs continue to circle over your nipples, squeezing your breasts together as he buries his face between them.
Taking a deep breath in, Jongin absolutely revels in your scent. A shuddering moan escapes him as he exhales, nuzzling into you affectionately.
“So soft, Baby.” He coos, lips burning a path of feather-light kisses against the swells of your breasts. “Love the feeling of you in my hands… Could worship you for hours.”
A moan slips passed your lips, hips beginning to shift beneath him. The ache in your core is almost unbearable at this point, body burning with desire and need the longer he touches you. Only, right now, you crave his touch somewhere much more intimate. Otherwise, you might just go insane.
“Want you-“ A choked whimper escapes you, pawing at him lightly in attempts to pull him further up your body. “Need you-“
You nearly let out a sob in need, your core throbbing along with every pulse of your heart. There is an innate desire to feel all of him against you, craving his touch in new ways. Ways in which you never thought possible before.
The corner of Jongin’s lips quirks upwards as he feels you beginning to shake with desire. A pride unlike anything he’s ever felt before swells in his chest, a low growl permeating the air. The fact that he has made you this desperate, this needy for him makes his head spin.
Who is he to deny His Angel?
Agonizingly slow, Jongin sinks to his knees. His hands skim down your body, wings fluttering behind him as he settles your thighs over his shoulders. Lightly, his fingertips tease over your skin, brilliant feathers tickling over your flesh as he draws in closer.
“You have me, Baby.” He breathes out so lowly, nothing but adoration dripping from his loving gaze. “You will always have me.”
With those words, he’s leaning into you.
A chaste kiss is placed over your clit, a smile tugging at his lips as you whimper beneath his touch. Not even a moment later, his tongue comes out to part your folds, moaning shamelessly as the taste of you floods his every sense.
His eyes roll to the back of his head, pressing himself deeper into you as he loses all sense of composure. He meant to take things slow, to continue such a languid pace and show you every inch of his devotion to you. Only, the sweet nectar that drips onto his tongue intoxicates him, making him immediately crave more.
Your thighs threaten to close around his head as he suddenly buries his tongue as deeply as he can inside of you. The way he begins swirling that soft muscle around your cunt, nose pressing firmly into your clit has another moan tumbling from your lips. Each movement over you is met with pleased groans and low growls, the likes of which reverberate against your core and send pleasant shivers racing up your spine.
Jongin’s grip is the firmest it’s ever been when caressing your skin. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, wings draped over your thighs as he pulls you impossibly closer. His tongue explores every inch of your cunt that he can reach, listening closely to every hitch in your breath, and every stutter of your heartbeat. He needs to know exactly how to please you, which movements have you sighing and moaning his name the loudest.
If you aren’t trembling beneath his touch, screaming his name out in ecstasy to every corner in Olympus by the time he’s finished with you, then he truly has not accomplished anything, yet.
Eyes shining with pure devotion gaze upon you as he wraps his lips around your clit. Eagerly, he suckles at that pert little bud, flicking his tongue over it in the next second.
Moans and high pitched whines escape you, along with chants of his name. Your one hand buries itself into his hair, keeping him pressed against you as your nails scratch against his scalp. The way he moans against you each time you tug him closer lets you know that he’s enjoying this just as much as you are right now. Possibly even more.
Flattening his tongue, Jongin begins drawing circles over your clit. His hot breath fans over your cunt, wings fluttering over your thighs and causing his feathers to tickle your skin. He reaches up with his one hand, desperately seeking out your own.
You can feel that coil tightening within your lower stomach, getting closer and closer to snapping with each flick of his tongue over your clit. His name falls like a prayer from your lips, eyes fluttering shut as you eagerly meet his touch halfway.
The moment his fingers intertwine with your own, squeezing your hand so delicately, you feel yourself fall right over the edge.
With a slight hitch in your breath, your eyes are rolling as your back arches from the intensity of your orgasm. Nothing but pure euphoria floods your veins, whole body shaking as your thighs close around his head. All you can manage is desperate cries of his name, high pitched whines escaping you in tandem.
Low, pleased groans echo alongside your own. Fingers tighten in your own, holding you to him as he suckles every last ounce of pleasure from you with his lips wrapped around your clit. Soon, the tip of his tongue is flicking against that sensitive little nub, keeping you suspended in pleasure for as long as he can as he grounds you to him.
