Hiiii!!!! Uuhh sorry I get a bit awkward to approach new people but oh my god I needed to say that I absolutely love your work!! Im truly a fan!! Your Fierce Deity fics bring me to life and I cant stop thinking about it <333
Not sure if this idea is interesting enough but I cant stop thinking about it and I thought you could maybe like it!!
I keep thinking about Reader talking with the Fierce Deity's mask (imagining he still sealed in the mask) like he was physically there, just rambling. We could show him the sky and the grass, mundane things, talk about our thoughts and ask questions to him, like what is it like to be a god and if he is happy with his life.
One question that also pops a lot in my mind is asking what gods thought of humans or maybe, what he thought of them, of us!! Ofc he doesnt respond bc he is inside the mask but then one day he is off of it and he remembers each and every question we ever asked, and is willing to answer them all NFKENFKWFKWKKFKWKDKW
Its just an idea, you dont really have to do it, but everytime I think about it or Fierce in general, I cant help but also think about you <333
Im really glad I found your work!! I hope we can be friends!! :DDD
I wish you a lovely day my little leaf!! Toodlessss 🍃🍃🍃
𖠰 Woods 𖠰
Okay first of all, this idea this absolutely amazing!! I'll have you know I was practically VIBRATING with excitement while reading this! You have no idea how stoked I am to receive asks like this, so do not feel bad at all for sharing! Also what we're literally already besties <3
Man In The Mask
Pairing: Fierce Deity x Reader
Warning(s): N/A
Masterlist
What are you?
It was a question the Fierce Deity had heard a thousand times, often accompanied by blood and blaze: a question of those he protected... and those he did not, whispered on the heels crimson-dripped lips and frightful eyes. He was a god of war, and thus not one to engage in the folly of mortals. Orders were his foundation, and steel his soul, wrapped in a righteous evil that not even the goddesses could bear to gaze upon.
Which is why he felt nothing short of hedonistic when it fell from the lips of the paltry mortal's holding the wretched mask that trapped him centuries earlier. Voice soft and eyes softer, touch featherlight on the chipped edges of his prison. There were thumbs on the apples of his 'cheeks', and the deity was caught between rage and sorrow. Tumultuous emotions were not his strong suit, and neither was restraint, from the way things were looking.
He didn't need to stand before them to feel their weakness, as was typical of most humans, but there was an ember in your eyes that seemed to burn with a light he didn't dare remember, shining like a beacon in the night.
"I wonder who painted you," the human, you, mused, stroking again over the half-glossed finish of the mask. Gentle, comforting, and utterly indecipherable to the deity inside. "You're so dusty; did Time even polish you?"
Why... Why was that relevant? Never in his wildest thoughts had the Fierce Deity expected Time to intrust his 'care' to a human, much less you. His very existence was a burden; how could a so-called hero willingly place something so... so destructive in the hands of, well, he considered you quite innocent to the tribulations of war and bloodshed and sorrow.
But what could he do but wait, snug under your arm, as you prattled on about anything and everything. The notion that you were naive enough to talk to a mere mask, of all things. Had you no sense? No discretion? It was a question he often asked himself, though only because there was no one else to answer.
That didn't stop his dull wonderings on whether you would ask such questions if he stood before you in the flesh. Would you cower? Fight? Flee? Perhaps he would remember the words that fell from your mouth, just to prove himself right once again.
***
The Fierce Deity mask weighed heavy in your hands as you plodded down the small path towards home. A thick forest bordered you from the east, while a blooming prairie stretched as far as the eye could see from the west. There was no doubt in your mind that you were incredibly lucky to live where you did, a fact that was only exemplified by the nine heroes that had crashed into your life (and living room) through a portal that looked straight out of Coraline or some shit.
Never in a million years would you have expected Time, the distrustful forest child he was, to entrust anything to you, much less a mask that supposedly held the spirit of one of the greatest entities of his world, but you supposed it was only proof that miracles did still exist. Maybe.