Finally, as you settle yourself back down to catch your breath, he pulls away.
“You did-“ A kiss is placed to your inner thigh. “So well-“ Another. “For me.” A pleased rumble shakes his chest, his free hand sliding lovingly over your side. “Such perfection, My Love… I could never tire of watching you come for me.”
A soft hum is all that he receives in return, not trusting your voice to speak for the moment.
Still, he continues to place tender kisses against the skin of your thigh, nuzzling against you affectionately. Something within his eyes makes your heart skip a beat when you meet his gaze. A look you’ve never seen before. One that is full of a deep, dark lust and a very primal desire.
Again, the brush of his feathers tickles the skin of your thighs.
“You are the very sky, My Angel…” He breathes out, leaning into you once more. His eyes flash, tightening his grip over you possessively. “Let me continue to paint you with the stars of my love.”
Hi! This is the first thing I've ever posted. It's not perfect but I like it a lot, so...here it is 🙃
English isn't my first language, so i apologize in advance for eventual mistakes.
You had never noticed the little freckles on his skin.
Well, no, you definitely had, but you had never admired them so up close.
The sun was kissing his skin, making those little dots of magic stand out like a blanket of stars in the night sky.
Which was fitting, you thought, as he was, after all, named after a star.
Laying in bed you admired the gentle slope of his nose, as he was breathing slowly, calmly, completely at peace.
The softness of his mouth, of his lips that were the sweetest of tastes, the most addicting of flavors. Lips that turned hungry, needy, ravenous but still delicate as an angel's kiss when they made contact with your skin. Scorching hot and, at the same time, sweetly soothing.
The arch of his eyebrows, almost always in a frown, as they were now relaxed and framing his perfect features.
The soft texture of his black curls, spread on the pillow like a halo, like he was a gift sent directly from heaven itself.
The-
“I can feel you staring” he says quietly.
No hint of malice in his voice, just calmness.
His eyes were still closed, long eyelashes gently kissing his skin.
“I'm not staring” You say lifting your head and supporting it on your hand “just admiring”
An airy chuckle leaves his lips as they curl up the slightest bit.
“There's nothing to admire here that isn't you”
He says it like the most casual thing in the world.
And you swoon, lovestruck.
His eyes are still close, but his head is tilted and he is now facing you completely.
“I beg to differ” you say as your hand goes to tuck a loose strand of hair away from his forehead and behind his ear. He hums in content.
“You are beautiful, Regulus”
You say breathlessly.
That makes him open his eyes and suddenly you're drowning in a sea of gray. A summer storm that brings you comfort and peace.
Your entire world.
“You always say that” he says. He adjusts his position to mimic yours, but his gaze seems almost lost, shocked by your words. Like he could never believe that he was the most beautiful person you had ever laid eyes on.
“I say it because it's true” you breathe softly, your eyes honest and a smile on your lips. “You look like you were painted, like you were made to be painted. You look like you were sculpted by Michelangelo himself. You look like you could make angels cry just because they witnessed your beauty in all its glory. You look like a work of art Regulus. You are a work of art”
You get closer to him with every word that leaves your mouth, inch by inch, until there's only a breath between your faces.
And in a heartbeat that disappears too as your lips meet in the softest of kisses.
It's no time for hunger.
It's no time for eagerness
It's no time for neediness.
It's time for devotion, for worship.
It's time for love.
And you pour all your love in that simple touch of lips.
And he does too.
All the devotion, the admiration, the fondness.
All the love.
“I could write entire poems about you” he mouths on your lips. His hand resting on your cheek so tenderly, like he was afraid of breaking you with just a single brush of his fingers.
“Pages on pages of words that couldn't even get close to the perfection that you are. And those who read my word will know only a fragment of your beauty, of your breathtaking being. Calliope pales in comparison to you. Dante wishes he had a muse as divine as you”
He is breathless, and your heart is about to explode in your chest as he whispers those words against your lips.
“You are a work of art, my love”
You dive in and kiss him, and kiss him again, and again, and again, until both your lips go numb and you become one with him and him with you.
They say that if an artist loves you, you will be immortal.
How lucky it is, then, that you portrayed Regulus every chance you got, like it was the last drawing you'll ever do. Like he would fade if you didn't draw every single detail of his perfect face every time you could.