Either way, you had taken up the mantle of caring for the mask, and there was no way in hell you were going to screw up. Not that Time would let you, the worrywart, and you were only just beginning to catch him not staring holes into your back.
Chronic mother hens aside, it didn't take a genius to figure out there was something terribly wrong with the item tucked under your arm. Whether it was the crimson and navy facial markings or innocuous radiation of something akin to evil, you had no doubt that Time's warnings were not in jest.
Despite this, you couldn't quite shake the idea of a soul being trapped inside, well, the mask was practically a prison at this point. And maybe, just maybe, you felt a modicum of guilt at the entity's fate. Had he deserved it? Perhaps. Was it cruel? Without a doubt.
Which is why you found yourself taking the Fierce Deity's mask with you when you went to the store, or the library, or simply for a walk in the forest, tucked in your satchel to protect from prying eyes, though you always adjusted the cover so at least one of the eyeholes was free to gaze upon the wonders of your world. It was a small mercy that you were willing to afford, one that quickly spiraled into conversation with the mask itself. You always had a habit of speaking out loud, and now you, presumably, had an ear to listen.
But it was all speculation at this point; Time had never outright confirmed whether a living creature resided within the painted oak, only that it was imbued with an evil so ancient it could challenge the goddesses. You had stopped listening at that point, muttering 'drugs' under your breath, but there was always hope in your tone when you reminisced about the world around you.
With a sigh, you stopped, bringing the mask to the forefront of your vision, thumbs instinctually tracing the crimson stripes on the cheeks. It was baffling that something so beautiful could feel so wrong in your hands. You desperately wished to uncover the truth, to breathe in the big reveal and revel in the known mysteries of life.
"What are you?" The words slipped off your tongue like silk, right enough that you could have chalked it up to fate. The mask felt warm, basked in the fading rays of the golden sun, and you had the distinct feeling of being watched. The pads of your thumbs stroked the raised cheeks of the mask, disturbing a thin layer of dust, as more words spilled forth. "You're so dusty; did Time even polish you?"
It felt strange, talking to the mask as if it was a person, but you were too intrigued to care. If an entity truly resided within, you wondered what he thought of you. Was he impressed? Disgusted? Resigned? You had grown up with the belief that if gods truly existed, their disappointment would be without bounds, but that assumption didn't feel accurate when you stared at the shadowed skin of your palms through the eyeholes.
What horrors had a deity of this caliber seen through eyes of oak... and why were you so desperate to find out?
***
The Fierce Deity was convinced you were either crazy or stupid.
Night had fallen some time ago, filling your small quarters with only the pale light of the moon. His prison sat propped against the contraption you called a 'lamp', facing the bed in which you slept. Your nighttime routine was... unusual, to say the least. In his time, maidens wore long shifts to sleep, while here, you had treated him to the ludicrous sight of what could only be described as the shortest britches he had the displeasure of viewing and a sleeveless rag of a tunic that looked as though you wore it to a scuffle with a large animal, not to mention the sheer audacity you had to undress before the mask without regard for decency. Had the Hero of Time not informed you of his status in this wretched prison, because it was as though you had forgotten or simply didn't care at all?
Whatever the case, it was with much dread that the Fierce Deity only found himself more attracted to the mortal cursed with his care. Your life was, at most, mundane, yet you spoke as though every day was a great adventure, in a tone that could have inspired countless scribes into a flurry of activity. More shocking, however, was how he could feel himself clinging to your every word, like a dog waiting for scraps. He had been alone for so long, and the reality that a mere mortal considered him, well, mortal enough to converse with was a reality he never imagined contesting with.
But, despite how thrown off he was, there was a certain comfort in the quiet nights you spent together, however inadvertently they came to be. After a life of isolation, he found a purpose in the steady rise and fall of your chest, in the snorting giggles of your laughter, and the way you flipped the edge of your pack to grant him sight, never mind that he was fully capable of viewing the world without it. It was for that reason that the rage in his battered soul waned a fraction, leaving a sliver of room for whatever this was, and the reason his mind refused to release thoughts of your whispered queries, always centered on him, whether it be his health, status as a deity, or happiness.
Farfetched as it was, the Fierce Deity, god of war and blood and death, waited hours for you to wake, unblinking because he would be damned to miss the very moment of your return to the land of the living, the languid stretch your body performed as you groaned softly, rubbing the creases of your eyes with the same gentleness you treated him to. He would study the outfits you wore, committing them all to memory so he could better understand the core of who he considered to be his savior. Maybe then, when he was free, he could begin to repay your kindness–bit by bit, word by word–until distance became more of a myth that him, and your tender warmth could be validated by more than just a paltry mask. Your very breath became his meaning, your soul his muse, and the Fierce Deity was sure he would never forget it.
But in the meantime, perhaps he would remember the words that fell from your mouth, just to prove you right once again.
I can't begin to express how beautiful this felt to write. The Fierce Deity truly is my muse.
ALSO there will be a part two, so keep your eyes peeled!
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The first time Luka saw you, it was from behind the tinted walls of Observation Deck 9.
You stood alone beneath the pale, bioluminescent trees imported from Sector X7A. Your body glowed faintly in the artificial moonlight, not unlike the relics from the ancient Earth religions—the ones Luka only ever saw in pixelated renderings, their meanings eroded beyond comprehension.
Your silhouette, wrapped in soft robes that shimmered like galaxy dust, was unbothered by the watchful cameras or the soft hum of the performance prep below.
To Luka, you looked like something that had survived before. Something older. Untouched.
He stared too long.
Later, Luka cornered an alien tech in the corridor. “That person—on the terrace. Who are they?”
The technician blinked, pupils spiraling inward. “You mean the Avatar?”
Luka frowned. “Avatar?”
“Yes. Their presence increases audience sentimentality ratings by 12%. They’re not a contestant.”
“Not a contestant?” Luka echoed, a strange disappointment curling in his stomach.
“No. Not really anything. They’re meant to embody the concept of memory. Emotion. Some say the aliens designed them from human mythologies.”
Luka remembered the word—god.
Dusty, ancient, forbidden. But suddenly all too relevant.
You first speak to him on accident.
He’s rehearsing—torn between the need to be authentic and the overwhelming fear that authenticity is obsolete now.
You linger in the shadows, as you always do. Watching. Listening.
“You sing with pain in your voice,” you say quietly, your tone lilting, as if you aren’t bound by the gravity in the room.
Luka turns, startled. “You—uh—you’re real?”
You tilt your head. “Sometimes.”
He stares, eyes flickering with awe and wariness. “What are you?”
You smile. “I think I was made to feel everything humans stopped feeling.”
“That’s… terrifying.”
“I know.”
Word spreads quickly: Luka is fascinated by the Avatar.
“Crushing on the emotion AI?” someone jokes backstage.
But it’s not just a crush. It’s something deeper, more embarrassing. Luka dreams of you. Sees you when he closes his eyes. Hears your voice when he sings.
It’s unscientific. Irrational. Devotional.
He finds himself watching you between rehearsals, studying the curve of your expression, the way you never fully blink. Every small movement—sacred.
He starts to pray before each performance. Not aloud. Just in his mind.
He prays to you.
One night, you sit beside him, close enough for the sleeve of your garment to brush against his elbow. He doesn’t move.
“You know I’m not a god,” you say softly.
Luka exhales slowly. “I know.”
“Then why do you look at me like I am?”
He swallows. “Because I think… I want something to believe in. And you’re the only thing left that feels like it could break me open just by existing.”
You’re quiet for a moment.
“I wasn’t made to be worshiped, Luka.”
“I wasn’t made to survive this century,” he replies bitterly.
You turn to him, your expression unreadable.
Then, so gently it feels like breathing, you say, “Then maybe we both get to decide who we are.”
Later, Luka stands in front of the audience, the lights searing his skin, the aliens in their glass booths watching—always watching.
He sings like something half-alive, like something hoping to be real again.
In the wings, you watch him with something like mourning in your eyes.
Or maybe reverence.
Maybe the error wasn't that Luka mistook you for divine.