And how lucky it is that Regulus had an entire collection of diaries, full of words dedicated to you, written for and to you, like he wanted to imprint on paper every breath you took and each and every one of your lashes, of your moles. Your perfection in his eyes.
why lovers press flowers into books: preservation as worship
on memory folded between pages, and the holy patience of keeping what once bloomed
there’s a kind of devotion in slipping a flower between paper leaves. it isn’t only an act of saving something fragile — it’s a quiet ritual of reverence, a way of saying this mattered enough to hold still. a pressed flower is both a relic and a whisper, proof that beauty once lived in a moment and that you loved it enough to make it last.
pressing flowers is not about denying decay. it’s about witnessing it, about meeting transience with tenderness. you flatten the stem, close the book, and let time work its patient alchemy. weeks later, you open to find the shape of a memory, delicate and dry but stubbornly present. the bloom is no longer alive, but it has learned another way of being: an echo, a keepsake, a quiet monument.
pages as sanctuary
a book is already a home for stories, so it makes sense to hide petals there. paper holds language, but it also holds silence; it shelters anything soft enough to slip between its lines. when lovers choose pages for their flowers, they are borrowing the safety of narrative, tucking a piece of real life into fiction or poetry or study notes.
sometimes the flower is chosen with purpose — a violet in a letter, a daisy inside a favorite poem, a rose in the last chapter of a novel. other times it’s impulsive, a scrap of beauty rescued from a path or handed over in passing. either way, the book becomes a small archive of affection, a place where feelings can lie flat and wait to be remembered.
the language of fragile things
flowers have always spoken in codes: a red one for longing, a white one for gentleness, yellow for gratitude or jealousy, depending on the shade. pressing them doesn’t silence that language; it amplifies it. preserved blooms hold stories long after their scent fades.
to press a flower is to believe that love deserves more than a fleeting glance. it is to insist that tenderness should be stored carefully, protected from the indifferent wind.
time, slowed and softened
pressing a flower is slow work. you choose the right book, slip paper around the petals, set something heavy on top. you wait — not just a day, but long enough for the air to trade its moisture for memory. there is no rushing it; the process demands patience.
that slowness mirrors the kind of love that wants to stay. it says: i am willing to wait for this to settle into something lasting. i am willing to meet impermanence halfway, to honor it by refusing to let it vanish entirely.
small altars of devotion
a pressed flower is not meant to be paraded. most of them live quietly in books, waiting to be found again by accident. when you stumble across one, years later, it feels like opening a time capsule built for the heart. the bloom has flattened into paper, but the feeling it carries still rises — as vivid as the day you tucked it there.
that rediscovery is its own form of worship: a moment of awe for the persistence of something so easily lost.
holding without clinging
there’s a fine line between preservation and possession. pressing a flower isn’t about freezing it in amber or pretending nothing will change. it’s about holding gently, knowing the thing you love has already moved on from its first life.
you’re not stopping time — you’re folding a single breath of it into a story, offering it a resting place where it can be honored.
love, kept tenderly
lovers press flowers because affection, like petals, is fragile. to save a bloom is to practice carefulness, to promise that even the softest parts of living deserve to endure.
each flattened stem is a vow: that love once happened here, that beauty was noticed, that you wanted to remember. and when the pages are opened later, the pressed flower becomes a quiet proof of devotion — not grand or loud, but steady, patient, reverent.
perhaps that’s what worship really is: the act of noticing what blooms, and choosing, against all odds, to keep it safe for just a little longer.
I have a question, how would you describe your first love?