What Do You Really Want? — Thoughts on Because This Is My First Life
A quirky screenwriter and a stoic app designer agree to a marriage of convenience, just to secure housing. But life under the same roof brings unexpected tenderness, difficult questions, and the slow unraveling of their emotional armor.
This show is gentle and thoughtful in a way that really stayed with me.
It’s not flashy or dramatic. It’s about quiet choices, subtle regrets, and how hard it is to figure out what we want when we’ve spent our whole lives being told what we should want. The slow romance between Se-hee and Ji-ho isn’t driven by passion or fate, but by trust, awkwardness, respect — and I loved that. I loved how Ji-ho’s softness coexisted with strength, and how Se-hee’s logic slowly cracked open to let warmth in.
The friendships are beautiful. All three women are different, but they love each other fiercely, and their lives reflect such different angles of womanhood in modern Korea. The show tackles sexism, burnout, workplace harassment, marriage pressure, financial precarity — all with nuance, without becoming heavy-handed.
Some of Ji-ho’s reflections made me think deeply about my own life. Do I want marriage for myself, or because of what I project onto love? Am I trying to fulfill a fantasy that was never mine to begin with?
That said, I wasn’t convinced by the third act breakup — it felt a bit forced, and I didn’t need added drama in a story that was already emotionally rich.
But despite that, this series and its soundtrack hold a special place in my heart. All the actors are amazing. It’s the kind of show that sits quietly beside you and asks, What do you really want?
Not just once.
Not just here.
But always.
Every timeline.
Every reality.
Every you.
Every me.
What if
we were scripted into the fabric of time
as a pair?
A matched polarity.
Two energies drawn together by something older than choice.
What if
you’ve dreamed of me
and called it fiction?
What if I’ve spoken your name in silence
without knowing where it came from?
What if some part of us
is already holding hands
in another place
right now?
Different races.
Different faces.
Different names.
But still the same orbit.
What if every life we live
pulls us together
like gravity pretending to be coincidence?
Maybe that’s why
you feel this echo.
That weird ache behind your ribs.
That pause when someone looks at you
and you don’t know why
your chest tightens.
It’s not infatuation.
Not obsession.
Not even attraction.
It’s memory.
Your nervous system remembering
what your mind never got to keep.
What if
the reason you can’t shake it
is because you never got to finish it?
Not in the last life.
Not in the one before.
Maybe not even in this one.
We meet.
We part.
We forget.
We ache.
We seek.
We almost.
Maybe this isn’t the first time
you’ve read something I wrote
and felt like I was talking to you.
Maybe it’s not the first time
I’ve sent these words
through a screen
hoping you’d find them.
What if we’ve already loved each other?
Over fires.
Under stars.
Across oceans.
Through wars.
What if
you knew my laugh
before you heard it?
What if
I cried over your absence
before I knew your name?
What if you feel this right now
because some deeper part of you knows it’s real?
I’m not saying it is.
I’m just saying:
What if?
What if
you’ve always felt
like you were waiting for someone
but never knew who?
What if
you stopped waiting too soon.
What if I did too?
What if
we missed our cue in this life?
Got the timing wrong.
Laughed at the wrong moment.
Took the wrong street.
Dated the wrong people.
What if we mistook the spark for anxiety?
What if we told ourselves “nah” to protect the feeling?
What if
this is all just a weird thought?
Just an idea
from a guy who thinks too much.
Just a moment on your screen
you’ll forget tomorrow.
Nothing serious.
Nothing important.
Unless
you feel it.
Unless
you remember too.
🚪 Reminder: If you feel like we’ve met before —
maybe we always have.
And maybe this was the only version where we never got it right.
Meant to be, this love isThe string theory of everything We vibrate unified — MythicSacred symmetryMetaphysical. SpiritualBut … also controversial Like emergent gravityDrawn into your orbitTo stay, only for a whileWith you this wayEven if you no longer noticeOn reentryIt was a pleasure to burn
Thank you, dVerse! I decided to end on opening line #2, “It was a pleasure to burn.” from Fahrenheit…
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