(unsent) devotion
For your smile
Its bubbles of childlike delight
Golden in tintinnabular giggles
Like rain falling from the clearest blue skies
Relief in the heat of summer
Colourful rainbows
And all the vibrant flora rises
Rejoice! – she smiles
And I, nevermore to be yours
Humbly ask the sun
To swiftly kiss your cheeky cheeks
With rays dancing ‘cross your face
In mirrored radiance
*
For your eyes
Portals to celestial dimensions
Where star strewn winter skies turn liquid
Magnetized vortexes, spiral
To the deepest depths of the Arctic ocean
Where all that’s caught will be kept forever
Where the lost feel sacred
Absorbed by your love’s limitlessness
There, keep me, as a memory, please
Engulfed in the strange blue flame of warmth
That from you core originated
Lost
But safe
*
For your fingers
Their tantalizing subatomic electrification
Sparks playing ‘tween every layer of skin
Evoked by touches seemingly deliberate
Like a magician weaving light spectacles
Titillating every activated sensory neuron
As showered sparkles flashingly ricochet
Upon the one, once I, embalmed in light
A pyromancer you are, wielder of flames
Roaring through blood vessels and veins
As pressure points reap intimate contact
Taking in that deep tissue traveling blaze
Which rages on, toward the core of heart
Then, everything’s awash in golden
Such is the virtue of your touch
*
For your hair
Their blissful thick and wavy strands
Permeated with your heavenly scent
Shape-shifting to however you’re feeling
Reflecting all your inner seasons
Yet capriciousness cannot epitomize them
It is pride and strength; I felt it in my hands
Whenever I cherished, or provoked
Your indomitable being
Which is embodied by one lock so rebellious
You once cut, and now have to cut evermore
As it continues to grow sillily untamable
You have had it ever since you were a baby
That little lock fending off style and scissors
And when you were my baby
I loved it most
*
For your body
The smooth alleviation that is your skin
Beckoning fingers to trail in softest silk
Evoked, the dance of thumb on jaw-line
And fingers enticed by
The delicateness of svelte throat
Lips and tongue hanker to be enraptured
Following the flow of your collar bones
The oasis where faces drown, overwhelmed
By the epitome of feminine pulchritude
You exude it from every pore
So in touch with the will of your atoms
To whirr in blurs of heated acceleration
Taker turned giver, taken
Demanding a calescent equation
To be molten in corporeal stimulation
Limbs enwrap in vehement tightness
As connection fades into total absorption
Love’s euphoria is a helpless whimper
Stuttered from the lungs in ravishment
Pure ecstasy
The enticement of your small breasts
The scent and taste of your sex
Will leave me begging
Evermore
For
Ever
More
*
For your mind
Always seeking the deep-felt significance
Assembling the world’s easily overlooked
Its beatitudes, in plain sight hidden
You’d paint a larger-than-life picture
Effortlessly, naturally
One
With the entirety of universe around you
You had me bewildered at every thought
Free flowing in profound appreciation
The world could be so much brighter(!)
If you just open your eyes
And see
You are wired so much differently than me
So I remember the quaint little bridge
Often passed, never noticed
Like the forest sprouted fungi kingdom
The flower growing amid concrete
The rook overlooking the city
The stars and the moon
Little or large things
All granted a place in your artistry of living
And you dipped me in that Renoir painting
And I felt vibrant too for a while
Alive by your eyes
And all I want to say these days is
That even though I may no longer love you
I still and always will appreciate you
In profoundness, free flowing
Effortlessly, naturally
I don't know if you are busy with stuff or what but I miss your writing 🙈 I hope everything is going great with you 💖 and if you have time can you write something like -mid night secrets with Shownu 😅
MIDNIGHT SECRETS ; S H O W N U
Oh darling, I see it. The way he is so devoted to you. So completely in love. I see as your breaths even and eyes flutter close, fast asleep. He is there, beside you. He admires you. From the way those delicate lashes kiss the apples of your cheeks in the softest caress to the way he yearns for you, the way your lips part, soft breaths fanning over his own lips. It’s a ghostly memory, a hot reminder of how those velvety lips crashed onto his only moments before with the most passionate honey coated taste. His heart is filled to the brim, drowning in its earnest love for you but he still can’t get enough. Greedy. Hyunwoo just wants to devour you whole. Or perhaps it’s the other way around? Perhaps he just wants you to envelope him in your warmth, wants to be covered in your scent, your marks. Anything that has to do with your touch. For you to shield him with your protective hold. Yes. That’s it.
Midnight Secrets.
He paints them onto your skin, littering them in scattered promises. He whispers them in your ear with a sultry sshh...sometimes they come to you in sweetened melodies after a night’s heated throe of passion and others are much like tonight.
He has you in his arms, his nose nestled deep in your hair as his fingers trace gently over your skin, spelling out his love for you and branding you his with his wispy touches.
In truth, Hyunwoo tells you many things and my dear, he promises you twice as much.
But a secret is a secret.
And as you lay in his arms, fast asleep, blissfully unaware of his thumping heart; a heart that is ready to jump out of his chest in its feeble attempt to become impossibly closer to yours, Hyunwoo reflects. He finds strength in you. He finds hope in you. He finds a home and love in you.
